Mmmm…Polybakery…
Hey, that cake was giving itself to everyone in the office with a plate. I used a plastic fork, just like everyone else and disposed of the paper plate properly after.
Don’t try to make me feel guilty. I think I’ll go look at Freudian Slit’s cake again.
I thought it was a barn.
droppie, baby. How I’ve missed you. Here’s some pie.
2 pounds cherries, stems and seeds removed.
1/2 cup dried red rose petals
6 Tbl ricotta
3 Tbl grated parmesan cheese
1.5 tesp cinnamon
1 tesp ginger
1.5 tesp freshly ground black pepper
1-3 Tbl sugar (depends on sweetness of cherries)
2 eggs
1 nine-inch deep dish pie crust
extra sugar and rosewater
Pre-bake the pie crust according to recipe or directions. Chop the rose peals finely and mix together with ricotta, grated parmesan, cinnamon, ginger, black pepper and sugar. Coarsely grind cherries in food processor.
Blend cheese mixture with cherries. Beat eggs and fold into the cherry mixture. Place cherry mixture in pre-baked pie crust and bake at 350°F until bubbly and knife inserted two inches from edge removes clean.
I won’t leave you again.
Hey, I’ve been lurking long enough to know the rules…
I brought pie yesterday–enough for EVERYONE. It’s on one of those other “new people who were lurking threads”. I bet you guys who have been here for a while can find it; I’m still finding my way around (I can see this place is going to take up a lot of my time. hee hee).
It’s MAGIC pie. Whatever flavor you want is there and it keeps multiplying so there’s always some for you when you get here. I know how to make pie!!! 
I also answered Ivylass’ 1), 2), 3) & 4).
Ok, peeps???
This thread is making me hungry. Is it just me, or is homemade pecan pie the greatest pie ever?
Missed you, too! People overlook the deliciousness of some flowers, like roses! Er, organic roses. And without the chewing tobacco insecticide. Though good tobacco can smell heavenly. But you wouldn’t want to eat it.
And the cherries from my tree would need rather more sugar. They are a bit tart.
Gotta admit that Dosipede is right, though. Some people think pecan pie is hard to make. I tell them to follow the recipe on a jar of Karo syrup and they can’t go wrong.
(looking around to make sure I’m not in my more usual haunts where I couldn’t do this) Oh, and The Devil’s Grandmother, you remind me of one of my favorite jokes.
Satan appears in church one Sunday morning, shoves the preacher aside, and laughs demonically. Everybody runs from the church except one old man.
“You, sir,” the devil says, “Are you not afraid of me?”
“Why should I be? I was married to your sister for fifty years.”
The goat was raised around me, I’ll have you know. He and I go way back. Some of my fondest memories are of printing particularly sweet Pit threads and having the goat eat them lovingly, gazing at me as if to say, “Why can’t all Pit threads be sweet?” (I’d have printed the spicy ones as well, but the goat got some bad indigestion from even a nibble at those, and you don’t want a goat with bad indigestion.)
Don’t you try to get me scared of the goat. We returning folks are guests. If anything, the host of this here party should pony up for some of us returning folks. Hosts pay for food; guests provide sparkling conversation and refrain from running naked.
I’ll exempt some from that last requirement. But not you, sir.
I made you a Key Lime pie but I eated it.
I will have you know, sir, that during my exile, I learned humility.
Oh, sure, I once ran nekkid through anything that had an URL to its name. “Hey, punha,” threads used to say, “I’m bored over here. My people have gone off to” – well, this being the Internet, you can guess.
The point is, it became something of a habit for them (and the threads) – and for me. People would let threads languish, dropping valuable and insightful conversations mid-vB vivisection, seemingly assuming I’d drop my homework and run nekkid.
I hear tell that one or two people honestly and innocently thought I had “::runs nekkid through thread::” C&Ped, or stored in Notebook or something, just so I wouldn’t have to type it.
Well, sir, I am typecast no more. Like Tony Shalhoub on Monk, I am spreading my wings and exploring what this place has to offer for those who do not whore themselves out to it.
I will again run nekkid through a thread when such a thread calls out for nekkid punhanity. Unless and until such a thread appears before my eyes, calling shyly for me in the way only the right thread can, in the firm but wispy whisper of a confident lover, ready to abandon the honor of thread-streaking virginity for the power of thread-streaking experience, I will not disrobe. I will not run. I will not jog. I will not even briskly walk. Such is my determination to not be that guy again.
(Plus, honestly, do you think that many people miss it? I mean, sure, if you’re a n00b or summat, it’s cool, and the more people get to talking about it, the more the prestige builds, but I gotta think some of the folks who’ve been around for a few dozen of my thread-streaks have gotten tired of it.
Let someone else take the mantle. Not like it requires any amount of skill. With a new thread-streaker comes new prestige. Also, should I ever decide to return to my streaking ways, it’ll be that much more special.)
So all that means you’re gonna streak this thread, aren’t you?
Whatever. Your public awaits.
Ladies and gentlemen, the ever-nekkid iampunha!
However, if you’d prefer his, as I recall, cousin Val…
(that was you, wasn’t it? I know Joyce is right out.)
Well, it appears to me that the ratio of people to pie is too big, and not to be greedy, but last time I didn’t receive a piece, and was told that next time I could have one, and now is next time so I better get a piece of pie. And if I don’t get a piece of pie, well, I’ll burn this place down…
Joyce is thoroughly dead. His 90-year deathday was about a month ago, actually. Somber occasion. (I joke, but only sorta.)
Val Kilmer is a relative, albeit not entirely close. I don’t recall the specific relation, but it’s there.
Happily, since my name change (conveniently coupled with my marriage), nobody asks, then refuses to believe.
So, how did you hyphenate it? Blank-Kilmer or Kilmer-Blank?
As I said a long, long time ago, one of the poems me mum liked to sing was “Trees.” The kid done good, and died too young (I’ve read his other poems. “Trees” was an up-against-the-wall-motherfucker poem.)
Oh, it was hyphenated before I got married. Among my many (many, many) posts on this board (many, many posts) are several detail other humans’ inability to deal with this name.
It so annoys me and my siblings that, assuming my brother and our other sister get married, two of the six people who ever held this last name will retain it. My parents’ obituaries will list their children, two male, none of whom will have their last name. Kinda funny.
Police inserted alien vowels in it (“So, Mr. Kilmore …”). Standardized forms are still largely unable to specifically accomodate it; [firsthalf]kilmer becameall too common on SAT results. Teachers, co-workers, friends and foes wrestled with it. Most failed, some deliberately.
So when I got married, I took my wife’s name. Had to petition the (Virginia) court to get it changed.
In Virginia, you have to do that if any male person is changing his name, even if it’s for marriage. You don’t have to do that if you’re a woman getting married, but you do if you’re a man.
“Trees” has evolved into a poem all its own, often separated from the poet and the rest of his opera. It’s to the point now where there are various trees people claim my great-grandfather had in mind, or was looking at, or (just about) sitting under when he wrote the thing.
Nope. For one, if it’d been about one tree, it woulda been “Tree.” Durrrrrrr.
For up-against-the-wall, here’s the second (and final) stanza of a poem I didn’t know existed until a few moments ago. See, people know “Trees,” maybe “Rouge Bouquet,” maybe “Citizen of the World.”
They’ve never read this:
-“Mid-ocean in War-time.” HTML is being evil just now, so it’s here: Poetry of Joyce Kilmer, full-text; poetry of Joyce Kilmer, at everypoet.com
Assuming a month for basic training and immediate deployment to Europe (I’ve never looked up the specifics, and because of the ramifications of his early death, I don’t care to), he wrote this poem in May 1917 at the earliest.
14 months later, given or take a bit, he was one of those newly dead, courtesy of a German sniper.
… someone had pie, right?
Bro, you may never find someone who can more appreciate WWI poetry than I. It created the best poets because it was the most stupid, pointless, poorly strategized, war.
But it definitely produced the best poets, your cuz among them. A piss-poor result, I admit, and far from being worth the cost.
And I grew up in VA. A couple weeks back my interim pastor asked if it were as insular and backward as he had heard, and he described some of the problems for a newcomer. All I could ask was, “It is still? After 40 years?”
However, the kid was a hell of a poet. Rejoice in him and gladly claim your legacy
Val, well, use you judgment.
Have I mentioned how much I missed you? Sweet Jesus, there were times when I felt like I was holding down the fort here.
We ain’t in GD or the Pit, so I’ll save my Iraq/Vietnam line for another day:)
Virginia is really three states (at least). There’s the State Department part, which is also known as Northern Virginia, and which I refer to as the State Department part because of the number of kids whose fathers “work for the State Department” or some other government or private-sector agency. As a friend and I remarked once, the more you knew about what your dad did (nobody’s mom worked there), the less he did. The kids who said, as children, “My daddy works for the government,” and felt somehow left out … well, as teens they would proclaim, supremely confident, “My father works for the government.” And because that was all anyone knew, those kids were at least reviled, if not looked up to.
Then there’s Southwest Virginia, which I spent four or five years in. It’s often indistinguishable from West Virginia.
And then there’s everything else. I have never spent significant time in the rest of Virginia, so someone who has spent time in Richmond/Williamsburg/Norfolk will have to correct me, but nothing I’ve heard from anyone has ever suggested that it’s not lumpable into one giant “everything else.” Not as education-poor as Southwest Virginia, not as elitist as Northern Virginia.
I read your post, then went to get something to eat.
As I was walking to the kitchen, I realized something:
You must have had to take over thread-streaking duties while I was gone.
You poor, poor, cold, dejected man.
I am so sorry.
How they must have laughed (politely at first, but any time the punch is spiked …). Pointed. Looked away.
I mean, no offense, but I was known for being, well, a young stud. (I posted the pictures frequently.) And you … well, you did your best, and now you’re hoping I’ll drop trou so you can retire your thread-streaking … glove? Hat?
Sunglasses! That much be it.
I feel for you. Really, I do. My heart goes out to you after the fact for all those times you must have written me an e-mail (but not hit submit), begging me to come back, offering to pay part or all of my subscription just so the pain would finally end, so the pressure would be back on me and you could retire to a slightly less … full-frontal place in your life.
So I’ve put together a little tribute as thanks for all you endured while I was away. It’s not much, just something I learned while I was away.
This is for you:
