My encounter with the rain this morning:
Me, juggling my regular bag, gym bag, lunch tupperware (in a bag), umbrella, and Express paper (because I can't resist my daily crossword), my metro pass, and reaching for a pencil with not a hand to do anything else, while trying not to fall down on the metro.
My encounter at the doctor's office today:
Receptionist: we only have one number on file for you, do you want to add another number?
Me: no, I don't have a home number, so that one is fine.
Receptionist: do you have an office number?
Me: I'd rather not have you call my office because it's just a general number; you can always call my cell
Receptionist: you don't have an extension?
Me: I'd rather you not call my office, the cell number is fine
Receptionist: we can put 'do not call' next to it
Me: if you're not going to call then why do you need it?
Receptionist: in case we can't get through on the other number and we have to call
Me: but I don't want you to call my office
Receptionist: ok, I'll let the doctor know
Me: ok, thanks, bye
Receptionist: [click]
My encounter with the fire alarm today:
It's not so much that I came home and the fire alarm was going off, it's that the fire alarm was going off so quietly that I can only assume it's broken. And I'm not annoyed at the noise it's making, but more disturbed that if there were an actual fire (Ed: so far, no fire on the floor), that pathetic alarm wouldn't alert anyone, especially me and I sleep like a baby. And by "sleep like a baby" I don't mean well, I mean waking up every few hours until I see the light of day.
Happy Birthday Jordan!
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Today's Agenda...
Obtaining [check] and reading [half checked] books on Argentina and Buenos Aires! Going first week in March.
Roasting garlic for some homemade garlic bread [in progress]
Nursing my Monoflumonia-over [it could be a real thing...]
Not getting my car washed [check]
And apparently watching this program on Jews in America....ie, the only thing on tv right now.
Roasting garlic for some homemade garlic bread [in progress]
Nursing my Monoflumonia-over [it could be a real thing...]
Not getting my car washed [check]
And apparently watching this program on Jews in America....ie, the only thing on tv right now.
Cousin Itt from Start to Finish
Once upon a time, there was a girl. This girl passed the bar exam and 8 months later she was finally being sworn into the NY Bar. She wanted to use this new distinction for good. So, she decided, she would volunteer her time and do pro bono work, every week and help those less
fortunate. But reality quickly sank in - she didn't really have a lot of skills to share and although she had plenty of free time, her moderate salary didn't really lend itself to giving away loads of time or money. So she bagged the pro bono notion, got a part-time job and decided the only way she had to help others was to grow and donate her hair. Unfortunately, this decision came on the heels of getting her hair cut quite short (March 2006 - NY bar swearing in ceremony - with godmother Aunt Diane).
fortunate. But reality quickly sank in - she didn't really have a lot of skills to share and although she had plenty of free time, her moderate salary didn't really lend itself to giving away loads of time or money. So she bagged the pro bono notion, got a part-time job and decided the only way she had to help others was to grow and donate her hair. Unfortunately, this decision came on the heels of getting her hair cut quite short (March 2006 - NY bar swearing in ceremony - with godmother Aunt Diane). 
She started growing her hair out. There were times it didn't seem to be growing at all (left, fall 2006).
She got bored with her Cousin Itt hair. It became somewhat unruly. The answer - bangs! Even her parents didn't recognize her after this cut (left, Alumni regatta, Tombs after party, May 2007).
(Granted, there's some lapse here in the timeline, but the problem in almost every picture it's up in a ponytail, so it's hard to see if it was growing).
She resorted to pinning Itt back and tying the mass of Itt up in ponytails, pigtails, and braids. Check out that tail! (left, Apple dinner, September 2007).
Finally, she tried just embracing Itt. Flowing locks (Fakesgiving, November 2007). I call this picture, "Hi Mom!"
Here's one last picture of Itt. Admittedly, it's not the greatest shot, but this is Itt at it's longest (December 2007 - Eli's 1st birthday party).
Finally, in late December, she grew fed up with Itt. Itt was clogging up every drain in her apartment and Itt no longer looked presentable. Every day was a different type of ponytail. So - she made a hair appointment and went in to get Itt cut off!
Here Itt is! The tail!! Looks more like a turd to me, but this is all 10 - 12 inches of Itt!! This was cut on one of the last days of December 2007!
It was a bit of a shock at first, but looking back at these pictures she realizes that Itt will grow back and in a relatively short amount of time. Plus, no matter how much she hates the new cut, she knows that the tail will help out a bald cancer patient look a little better or even just feel a little better about herself. However, now every picture she sees of the past 2 years she thinks, "I miss my hair!"
Here's the end result! (New Years Eve, 2007, with Annie).
Friday, January 25, 2008
"It's been so long since last we met..."
Yup, that's right folks. I'm back! Sorry for the delay, but I promise some new posts over the next few days. There are definitely some things that I can fill you all in on - if anyone is still reading!
Ok, I'm back. I got a little side tracked there for a while, especially Friday night when I had planned on updating this blog. Long story short - a quick happy hour with Melissa on Friday turned into a Martini fest at the Mayflower hotel and yada yada yada, I'm finally feeling better!
As catch up - after the last time I posted, I went to give blood. I was a little nervous, but happy to be doing some good. Alas, the INOVA blood center didn't like my type (something about a heart condition) and they rejected me. They told me I could give blood after I got my heart valve replaced. I told them I didn't plan on having it replaced! They said, "then you can't give blood here." I told them that I had been ok'd to give blood at the American Red Cross and they said, "That's great - go there and give blood!" Sigh...
I also finally managed to make fudge. After trying my cousin Evan's recipe and ending in utter failure (the big crumbly mess, which I'm not sure if I've mentioned). Evan said he'd never heard of that happening and couldn't think of how or why the fudge would turn to crumbles. I suggested possibly it was the soy milk I used? I knew the recipe was going to turn out badly because I was already improvising in the first step. Anyway, yes, apparently something about fat content and milk and soy and well...you need to use whole milk. Anyway, then a very small and simple recipe came to me (literally, its the smallest recipe ever, not bigger than a quarter in size). I tried that one (thank you Adam) and it was actually quick and easy and made perfect fudge! I made it twice actually, it was a big hit and now I don't really need fudge again for a long time. It was very sweet. In fact, that's what most people said when they tried it (at least it's better than my aunt's reaction to my thanksgiving corn pudding, which was, "it's...interesting...").
The car is still trucking along. Ya know, it's eternally filthy and forever making weird noises. Still needs brakes and probably a lot more TLC than I can give it. Sometimes I lose track of it and go weeks without seeing it. It's OK - I know it's still there. In fact, I saw it yesterday!
And just for good measure, I'll add one little anecdote from this morning. I went to this food court type place near my apartment. It's called "Epicurean & Company" - the sign says "A Taste of Pleasure" - honestly for the longest time I thought it was an adult shop, but then I realized one day that it was serving food, which actually looked kind of good, but I never had time to get in there. So today, in an egg and cheese quest, I went in there. I asked the man behind the grill if he could make egg and cheese? Yes. On a bagel? Yes. So I see him toasting a bagel, and then buttering it, so I thought. It looked like a lot of butter, but who am I to turn my nose up at excessive buttering - maybe he knew something I didn't. No, he didn't. He finally hands me the bagel. I say, "This is an egg and cheese?" and he said "Yes, I already put the cheese on." I said, "Egg and cheese?" And he said, "No, sorry, it's cream cheese." So he takes it back and puts some egg on the grill. He asks, "What kind of cheese, or is cream cheese OK?" To myself I thought, "No, cream cheese is not OK. Not OK at all!" So I respond, "No, EGG and CHEESE, like American cheese?" At this point I was very worried that he was just going to scrape off the cream cheese and put the egg and cheese on it, but at that point I was thinking, "it' close enough." I see him take out another bagel, struggle to cut it open (was it stale? frozen? why was it so hard to cut?), toast it and put the egg and cheese on it. Seems OK, right? I get home and realize it was a cinnamon raisin bagel! D'oh!
Ok, I'm back. I got a little side tracked there for a while, especially Friday night when I had planned on updating this blog. Long story short - a quick happy hour with Melissa on Friday turned into a Martini fest at the Mayflower hotel and yada yada yada, I'm finally feeling better!
As catch up - after the last time I posted, I went to give blood. I was a little nervous, but happy to be doing some good. Alas, the INOVA blood center didn't like my type (something about a heart condition) and they rejected me. They told me I could give blood after I got my heart valve replaced. I told them I didn't plan on having it replaced! They said, "then you can't give blood here." I told them that I had been ok'd to give blood at the American Red Cross and they said, "That's great - go there and give blood!" Sigh...
I also finally managed to make fudge. After trying my cousin Evan's recipe and ending in utter failure (the big crumbly mess, which I'm not sure if I've mentioned). Evan said he'd never heard of that happening and couldn't think of how or why the fudge would turn to crumbles. I suggested possibly it was the soy milk I used? I knew the recipe was going to turn out badly because I was already improvising in the first step. Anyway, yes, apparently something about fat content and milk and soy and well...you need to use whole milk. Anyway, then a very small and simple recipe came to me (literally, its the smallest recipe ever, not bigger than a quarter in size). I tried that one (thank you Adam) and it was actually quick and easy and made perfect fudge! I made it twice actually, it was a big hit and now I don't really need fudge again for a long time. It was very sweet. In fact, that's what most people said when they tried it (at least it's better than my aunt's reaction to my thanksgiving corn pudding, which was, "it's...interesting...").
The car is still trucking along. Ya know, it's eternally filthy and forever making weird noises. Still needs brakes and probably a lot more TLC than I can give it. Sometimes I lose track of it and go weeks without seeing it. It's OK - I know it's still there. In fact, I saw it yesterday!
And just for good measure, I'll add one little anecdote from this morning. I went to this food court type place near my apartment. It's called "Epicurean & Company" - the sign says "A Taste of Pleasure" - honestly for the longest time I thought it was an adult shop, but then I realized one day that it was serving food, which actually looked kind of good, but I never had time to get in there. So today, in an egg and cheese quest, I went in there. I asked the man behind the grill if he could make egg and cheese? Yes. On a bagel? Yes. So I see him toasting a bagel, and then buttering it, so I thought. It looked like a lot of butter, but who am I to turn my nose up at excessive buttering - maybe he knew something I didn't. No, he didn't. He finally hands me the bagel. I say, "This is an egg and cheese?" and he said "Yes, I already put the cheese on." I said, "Egg and cheese?" And he said, "No, sorry, it's cream cheese." So he takes it back and puts some egg on the grill. He asks, "What kind of cheese, or is cream cheese OK?" To myself I thought, "No, cream cheese is not OK. Not OK at all!" So I respond, "No, EGG and CHEESE, like American cheese?" At this point I was very worried that he was just going to scrape off the cream cheese and put the egg and cheese on it, but at that point I was thinking, "it' close enough." I see him take out another bagel, struggle to cut it open (was it stale? frozen? why was it so hard to cut?), toast it and put the egg and cheese on it. Seems OK, right? I get home and realize it was a cinnamon raisin bagel! D'oh!
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
They like me, they really like me....
Due in large part to the overwhelming responses I've received, I'll give you all a little bit of an update.
The Car: I asked the second hitter when she hit my car. She said Wednesday - clearly not the same hitter. I took her money anyway. I mean at the end of the day - she hit my car, the car is broken, and it wasn't my fault. It's not my fault that those things aren't necessarily related. And still, she could've been lying. She totally dropped off a check for about $475 to pay for the damages - sucks to hit a Saab.
The Fudge: still on the back burner - no pun intended.
The Bahamas: flipping amazing. I've decided to start replacing the word "bitch" for any unnecessary or implied nouns. Like "fire that bitch up" or "where'd that bitch go?" when looking for anything. It can also be used as a delightful adjective. Like, "how was the bahamas?" "Bitching." [sorry mom, but I think it's the tamest word I could've picked up]. I'm currently suffering from post-bahaman depression syndrome. It's a cruel world.
I also have a nice little anecdote about the DC metro. Last week, I ran to catch my train and I hopped on, only to realize I had hopped on going the wrong direction. I didn't realize my error for TWO stops. While I was riding the train in the wrong direction, some (obviously crazy) guy woke up, turned to me, and said, "Do I know you from somewhere?" "No," I replied. He then went into how he knew me from somewhere, "Were you in Dupont Circle in the summer of '97?"
What the hell was he talking about? Was I "in" the circle? Like walking through it? Or living in it? I said no again because clearly I was still living at home in 1997. Lunatic.
Oh and on Monday after I got home, I was walking back to my apartment and I went to pass this guy in front of me. I got to just about even with him when he spit off to the side and nearly missed me. He goes, "Oops, sorry!" I just let out a nervous laugh because there is certainly no appropriate response to that. I mean I'm not going to say, "It's ok," because it's obviously not ok. I've also been walking in about the same spot when a runner ran by me and I felt a drop of sweat fall onto my foot - disgusting.
That's about my only gripes for today.
Stay tuned - tomorrow I give blood!!
The Car: I asked the second hitter when she hit my car. She said Wednesday - clearly not the same hitter. I took her money anyway. I mean at the end of the day - she hit my car, the car is broken, and it wasn't my fault. It's not my fault that those things aren't necessarily related. And still, she could've been lying. She totally dropped off a check for about $475 to pay for the damages - sucks to hit a Saab.
The Fudge: still on the back burner - no pun intended.
The Bahamas: flipping amazing. I've decided to start replacing the word "bitch" for any unnecessary or implied nouns. Like "fire that bitch up" or "where'd that bitch go?" when looking for anything. It can also be used as a delightful adjective. Like, "how was the bahamas?" "Bitching." [sorry mom, but I think it's the tamest word I could've picked up]. I'm currently suffering from post-bahaman depression syndrome. It's a cruel world.
I also have a nice little anecdote about the DC metro. Last week, I ran to catch my train and I hopped on, only to realize I had hopped on going the wrong direction. I didn't realize my error for TWO stops. While I was riding the train in the wrong direction, some (obviously crazy) guy woke up, turned to me, and said, "Do I know you from somewhere?" "No," I replied. He then went into how he knew me from somewhere, "Were you in Dupont Circle in the summer of '97?"
What the hell was he talking about? Was I "in" the circle? Like walking through it? Or living in it? I said no again because clearly I was still living at home in 1997. Lunatic.
Oh and on Monday after I got home, I was walking back to my apartment and I went to pass this guy in front of me. I got to just about even with him when he spit off to the side and nearly missed me. He goes, "Oops, sorry!" I just let out a nervous laugh because there is certainly no appropriate response to that. I mean I'm not going to say, "It's ok," because it's obviously not ok. I've also been walking in about the same spot when a runner ran by me and I felt a drop of sweat fall onto my foot - disgusting.
That's about my only gripes for today.
Stay tuned - tomorrow I give blood!!
Monday, November 5, 2007
Picture this...
You are riding the metro home from work. Your mind gets lost in thoughts of the Bahamas - sailing, swimming, sunbathing. You step off the train at your stop and look up only to realize you are two train lengths away from the exit - that's ok, nothing can discourage you today. Every step you take, every passing moment, is one step closer to the Bahamas.
But wait, what's this feeling on your leg? It's damp, no wait, it's downright wet. You reach your hand down to your leg and yes it's soaked. Now you look at your hand and leg in disgust. What is it? Why did I have to put my hand in it too - wasn't it bad enough that my leg was covered in it? Did you sit in it? Lean up against it? Did it leak on you from above; splash up from below? Is it coming from your body? Whatever it is, it's all over.
Your mind drifts away for a moment - nothing can upset you today - this is just a minor setback. Oh, but then it dawns it on you. That cold, wet, feeling could be nothing other than your water bottle leaking all over your gym bag. As it seeps out, it fills up your bag like a water balloon. "That's ok," you think to yourself. There's nothing important in there. Oh, but there is.
You stop on a metro bench to inspect the damage. Just gym clothes - that's ok - you ring it out. The water falls to the ground. You turn your bag upset down to drain it. Oh, but wait, there is something else in there - your iPod, oh right, and your headphones. But you've saved it before any serious damage.
You get to the gym and start dressing. You take out your gym clothes and that's right - one giant spot on your shirt is drenched - its cold, but it's not completely unpleasant. Oh, and one sock and one sneaker are drenched - together they make quite a pair. You get dressed anyway and show up to class looking like a half drowned rat - made all the more worse by the fact that you grabbed a t-shirt that's too big. Between the wetness and the oversizedness it's hanging down almost to your knees. The only things peaking out from this giant wet t-shirt are your chicken legs and scrawny arms.
Due to a schedule change, your class is cancelled, but you get convinced to do a "sports-inspired cardio workout for building strength and stamina." This "high energy interval training class uses powerful music to inspire and motivate people." The class gets going and you look at yourself - uncoordinated, scrawny, flailing about. Your left food stands in a puddle of cold, yet filtered, water. The instructor is a blonde, 30-something woman, with the energy of a teenage cheerleader who has had 10 shots of espresso. But you can't hate her. She looks better. She has more energy and she keeps telling you you're doing a great job even though you know you're the "special student" in the class.
The class gets going and everyone is dripping buckets of sweat. Your face is turning shades of red that can only be classified as purple. You start regretting that pizza hut personal pan pizza you had for lunch - because by "lunch," you mean 4pm snack. You're not sure if you're going to vomit, pass out, or break one of your chicken legs. You're pretty sure that there is the taste of blood in your mouth and you are still the least coordinated woman in the class. But that's ok.
That's right - nothing can upset you today - because today is one day closer to getting on that plane and arriving in the Bahamas! You get home, get ready for bed, and close your eyes - knowing that tomorrow your body is going to hate you. And you'll hate it right back, but that's OK.
But wait, what's this feeling on your leg? It's damp, no wait, it's downright wet. You reach your hand down to your leg and yes it's soaked. Now you look at your hand and leg in disgust. What is it? Why did I have to put my hand in it too - wasn't it bad enough that my leg was covered in it? Did you sit in it? Lean up against it? Did it leak on you from above; splash up from below? Is it coming from your body? Whatever it is, it's all over.
Your mind drifts away for a moment - nothing can upset you today - this is just a minor setback. Oh, but then it dawns it on you. That cold, wet, feeling could be nothing other than your water bottle leaking all over your gym bag. As it seeps out, it fills up your bag like a water balloon. "That's ok," you think to yourself. There's nothing important in there. Oh, but there is.
You stop on a metro bench to inspect the damage. Just gym clothes - that's ok - you ring it out. The water falls to the ground. You turn your bag upset down to drain it. Oh, but wait, there is something else in there - your iPod, oh right, and your headphones. But you've saved it before any serious damage.
You get to the gym and start dressing. You take out your gym clothes and that's right - one giant spot on your shirt is drenched - its cold, but it's not completely unpleasant. Oh, and one sock and one sneaker are drenched - together they make quite a pair. You get dressed anyway and show up to class looking like a half drowned rat - made all the more worse by the fact that you grabbed a t-shirt that's too big. Between the wetness and the oversizedness it's hanging down almost to your knees. The only things peaking out from this giant wet t-shirt are your chicken legs and scrawny arms.
Due to a schedule change, your class is cancelled, but you get convinced to do a "sports-inspired cardio workout for building strength and stamina." This "high energy interval training class uses powerful music to inspire and motivate people." The class gets going and you look at yourself - uncoordinated, scrawny, flailing about. Your left food stands in a puddle of cold, yet filtered, water. The instructor is a blonde, 30-something woman, with the energy of a teenage cheerleader who has had 10 shots of espresso. But you can't hate her. She looks better. She has more energy and she keeps telling you you're doing a great job even though you know you're the "special student" in the class.
The class gets going and everyone is dripping buckets of sweat. Your face is turning shades of red that can only be classified as purple. You start regretting that pizza hut personal pan pizza you had for lunch - because by "lunch," you mean 4pm snack. You're not sure if you're going to vomit, pass out, or break one of your chicken legs. You're pretty sure that there is the taste of blood in your mouth and you are still the least coordinated woman in the class. But that's ok.
That's right - nothing can upset you today - because today is one day closer to getting on that plane and arriving in the Bahamas! You get home, get ready for bed, and close your eyes - knowing that tomorrow your body is going to hate you. And you'll hate it right back, but that's OK.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Dana vs. The Fudge [Part One]
I was in Chicago for Labor Day weekend and one of Cousin Jen's friends had fudge, which had been mailed to him by his mom, who had taken the care to make him fresh homemade fudge and pack each piece individually and send to him. [Moms, take note - care packages are always welcome!]
"Fudge! That's a great idea. I should make fudge." I thought to myself.
I went online and researched recipes. I happen to be chatting with Cousin Chris that day and I informed him of my day's plans, "I plan on making fudge today," I excitedly told him. Our conversation went something like this:
Me: i'm making fudge today!!!
Him: have you ever made fudge before?
Me: no, but how hard can it be?!
Him: fudge can be very sensitive
Me: sensitive? how?
Him: you should talk to ev, he's the expert
Me: how hard can it be?
Him: well, for starters you need a candy thermometer
Me: ev has a candy thermometer?
Him: and you'll need weird ingredients, like powdered milk. its definitely gonna come out like shit.
Me: [undeterred] thanks!! take care! :)
"That's ridiculous," I thought. Maybe Ev was using a more complicated recipe, but I found a "Fun and Easy" recipe and it doesn't mention anything about a thermometer or powdered milk.
Despite Chris' repeated attempts to dissuade me, I was steadfast and hastily set about on my mission.
Step 1: Mix condensed milk, sugar, and cocoa, heat until melted. To my surprise, and despite my past failures at melting chocolate, I actually got it all melted to a smooth consistency. "That Chris! This is so easy," I laughed to myself.
Step 2: Lower heat and stir until softball stage. "'Softball stage' must mean when it becomes a giant ball, no?" I continued stirring. I walk over to my laptop to gchat with Chris and brag about my success, albeit small and preliminary.
I walk back over to the stove. "Uh oh, a snag!" The fudge was boiling over my apparently too small pot. I lower the heat until it goes back down and unman the fudge briefly to figure out exactly what was meant by "softball stage." As I'm sitting at my desk, I see the fudge creeping back up again, this time it overflows all over the stove. I turn the heat off. I turn it back on. "Shit," I say out loud. Apparently 'softball stage' is precisely 235 degrees - something that I can't possibly gauge without a candy thermometer.
I go back over to the stove, which is now covered in chocolate, and spend about 5-7 minutes heating the "fudge," stirring until it overflows, and then turning the heat off. Determing that I must've either hit or surpassed "softball stage," I decide to skip ahead to step 3.
Step 3: pour into an 8x8 pan and cool at room temperature for an hour. This step I can handle.
Step 4: refrigerate another hour. Done.
I go back over to email Chris. I explain what happened and express some doubts over it actually solidifying. He replies that I've only done about 1/3 of the recipe since I never hit the "softball stage." He copies in Ev, who explains that the way I made the fudge, it's never going to solidify. Apparently if you take it off the stove too soon it becomes more like chocolate syrup rather than fudge; too long and you'll have inedible rock hard fudge. "Softball stage" takes at least 30 minutes to reach. Also, Ev warned, you have to make sure every granular of sugar is melted or you'll have crystallized sugar in your fudge - apparently this is a lot worse than it sounds. He also explained that a big pot is essential as it often boils over and if it's not boiling over, it's burning the bottom. [sigh]
The good news is that the apartment smells great! It's like walking into Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. The bad news is that the fudge never solidified to any degree. Never having been one to get deterred, I even waited at least 5 days even though the recipe said it'd be ready an hour after it went in the fridge. I went out and bought a candy thermometer in anticipation of round two - which I haven't the energy or the patience to take on at the moment, but will happen at some point in the future.
The moral of the story? The recipe, which touted itself "fun and easy," was neither "fun" nor "easy."
Stay tuned for Round 2....
"Fudge! That's a great idea. I should make fudge." I thought to myself.
I went online and researched recipes. I happen to be chatting with Cousin Chris that day and I informed him of my day's plans, "I plan on making fudge today," I excitedly told him. Our conversation went something like this:
Me: i'm making fudge today!!!
Him: have you ever made fudge before?
Me: no, but how hard can it be?!
Him: fudge can be very sensitive
Me: sensitive? how?
Him: you should talk to ev, he's the expert
Me: how hard can it be?
Him: well, for starters you need a candy thermometer
Me: ev has a candy thermometer?
Him: and you'll need weird ingredients, like powdered milk. its definitely gonna come out like shit.
Me: [undeterred] thanks!! take care! :)
"That's ridiculous," I thought. Maybe Ev was using a more complicated recipe, but I found a "Fun and Easy" recipe and it doesn't mention anything about a thermometer or powdered milk.
Despite Chris' repeated attempts to dissuade me, I was steadfast and hastily set about on my mission.
Step 1: Mix condensed milk, sugar, and cocoa, heat until melted. To my surprise, and despite my past failures at melting chocolate, I actually got it all melted to a smooth consistency. "That Chris! This is so easy," I laughed to myself.
Step 2: Lower heat and stir until softball stage. "'Softball stage' must mean when it becomes a giant ball, no?" I continued stirring. I walk over to my laptop to gchat with Chris and brag about my success, albeit small and preliminary.
I walk back over to the stove. "Uh oh, a snag!" The fudge was boiling over my apparently too small pot. I lower the heat until it goes back down and unman the fudge briefly to figure out exactly what was meant by "softball stage." As I'm sitting at my desk, I see the fudge creeping back up again, this time it overflows all over the stove. I turn the heat off. I turn it back on. "Shit," I say out loud. Apparently 'softball stage' is precisely 235 degrees - something that I can't possibly gauge without a candy thermometer.
I go back over to the stove, which is now covered in chocolate, and spend about 5-7 minutes heating the "fudge," stirring until it overflows, and then turning the heat off. Determing that I must've either hit or surpassed "softball stage," I decide to skip ahead to step 3.
Step 3: pour into an 8x8 pan and cool at room temperature for an hour. This step I can handle.
Step 4: refrigerate another hour. Done.
I go back over to email Chris. I explain what happened and express some doubts over it actually solidifying. He replies that I've only done about 1/3 of the recipe since I never hit the "softball stage." He copies in Ev, who explains that the way I made the fudge, it's never going to solidify. Apparently if you take it off the stove too soon it becomes more like chocolate syrup rather than fudge; too long and you'll have inedible rock hard fudge. "Softball stage" takes at least 30 minutes to reach. Also, Ev warned, you have to make sure every granular of sugar is melted or you'll have crystallized sugar in your fudge - apparently this is a lot worse than it sounds. He also explained that a big pot is essential as it often boils over and if it's not boiling over, it's burning the bottom. [sigh]
The good news is that the apartment smells great! It's like walking into Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. The bad news is that the fudge never solidified to any degree. Never having been one to get deterred, I even waited at least 5 days even though the recipe said it'd be ready an hour after it went in the fridge. I went out and bought a candy thermometer in anticipation of round two - which I haven't the energy or the patience to take on at the moment, but will happen at some point in the future.
The moral of the story? The recipe, which touted itself "fun and easy," was neither "fun" nor "easy."
Stay tuned for Round 2....
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