Friends, a disturbing piece of information has come to my attention: I have only been to 25 of these 50 great United States.
Now, this is revisionist history, to an extent. When I was ten years old, Momma B and Poppa B took the Little B family on a great cross-country minivan caravan. We probably traveled through 20 states that time, all with a Chrysler wood-paneled minivan and a CB radio. But I still had baby teeth at that point (plus we had a wood-paneled minivan and no cell phones), so I decided not to count that trip in my travels. Too pre-millenial.
I also did some good driving in 2008 on my way to and from Waco, TX. But I decided not to count any state that I didn't stop the car in. So Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia were out. (Rest stops don't count.)
However, this is an unsettling realization for someone who loves travel as much as Little B does. And especially unsettling for someone who wants to see all corners of the U.S. My top must-sees are (in the lower 48) Washington, Colorado and New Mexico; however, I've vowed to make it to all 50 someday.
So what's left on the list?
Rhode Island
South Carolina
Georgia
Alabama
Mississippi
Ohio
Indiana
Michigan
Minnesota
Wisconsin
Iowa
North Dakota
South Dakota
Nebraska
Kansas
Oklahoma
Colorado
Wyoming
Idaho
New Mexico
Arizona
Washington
Utah
Alaska
Hawaii
What about you, dear reader? Where do YOU want to go in the U.S. of A? And where should I go first?
P.S. Hi Alex!
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
My Very Own Cake Wreck
Today, as I was perusing CakeWrecks (and I don't think that anyone in the known universe has not yet heard of this blog, but today I needed a chuckle to get me through the pre-lunch stretch), I decided to share with you my own cautionary cake wreck tale. Don't let this happen to you!
But before I can tell this story, there's one thing that you need to understand about the Little B. I must confess it; I can't keep it in any longer. It's a serious problem that I grapple with daily:
I L-O-V-E holidays.
And don't misunderstand -- I'm not talking about the spirit of togetherness, love for your fellow man, wholesome parts of the holiday. I'm not anti-wholesomeness; it's just not what gets my holiday mojo going.
No, what I love most about the holidays is the kitsch. The tchotchkes. The overtly tacky garnishes that make others turn up their nose at the season. I currently have on display, in my home, in August: rubber ducks dressed as Pilgrims, Indians and a turkey; a light-up snowman figurine that blinks red and blue; and a miniature Christmas tree, festooned with miniature garlands and a miniature gingerbread man ornament. (People, I'm Jewish. I wasn't kidding when I said that this was a serious problem.)
(Don't worry, Mom -- Hannukah gets equal footing.)
So for this past 4th of July, I decided, to no one's surprise, that I would go over the top celebrating the spirit of the holiday. I decided that I would make this cake to express all the patriotic, America-loving, butter-craving gluttony that I was feeling that day.
The only small hitch in my plan was my painfully bare cake pan stash. I had one 15x10 pan, but the recipe required a 17x12 pan. "No problem," I shrugged, "I'll just only use enough to fill the pan and throw the rest of the batter out. How ingenious!"
To my great delight, ALL the batter fit into the pan. OBVIOUSLY, I was smarter than the recipe. Clearly, I was the pinnacle of baking geniuses, on par with the masters! I smugly slid the pan into the oven and waited for the patriotic glory to bake.
It should come as no surprise to anyone that this is what happened next:
Steve came in to pick me up for the baseball game 20 minutes later to find me wild-eyed, covered in flour and frantically scooping raw batter out of the pan. The overflowing batter had cemented to the bottom of the oven and had become charred, smoking, and a probable fire and health hazard. I had the partially-cooked cake precariously balanced on my oven range as I tried to chip the burned remains out of the oven with barbecue tools. It was not one of my finer moments.
In the end (after two more scooping sessions and a thorough excavation of the oven, we wound up with flag cake, in all of its caloric goodness.
But I think next time I'll pay more attention to the directions.
But before I can tell this story, there's one thing that you need to understand about the Little B. I must confess it; I can't keep it in any longer. It's a serious problem that I grapple with daily:
I L-O-V-E holidays.
And don't misunderstand -- I'm not talking about the spirit of togetherness, love for your fellow man, wholesome parts of the holiday. I'm not anti-wholesomeness; it's just not what gets my holiday mojo going.
No, what I love most about the holidays is the kitsch. The tchotchkes. The overtly tacky garnishes that make others turn up their nose at the season. I currently have on display, in my home, in August: rubber ducks dressed as Pilgrims, Indians and a turkey; a light-up snowman figurine that blinks red and blue; and a miniature Christmas tree, festooned with miniature garlands and a miniature gingerbread man ornament. (People, I'm Jewish. I wasn't kidding when I said that this was a serious problem.)
(Don't worry, Mom -- Hannukah gets equal footing.)
So for this past 4th of July, I decided, to no one's surprise, that I would go over the top celebrating the spirit of the holiday. I decided that I would make this cake to express all the patriotic, America-loving, butter-craving gluttony that I was feeling that day.
The only small hitch in my plan was my painfully bare cake pan stash. I had one 15x10 pan, but the recipe required a 17x12 pan. "No problem," I shrugged, "I'll just only use enough to fill the pan and throw the rest of the batter out. How ingenious!"
To my great delight, ALL the batter fit into the pan. OBVIOUSLY, I was smarter than the recipe. Clearly, I was the pinnacle of baking geniuses, on par with the masters! I smugly slid the pan into the oven and waited for the patriotic glory to bake.
It should come as no surprise to anyone that this is what happened next:
Steve came in to pick me up for the baseball game 20 minutes later to find me wild-eyed, covered in flour and frantically scooping raw batter out of the pan. The overflowing batter had cemented to the bottom of the oven and had become charred, smoking, and a probable fire and health hazard. I had the partially-cooked cake precariously balanced on my oven range as I tried to chip the burned remains out of the oven with barbecue tools. It was not one of my finer moments.In the end (after two more scooping sessions and a thorough excavation of the oven, we wound up with flag cake, in all of its caloric goodness.
But I think next time I'll pay more attention to the directions.
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