girlfiend

A daiquiri recipe calls for

• 1 1/2 oz. Light Rum
• 1 tsp. Powdered Sugar
• Juice of 1 Lime

A daiquiri recipe using simple syrup calls for

• 2 ounces light rum
  
• 1-ounce freshly squeezed lime juice, strained of pulp
  
• 1/2-ounce Simple Syrup

Here’s the question for you boozy/mathematician types. I made a simple syrup and added the lime juice directly to it. The simple syrup was made with a 2 to 1 sugar to water ratio and then I added the juice of about 10 limes. So what ratio  of rum to syrup do I use for a daiquiri? (I’ve done this successfully in the past, but never wrote it down. Which sucks and I’ve screwed myself twice because I’ve also used the lime syrup for margaritas which is really just delicious and I never wrote that down either. ) Equal parts rum and syrup was way too sweet. Two to one rum to syrup was way too boozy. Two to one to one half, with one half of lime juice was too limey for my tastes. Mix suggested a splash of orange juice which I added to my too boozy/too limey sample cup and it was fine, but I’ve never added orange before and prefer to stick with just plain lime. Any suggestions?

It occurred to me, after I transplanted a few plants and planted some seeds for green beans, that most of my veggies will be ready to harvest while I’m away on vacation in July. I’ve been using the herbs as needed though, and a few other vegetables should be ready sooner. Like these jalapeños:

Unless the stupid aphids eat them first.

While I’m posting pictures, does anyone know what this bush is?

The problem with sunscreen is that I never quite feel clean all summer long. I’ve tried many, many formulations over the years and the spray on, which is the easiest to apply, is the toughest to remove. Unfortunately the creams are equally difficult to remove, as are the sticks and pump sprays. Once I start slathering myself with SPF 30 daily, I feel sticky and gross. It doesn’t matter if I use a washcloth or one of those poofy things, no matter how much I scrub in the shower, and I always shower at night to wash the day off, I still feel a fine film of sunscreen that I can physically rub off with a towel. It’s nasty.

We arrived Friday evening and made it through until late Sunday morning without any major fights. Saturday my mom watched the Fiendling who can’t go to the beach until the cast is off while Boyfiend and I enjoyed a few relaxing hours by the ocean. She was still incredibly annoying. Boyfiend says she’s crazy and until I truly accept she’s crazy she’ll continue to annoy me. Here are some of the exchanges that infuriated amused me over the weekend.

After learning the Fiendling isn’t much of a meat eater my mother said, “What do you mean he doesn’t like meat? If you don’t start making him eat meat he’s going to be a lazy chewer.”

Upon being offered a delicious coconut cupcake she responded, “I don’t like coconut.”
“But Mom, you drink pina coladas and eat Mounds bars.”
“That’s different though. It’s processed coconut.”

My mother told Boyfiend, “I’ve given up soda. It was very hard for me.” I did not tell her that I’d seen two cans of Pepsi beside her bed nor did I look under the bed to see if that was where she stashed the case of soda.

My mom asked, “Why did you bring all of those coconut cupcakes anyway?” I said, “I wouldn’t have brought them if I knew you stopped eating coconut.” She said, “It’s not that I don’t like coconut, I just don’t eat crap anymore.” “Mom, you ate a croissant for breakfast that contains more than 40 ingredients, at least 7 of those ingredients were various kinds of sugars and hydrogenated oils and your breakfast sausage contains nitrates and MSG. When we’re not here you eat Fiddle Faddle for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  Just try the damn cupcake.”

After telling three different people about how I was marinating vegetables for a grilled vegetable salad made with spinach from my garden and goat cheese (mmmm. goat cheese) my mother refused to try any. “I don’t like roasted vegetables.” “You have a half empty container of roasted peppers in your refrigerator.” “That’s different.” But the salad is made with red and orange pepper. “It’s still different. I like roasted red peppers. I don’t like vegetables.”

Boyfiend says that once I truly accept she’s crazy I’ll be able to ignore her inane statements because you just don’t reason with a crazy person. He may be right.

I just taught the Fiendling how to use the dustbuster. This could be the beginning of something beautiful.

I usually avoid it because it’s not as good as Reading Terminal and it seems totally overpriced, but a few weeks ago I stopped at the Ardmore Farmer’s Market after I couldn’t find something I needed at Trader Joe’s. I couldn’t find it at the produce stand their either, and the Fiendling was fussy after waking from a nap so I left, but not before noticing the spice stand on the way out. Sunday I stopped to browse at the stand, Adriana’s Caravan, and I’m glad I did. They have everything and the woman who works there (the owner?) knew exactly what I wanted when I asked for a Moroccan spice blend and offered me four to choose from. Then when she asked what I was making and I told her I was trying b’stillas again only this time using this recipe instead of this one she corrected my pronunciation, asked if I planned on using pigeon or chicken, and when I told her chicken she said ‘good.’

I ended up buying unsweetened coconut for a thai green rice recipe, tahini just because I’m almost out, and ras el hanout for the b’stillas because I forgot the recipe and I didn’t have a shopping list, but if I’d had one I probably would have purchased the cardamom pods and allspice berries too. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know it’s there and it’s good and you can order online too if you’re even lazier than I am when it comes to wrangling a baby on public transportation with many, many shopping bags because who doesn’t leave the Reading Terminal with too much stuff to carry? And some of you may or may not recall that the last time I took the bus to the terminal I had so much stuff that I ended up leaving my purse on the bus. And parking by the convention center means I either circle for 20 minutes affair with a baby who wants OUT or pay for a lot which just isn’t an option because why pay for a lot when there’s street parking out there somewhere. (I’ve heard rumors of the $2 validated lot. I’ve yet to use it.)

I don’t know why I just made all of those excuses for not taking the bus to the Reading Terminal. But I did and they are all valid.

At least I’m semi-well-rested. The Benadryl worked the first night, but not nights two or three. But then either we upped the dose and it worked or the Fiendling just got really tired or used to the cast and he’s slept through the night the past two nights. His mood has improved some too, which means mine has as well. I’ve stupidly been using his nap time to hack away at a thorn bush in my neighbor’s yard that’s grown through the fence into mine. It’s a gorgeous bush in the fall, but the thorns are like an inch long and hurt like a motherfucker. It’s totally overgrown and my neighbors said they’d get rid of it but since it’s not high on their list of priorities I’ve been trying to cut it down some so my rose bush that got one bloom last year might get some light. It’s slow going because every branch needs to be cut into small pieces so I can dispose of it without killing myself. I’m covered in tiny scratches and when I get the one down to size there are two more to work on. I need full body armor.

By the by, did you know that this very important anniversary has passed? The Real World turns 15. That first New York season where everyone actually had lives and looked like real people and didn’t just cavort in hot tubs seems so long ago. Remember when Julie wanted to sleep in a shelter with the homeless or when she and Kevin had that screaming match in the street? And Andre was just boring all season long? Dude, I feel really old now.

The doctor suggested half a teaspoon of benadryl as a sleep aid with the warning that it does, on occasion, make kids a bit wired. The benadryl comes with a little cup, not a dropper, so I poured what I guessed to be half a teaspoon in the cup and sucked it up with the syringe we’ve been using to give the Fiendling motrin. He was on Boyfiend’s lap and when I squirted the medicine in his mouth most of it ended up on Boyfiend’s shirt. We decided to try again, using a smaller dropper. Because we weren’t sure if he’d actually swallowed any the first time we decided to give him 3/4 of the dose this time, about a dropper and half using the smaller one. He was still on Boyfiend’s lap and this time when I squirted it in his mouth it ran down the Fiendling’s face. Not knowing how much he’d gotten down we decided that this time we’d just give 1/4 of the dose. This time Boyfiend, still holding him, dosed him and managed to get all of it in his mouth. I don’t know how much he swallowed, whether it was more or less than the full dose, but he fell asleep around 9.30 and when Boyfiend woke up at 6.45 and made a move to go to the bathroom I told him not to move. We went back to sleep and the Fiendling didn’t wake up until 7.30. It was awesome.

It’s only ten in the morning and I’ve been eying my box of wine longingly since eight. The Fiendling woke up at four and couldn’t get comfortable enough to go back to sleep. I spent the five o’clock hour crying along with him. Now he’s napping and I can’t relax enough to sleep. I can’t remember the last time I felt this depressed.

Yup. Broken. Or fractured to be more specific, probably by the force of my adult body against his little leg on the way down the slide. My little baby is wearing a rather large cast for the next three weeks when it will be x-rayed again.

We had a follow-up with our pediatrician yesterday (I think I’ve finally stopped calling her the vet) and she was not as confident with the ER doctor’s diagnosis as I’d hoped. She said that from what I described it did sound like a sprain, but sprains are incredibly rare in kids of the Fiendling’s age and because he isn’t putting any weight on it she’s afraid it could be a fracture in the growth plate that wouldn’t show up in an x-ray. So we’re off to see a pediatric orthopedist later this morning. I looked him up on the website and he’s listed as an Orthopaedic Surgeon which freaks me out a bit, but at least we’ll know for sure whether or not I’ve truly broken my child. I feel just terrible.

Earlier when Boyfiend left for work the Fiendling started to cry and didn’t stop for close to half an hour. He wanted nothing to do with me, pushing me away every time I went near him. I forced some ibuprofen in his mouth and put on Jack’s Big Music Show and he eventually calmed down but it was a shitty way to start the stay. I hate that he hurts and I hate that I can’t really help him. I hate that he’s crawling, not walking and that when he tries to stand he lifts the hurt foot behind him. I hope he doesn’t need a little baby cast.