Why Unsalted Butter Means My Starbucks is Going to Taste Strange

The man standing at the kitchen counter exhibited intense concentration. The task at hand: converting Thomas's English muffins into an edible food substance. He was poised over the toaster monitoring the crisping of the symmetrical biscuit, contrasting its roundness with the bumpy crannies that lay on the open faces waiting to be anointed with butter.

There was a smallish, yellow-colored, rectangular block at rest on the counter. It was just released from a wax paper prison. With one slice from the gleaming knife, a slab was ready for application on the muffin face. The tension was palpable. One might say the anticipation could be sliced like a hot knife through, yes, butter.

Pop! Up flies the evenly browned disks, crunchy on the outside ready for transformation to a delectable treat.

The man generously spreads the butter on the biscuit and takes a bite. He chews. A look of consternation crosses his brow. Then abject disgust. He walks to the sink and projectile spits his food, slamming the half-mooned reject-of-a-biscuit on the counter. The knife jumps adding a single "tink" to the cacophony.

"What the fuck is this, Wife?" The irate Husband queries.

The Wife, sitting on the couch after a long day at life, does not flinch. She does not raise her eyes to the nonsense that she hears unfolding in the kitchen.

"Uh, what in the world are you talking about Husband?" She mildly responds after the Husband has absently slammed of a few cupboard doors and opened the freezer wide to the world.

"This is unsalted butter!" He adamantly states, vehemently declaring some monumental injustice had occurred. It was as if some crime against humanity had been committed. "We don't have salted butter in this house???" It was more of a statement with a questioning tone, but there was no mistaking the rise in the husbands vocal pitch and the frenzied tone that was emerging.

"Uh...there are two kinds in the freezer. Did you open a box of the wrong kind, Husband?" The Wife asks without emotion. She knows that both unsalted and salted butter live in the freezer. She buys both regularly.

Silence deafens the room. Then a low kind of primitive growling was audible from the Husband's vicinity.

"I think you must have grabbed the wrong kind, Husband."

The spouse returns with further agitation, "What the fuck is unsalted butter doing in our house? My Mom NEVER had unsalted butter in our house when we were kids."

"I use both kinds, Dearest Spouse. Unsalted butter is for baking. Salted for eating. You do know that the salted butter is labeled 'Salted' and the unsalted is labeled 'Unsalted'? Right? They print the words right on the package. We live in modern times, Dear."

"Don't care!!! We don't need unsalted butter in this house!!" This statement, apparently acceptable in the world of men, was not taken lightly by the Wife.

"CAN YOU EVEN READ?? They have the words printed on the package. One says salted and the other says unsalted. It's in English. You can read right? Really, it could not hurt you to look at the label once in a while before running yourself into a tizzy."

"I am throwing out all of the unsalted butter right now!!" The irrational Husband continued.

"NO. I USE the unsalted butter for baking cookies."

"My mom NEVER used unsalted butter for cookies."

"How do you know? You don't even cook. And by the way, they even put the salted butter in a blue-colored four pack and the unsalted in a yellow-colored four pack. Its color coded to prevent idiots from mistaking one for the other."

"That's it. It's all going in the trash right now." The husband had no other come back than his idle threats to control the contents of the freezer. Once or twice a year the Husband was known to go through the refrigerator and throw out half of the contents, just because he did not like them, but this evening was not to be one of those events.

"Don't even do it." The Wife stated with some measurable heat.

The Husband wisely stepped out of range of the flame thrower. The unsalted butter was left in it's rightful place and a new set of English muffins were consumed sans salted butter.

Fast forward: Two days later.

"Hey, you made some cookies!" The Husband states with noticeable happiness upon arriving home from work, seeing a loaded plate on the kitchen counter.

"Yeah, I baked cookies with the unsalted butter," The Wife confirms making a point to identify the food product requiring the use of the butter which caused so much trouble from the night before last.

The husband grabs a cookie and nibbles on it then puts the remainder in his mouth and eats it.

"What kind of cookies are these, Wife?" He inquires.

"Pumpkin chocolate chip. They are Halloween cookies or Thanksgiving cookies," the Wife replies. She is aware that something is not settling right with the Husband. She knows all to well the signs of discontent. The Husband does not hide his emotions, but rather wears them like a purple mo-hawk carved across his head.

"Why can't I just have plain chocolate chip? Actually, chocolate chip with exactly three chips per cookie. Can't you just make the dough and then individually poke three chips in on the top when you put the dough on the pan?" The audacity of this question was obviously incomprehensible to the Husband. He prattled on about how he preferred his cookies while the Wife heard his complaint.

This cookie request was not a new concept for the Wife. The wife had actually laughed about this request with her sister-in-law, who was also told that she should make chocolate chip cookies in this manner.

Then with no other alternative the Wife asked, "Are you fucking Van Halen now? They used to ask for only green M&M's in their dressing room or some such nonsense in their contract. The kids may think you are a rock star, but I am well over being star struck at this point, Husband."

"Well, I think I should get the kind of cookies that I like," the Husband somewhat flippantly to the rationale provided by his Wife. "Well, maybe not the three chip per cookie thing. Just normal cookies, OK?"

This simply stated comment held little merit with the Wife. She was the one who actually made the cookies and really only to prove a point that unsalted butter was necessary in the house. Then the Wife pulled out the card of guilt, or so she thought, "Husband, I really was hoping you would like these cookies, since I made them specially for you. You tell me how much you love pumpkin pie and this seemed like the perfect merge between cookies and pumpkins."

"No. I want plain chocolate chip."

"So sorry, I guess me and the kids will enjoy eating them instead." And the Wife's colorful wording could be heard echoing around the house, "You're an ungrateful cookie hating bastard..."

Fast forward: three day later.

Husband: "You know those cookies you made a few days ago?"

Wife: "How could I forget them?"

Husband: "Well, I have a theory."

Wife: "Oh God. What now?"

Husband: "I think next time I go to Starbucks and get you a drink, I am going to order the most fucked up combination I could possibly think of and bring it back to you."

Wife: "You are so sweet and endearing. Thanks for thinking of me."

Husband: "Really, you making pumpkin chocolate chip cookies is like me ordering a drink that you would not like at Starbucks."

Wife: "There is a difference here Husband. I DID NOT INTENTIONALLY try to make cookies that you don't like. Your action is intentional, where as mine was not."

Husband: "I think you knew I would not like those cookies."

Wife: "When was the last time you got me a Starbucks??? What? Like once last year?"

Husband: "You want decaf? Forget it! Your getting a triple espresso, extra foam, soy, peppermint mocha. I swear."

Wife: "Espresso has less caffeine than regular coffee. If you really want to mess me up you should get me some coffee instead. And I like new drinks anyway."

Husband: "Just you wait."

And this is why unsalted butter means the next time my Husband brings me a Starbucks it is going to taste strange.

I just say "Whatever..."

(p.s. This is supposed to be funny or at a minimum slightly amusing. If not, I blew it. My husband is quite the sarcastic, teasing, instigating kind of spouse. But I love him anyway.)

BFF-Best Friends Forever: Horsie Style

These two orange horses are friends. One might say best friends. I love how horses find a way to appreciate each other. They really have no choice in their companions and usually have to make due with whatever their owners decide. I like to think I pick good horses to be friends. Probably, it's just luck.


Max is the small horse on the left. He is petite, antsy, and an Einstein in a horses body. Sharp is the big horse on the right. He is a kind leader, makes friends easily, and is steady.

When I see them together like this, I like to say that Max is Sharpies "Mini-me."

I think Sharpie sometimes takes advantage of the situation since he has about 400 lbs on Max. Boy horses have no shame. They love each other without social phobia...


But Sharpie can take it to another level and poor Max just must endure.

"I think I need a good scratch. Your back makes a nice cat post."

"Ah... That's better. Now lets snuggle."

"Oh, and can you swat the flies from my face too??" Thanks."


Gemma is out standing in a field of her own (hee hee). She shares the fence line with the boys. I was taking pictures from my kitchen window and she looked back as if to say, "Where is MY friend!!"


Later, after the sun fell to the golden point in the day, the boys were still standing next to each other just being horses.


Now they have a simple life. And that is a good thing.

Bwahhhaaahaaa!!!! Happy Halloween

Quote of the day:

Ella asks me, "Is it Halloween today, Mom?"
"Yep. Today is Halloween." I confirm with her.
Next she pops out, "But where's the Easter bunny, Mom?"
I say, "Uh.... Today is Halloween. It's not Easter."
"But we need the EGGS, Mom!"

Apparently, I am not doing my job right. We still have some work to do.

Our trip to the local pumpkin patch...

Pumpkins, Pumpkins Everywhere, as far as the eye can see.


Hmm?? Where should we begin our search?
So many pumpkins so little time.

Wait! I think we'd better go to the pumpkin pyramid!!

OH MY!! I don't think I can handle that many pumpkins, Wyatt!
I can't possibly eat THAT much pumpkin pie!!
I think I'm gonna turn orange.

(PS. I did not coach these pictures. My kids are just nuts.)

I'd just rather play with a spider instead!!

Mom's training me early you see...


LATER.....

Staring into the scary mass of pumpkin innards Ella looks contemplative.


And after gutting the gourds, Wyatt stirs the pumpkin brains into a pulpy mash.

Then with careful planning they were transformed by a steady hand!

And Voila!!

As night fell we put flames inside these empty hulls to make glowing MONSTERS!! (Wyatt carved the jack-0-lantern on the left all by himself! Much to my surprise.)

Then a picture with Dad is always fun.

Somehow, Mom just does not tickle us the right way for photos, but she was tired from the laborious surgery to transform the pumpkins in to Jack-o-Lanterns (excuses, excuses).

And finally, I hope you have....

Arachnophobes Need Not Visit Here, Some of You Asked for This...

With requests for pictures and some folks doubts about the presence of a spider in the web from the last post, HERE IS THE PROOF!  

Will the fans of spiders please step forward and claim your own? Anyone know what kind it is? 

Writing this post did make my skin crawl just a little.  I am not even immune to the creeps from the spider-kind.

My Natural Halloween Decor

I have not quite jumped on the Halloween decorating band wagon, but my new friend is doing the job for me.  While, I type at my computer I can get a glimpse into the party atmosphere provided by nature.

This is the latest version of a spider in my window.  I don't think I can let this one have babies though.  This is a much bigger and creepier "Mrs. Spider."  But she is very very good fly catcher.  I've also been feeding her flies that I swat, for fun.   Heee hee. Or should I say "Bwahhaahaaaa" all scary-like.

Random Tuesday Thoughts-Mourning, Pharmaceuticals, Stranger are Strange, National Geographic Keeps on Giving, Doubleyew, and Grab Ass

So last week was a total mess. Swine flu kicked our ass. My favorite cat died.

What better to follow up the mayhem, but with a Random Tuesday Thoughts post.

On Mourning:  I sincerely, from my cat-broke heart, thank every one who left me kind and supportive comments and emails regarding the death of my cat Shmobie.

There is still a hole in me and in my house.  There is an empty spot in the vortex of our little shack that his body should occupy.  His place on the couch is noticeably vacant.  And Harley, the "grande dame" has taken over our bed and abandoned her cushion in the living room.  The shift of power has already occurred.  The imbalance is palpable and will askew be for a long time.  It does not feel right.

About Pharmaceuticals:   
Cherry flavored Codine cough syrup rules.
Antibiotics still work.
And Tamiflu works...for now. Just wait till that bastard swine flu virus mutates and becomes fully resistant...

After the family got through the swine flu, I finally came down with a 101 fever on Friday.  I went to the "Doc in the Box" clinic and the Dr said not only did I have flu, but bronchitis as well.  Funny how taking care of all the other sick people makes Moms forget there is wheezing in their chests.

My teeth hurt so much when I was sick I had a nightmare that they, MY TEETH, were bursting into fluffy white popcorn.  F-ing POPCORN was exploding from my mouth.  Yeah.  That's how much pressure was in those teeth...

Riddle: How many (numerically) is W?  Because Ella is frequently asking me, "Mom can I have doubleyew?"
Answer: This is easy, but the answer is at the bottom of this post.

Strange People are Everywhere: 
Imagine the parking lot of our local Nor. Cal grocery store. Ella and I were making our way across the asphalt weaving through the parked cars, when a gap with empty parking spots opened up in front of us. Ella was wearing her new yellow dragonfly patterned apron and holding my hand tightly, as she normally does. We walked freely forward and I hear a voice say, "I'll trade my car for your daughter."

In front of us was a older man sitting in new looking red Toyota Celica.

I was not quite sure I heard him right, so I looked up and said, "Excuse me? We're you talking to us?"

"Yeah, I'll trade my car for your kid," He repeated without pause.

"Huh........? No thanks," I said as stared strangely at man, while I kept us moving away from the car and into the store. I was baffled. I could not believe somebody would say this. Was this a creepy old man, a old man making a joke, or some strange complement about Ella in an apron?

Regardless, if somebody ever asks me to trade my kid for their car, I am taking their license plate number and calling 911, as if the Golden Gate Bridge is falling.  I'm going to start firing and ask questions later. Both my husband and MIL were freaked out by the whole thing.  Are you?

Next topic:
We get National Geographic (NG). It's great. I love to read it and look at the pictures.

And, no. This is not a cliche story about naked primitives.

Ella was looking at the NG too one day last week and was very interested in one photo in particular.  It showed a color photograph of a girl with a cleft lip in an advertisement soliciting donations for this cause.

Ella stared at the picture and studied it for about five minutes before asking me, "Why is this baby girl sad, Mom."

I explained, "Ella, that girl is not sad, she has a cleft lip. She was born like that. She needs stitches to fix her lip."

"Mom. I think she is sad, Mom." Ella responded with a cautious certainty.

"That baby is not sad. Really, Ella. She is going to be just fine. The doctors will sew her up and she will be all better," I explained with equal care.

Ella continued to look at that picture for another five minutes before abandoning it.  She picked up the magazine several more times in the day to inspect the baby again.

I let her be the judge of this picture.  Ella did not cry or get scared or show distress in any way. Would you have let your 2.5 year old have this education?

Something Else:
My husband says that there is a significant difference between "grabbing ass" and "patting ass."  I am of the opinion that they are both equally offensive.   My husband thinks I should not be "angry" when he pats my rear, because "grabbing" is so much more "invasive."  To me the unsolicited groping of a woman's rear end is universally unacceptable.  I am still maintaining that my opinion has more merit since my ass is the one being patted.  

Good Home Cooking:
I made a pot of mixed beans with bacon, including mire poix, and spices.  Savory, yummy, healthy...

My adorable, five year old son, Wyatt says upon looking at the bowl, "Mom, I'm not eating that sewage water."  Then he falls to the floor looking squeamish. 

"OH COME ON!!" I rally back, "Ella at a bowl for lunch already."

"No Mom, that's raw sewage."

Then it was too late.  I did one of those closed mouth laughs that you try to suppress but it comes out like a "Phlll" sort of like a fart, but not quite.

Then we laughed for five minutes.

He still had to eat the "bacon and bean sewage" for dinner. 

ANSWER to the Riddle: W = 3 to my daughter as she holds up her little hand and makes a "w" with three fingers she says, "Can I have doubleyew candy corn..."   Now how can a parent predict how a kid's mind processes information with switching numbers for letters like this????

That's random for you.

See The Un Mom for more random...

Pain is Most Tangible in its Raw Form

This has been a bad few weeks...as I have explained with the swine flu. However, things can get worse.

Over the past year good things have come my way and I have passed through happy times for which I am grateful, but it is my turn for a super-sized serving of illness, difficulty and personal sadness.

My cat, Shmobie, took a turn for the worse. He looked so much like he might pull through during the first 2 weeks of feedings, but last week he started to fall backward, irretrievable to me.

Whatever he recovered in the beginning of the treatments was no longer enough. His body was not healing or something else was definitely wrong. He started vomiting all his food and growling at me with my feeding administrations. The look of distress in his eye and the way he carried his body told me he was done.

We had to put him down today to end his suffering.

I am hopeful his spirit lives on.

As I sat crying in the kids room my consolation was Ella. While she did not quite feel the acute pain from this event like me, she took each of her five baby-sized blankets and her assortment of stuffed animals and covered me with them. One by one, she carefully layered her stuffed animals in between each of her special blankets over the top of my body.

I have walked around the house with tears streaming down my face killing flies that have come in through the front door. I smack them without heed. There are a million flies to kill and I can not exterminate them fast enough, but there is only one Shmobie cat who I did not want to go. Why do my favorite pets always die early?

My husband says I can't have any more pets because, "It's harder on you when they die, then it is to them dying." I have been told by others that I feel too much as well.


I don't know what to think with the raw pain of death and overwhelming sadness touching my nerves. Each of my animals is part of my family; I invest time and energy and emotion into them and it hurts me deeply when they are gone. How do you ever build immunity to this pain?