Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

A PSA: Women's Heart Attack Symptoms

Here's a quote from the last post:

Yesterday ... I was semi-conscious from lack of oxygen. That began Friday, when I went to a lovely Dove Chocolate Sales party hosted at a home I covet. A ... home with two short flights of concrete steps that left me a little winded. I never caught my breath because I began talking ... so I never caught my breath. ... The 'winded' didn't leave me until I slept through all of Saturday.

On Sunday my brother heard me say I was having shortness of breath and said, "What, like a heart attack?"

I said, "There's shortness of breath with a heart attack?"

"I think so. Women have all kinds of weird symptoms when they have heart attacks."

Yes! Yes they do!  Look here!

Neck, shoulder, upper back or abdominal discomfort

Shortness of breath

Nausea or vomiting

Sweating

Lightheadedness or dizziness

Unusual fatigue

So I was planning to go see the doctor today. First though, I came in and thanked Sarah for the party and couldn't help but mention I couldn't catch my breath all night. And then in my head she would say, "Oh! Were you having a heart attack?" and I would say, "Well, I'm going to check on that," but instead she said:

"Oh! Are you allergic to cats?"

"Yes. I am." I was puzzled. Why is this woman talking about cats?

"I have three cats."

It still took me a second to veer from the heart attack lane in to the cat allergy lane, but I got there, and then drove on to the bumpy shoulder called "damn I am stupid."

Is This Thing On?

The household internet has failed me. Come to find out we have an antique cable modem that probably won't survive through this post.

Strangely, a ceiling fan that stopped working ten years ago began spinning happily while we were at work. It's stopped now; I don't know when that happened.

Perhaps it stopped yesterday while I was semi-conscious from lack of oxygen. That began Friday, when I went to a lovely Dove Chocolate Sales party hosted at a home I covet. A home with character and spiraling solid wood steps and fireplaces and a lovely smell of bricks and dirt and age. A home with two short flights of concrete steps that left me a little winded. I never caught my breath because I began talking (Strangers! Must tell secrets!) so I never caught my breath.

The "winded" didn't leave me until I slept through all of Saturday. There were other signs of illness as well, which would punch me in the belly. I never know if the digestive problems are from the initial illness or from chugging cough syrup.

The worst thing was I came back from this lovely South City home to my filthy house and then was too ill to clean it. Being ill in a dirty house is the worst feeling ever. Gary was very sweet and kept telling me the house looked fine. He was not sweet enough to clean it.

Gary has received two lovely gifts from me recently: a miniature espresso machine and a bird camera, and he has used both this past week FINALLY no I'm not bitter. (It's payback for the "You haven't eaten all the chocolate candy I got you today! It is going to rot!" that I heard through my birthday month.)

The bird camera was trained on a box of corn we set out for the squirrels. Not so many "cute" squirrel photos. We got one good video of the camera falling over:

... and one revelation. No one has seen the groundhog yet this year. I now know why. The opossum has taken back the warren.

 

I Am A Tacky Wedding Guest

Well, the nephew has sent out his wedding invitations, and they end with the phrase, "No boxed gifts please."

This was a new one for me, and I was as appalled as anyone. Why not, "Just bring cash!" The horror, the horror.

Gary promptly launched his gift protocol, which is, "I will buy you what I want to buy you and how you feel about it is immaterial to me."

He added, "They better have a gift table there, that's all I'm saying."

I pleasantly said, "Gift tables are tacky too. You are supposed to send gifts to the brides mother's house."

"I have never heard of that! We had a gift table at our wedding."

(A gentle cough.) "Well, I know Mom's relatives and friends all came in empty-handed." And probably the in-laws thought my relatives were stiffing us, I don't know. So easy to judge people with different customs.

That point was made this evening when I did a Google search on "No boxed gifts, please."

What popped up as I typed was, "No boxed gifts please PAKISTANI WEDDING".

Come to find out, I'm the tacky one, and not only because I suggested we bring a goat on a leash instead of a box.

The internet echoes with the distress of Pakistani brideswho have been forced to put this on their invitations for the benefit of dimwit Americans who keep trying to dump Cusinarts on them, instead of cash, which is the traditional and wholly non-tacky Pakistani /Indian gift. In fact, the cash is "often given in amounts ending in '1' for good luck."

So, we'll be doing that. Who knew?

No One Cares What I Had for Lunch or Dinner

... but I had two things I thought I didn't like.

Lunch

Pork Belly at the TeddyJ Cafe.

I've tried pork belly before, and it was flabby and vile. I think the problem was that it was straight pork belly, whereas this was a strata of pork meat with a tasty tasty layer of pork fat on top. They promised me it would be like butter and it was. Are you afraid of pork belly? Don't be.

Sublime. Sub. Lime.  I turned down some pork belly sushi last Thursday and I regret it now.

Dinner

Well, lasagna of course, and even I liked it. Gary said it was missing something. He, of course, did not know what. He suggested it might be bread. I thought it might be pork belly, but I said nothing.

The best part about the lasagna was creating the noodles. I remember Mom had great trouble making lasagna and always relied on others to handle the noodles. I always tried to make her a layer of noodles that weren't torn or gaping.

Tonight I made my own noodles. Each noodle was six inches wide and 13 inches long. Four noodles for the whole lasagna. Noodle. Noodle. Overlap them in the middle. Sauce, cheese, more cheese, noodle noodle.

I even had a spare giant noodle. I let it cool and draped it across Gary's face when he was napping.

Lessons Ravioli Has Taught Me

Lesson One: Money Solves All Ravioli-Based Problems

The secret of the Kitchenaid ravioli is to cough up more cash for the pasta roller. It makes silky yet tough dough that can then withstand the ravioli press. And it is as fun to use as that one bank commercial makes it seem. (I think it's a bank commercial. Some woman is making green, yellow, and purple pasta dough.)

In addition, I used semolina flour last time, and the instruction manual for the pasta roller makes it clear you should not even consider using semolina flour with certain attachments, and I imagine one was the ravioli maker. You would think that might be in the ravioli maker manual, but no.

Lesson Two: There's a Reason They are Classics, or Ravioli Is Very Good when Served with Tomato Sauce and Parmesan Cheese

So when Gary got home I had made all my sheets of pasta. I wisely made us dinner from roughly cut up noodle of just the egg pasta dough, butter, and grated Parmesan cheese. Gary loved it. I always love egg noodles and butter.

After dinner I was ready to try the ravioli maker. Again I tried three fillings:

Home made ricotta cheese, which leached out of five of the six ravioli because the water was boiling too roughly. There was only one cheese-filled ravioli for Gary to try and pronounce it horrible.

Roast mushrooms, which was deemed too strong and overpowering after two ravioli.

Leek, Potato and Bacon, which was an unspeakable travesty. Or, in Polish, pierogi. I'd have loved them fried up in some butter.

I'm going to try them again, but this time with a more conventional meat paste filling and tomato sauce.

Lesson Three: Waste Not.

So now I have a new skill: making these silky flat sheets of pasta. If only there were some way you could combine flat sheets of pasta and fresh ricotta cheese. Maybe with a sauce you could toss a few roast  mushrooms in to and no one would be the wiser.

I hate lasagna.

But I do have a recipe from twenty years ago. Everyone was gushing over some lasagna we'd had and the hostess passed the recipe around. I thought, "If I ever need to make lasagna I can use this recipe, because people seemed to enjoy it."

So, I'll be able to put that recipe and perhaps some of the mushrooms to use. The bacon / leek / potato filling is going to turn in to roast garlic potato soup tomorrow. I'm going to need something to eat while Gary eats the lasagna.

Your loss, ravioli maker

Back to Williams Sonoma you go

UPDATE: Last night, right before bed, Gary said, "I don't think you should return the ravioli maker."

"Why ever not?" I said, calculating what I paid for the ravioli maker.

"It's just kind of jerky to return something just because you don't like it. If it didn't work at all, that would be different. But you don't want to be one of those rich bitches that returns something just because she doesn't like it."

So, it's ravioli tonight.

Another Reason I'm a Democrat

People are greedy. People lie, cheat, and steal for money.

Democrats: Welfare fraud amounts to 1.9% of  welfare payments. Big government waste cost $17.2 billion in 2008.

Republicans: Greed and fraud by a small number of republicans brings down the economy.

 

Ravioli Dreams

I don't understand ravioli.

Ravioli I have known:

Egg ravioli at Acero. One of the best things to eat in Saint Louis. Had it, loved it.

Another Saint Louis favorite, toasted ravioli. You people outside Saint Louis would call it "deep-fried ravioli." We prefer "toasted" because there is no batter coating or dusting of powdered sugar.

There is an excellent mushroom ravioli TeddyJ serves once a week.

There are ravioli stuffed with ground meat. These are entirely too heavy.

All other ravioli has cheese in it, like cheese tortellini. What is the point? Cheese, mild. Pasta, mild. The textures and the tastes are too similar.

I think I've narrowed down my issue with ravioli on reviewing that list.

Homogeneity -  (look, it is a word!) Smooth filled with smooth. Bland filled with bland. Heavy filled with heavy. One ingredient filled with one ingredient.

I'm used to casseroles. Starch, meat, and vegetable all in one dish. I'm having trouble picturing a ravioli like this. (And don't talk to me about sauce. I have red sauce and white sauce and butter sauce. That's it. The ravioli is complicated enough.)

So, I'm thinking I need something like a tuna fish casserole, in a ravioli. A filling of tuna and potato chips with cream of mushroom soup. The pasta on the outside would replace the egg noodles. However, a visit to food network does not give enthusiastic reviews to any tuna ravioli.

You know what else you don't see in ravioli? Corn. I can't adapt the corn casserole to ravioli. So no pre-proved corn cheddar sour cream ham combo in the ravioli.

In fact, it looks like these are the approved ravioli filling ingredients: onion paste, spinach paste, squash paste, veal, beef, or lamb paste, mushroom paste, and the ever-present ricotta cheese (which I will be making myself, la LA). My guess is that everything's a paste because a paste won't poke holes in the pasta.

If I had to imagine what I would like in a ravioli, it would be egg, a sharp yet slightly melty cheese, nuts, balsamic vinegar, bacon, boiler onions, prime rib, saffron, white wine, sour kraut, and chopped apples.

Maybe I could invent a chopped-apple, proscuitto, basalmic vinegar, feta and onion ravioli. There'd be spinach and saffron in the dough. It would be the color of a green apple. Would that be awful?

There must be some reason no one has made this. I feel like I'm trying to make fusion ravioli by fusing suburban midwest cooking with Italian. Like, I could take a chunk of Velveeta, put it in a ravioli and call it inside-out mac and cheese. I could even add a chopped-up hot dog to make it a full meal.

Spunky meets Becs' Challenge with an overexposed photo to hide her wrinkles

Online Community Gathers to Mock Sickly Child

This is a child who has been asked to pick up her bowl after dinner so she can help her mother clean up.

 

My initial reaction to this video was, "This is a child I would drop kick across the room until she and her bowl were in the sink."

Then I watched a few more minutes, and I started to worry about the child. Perhaps she really cannot pick up that bowl.

Maybe she has some hidden illness. Maybe it's muscular dystrophy or juvenile RA.

Someday she'll be featured on Mystery Diagnosis and this video will be replayed before and after the first two commercial breaks. "At first little Kirsten insisted to her parents that many common items were too heavy for her to pick up, but they didn't take her seriously. It was only after she became withdrawn and listless that her parents wondered if something might be wrong."

What if Brangelina Gets Married in Brad's Hometown?

Jon Vincent Voight and Marcheline Bertrand
and
Jane Etta (née Hillhouse) and William Alvin Pitt
invite you to witness the union of their families as
Angelina Jolie (Voight)
and
William Bradley "Brad" Pitt
are married in a
traditional Missouri ceremony
on Saturday, the nineteenth of May
two thousand twelve
at three o'clock in the afternoon
123 Main Street
Springfield, Missouri

Reception following at the Fellowship Hall of the Salvation Southern Baptist Church
Mostaccioli, cake, and non-alcoholic punch will be served

 

Bridesmaids Gwyneth and Cate will sew their own dresses
All are invited
Gifts Welcome

WANT / Do not want

WANT

Gary and I were on the road Saturday and we saw this:

A 2012 Mini Cooper S Coupe. Come. Come to me baby. Sweet baby. You get your spoiler into my garage. Ah, but I have a car, and it's paid for. Whore car! Tempting me.

Pasta

You know how I get in to a hobby (stained glass, guitar), think I'm really into it and buy an expensive accessory (adjustable glass cutter, bass) and then completely lose interest in that hobby? So this time, I'm buying the expensive accessory BEFORE I start the hobby.

Kitchenaid Cthulhu or fresh pasta attachment? Gary claims it tastes better than dried pasta. Of course, I didn't use semolina or special additives. And I got the ravioli maker too, since it would seem Gary loves ravioli.

DO NOT WANT

I watched an orgy of Painted Lady butterflies in the yard. Ten of them trying to attach all at the same time. One landed on the Weber kettle right by the vent. That's why I was watching the BBQ kettle vent when a wasp crawled out of it.

I lifted the lid and didn't see any other wasps, but I don't want a wasp's nest in a place I have fire. You'd think you could have either wasps or fire, but I'm pretty sure I would have a hybrid of the two things I fear most: firewasps.

And speaking of insects, we've had a rash of baby squirrels out back. Gross. So many of them, and they move so fast, it's like they're insects too. Squirrelroaches. 

Meat

I was out on a futile errand Saturday afternoon, but it gave me a chance to listen to Prairie Home Companion. I was taken by this message from Meat:

 

It occurred to me I'd never called in my Valentine's Day gift: dinner out at a Brazilian place where they serve meat on swords. It has some name like "churrosco,"* but I'd be better served by saying it's the meat place they ate in Bridesmaids.

* Churrascaria

I didn't use this description for Gary. I juse reassured him there was no dress code and we didn't need reservations. It looked reassuring as well.

There's no menu. Dinner is $33.00 per person plus drinks and dessert.

AND THEN MEN COME BY AND DO EVERYTHING BUT PUT MEAT IN YOUR MOUTH.

The first waiter who came by had three top sirloin on a sword. "Top sirloin?" he said, one of the only eleven English phrases he knows. ("Top Sirloin, Sirloin, Filet, Garlic Steak, Bacon Wrapped Chicken, Sausage, Chicken Wings, Pork, Shrimp, Pineapple, Bananas")

We nodded.

He sliced off a little tongue of top sirloin.

We nodded.

He pointed at a pair of tongs by me. I gripped the meat with the tongs while he sliced off an ounce of top sirloin. It was at least five seconds of chewing pleasure!

Then in five minutes - or maybe less - pork man came by. Morsel of pork. So good. Gary had gone to the salad bar; I had not. Gary was stockpiling morsels of meat on his plate and focused entirely too much on his pasta salad. I hopped up to get some mashed potatoes and broccoli to occupy myself between morsels.

I was sold from morsel one because it was delectable. Gary was sold because this is how his mother feeds him. "Gary, eat this 0.5 by 0.5 inch square of brownie!" "Gary, just have a bite of this noodle stroganoff!" Then he pecks on her beak and Wilma vomits pops the morsel into his mouth.

Somehow, the waiters coming by with the meat were not intrusive. It was fun. We didn't get too involved in our conversation. I'd have liked it to be a little more leisurely, but Gary hadn't eaten all day. We only took about an hour and a fifteen minutes, at most (bear in mind there is NO wait for food).

Did I eat $33 worth of meat? Yes, since I eschewed shrimp and chicken wings (please!) after the first taste. I also turned my back on roast bananas and pineapple. Essentially, I drank water and ate an unending peristalsis of steak.

On the other hand, Gary kept working away at his first salad bar visit. The meat just piled up on his plate. Sirloin. Bananas. Chicken wings. (Wasteful!) He was collecting. He had about a solid pound of food on his plate when he got past his salad. Then he picked through all his morsels and kept insisting I eat some. "Ellen! Taste this top sirloin! It's great!" "Yes, I know. I've been right here. I ate every bite of cow meat they had. I'm done now." Then he stabbed me in the back and put some meat scraps on my plate as if I were the one feeding sirloin to the devil. Outrageous betrayal.

Still, I really enjoyed it. There's just something about having an endless supply of meat morsels carved for me that makes me feel like I'm having grapes peeled and popped in my mouth.

And yes, we did make it home before we had our own post-Brazillian steakhouse scene.

 

March of the Tornadoes

I appreciate that the National Weather Service can now let us know that there is a "90%" chance of tornadoes. It's kind of exciting they described it as a "perfect storm of tornadic activity."

Kind of interesting how the red area is slowly pinching St. Louis between its thumb and forefinger.

CNN told people in the red area that if they live in a mobile home they should just get out right now and not wait for the sirens. Just leave. Maybe tie it down. Put the soda outside. Go someplace with a basement.

It's sunny here. Only the Weather Channel guy just said sunshine "adds fuel to the fire." 

Big red bar across the screen now that says TOR:CON 9.

So some time tonight I'll be in the basement, since we get Kansas weather four hours after they do. Or, maybe the Big Red Hand will make a Big Red OK sign around Saint Louis.

Revolver

Yesterday, I was with a number of people walking past the lovely TeddyJ landscaping on my way in to the building.

The woman directly ahead of me was "pedeconferencing." As if to say: we are walking and talking and making plans and cutting through the B.S..

She went in the revolving door ahead of me. It's a revolving security door we all pass through once a day. You swipe your badge and then it turns.

In the past there was a malfunction - if you didn't swipe your badge it would trap you inside and bellow. "Security!" Funny. They turned that off, sad to say, but lucky for this woman.

She didn't swipe. She just stepped in.

The door didn't move.

She spoke to the door like a child. "Come on, come on." Sigh.

Then she snapped at the door. "Come ON!"

Then she realized, "I forgot to swipe!" And she laughed, God bless her. We ALL had a good laugh. Everyone standing in line behind her, all of us wondering how to quickly an delicately explain to Ms Big Shot she hadn't swiped.

Things I Hide

I was hiding something today. (It's number one on the list). Here's a list of all the things I hide.

1. Used Poise Pads. I don't want my husband to encounter used pads, so I  fold them so the sticky sides adhere together, then I wrap it in toilet paper and bury it in the trash can.

I suppose this is the same approach I took with used Kotex before I hammered that first tampon up there. I don't recall. I don't recall any complaints from my brother, either, which makes me wonder if I buried them in the backyard.

2. Undergarments. If I take off my clothes at the doctors, I am careful to set aside the pants so I can drape them on the top of the stack, over the most recently removed bra and underwear.

3. Wires, electronics, televisions. Of course. Hide the wires. We're too good for TV. I think this is universal. Also, sex toys, of course.

4. Alcohol and alcohol paraphernalia. (I don't know where I got this from. Mom and Dad had the brandy (?) in the crystal decanter.) My wine glasses are even hidden.

5. Box springs. An entire extra sheet set must be purchased so I will have an extra fitted sheet that will hide my box springs.

 6. Bathing suits.I don't know why. I suppose they're a little like underwear.

7. Pharmacy bottles. I've put drugs in adorable apothecary jars for easy access, but Gary complains children will come in to our house and think the drugs are candy and OD.

8. While Dad was alive, I had a heavy cut glass ashtray which I had to hide deep in the back of the cabinet. I threw it away. When he died. Of lung cancer.

9. What's that anti-yeast infection stuff? Monostat? That's the only over the counter thing I hide in the bathroom. Preparation H, it's out there. Monostat? Trouble with the cooter? SHAAAAAME.

10. Eyebrow wax strips and tweezers. I think this goes back to when I lifted Mom's little orange pot and used it to heat the hot wax I applied surreptitiously to my brows every week. I suppose I'm hiding it from Gary, not Mom. Oh, and the razor / scraper thing I use on my heels. I suppose both things are to be hidden because they show an indecorous level of vanity.

So ... what do you hide?

Drain Bump

Here is the state of everything in my brain, not at all organized.

Did I dream the F16 plane crash from this weekend? Where's the black box? What did the pilots have to say? What happened there?

April 10. Mom died in '2008 - four years ago. Friend 4 tried to get a little LobSlau going, but it's just to hard to get everyone together. I might kill a lobster for Mom later this week. I got weepy last night thinking about it.

Wilma is loving her iPad. She researches old TV shows. Gary was concerned she might encounter some porn, so he stripped down her browser (dirty!), but she insisted she be able to search "The Beaver" and find out all about Jerry Mathers. The baby browser Gary installed kiboshedthe Beaver. Safari is back on the iPad.

She likes following links. I remember when I first fell in love with the internet - when I went to the on-line Pride and Prejudice and found you could click each Bennet's name and get a synopsis of his or her character.

Gary has still not shown any interest in his birthday gift (bird camera). Now I know how he felt when I didn't eat my birthday chocolate every night.

I have a meeting tomorrow morning at 8. Gotta try to get more sleep than last night.

Stick a Fork In It

This is my laptop at work.

Yeah, that's a fork stuck in it. That bastard is done.

Now matter where I sit, I slowly lose connection to the network. I can watch directories disappear. I called IS and finally got someone to say,"Well, that's your network card. Let's get you a new laptop!" and moments later someone else called to jerk me around with "Let's do a little more troubleshooting."

NO. No more of that noise. I do not have time to troubleshoot. I want this laptop dead. I  want it gone. I want one that doesn't *sigh* every time I ask it to publish a file.

I was productive today only because I appropriated Friend #3's machine from 3:30 to 9:30. AT. NIGHT.

I feel like this. (Audio Not Safe for Work.)

The iLiving iBible

Today we celebrate Christ's resurrection and Wilma's birth.

About a month ago, Wilma said to Gary, "I was wondering if Doris Day ever got married. Would that be on the Internet?"

"We can Google it on my phone."

"Oh! I've heard of Google."

Any guesses as to what Wilma is getting for her birthday? Any guesses? Yes. That. The fanciest Internet-viewing device / camera / bible-reader in all of creation. I can't even say it. You know what it is.

The thing is, she really wants to be able to read her heavy giant Bible on it, and her preferred translation is the 1970's Living Bible.

You can't buy just the Living Bible for the iP- oops, almost said it. First off, Apple doesn't acknowledge its existance (like the iTunes and the Beatles).

Second, you can't even get just ONE translation, because all the applications have heavy translation comparisons.

Finally, you can't BUY a Bible. Bible apps are mostly FREE.

This last point is killing Gary, because he researches purchases to death and then always picks the most expensive option. "This Bible is FREE? Well, it can't be any good." I swear, he said that three times this Easter morning.

We finally did find a 35 dollar i-Bible that has "interactivity." I don't know what this means. Are the Psalms put to music? Perhaps a map? Lightning comes out of the iPad and strikes evil-doers dead?

Annnd - that reminds me! Arhan-fay is coming for Easter and will watch us eat ham. I think this will push him to the limits of keeping his tongue still.

Nothing to Report

I went to bed on Thursday night at 8.

Got out of bed Friday night at 7.

Going back to bed now.

Not dead, not sick, just really wiped out.

FINALLY I Can Code Again! LAAAA!

An obsessively close reading of this blog would reveal I have been frustrated and discouraged at work the last month or so.

I'm learning a new language and I feel stupid. Programs that work on other people's machines give me long lists of nonsensical errors. Pretend you are using your bank ATM, and you put in your card and the screen reads:

INVALID CARD
ERROR LAUNCHING
NO USER PROFILE
PROFILE INVALID CLASS
CARD CLASS INVALID

And this is a card you've used a million times. People behind you can use their cards. The bank card expert cuts in front of you and says "Dunno what's wrong with you. MY card works."

Today, I stumbled across this screen:

STRICT MODE is checked on my machine.

My computer expects perfection from me. No one else has this setting, I bet.

Because of that check, my programming language looks at my code and says, "YOU CALL THAT CODE? WHAT IS THAT? WERE YOU RAISED IN A BARN? THAT CODE IS CRAP! ERROR!"

I got rid of the check and I can program again. What a relief. I feel like I need therapy now.

Wilma's Stollen

I made my mother-in-law's sweet cheese stollen for the people at work yesterday. It was popular. It was all gone very quickly.

"Was it stolen?" Libby asked.

===================================

The cream cheese seeped out the sides of mine. I didn't let the people at work see that. NSFW.

Important: you have to start this the night before you want to serve it.
Also important: it makes 4 stollens.

Shopping list:
1 and 1/4 c sugar, divided into 1/2 cup for the dough and 3/4 cup for the filling
5 cups flour
3 packets Active Dry yeast
1/2 pound butter (2 sticks)
3 eggs + 3 egg yolks (so, that's 6 eggs)
1 cup Sour cream
3 8 oz packages of cream cheese
3 tsps vanilla
2-4 T Lemon juice
1/4 cup of powdered sugar or so

Makes 4 loaves. I suppose you could freeze the dough.

Dough:
Measure out 2T Active yeast (Tear open the packets and measure out 2 T. I think it took me three packets.)
Dissolve it in 1/2 cup warm water (temperature from 100-110 degrees).
Add 1/2 c sugar. (This is not all the sugar).
Set aside until fluffy.

Cream 1/2 pound butter (2 sticks) and 3 of the eggs.
Blend in 1 cup sour cream
Add in the yeast mixture you set aside.

Add 5 cups of flour one at a time. (I just learned this - did you know you really ARE supposed to spoon the flour into the cup and level it off. I thought we didn't have to do that in these modern times with the self-leveling flour. But we still do. Otherwise, you end up with 20% more flour when you just scoop it out and level it.)

Pull out 4 squares of plastic wrap. Divide the (sticky) dough into 4 balls, plop each one in the center of a plastic wrap square, then wrap it up.

Refrigerate overnight.

Make the filling. (that night or the next day):
Cream together these things: 3 8 oz packages of cream cheese, 3 egg yolks, 3 tsps vanilla, and 3/4 cup sugar. That's the filling

The next day, wake up three hours or so before you want to.

For each stollen, take a dough ball out of the refrigerator.
Preheat the oven to 375.
Grease a cookie sheet.
Unwrap a ball and push it out into a rectangle on the cookie sheet. You goal is to make it half an inch thick or less. Try not to touch it too much.

Spoon one fourth of the filling in the middle of the dough rectangle.
This next part isn't easy, but it isnt supposed to look pretty: Take the right or left long side of the dough and stretch it over the filling to the middle.
Do the same thing with the other side. Pinch it together in the middle. Try to cover up all the filling but bits can peek through.

Let it rest for an hour of two until it has doubled in size.

Bake it for 20-25 minutes until it is brown.

But no! You are not done! You have to glaze it. Mix together the 2 T lemon juice and the powdered sugar until you have a glaze that tastes the way you like. Glaze the top with the mixture.

Marcia's Story, Part Two: Now With Even More Hyperbole

So, after finding her biological mother, Marcia found out some details about her biological father. In the course of events, after Marcia was concieved the man went back home to his small town and got married a few months later, just about the time Marcia's biological mother discovered she was pregnant. She did try to tell the man she was in a family way by calling his house. "Is Mr. X home?" "No." "Who is this?" "I'm his wife." What a shock. Marcia, plucky fetus that she was, hung in there.

So now, fifty years later, Marcia wrote a very polite letter to the man, in which she summarized the pertinent details of her conception and enclosed a self-addressed stamped envelope he could use to send back her photo.

Soon he called and they had a good conversation. His wife is lovely and he seems to be loosening up.

But, these details are inconsequential.

Marcia is one eighth Cherokee.

A Jewish. Native. American. According to both the Mormons and this Missouri group, she is twice linked back to the Lost Tribes of Israel. She has been oppressed on Europe AND in America. She is prone to drinking problems AND lactose intolerence.

The women at work had a lovely lunch making up Native American names for her. (I think "Farts in cube" was one of them.) Is she a Jewndian? Or a Native Israeli? I had not been having a productive week at work, and I was not happy and smiling until that lunch. Then, to make things better, that afternoon Marcia got promoted. (Big Chief Marcia.) 

These past few days I've been able to make references to Indian wrestling, scalping, and Kimosabee, but I haven't even started yet. There's still Manhattan, wampum, peace pipes, maize, and using all the parts of the buffalo even the brisket. Plus, "How" is a question, so I could say "How" in a heavy Yiddish accent ("How?" she shrugged).* Oh wait!  I'll have to tell her tomorrow she's limping, and ask if she has a wounded knee.

*I know Native Americans never said "How." I have to tread lightly on the Jewish issues, I can't be sensitive to two ethniciites at a time.

Marcia's Story Part One

This is the tale of a girl, a little Jewish girl, who set off to find her lineage and discovered she is fifth cousins once removed from Rush Limbaugh.

This is the story of Marcia, friend #3, and how she found her birth parents. I won't do it justice, but she never wrote it up for you and she lost the rights to her story. I might just tell everything wrong to annoy her. I'm sure she'll correct me in the comments.

Marcia was adopted by a Jewish family in Saint Louis some fifty-odd years ago. Information was limited about her biological mother. The adoption had been run by a lawyer, it took place in Salem Illinois, and Marcia's aunt said the mother was Jewish. No one knew anything else. Sometime after I met her, around twenty years ago, Marcia's adoptive mom died and Marcia went to look at the records in Salem Illinois. She looked for her birth-date and found an adoption of one Linda Sue H_____, who was presented to Marcia's parents. (I would spell out the last name, but suffice it to say she was not Linda Sue H______stein.)

This killed my theory, which was that Marcia's aunt was her real (Marcia's term) "bio-Mom."

At some point this last year, Illinois opened their adoption records. Adopted children could see their birth certificates. Marcia sent for hers, and it came back with bio-Mom's name. A little research on the internet and Marcia found great details about bio-Mom, bio-Mom's noble hertiage back twelve generations, etc.,  and bio_Mom's address.  A letter went to bio-Mom.

Thus began the first of the Facebook "Holy crap!" statuses. "Holy crap! I just got a phone call from my birth mother!"

They met, and that's where Marcia's blue eyes are from, and the mother had been waiting her whole life to hear from Marcia. It was very sweet. Bio-mom and Dad had been dating, and there was an event in which bio-Mom "thanked" bio-Dad for getting her car started. "She thanked hin in the most natural way possible," as Marcia said, and there was a "Wardrobe Malfunction."  I am living proof of the failure of the rhythm method myself, so I feel we have a bond.

This killed my second theory, which was that Marcia's adoptive dad was her biological father, since this girl had lived close to his photo studio.

Bio-Mom is very religious. She asked Marcia at one point, "Do you know the Lord?"

"I know OF Him," I would have said, if I were there and if I were Marcia, but I am not and I was not there. Instead, Marcia said, "Well you gave me to a Jewish couple, so I'm Jewish."

The bio-Mom has not told her family of this indiscretion with the boy in the Big City, and she never had any other children. She has been filling Marcia in on important topics like family health history (perfect) and important relatives (Rush! Limbaugh! Ahahahah!) and ...  Bio-Dad's name.

That's Part Two, tomorrow.