This is not true.

I would no sooner sully an Oreo with cow juice than pile dill pickles on a HobNob.*

But I do like peanut butter and pickle sandwiches, as long as the peanut butter is creamy and the pickles are crisp and kosher—not that I care much about the religious preferences of the vegetable kingdom, but I firmly believe that garlic is essential for pickles** in the same way sugar really, really isn’t.

I also like cheddar cheese slices between Pringles.  And dried pineapple in salted popcorn.  And coconut M&Ms with dry roasted peanuts. And herbed croutons in my Mac & Cheese.

And fresh, crisp apples.  Spinach, cooked or baby. Snappy jicama and mellow kohlrabi, both of which are all Mom’s fault—not that I like them, but that I’m so picky about quality and prep.

Most fresh fruit—hold the durian.  All possible hummus—hummuses? hummae?—barring the ones with black olives, as I’m mildly allergic.

Pico de gallo trumps salsa, though not by much.  It’s probably the onion.

The worst tortilla chips I ever had weren’t that much worse than the best tortilla chips I ever had.  Saltier, though.

My MIL’s chili is perfection.  So are steak fries with real melted cheese on them—not sauce. And cheddar cheeseburgers with burnt bacon, red onion, and tomato on them.  Green salads with cold veggies, warm grilled chicken, a little cheese, and croutons.

Veggie burgers yes, notdogs NO.

I will admit to poking vanilla ice cream with the handle end of a mixing spoon and pouring in that waxy-chocolate Magic Shell® stuff, so it runs into the holes and goes solid.  Down to the bottom of the container.

I love crab, but I don’t like lobster.  I’m weird about pork products, unless they’re bacon or pepperoni.

Beer-battered fish is amazing, tartar sauce is an abomination—mayonnaise is for cooked recipes, not sandwiches, and don’t get me started on the crying disappointment that is garlic aioli.

Oysters or clams are the rubber boogers of the sea. Artichokes and grapefruit are meant  to be enjoyed by other people. Caramel does not belong in coffee.

Gefilte fish is a marriage of food preservation and cultural pride gone tragically wrong.  Matzoh is the exact opposite.

And I hold Very Strict Opinions about tuna salad, which is my exception to the mayo rule, but NOT the kosher pickle rule.


What are your food quirks/rules/habits/inexplicable cravings?



*That sounds a bit dirtier than I meant it to, though I’m now imagining Jim Carter flicking slices at Maggie Smith, which is ridiculous, as it’s far more likely to be the other way around.

**And many, many other things.  When my MIL and I see a recipe that calls for a single clove or teaspoon of the granulated, we laugh.


Random Thursday: Cold Noses, Yummy Math, and Insanely Brilliant Artists*

 Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s been sent by friends or has otherwise stumbled upon this week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as sitting down and creating actual content.



Writer Error Messages

I don’t remember who sent me the link to Maggie Stievater’s collection of
Novelist Error Messages.

Writer Error Messages2

But thank you!

(Click on the images for the rest of them—and follow her Tumblr while you’re there, ’cause she’s Maggie Stievater )


Fractal Pancakes!

Fractal Pancakes

Nathan Shields of Saipancakes can make pancakes look like anything.

You want Santa’s Reindeer?

You want Sports?

You want the cast of the Hobbit?

You want a seriously delicious Time Suck?

Check out his site.


The True Meaning of Christmas

As seen through the eyes of an older sibling.

Yeah . . . That’s about how I remember it, too, but I thought I’d check with Jane, since the memory would be more recent.

She just sighed, shook her head and walked away.


I Don’t Care, as Long as it Covers My Nose.

A fabulous knitmare of a FaceHugger, by Knitrocious

Nice Warm Facehugger

I’m serious about the nose thing—though I did finally  let my hair grow out enough so I don’t have to choose between taking out all five pairs of earrings or risking frostbite this year.

I don’t have a pierced nose—the beauty of small, bulbous potatoes cannot be  further enhanced even by the careful placement of a single jewel, plus I wear glasses to write—but there’s a wind chill advisory going on right now, and on the five minute walk between the library and my car, most of that advised wind blew straight up my nostrils and into my brain.



The Beauty of Mathematics in Motion

“Mathematics, rightly viewed, possesses not only truth, but supreme beauty — a beauty cold and austere, without the gorgeous trappings of painting or music.”  —Bertrand Russell

Speaking of “rightly viewing,” WordPress apparently won’t allow me to embed Vimeo anymore, so if you want a full screen that isn’t fuzzy—and I highly recommend it—here’s a link to the original, by the brilliant Yann Pineill & Nicolas Lefaucheux.

You can see the sugar cube hit the caffeine a lot better that way.


*Please for to note the exactly order of the last two descriptors.  Thank you.

Random Thursday: A Random Assortment of Happy-Making Stuff*

Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s been sent by friends or has otherwise stumbled upon this week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as sitting down and creating actual content.

Here’s a bunch of stuff that made me happy that there’s stuff like this.


Let’s Try for S’more Efficiency!

Watson thinks the rake is brilliant, and it really is,
But there’s something else that captured my total attention:

More Smores

Me:  “Honey?  Have you ever thought about Peanut Butter Cup S’mores?”

My Husband:  “No . . .  But I am now . . .  A lot.”



I have the biggest braincrush on Clark Gregg.
Even if I wasn’t already staking out my spot in front of the TV in preparation for ABC’s Marvel’s Agents of SHIELD,
which is premiering later this month,**
his sheer enthusiasm for the show and his gratitude to the fans of Agent Coulson would have me tuning in.

The whole cast—already showing fabulous chemistry—is obviously stoked.

And so am I.

Nineteen days to go from . . . mark.


I’m My Own . . . Um . . . 

This is for Lyra.

I'm My Own Daughter

She knows why.

(Thanks, Watson)


A Time Suck for your EYES


1.  Wait until you finish reading this post, because you aren’t coming back anytime soon and there’s a video of Tom Hiddleston eating cookies down there.

2. Click on the image.

3. Select a cat from the convenient menu.

4.  Move the Mouse around.

5. Repeat from 2 for longer than you thought possible before your first run through.


You’re welcome.




As Promised:

Tom Hiddleston and cookies.

Gratification indeed.


*Your Happy-Making Stuff may vary—but if you’re bothering with the footnotes, the odds are good that it doesn’t, much.

**Don’t worry—i will be reminding you often.

Random Thursday . . . On Wednesday!

(see what I did there?  I mean, how random can you get?)


The owner* of the bakery down the block from the library likes to mix it up a little with the Daily Featured Flavors.

Today he offered a strawberry-cheese danish muffin.  Good flavor, odd texture—had to try another one to make sure.

But for sheer weirdness, nothing beats the pistaschio-mocha-chocolate chunk muffin I sampled on St. Patrick’s Day.    It looked like uncured peat moss—which I guess is sort of Irish—and it tasted . . . exactly like a pistaschio-mocha-chocolate chunk muffin.


I spent three hours at work yesterday trying to find the year that the state started issuing driver’s licenses.  Managed to narrow it down to somewhen between 1903 and 1959, though examinations probably started in 1931, if I’m reading the section history of the current state codes correctly.  And that’s a toss up.

So I finally admitted defeat and offered the patron contact info for the state historical society, the nearest university law library, and the state DMV.

Sometimes, “I don’t know” is a perfectly valid answer.

Except now I want to know.

And this is why I never ask patrons why they want to know.

Because I already know.

You know?


My new favorite clean joke:**

A college professor walks into a bar.  “Bring me a martinus,” he says.

The bartender smiles politely and asks, “You mean martini?”

“If I want more than one,” snaps the professor, “I’ll order them.”



My new-found resolve is being tested: The Torchwood DVDs I reserved have all come in. But I managed 1,200 words of new material last night without the distraction of John Barrowman and Gareth David-Lloyd, so they all went back.

Besides, it was tough enough putting The Key down . . .

I did play a computer game before dinner, but I maintain that this doesn’t count because a) I was only  dragging the pointer for Sunny, who can click and move the pointer, but not at the same time; b) the game involved giving Barbie numerous fashion makeovers, and; d) I bailed as soon as my maternal instincts were overwhelmed by having to give Barbie numerous fashion makeovers.


Janie and I are going shopping for Sunny’s birthday presents tonight as soon as I post this.

We know exactly what Sunny wants and Janie is fully aware that we’re shopping for her sister and not her sister’s sister.

And I am fully aware that I’m on a budget and the peanut is having two parties and will not suffer for gift—so I don’t have to buy everything in sight lest she feel unloved.

I figure that’ll last until we reach the store—the path to Toys R Us is paved with good intentions.


*He looks like he belongs on the crossover episode of American Chopper and  Miami Ink, but he has some mad piping skills  and sells frosting shots in ice cream cones.

**My favorite dirty joke involves a penguin and a mechanic.  Nope, that’s all you get.