It's Hotter than the Nevada Desert

Today, while working very hard in our building that decided to replace the air conditioner in the hottest part of the day, I baked cookies in my car. Boss said they were maybe even a tad overcooked! Three hours put to excellent use!

--Christy

Birthdays and Cannings of the Past...

In the hell that is southern Kansas, we had 24 out of 31 days in July with temperatures over 100, and I would bet we've seen more than that.  I'm going to try and bake cookies in my car sometime this week.  Going to be awesome. 

But I digress.  For my fantabulous pirate birthday party, my awesome friends got me a HUGE canning pot and lots of fun tags and lid covers to play with.  This all goes with the huge Coleman outdoor stove that my husband got me.  The goal here being: my flat-top stove doesn't handle all the canning I do very well.  The largest size I can can is a pint, and peaches and apples do not fit well into pint-size jars. There are lots of other issues with canning on flat-top stoves, including the risk that the heavy pot will meld to the stove, or crack it, or distribute heat unevenly, or...you get the idea.  ERGO: Christy now has an outdoor stove, that she can put outside, and can on in her new fantastically large pot.  BRILLIANT, I tell you. Brilliant. I absolutely cannot wait to try this.

See, in my past use of my flat-top stove, I have done a number of scary things--things deemed to be impossible by the makers of le creuset:  I have cracked not one, but two le creuset dutch ovens.  From this point forward, said dutch oven to be referred to as "the damned pot."  To be fair, between the cracking of the first and second damned pot (yes, there were two), le creuset did change the standards of use on the damn things, but simpletons like myself did not and still do not go online weekly to read the updated limits on my standard cooking utensils--how silly am I!

The first time I was melting butter.  As a bit of background...I received my free le creuset damned pot through my westlaw points in law school--if you have never been through the hell that is law school, you will have NO IDEA what westlaw points are, or how they result in cookware.  However, if you have attended law school and know what such points are, you will have no trouble believing that I used all of these points to receive one le creuset dutch oven (aka the FIRST damned pot).

So back to the butter.  As I was melting butter in order to brown some beef tips, the damn thing exploded.  Well, perhaps "exploded" is a bit of an exaggeration, although I did find pieces of the damned pot across the room.  From the back burner, the damned pot split into three pieces.  I was amazed.  This damned pot was supposed to be impenetrable!  How could its defenses not withstand the wrath that is butter?  I  calmed down my howling dog (barkless my ass) and proceeded to pick up the pieces and put them into the sink.  Clearly this damned pot was not going to produce stroganoff tonight.

After debating what sin I had committed to break this most precious (read: expensive) of pots, I contacted the company and they sincerely apologized and forwarded a new pot (after forwarding the broken pieces to them to ensure that I did not void the warranty by attacking the damned pot through some inappropriate method) (although, if butter could break such a damned pot, perhaps hammers would have been at least a better story).

SO! Onward and upward.  Enter Cherry Conserve.  I could not WAIT to make this.  I love cherries, so how could whatever conserve is not equate heaven?  I was sure I could find a purpose for WHATEVER it was. So, into the *new* damned pot everything goes.  After all,  the previous pot was clearly not a TRUE representation of the awesome quality le creuset is--their customer service was devine, therefore, their quality must be superb.

About 30 minutes into the simmering of my cherries and assorted flavors, I hear a pop.  I look around for a small child and pop-gun to no avail. Then I hear another.  Apparently, this damned pot did not like the conserve syrupy goodness because it proceeded to leak it all over my flat topped stove. First thing first, try to push the crack away and lift said damned pot onto a plate. FAILURE. The bottom COMPLETELY comes apart from the rest of the damned clay pot.  Fuck.  I throw the edge pieces into the sink.  Fuck. Call husband. Husband is at softball game and refuses to answer me screaming into his voicemail about how he NEVER answers his phone and what is the PURPOSE of such a phone if he cannot answer the phone at the instant I am having an ACTUAL meltdown in our kitchen.  Enter dogs licking boiling syrup off floor. FUCK.  Out damned dogs.   TURN OFF STOVE.  Proceed to scoop with spoon/sponge/newspaper burning liquid into bowl in hopes of saving some of the expensive cherry conserve I had created before realizing that it now contained pieces of clay.  Pour whole damned thing into trash can.  Ignore fact that conserve has now extended to the other burners where the canning lids and boiling canning water are and is now seeping down the sides of our stove and all over the sides of the trash can. Fuck. Move boiling water to towel on counter.  Clear off teapots and small pot with canning lids.  Pour water onto stove top so as to cool off boiling mixture that is burning my poor flat-top stove.  After 20 minutes of screaming, and pulling out stove and wiping off the sides and throwing the whole damned thing into the trash, husband calls.  PERFECT timing.

After this debacle, looked at the website for le creuset which had since changed the "use" of said damned clay pot to any NON-direct heat.  So...like cooking soup in the shade?

I threw the damned pieces away.  Husband asked why I didn't return it and get a new one.  Clearly he did not understand how said damned pot had me now fearing melting butter and syrup; clearly he seemed to think I could find a purpose for such a pathetic god damned cooking utensil.  He was CLEARLY not present for either of the damned pot debacles and thought that I could still recommend such a pot to friends, or wrap it up and give it away.  I could not in good faith do such a thing.  Such a damned pot did not deserve another try.  I still have several le creuset pots--none of which are clay, and most of which are heavy pots that I wouldn't DREAM of putting on the damned flat-top stove anyway.

Apparently, for those of you looking for the logical explanation for such strange outcomes: you cannot use such pots on flat top stoves because of the circular indents on the bottom that trap pockets of heat, and then burst when there is no where for the heat to go.

NEEDLESS TO SAY, I am super excited about my new canning utensils that have circular indents on the bottom and my fantastic new outdoor stove that can handle such pots.  Because we don't deal with damned pots in my household anymore.  Bitches.

--Christy

Home

I suppose after college we all have the same trouble adapting from our former transient habits to stability.  After moving from dorm to dorm, apartment to apartment, rental house to high rise, town to city, roommate to roommate, it is quite frankly amazing that we all don't immediately go into therapy to discuss our loss of sanity and the quandary of where my favorite pair of shoes ran off to.  Perhaps we all relish the idea of finally standing still.  (I do not think that anyone who has ever moved in with a significant other has not had the urge to run the eff away at some point , but I digress.  That is a topic for another post.)

I went to KC this weekend to shop with the momster.  Not that Wichita doesn't offer some fine shopping outlets,...it just isn't quite the same. Perhaps it is because the momster doesn't live in Wichita, but who am I to speculate.   There's just something about being on home base, with family, recognizing every turn lane and road and knowing that you can get away with going 45 on Ward Parkway, albeit on certain stretches.

As I was driving through the Plaza (and forfeiting any hope of ever locating a parking spot within 3 miles of LatteLand and wedding cake cookies), I realized how small and un-diverse Wichita is.  I miss the gays. I miss the random hippies walking through town.  I miss the overland park anti-support tax visitors mingling with the misfits.  I miss the nonconformity.  I suppose the bigger question is why random outside window shoppers equate diversity to my simple mind.  I suppose I just miss the traffic.  I miss the pulse. I miss watching the foot traffic from inside westport coffeehouse.  Bubble tea that is accepted and easily accessible.  Random shops with outstanding objects of creativity.  Ridiculous sculptures that look mysteriously like shuttlecocks.  And every once in a while, I miss having fifteen nightly events, happenings or random acts of art and entertainment to choose from for my personal nightly entertainment.  Perhaps I've never quite accepted stability.  My therapist said I never would :grin:

--Christy