The Eskimo Sister

Back before the hubs (which is now the ex-hubs) was dating me, there was this girl; and we’ll refer to her as “Sprite”. She knows why, hehe. Well, since the hubs and I are now exes, Sprite and I have become friends. I assure you that’s a way longer story than I care to tell, but she’s pretty bad ass. This recipe is dedicated and named after her. Since she dated the ex-hubs before me, she is considered my “Eskimo sister”. Look that slang shit up. I had no idea about this fucking gross ass term and guess who told it to me? The ex-hubs. Moving on…

Shit you’re gonna need:

30 oreo cookies (use generic. I even use the gluten free oreos and it works fine)

1 stick of butter, melted (I know you’re shocked I’m using butter and I’m sure your butt cheeks puckered)

8oz of softened cream cheese (just a reminder: take your finger and poke it into the fattest part of your thigh and that’s what your cream cheese should feel like when it’s softened)

1 cup of powdered sugar

1 cup of frozen cool-whip (don’t use the generic. You know I’m a cheap ass, but trust me, don’t skimp on this shit. It’s like…$0.30 extra. I’ll make a list one day of the name brand stuff I use because I assure you, that list is really fucking small. Just like this date I once went on…)

3 oz. package of chocolate instant pudding

2 cups milk (the package recommends two cups, but honestly, I like my things a bit on the “stiff” side, so I use 1 ½ cups…teehee)

The rest of the cool whip

Shit you’re gonna do:

You’re gonna need to crush those cookies and you have a few choices on how to accomplish that. You could put them in a Ziploc bag and beat them like a pissed crack whore at taco bell (the boyfriend witnessed an “incident” at taco bell where a crack whore was a little too passionate about her fucking burritos and that’s where that term came from…true story). Or you could take those cookies and get out your $350 food processor that you never use and cuss out your sink that it’s too small for shit like that to fit for cleaning or better yet, you could crush them in eight batches in a small food chopper, like I did.

Once they’re chopped, pour in your butter, mix and then press that shit into a 9x13 pan. Stick this in the freezer while you’re working on the rest of this shit. It’s got a few fucking steps. It’s worth it. Just like kegel exercises, it’ll help.

Now mix together your softened cream cheese, the powdered sugar and, your cup of expensive ass cool whhhhip. (Anyone ever see that episode of Family Guy where Stewie emphasizes the “h” in cool whhhhhip? Funny shit right there.)
It’s all mixed, now take out your crust and pour this shit on top. It’s going to have the consistency of marshmallow fluff. And yes, it’s gonna stick to the bowl you mixed it in. Just warning you before you start cussing me out when you’re doing the dishes. But when you’re spreading this, go easy. The crust isn’t firmly set. And well…it’s much easier to work with a firm set. Can I get an “amen”? Word.

Stick this shit in the fridge and let’s make the pudding. I swear to the belly of Buddha, I talk like Bill Cosby every fucking time I make pudding. I can’t help myself. Just like when Barry Manilow comes on the radio, I can’t help but sing at the top of my fucking lungs. Did I ever tell you about the time I almost got kicked out of a Barry Manilow concert? If I didn’t, make sure you comment below so I can write that up. It’s one hell of a story. Where were we? Oh yeah. Pudding. Whisk the pudding mix and the milk together for about two minutes and then pour over the cream cheese mixture. Now your hungry ass is gonna have to sit for an hour and let it set in the fridge. I know. It sucks like a fucking hoover, but trust me, again, it’s worth it. But not like the last episode of Newhart, where you'll end up saying, “What the fuck? A damn dream? Fuck you, writers of the show. Assholes.” Sorry, I’m just a little bitter about THAT and the ending of Dallas. I’ll probably get over it in the year 2018. Check back then. You WILL be thankful you waited for this dessert though.
So, once this is set, spread over the top the rest of your cool whhhhip and dig in. I wouldn’t recommend getting a bowl because you will shovel this shit straight from the pan right into your pie hole. Love you all!

Asian Meaty-balls

I'll start off by saying that I'm not Asian. My husband has "thing" for Asian women, so it makes me almost immediately hate gorgeous Asian ladies... but that's a story for another time. And if your're a gorgeous Asian woman, hope you understand.

In a rush to get a delectable and healthy-ish dish on the table in a hurry for my girls earlier this week, I ran to my pantry to see what the fuck I could throw in with some defrosted ground turkey meat. My younger daughter has a fucking stopwatch that she pulls out at 6:30pm on the dot each night and gets pretty panicked if dinner isn't be served, I knew I had to move fast!

Not sure that every house has things like fish sauce, soy sauce, and terriyaki sauce just hanging around the pantry - but we don't fuck around at my house. We've got a pantry full of random stuff and these ingredients are what stuck out that night. See my husband is a chef and he's always trying out new shit. So we have some pretty uncommon things in our house like pineapple chutney, duck livers, geranium leaves, and annatto seeds to name a few.

Shit you're gonna need:

• 1 lb of defrosted ground turkey or beef
• couple of splashes of fish sauce
• 1/2 a white onion, cut into little pieces
• 2 stalks of green onions, cut into little pieces
• couple splashes of soy sauce
• couple splashes of terriyaki sauce
• 1/2 - 3/4 cup of panko bread crumbs
• 1 egg, for binding and shit
• sesame oil

Shit you're gonna do:

Now, 1st off, please don't bitch at me that the ingredients are complicated and you don't have any of them and this recipe requires a run to the store. I understand this and I apologize. But seriously, I told you we had weird shit from the start of this recipe. Let's continue....

Throw the pound of meat you have into a big ass bowl. Take all the other ingredients, except the sesame oil and throw all that shit in there too. Take off your wedding rings and get your hands a little dirty and really give this shit a good, thorough squishy mix. Make sure you remember to put your rings back on so that the next day at work no one is talking shit behind your back about how they saw your divorce coming long before you ever did. That'd be fucked up. If your meat mixture is a bit too soft because of all the liquid you've put in, throw some more Panko in there to toughen it up a little.

Use a biggish skillet, pour some sesame oil in there and get it nice and hot. I cook everything on med-hi to high on my stove top. One of the key ways to ensure your shit is cooked up real good is by making sure that your pan is super hot. Bring your bowl to the stove and start making some meatballs and sticking them in the hot oil. Don't be a dumb ass and burn yourself with hot oil, that shit sucks.

Watch your meaty balls like a hawk and when they're starting to brown nice and crispy on one side, flip those fuckers over and give some equal love to the still raw side. Do this for like 15-20 until they're cooked all the way through. I suppose you could also throw these little babies in the oven and drizzle them with sesame oil, but that's not the way I'd do. To each their own I say.

Voila - that's it. Asian Meaty Balls. I serve these little bad boys with some white rice and if I have some coconut milk in my pantry (which I normally do of course), then I serve them with coconut rice instead. Easy way to do that is just replace the water you'd use when making your rice with coconut milk. Shit is ridiculous.

Enjoy!

(ps - I stole the picture above from the internets b/c I forgot to take one of my own meat balls - so sue me)

So these bitches got in a fight...

and it made me hungry…

Two people walk into a bar (obviously one of those people is me.) We order our drinks and before I could squeeze the second lime into my vodka tonic, a female guard wearing a “Security” jacket in an ungodly shade of lime green comes running through the bar yelling “FIGHT!!!” My memory instantly jumps back to high school when some nosey bitch yells it out in the cafeteria and everyone scurries like hyenas to see which asshole is getting the shit beat out of them over something as stupid as the last piece of Mexican pizza.

Get this. The fight is taking place in the girl’s bathroom. Coming from someone who has to pee about 937 times a day, THIS is the time that I don’t have to “go.” Are you fucking kidding me? I’m dying…just DYING to get a picture of blood on the tile grout from in there to post on Facebook. I’d have to get past Barney Fife, a fat ass eating fried pickles and an actual real life cop. Of course this is the night that I decide to not wear my slutty policewoman outfit, much to my friend’s chagrin. I mean, since I wear it to the grocery store and all…

My buzz sets in and two middle aged frazzled, yet also buzzed women walk up to the bar and re-tell their story of how they were in the bathroom when this debacle began. Grasping their chest in amazement because they’ve “never seen such a thing” and this is just “all too much for them”, they tell us that there were in fact three women in this bar brawl. Fucking bonus! I can’t WAIT until these bitches come hobbling out so I can get a good look. I look at my friend and we start taking bets about what they might look like. Bets placed…we wait.

My vodka is now gone and we start to see some more action. They’re coming out. It’s like that feeling you get when Mario Lopez is opening the envelope for the next Miss America. “Second runner up…Glenda Buster Cherry! First runner up…Barb E. Dahl!”

First girl comes out. She’s wearing a corset that’s not only too tight but attached to it is a pink tutu. That’s right people. She got in a fight wearing a tutu. You gotta be a tough bitch to hold your own wearing that shit.

Second girl comes out. I’m not sure if the teeth she was missing was before the fight or after. And was the shirt she was wearing off-the-shoulder and torn previous to this event? This one stumped me. No blood, but she probably had to get her “hair did” the next day to fix the mess in the back. No doubt there was a chunk missing.

And so we wait for the third person to walk out. We would’ve waited forever because…wait for it……………………the third girl ROLLED out. A fucking wheelchair – awesome! Seriously. And folks. I have a feeling SHE was the winner. I’m not even sure how you would handcuff her but I’m sure she had a pretty good reason for wanting to tear those bitches up. You just don't fuck with someone in a wheelchair. Bad karma right there I tell ya. But there are still so many questions left unanswered. How did she do it? Did she have a whiffle ball bat hidden somewhere? And what actually pissed her off? I didn’t have the balls to ask her, so I guess we’ll never know. But this all made me pretty hungry.

Leaving the bar we spot a “Korean BBQ Tacos” food cart. I couldn’t resist. Must. Have. Korean. Tacos that is. I honestly can’t remember if I had beef or pork, but the shit was awesome. One day, I’ll tell you the tale of a twirled fried potato on a stick and all the innuendos that came along with ordering one.

Corndogalicious

Alright. I’m fucking addicted to Pinterest. Of course I “pin” all this shit I wanna do, but never end up doing it. I just waste four hours oooohing and ahhhhing over crap that I’m all “hell! I can do that.” And these corn dog muffins were one of them. So, today I said “fuck it. I’m making these bitches.”

My four year old thinks that corn dogs come straight from the hand of Jesus. But I imagine that like with most kids, you put something on a stick, they’ll eat the hell out of it. Deep fry that shit and dip it in ketchup and the world stops. Think they could do that to Brussels sprouts?

Shit you’re gonna need:

1 box of Jiffy corn muffin mix

One egg

1/3 cup of milk

4 ¼ hot dogs (I’ll get to the Algebra on this shit later.) (And no, I didn’t buy the organic all natural bullshit ones. I bought ballpark. Deal with it.)

Shit you’re gonna do:

Preheat your oven to 400. Mix your corn muffin stuff, egg and milk. Now when I say “mix” I mean just stir until it’s moistened. Those little bastards of lump will cook out. Trust me like you trust Charlie Sheen. Wait a minute…

Moving on. Now spray your muffin tin down with kitchen ky. And a lot of it my friend. Then add the mix about ½ way in each tin. This shit is gonna puff up when you put the hot dog in and it’ll rise a little when baking. It’ll make about eight muffins. Not enough to feed the fucking neighborhood, but enough to where one of your best friends’ kid comes over and his eyes pop out of his head at the site of a hot dog in the shape of a muffin wrapped in corn goodness. Best. Feeling. Ever.

So, once you’ve got the mix in the tins, you’re gonna have to call your old trigonometry teacher and ask her what the fuck I mean. I say that, but honestly, I never took trig. I barely passed basic math. Failed Chemistry and barely passed geometry because me and my friend Megan would skip class to go to Taco Bell. Fucking miss high school. Damn those were good times.

Where the fuck was I? Oh, pouring my third glass of wine…

So, you’re gonna need to cut your hot dog in 4ths and put two of the 4ths in each muffin tin. I have no idea how else to explain that. Can’t figure it out, tough shit. The picture will work. And if you did it right, you’ll have 3 ¾ of hot dogs left. Did your head spin off yet?

Bake for about 15-19 minutes. I baked mine for about 22 and they were a bit crumbly. So, I think undercooking them a smidge, would help them stay together better. It didn’t stop all of us from shoving them in our pie holes and eating with a fork now did it?

Enjoy!

Action oven shot!
Done!

Chicken Bog

Conversation between myself and the woman who birthed me and never lets me forget how much it hurt…

“Mom, what the hell does ‘bog’ mean in chicken bog.” “Well, it means thick, dense, heavy, weighs you down…kinda like a man.” Oooooookay.

Paula Deen has a version of this. Mine’s easier. No offense to the Butter Goddess…bitch is a genius, but I got this shit down.

Shit you’re gonna need:

3 chicken breasts (I’m sure three breasts are better than two. Ask a man.)

1 of those horse shoe shaped sausage thingys (I use beef flavored. I like beef. But you knew that.)

1 stick of butter (hells yeah)

Lawry’s (Like, a teaspoon maybe? Shit, I don’t know.)

2 chicken bouillon cubes (Just like Worcestershire, I have no fucking idea how to say “bouillon”. Is it boo-yawn? Fuck. Who cares.)

4 cups of instant white rice (Instant. Like the shit that cooks in 5 minutes.)

Water

Stock pot

Shit you’re gonna do:

Cover your breasts with about four inches of water. Think of the times you’re soaking in the bathtub. You don’t want your nibbles popping out and getting cold, so make sure they’re good and covered. (Cold nipples…no bueno). Put the lid on and start bringing it to a boil. Add your stick of butter, Lawry’s and boo-yawn cubes. While this is boiling, cut up your sausage in about ¼ inch slices, then cube those into quarters. For those of you who are members of MENSA, that means four. Once it comes to a boil, take the lid off and let all that shit get to know each other for like, an hour or so.

Take out your breasts, add your rice, put the lid on and then shred the chicken. It’ll take about oh, five minutes. Add back your chicken, stir and stuff your pie hole. Amen.

Grocery Store Drama

There isn’t a mother in America who says “Oh glorious day! Let’s bundle up our little joys from heaven and head to Publix!”

I’ve had complete strangers offer to buy me wine when they see what I go through with my monsters. Everyone at Walmart knows my kids’ names. Not because they’ve told them, but because I’ve screamed it down every fucking aisle I go in. I’ve started calling ahead to SuperTarget to warn them of our arrival. The manager thanks me and then sets up a cute little old lady in the wine section for me to “sample” the wines. Now THAT’S customer service.

When my babies were little, hubs didn’t get the need for me to go to the store by myself. Dumb new dad; no fucking clue. Two kids later, he understands. It took a good beating but it finally sunk in. So, when I do get to go by myself, I tour that shit like it’s a fucking museum. I can tell you the unit price on pickled beets and I check the schedule to see which stock boy will be working that evening. I get all dolled up in the last t-shirt I own that isn’t stained, squeeze into jeans that used to fit and pretend that I really am going to get that pedicure and slip on flip flops and hope that I don’t run into one of hubs’ ex-girlfriends. See people, we live in the city hubs grew up in. Usually when I’m looking my worst is when some stick figure who probably airbrushed her tinted moisturizer on says “Oh my! It’s so nice to see you! Tell hubs I said ‘hi’ as I’m off to New York for another photo shoot!” It’s like an imaginary bitch slap and she knows it. I squeezed two watermelons out of my kiwi, top that shit you twat.

When I don’t get to go alone it all starts out with good intentions. I give the kids that one hour warning of going to the store. Then I listen to them bitch and moan and ask if they can get something while they’re there. “Like what? Food to eat? Consider it done.” I think I repeat “Get your shoes on; we’re going to the store!” 37 times before I actually have to start screaming and then wrestle them into a worn out pair of crocs. Because I don’t want anyone bitching about their fucking socks and how they’re bunched up at the toe.

Then getting my kids into the booster seats is like putting socks on a cat. And you better believe the drive to the store is just as fun. “I don’t wanna go. It’s sooooo boring. Are you just getting a few things? I don’t want you to take forever. Why can’t we stay home with dad? Can we get the free cookie? I hate going in the cold section of the store. Did you bring my jacket? I don’t want cinnamon waffles this time, I want chocolate ones. You’re the meanest mom ever to make us go with you.”

We pull up; get out of the car by me saying “Get out of the car. Get out of the car. Get out of the car.” (I usually say things three times before screaming it. It’s a rule in our house.) They’re now out of the car and running into the street. Fucking great. I hope I get hit by a bus. It would feel much better than the migraine that’s starting.

Can anyone out there actually maneuver the “Race Car” grocery cart? That thing is a bitch, yes? I’m all of 5’2” and I don’t have the body strength to turn corners with that beast. So, I usually have to argue with my kids so I can get the regular cart. But of course the one I pick is the Nascar cart. You know…the one that keeps trying to turn left the entire time?

I’m not sure if you knew this or not, but cashiers have a PhD in child rearing. True story. I’ve gotten more advice from the bitch sliding my kraft American cheese slices across the scanner than I have from Dr. Sears and Supernanny combined. “Wow, really Ms. Cashier lady? I should put them in time out? You’re a fucking genius. Now go clean up the 14 push-up pops that my kids just spilled onto the floor and make my $20 cash back all in ones; hubs and I have date night at the strip club.”

After I’ve grown 19 grey hairs and I’m about to pee my pants because I haven’t gone all day, I hear this…

Older son to little brother: Omg. What’s that smell? Did you fart?

Younger son (hollars out to the entire store with his hands up): Sorry everyone! That was my big fart for the day.

And then I pee my pants. Someone shoot me.

Bag Boy: Do you need help to your car?

Me: You bet. I’ll ride on your shoulders while you steer.

Bag Boy: What?

Me: Did I stutter?

Kids in the car, pull in the driveway and scream 982 times for the kids to stop playing with the sunroof and get out of the car. “Get in the house! I’ve got cheese to put away!”

And then…

Hubs: What took you so long?

Me: (throws the grocery bag with cans at his head)

Hubs: What the what? What did I do?

Me: Got me pregnant. Twice.

When I want to go by myself, this usually happens…

Wife: Honey, what time will you be home tonight? Gotta run to the store and I'm not taking the monsters.
Husband: 'bout 5:30.
Wife: Which time zone?
Husband: Ours. Smartass.
Wife: a.m or p.m?
Husband: (click).

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Being married to me is no fucking picnic. Neither is taking kids to the grocery store.

What the Fluff?

Conversation with my seven year old…

“Sweet mother of mine, I would be ever so grateful if you took the time this evening to bake up some delicious cookies. Would that be an inconvenience for you?” “Oh, my darling sweet child that I birthed from my loins, I would love nothing more than to bake you the best cookies in the world!”

But what really happened…

“Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM, MOOOOOM!” “What in tar nation are you screaming at me for?” “Will you make brownies?” “I ain’t got no brownie shit, but I’ve got a pack of cookie mix. Is that cool?” “Yeah, that’s cool. You rock woman.” “Word.”

Shit you’re gonna need:
One of those Betty Crocker packs of peanut butter cookie mix (And don’t you sit on your couch reading this judging me for using a prepackaged mix. Sandra Lee has made millions from that shit, so get off your soap box.)

The stuff you need for the cookies; egg, water and oil

½ to ¾ of a cup of semi-sweet mini chocolate chip morsels (You really don’t even need to put these in. My kids just happen to think if you put chocolate chips in something, that Jesus for sure made it and they have to eat it. No CLUE where they get their drama from.)

Fluff (See picture below. It’s the stuff you make a Fluffer Nutter sandwich with. Never made one? Go back to 1974 and ask your mom. That shit never goes bad and you don’t need to put it in the fridge. It’s a win win people.)

Other shit you’ll need:

A Ziploc baggie

Shit you’re gonna do:

Preheat your oven to 350 and cover a baking sheet with aluminum foil and spray that bitch down with some Kitchen KY. Nope, didn’t use a silpat. Nope, didn’t use a baking stone and nope, don’t plan to. Ever.

Mix together your cookie mix with the ingredients that it tells you to use. Stir it up and then if you’ve got the balls to put the chocolate in, this would be the time my friend. Stir it all together and roll up palm size balls, then flatten them a little and then put them on the sheet about an inch apart. I fit eight flattened balls on the pan. I live in a house full of boys. I don’t stress myself with more balls than I can handle.

Now, here comes the fluff. Scoop about ¼ cup of fluff into the bottom corner of your Ziploc bag. Don’t go get a measuring cup you brown noser, just use about two big spoonfuls and you should be fine. Once it’s in, snip off a tiny bit in the corner of the bag. Not too big; this shit is runny and you want control over this crème, not that controlling the amount of crème and when it comes out is all up to you, I’m just trying to make sure you don’t end up with a handful of it. (bah!)

After you’ve got control over your fluff, squeeze a little squiggly line on each cookie and then bake for about nine minutes. And yes dumb ass, I know they’re not going to look like they’re done. They’re not. There’s enough sugar in one of those little shits that will continue to bake long after you take them out of the oven. I suggest you leave them on the cookie sheet for about five minutes before transferring them to a cooling rack. Yes, I have a cooling rack. I have just about everything that Pampered Chef has ever made. I’m not saying I use it all, because that’s damn near impossible and would be WAY too many things to pull out and use and then have the hubs wash, so it’s best to use a little bit here and there.

Back to the cookies. I highly encourage you to eat these warm. If you haven’t shoveled these into your face ten minutes after they’ve baked and you actually have leftovers, you should heat them up in the good ‘ol micro to get back that warm feeling in your mouth. Yep. Went there again.

Before cooking...
After...
(insert picture of me shoveling these into my pie hole.)