Okay, I found my Chicken Tortilla Soup recipe mentioned in my blog entry that will improve your sex life, make you lose weight & become rich & famous*.

2 large chicken breasts (1 lb or slightly more)
1.5 cans of chicken broth
1 can (15 oz) diced tomatoes
2 chili peppers diced
1 jalapeno (I used Mrs. Renfro’s jalapeños** instead of a fresh one because the hillbilly grocery store I went to didn’t have any.)
Diced onions (I used ¾ cup = ¼ white & ½ red)
1 large tomato diced
2 garlic cloves minced
2 tablespoons cilantro minced
1 tablespoon chili powder
2 teaspoons cumin
2 teaspoons pepper
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons tobasco

Put chicken in bottom of crock pot. Whisk all spices in broth and pour over chicken and other ingredients.

Cook 4 hours on high.

Garnish = tortilla chips, sour cream, shredded cheese, avocado.

Hold on to your wig, otherwise it will be blown back by how yummy this is.

–Kambri

**She’s was a counselor at my high school in TX and Mrs. Renfro’s salsa & jalapeños are delicious! COOL!

And they hatched into tiny little Martha spiders that have taken over my body. This Crewsfly I’ve meta-morphed into is quite a handy little worker bee.

Just a few dishes I have made lately include red beans & rice with sausage that could compete in cook-off, meatloaf & mash potatoes that would blow your WIG back, chicken tortilla soup* that tastes like you’re in #$&*! Mexico minus the sun and sand of course, and caramel apples that make your mouth water like a slobbery infant.

We have a kitchen “island” which is actually an antique gas stove that is inoperable and missing a door creating an unsightly, gaping hole. So, I bought a gingham checked shirt at the thrift store for $3 and turned it into a little curtain. Check out the before and after by rolling over the image. If I had a machine & more cloth, I would have done it differently but let’s not get crazy here. You don’t live in a barn because your trailer got repo’d and not have to sew a few things by hand — hemming skirts, patching up holes and trying to make things last or look halfway decent like Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink. I can sew. I just don’t. My hand job is perfectly fine serving both a function & adding a fun little kick to the island.

Since I don’t have a machine, I just got a little emergency travel sewing kit from the hardware store. It was standard, containing a couple of needles and small spools of thread and that thing. You know the bendy little silver metal thing with the face on it. I stared at it curiously as I have in the past wondering what function it served. My first instinct was to look it up on the internet — which shows you just how long it has been since I last sewed: THE INTERNET DIDN’T EXIST. So I Google “sewing kit silver thing with the face on it” and got this answer.

I’m at the cabin and cooked my 2nd crock pot dish. This time a chili recipe I got from my cousin Shari’s blog (see yesterday’s “I’m Your Night Plower” entry). A few things I learned in the process:

(1) I could rake in the big bucks on “Supermarket Sweep”. I picked up everything on my list in order without needing to double back in a store that I’ve never stepped foot in before. Although I’ve never purchased things like cans of chopped tomatoes, cloves of garlic and fresh bay leaves, I instinctively knew where to find them.

Side note: I lost my list which I had written on official White House Situation Room note paper that I snagged during a private tour of, well, the Situation Room in the White House. I like that some hillbilly is going to find my list and think that a real White House employee, with such extraordinary stress and job responsibility, is writing down a chili recipe and shopping list instead of, you know, helping keep America safe.

–Kambri
Chili in a cabin surrounded by snowcapped woods is just about as Norman Rockwell picture perfect as life can get.

I woke up today with a mission: get paint, groceries to make my cousin Shari’s chili, and end my day at the cabin painting said cabin and eating said chili. I left the apartment, dragging a ticked off Chihuahua through the snow behind me while carrying 100 pounds of STUFF in a temperature more frigid than Gwyneth Paltrow.

The alley cats that live in my private car lot shot me concerned looks and slinked away, low backs, shifty eyes. I smelled like danger. I was THAT flummoxed. Car cleared of snow, warmed and loaded, I set off. Never have I tried to find a spot and parallel park after yet another snowstorm (including the 10 years I lived in Ohio), and I’ve only driven a handful of times in ten years. I quickly realized I had a better chance at finding Bin Laden than a place to park near the paint store on Steinway Street. I had left an hour later than I hoped, Paquita was whining, and I just felt FAT all bundled up in winter gear trying to program the GPS and check for blind spots…like I was someone who couldn’t bend over and tie their own shoe. Also, I realized I dumped all my change in a collection jar at home which meant I couldn’t feed the muni-meter.

“This is NOT cool. NOT cool, Universe! I just wanna RELAX! How do people LIVE in this city! No wonder I’m trying to get out!” I may have even screamed a nonsensical, “AGGHERRERHHHHH!!!”

Ask and you shall receive!

A spot miraculously appeared, the new muni-meters take credit cards but as I fished through my wallet a woman gave me her unexpired meter receipt with FORTY-FIVE minutes left on it. I went inside, got my paint and supplies and met zero traffic out of Manhattan. No, you were not slipped a roofie. I did, in fact, type that I had ZERO traffic out of Manhattan. I got to the Shop Rite in Monticello, pulled up my cousin’s blog for the ingredients and found everything I needed in a jiffy. IN and OUT in 30 minutes on a Saturday.

I get to the cabin and DOH! The driveway wasn’t plowed! I thought we had already made automatic arrangements with our plow dude, but no. There is NO place to park as an alternative and, sure I could stay at a hotel but who wants to blow money on that and have groceries go to waste? A lot of freaking out and frantic phone calls later –The groceries! The dog! Where will I go? What will I do? — I started driving around and saw a truck w/a plow attachment parked in front of a convenience store. I parked,
went inside and found a dude who looked like he might drive a plow (read: filthy, reflective coat, missing teeth and buying two packs of cigarettes).

My radar was spot on: it was his plow and it turns out he’s my neighbor. In less than ten minutes, he cleared a place for the Thunder Nugget, and I took down his info and gave him all the cash I had. (Don’t worry, if you know me, I carry little to no cash.) But now I’m worried that he knows I’m in the woods alone. So, while chopping up garlic, I had fantasies of stabbing him in the neck with the butcher knife and splashing him with the simmering crock pot full of chili.

–Kambri
Just in case: His name is Rich and he lives in a yellow house just up the road from me and I have his cell number programmed in my phone.

On January 4th, Christian and I bought our first home together: a little one bedroom cottage in Sullivan County, about a two hour drive from NYC. Perched upon two giant boulders on a nearly four acre wooded lot, the “Rock House” is a perfect retreat for us to escape the noise of the city. (View the photo set on Flickr.)

We have room to roam and a chance to try things we haven’t been able to while in the concrete jungle. One of those things for me is using the kitchen for anything other than popping popcorn in the microwave. After seeing so many friends and family posting on Facebook about crock pots and delicious meals they were eating, I wondered what the big deal is.

I asked folks about crock pots and received TONS of advice. Apparently all you have to do is throw a bunch of stuff in a pot, let it sit there slow cooking for a while and voila! Wait? That’s it? What’s the catch? THERE IS NO CATCH? How can this BE?!?!

So other people –nearly everyone I know– love and enjoy crock pots and never told me about this magical machine designed to make meals while barely lifting a finger. What other secrets are they keeping from me? Granted, I use my oven for storage and, if I cook, it involves boxing great George Foreman. But in that case don’t I, more than anyone, need suggestions on kitchen domesticity? Come on, people, help a girl out here.

I got the pot pictured because it was the only one at Bed, Bath & Beyond and at only $30, figured it was worth a try. Today marks my first attempt at making a meal: a pot roast or boneless chuck or whatever you want to call it.

To keep my personality balanced, I listened to Metallica’s “Kill ‘Em All” while chopping up the vegetables. I also used a power drill several times today.

Lest you get too excited, note that I had to look up how much a stalk of celery was. I mean I *know* what a stalk of celery is. When I was at the grocery store I grabbed a bagged bunch of celery and thought I’ll use a stalk for the roast and the rest I can munch on and grabbed some flavored dip / spread thing. But when it came time to looking at the ingredients/directions, I found myself asking “Wait! What IS a stalk of celery?” One stem or is the whole bunch a stalk? So I looked it up. The fact that the answer existed online is of some comfort (hey, other people wondered, too) but it is a reminder to me that like dancing, and drawing, cooking just does not come naturally to me.

–Kambri
I forgot to look at what time it started cooking, so now I’m just guessing that it has about 5 hours to go. No delicious aromas yet, unless you count the Yankee Candle Sugar Cookie candle that’s burning.

Conversation with my boss while heading to lunch at the Brooklyn Diner.
Me: “Mmmm, I’m gonna get a Mr. Softee for dessert.”
Jeff: “You already have one at home. His name’s Marc.”

Extra bonus, we got to sit in “his” booth. For those not familiar with the Diner, their practice is to put brass name plates of their best (mainly famous) customers. Here’s his:

Trekking back to the office, I was sorely disappointed that Mr. Softee was on the fritz. “You’re killing me!” I screamed before sulking back to the office to face the rest of my day. Then Super Model called. Nothing like chatting with a super skinny gazillionaire to make you not regret having processed chemicals and lard for dessert. If only she called me during every meal.

Standing at the refrigerator eating pepperoncini out of the jar, an image flashed into my head. What would a senior citizen version of me look like in this scenario? Dentures retrieved from the nightstand, housecoat zipped up to here, stained slippers scuffing on the floor as I venture to kitchen in search of a snack. “Ah, pickles!” I clumsily twist open the jar with arthritic hands and proceed to scarf down a dozen sour dills. Bathed in the light of the fridge, the chilled air finds its way to my wrinkled, puckered skin. Old Me is quite the site to behold. I hope she’s happy.

At what age will I kick the habit of eating cake for breakfast? Is swilling olive juice as an octagenarian inappropriate? Will Hershey’s Syrup straight out of the bottle still taste as bitter sweet? When will having a Mr. Softee for lunch become out of the question? Will whole lemons be bettered enjoyed without teeth?

So many things for me to wonder.

Two favorite things said to me today:

(1) Me: “So you have people who agree with you.” Him: “They’re called Disciples, honey.”
(2) I peed green once.

Well, just like last year, we ended up NOT going to the Peninsula. Instead we had cocktails at The Oak Bar in the Plaza Hotel. Two round of drinks, $120; time spent with friends, priceless. Okay, so the drinks are a wee bit overpriced. Yikes! But, it is the Plaahhza after all.

After drinks, I decided it would be best to watch a light-hearted movie rather than sit in front of the television watching depressing images. So I met Marc at the Ziegfeld Theater where we watched “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”. The Ziegfeld is a great place to see a movie. It is a massive theater decorated in art deco styling, accented in plush red velvet and amazing crystal chandeliers. The curtains are drawn over the single screen as the lights are dimmed adding to the theatrical experience that can never be matched in any giant, modern multiplex. We laughed our faces off and tried not to feel sad for at least 2 hours before heading home to our little baby Paquita Borgito Borgato Chorizo Jimenez. She makes me laugh in her innocence and simplicity. Her main worry is the location of her “buried” pig ear and her one true love is a blue squeaky ball. She’s got it good.

Favorite thing Marc said during “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”: “So, do you think they’re gonna get married?”

In the hopes that it is true that what comes around goes around, I returned the favor bestowed unto me as reported in my August 13, 2002 post. I moved from my usual lunchtime seat due to two MTV reporters –like omigod, they are SO young!– needing my coveted space in the Channel Gardens of Rockefeller Center. I then parked myself on the bench facing Fifth Avenue and Saks–an excellent spot for people watching. On an average day, one can spot someone of note amidst the tourists and fabulous New Yorkers. My most recent sightings have been Michael Richards looking extremely dazed and confused and Stone Phillips ever-so-politely rebuffing a female fan. Today, however, I saw a woman get crapped on by a pigeon. Her instant and involuntary reaction was to put her hand on her head and touch whatever had just landed there. Not a good idea. She stopped in her tracks and let out a small scream which caused her male companion some obvious angst. The pair stood there frozen in their tracks unable to think of exactly the best way to handle this. They had nothing with them to clean her hand and were looking for a place to go in the very, very well-trafficked area. In that instant, I dipped into my purse and whipped out a trusty Lever 2000 anti-bacterial and moisturizing wipe for her use and volunteered this note, “You may think it’s just pigeon sh*t, but that’s good luck!” I hope for her sake it’s true.

I went to Cilantro for dinner the other night. Fabulous mussels (the sauce was out of this world) and salsa and plantains and, oh my, just everything was dee-lish. What I liked most was the corn that came with Heidi’s dish. It had been cut directly off the cob so that some kernels were still attached in perfect little rows. It reminded me of childhood summertimes when I stayed with my mom’s parents in Tulsa and my grandpa would take his knife and shave my cob for me. So deft and quick he was. I would stare intently as though he were performing delicate vegetable surgery. His corn always tasted better and always will.

I sure picked a stewpid time to change servers.
After much frustration, all seems to be in order. I’m still not pleased with the blog page colors and such, but—now brace yourselves, as this might come as a shock to some of you—everything can’t be perfect. ACK! I know, I know…you’re saying, “But you’re perfect, Kambri.” Alas, I am not. Don’t be upset over this news, I don’t want you to get all addicted to Xanex over this, but it is true. I am not perfect either. There. Said. Done! Now let’s get on with our lives.