FOOD OMG!! With a recipe

So, as of late I've started making food for myself. Not really doing the "healthy" thing, but trying to do the "cheaper" thing.
I found out through my budgeting, that I eat out... I eat out a lot. Which is why I don't have nice things. Which is why near the end of the week I'm asking "What the hell? Where'd my money go?"
So, my solution is to make my own food. I suggest all single people do this, no matter how well you can cook.
Me? I am ok. I'm not my mother who made cooking look easy, and I'm definitely not my grandmother who can make blueberry muffins out of nothing. (That story may have been embellished a bit)

So, this is pretty much my introductory post for future food themed blogs that I may start up.

This one comes with a recipe. :D BUT FIRST!!

A picture of the Japanese curry that I made the other day.

Doesn't that look tasty? Like right out of an anime? :d
I had to use pears and mushrooms instead of carrots and potatoes, which gave it a weird taste, but meh.
The brand was Vermont Honey and Apple curry. Still pretty good.

NOW onto the recipe for what I made for breakfast/brunch this morning. Anyone reading this, especially people who actually know me, might wonder if I am qualified to write recipes for what I make. Trust me... I'm not. My mom was talking to me on skype the whole time and I was ranting and raving about not getting perfect circular crepes... It was special.

Berry and Creamed Goat Cheesed flavored with Honey and Vanilla filled Crepes

Crepes:

Any recipe you use will most likely be fine. I used French style.

1c. All purpose flour

1tsp White granulated Sugar

1/4tsp Salt

2c. Milk

3 Eggs

2Tbsp butter (melted)

In a small bowl, mix your dry ingredients and then set aside.

In a large bowl mix your milk and eggs and then beat with a whisk or an electric beater. That's up to you.
Slowly add the dry ingredients to the egg and milk mixture, and beat until smooth.
Add melted butter and thoroughly mix.
Lightly oil a pan or griddle and set your heating device to med. to med. high.

Scoop or pour however much you want into your pan/griddle. The more you put in the pan, the bigger the crepe. 

Swear and fuss at it until you manage to figure out the method that works best for you when trying to get a perfect circular crepe. Mine was the lift, pour, swirl, set back on burner method.

(Now would be the best time to tell you that there are actual crepe makers out there. Save yourself the headache and go get one.)

Pay STUPIDLY close attention to it, less you burn your crepe. It only takes less than a minute for it to be fully cooked.
Put on a plate and set aside.

Filling:

For this, I just went "eh. Whatever..." and kind of threw stuff together without measuring. HAHA

Generous serving of heavy whipping cream

1/4c. Goat cheese (or however much you want to use.)

Spoonful of honey

1tsp Vanilla (or a cap full)

In a small pan, throw in your cream, your cheese, and your honey.
Set the stove to low to med. heat.
Stir until thoroughly melted.
Add vanilla.
Stir until completely mixed.
Remove from heat.

On a plate, lay out your crepe. Add your fruit. (For the fruit, frozen whatever it is you want to put into it. I used blueberries and raspberries. I just put these in a bowl and set them aside, while I did other stuff), then spoon in your cream mixture. Fold the crepe in your preferred fold. Enjoy.

And thus concludes my first attempt at writing a recipe. And yes, it was super good. I suggest you try it.

My "supposed" Arachnaphobia

So it's a known fact that I am absolutely terrified of spiders. <insert art here>

Something about their eight eyes, eight legs, hair bodies, the ability to kill you, and they're sneaky. Did I mention that some could kill you?
Seriously though, they're absolutely terrifying to me.

Well that was until I discovered Jumping Spiders. No, I did not do my research on this one, but they're stupidly cute. Even if they are still arachnids.

Hear my Voice (A forever WIP)

I am Woman. Hear my Voice.
I AM woman. Hear MY voice.

I am Mother.
I am Daughter.
I am Sister.
I am Wife.
I am Grandmother.
I am Aunt.
I am Cousin.
I am a Goddess.
I am Worshipped.
I am Praised.
I am Healer.
I am Destroyer.
I am Creater.
I am a Fighter.
I am a Bitch
I am Crazy.
I am Cruel.
I am Kind.
I am Feminine.
I am a Slob.
I am Beautiful.
I am Clutz.
I am Hot Mess.
I am Woman. Hear my Voice.

I drink.
I cuss.
I fuck.
I dream.
I sleep.
I game.
I love.
I nurture.
I plan.
I work.
I protect.
I feed.
I cook.
I clean.
I pray.
I dance.
I sing.
I anger.
I cry.
I scream.
I laugh.
I throw my heart against the wall.
I feel.

I am Woman. Hear my Voice.

I do not NEED a man.
I am strong.
My body, is my body.
I will not be kept silent.
I stand up for what I believe in.
Politics and religion be damned.

I am Woman. Hear my Voice.

I have been raped.
I have been regulated.
I have been abused.

I am Woman. Hear my Voice.

I have ruled.
I have conquered.
I have brought down Kings.
I have started life itself.
I take risks.
I cross lines.

I am Woman. Hear my Voice.

I make mistakes.
I have zits on my face.
I have given birth.
I wear make up.


I am Woman. Hear my Voice.
I AM woman. Hear MY voice.

Disclaimer: This post might make you scared to drive with me.

You know what's scary while driving? Getting lost.
What's scarier than getting lost? Getting lost in the middle of what looks like nowhere.
Even scarier? Getting lost in the middle of what looks like nowhere at night.

Which unfortunately happens to me. A lot. What's worse is that I tend to go into survival mode. Which is mostly just a quiet, collected, cool headed panic in which I just keep driving straight until I either turn around or find something that looks familiar. I feel sort of like my cat when I chase her around the house so I can clip her claws.

I'm also claustrophobic, which I have found to be problematic when driving. Being from the city, it's even worse. I don't know why, but I'm always paranoid that someone is going to side swipe me. Or vice versa, which I hate to admit, is sometimes the case. Go go stupid blonde moments!
I like to think I'm a very conscientious driver though. So I really should not be faulted when someone literally sits in that just perfect blind spot and doesn't speed up or slow down when I put on my blinker. I swear I look twice, all of the time. ALL OF THE TIME!
I'm also paranoid around semi-trucks. Especially when I get between two of them, or one of them and a wall along a nice sharp curve on the highway. Which my city seems to be full of.

I am constantly told, "Semi-trucks aren't all that bad. Just give them their space.", but my fear is legit I tell ya. When I was a newly licensed driver, (As in, like, my ID was still hot from being printed, new.) I had a traumatic experience that included using all of the profanities and some made up ones in front of my mother. I should probably tell you now that I try really hard not to swear in front of my parents. Sometimes it slips when I forget that I'm talking to my mom and not one of my bffs... even though she is one of my bffs...

ANYWAYS, I'm not entirely sure what we were doing, but we had to visit some official building in my home town. The way to get in was designed in stupidity. Seriously, who puts the entrance to an official building on a one way street? So we turn up the road where the entrance is, and there are two semi-trucks blocking the way. Ok, no problem, they look like they're getting ready to move anyways, so I wait for a bit. One of these IDIOTIC drivers, decides to have a herp moment and turns the wrong way. Towards my car. In a cramped, one way, alley.
Dafuq?
OH! And he doesn't stop. Nope. He keeps going as if I'm not there, taking up the rest of the little area. I end up having to quickly pull off onto the sidewalk, and honking my horn. All of the while swearing up a storm. I was shaking. My mom was shaking. Put that with listening to a boyfriend almost get ran off the road by a semi-driver, via the phone, and you have the perfect recipe for life long fear of semi-trucks.

Not to mention they go super slow and that bugs me.

I almost didn't name this one

Ah, the life of the low-income girl. It's great. It really is. My boyfriend Larry is also in that category, which is great too. When we do "fancy" dates, we end up feeling really spoiled and then it just adds that much more of a romantic layer to our already cute relationship.

The last "fancy" date we went on was pretty impromptu. Sure, we dressed up all fancy, and stuff, but we really didn't have a plan. All I knew was that I really wanted a steak.

SO! Off to the local HUGE shopping mall, town center, thing, whatever it is that is down the street from my apartment we go, all dressed up like an adorable couple. I donned my favorite wig and a cute dress so that I would look more like a girl and less like a cross dresser with amazing padding. He wore an outfit appropriate  to going out to a ritzy place. We were styling.

Easton, for those of you who've never been there, is a ritzy looking shopping center mall thing with a nice theater. It's got all the stores you'd find in a normal mall, plus a few other things, like a free standing Victoria Secrets. It's also got some really yummy restaurants, as well as a food court for those of us who aren't so financially gifted. It's really nice.
We're walking through, checking out all of our choices, and none of them were really looking that great. Some were too fancy, some weren't fancy enough. Others were like "WTF?", we really couldn't decide. THEN just as we were settling for the local Piada, we walked by this restaurant called "The Melting Pot". Oh my gosh, did it smell good. The air around it was heavy with the smell of red wine and onion and garlic.
I turned to Larry and asked if he's ever had fondue before. When he said he hadn't, I grabbed his arm and pulled him inside.

This place is in a basement, so I had to fall down a couple of flights since I fail when it comes to wearing heels. We get up to the front desk, and the host informs us that there is an hour wait. Larry said he was okay with it, so we reserved our table and went back upstairs to find something else to do while we wait.

Skipping the part where I tell you that if him and I ever get married, you bet our house/apartment will be full of books and furniture. That's just how we roll.

After an hour of perusing an upscale version of Ikea and another ritzy furniture store, we go back to the restaurant. Two minutes later, we're sitting at our table and looking at the menus.

Yea, pretty much. I think our server had to explain it several times before we finally just gave up and ordered what turns out to be one of the most expensive things on the menu.

So then, we got our appetizer, which was a standard cheddar fondue. Except it had beer in it. Oh my gosh, was it good.

I am proud to report that this reaction is a normal one with everyone that eats there for the first time. I seriously had to excuse myself to the bathroom to powder my nose because I was tearing up so bad.

The rest of the meal was a little bit less emotionally moving. I'm not saying it wasn't good, but after the first wave of awesome, you're prepared for the rest of it.
I had to have some of that red wine onion concoction, and we both agreed the Yin Yang chocolate/white chocolate was what we wanted. They even gave us more fruit, since the rest of the confections served to dip into the chocolate was too sugary. I think that should be an option at all fancy restaurants. Like how the French do with their "official" desserts. A plate of fresh fruit, and possibly some cheese. A light one.

In the end, we ate so much, we were both stuffed. I had a couple of drinks too, so Larry had to drive the two miles back to my place. Oh, but it was so worth it. I hope to go there again one day.

Art School, or lack there of..

I've always wanted to be an artist. I think this roots in the fact that my mother is an artist, and I was one of those kids that always wanted to do what one of my parents did. Somehow I ended up doing what my dad did when he graduated highschool, but that's another rant for another time.
Another part of it has to do with being hit with the creative branch. Not just a light tap either. I was beaten into submission with it. I write, draw, play a couple instruments, and dabble in a lot of things creatively. Dabble. Not productively take part in, but piddle around in different puddles of creative stuff.

One of my main things though is slice of life comic strips. I've been writing and drawing them since middle school, mostly out of boredom during studyhall. These weren't your everyday notebook doodles. I wrote full on strips. Every day. For every situation. Perhaps one day, I'll sit down and "re-master" them and get them published. Eh.

My family has been fairly supportive of this endeavor fortunately. However, there's a nice catch with having an artist as a parent. Specially if you belong to a family where one has a bit more dominance than the other. In my case, my dad had other ideas of what he thought I should be doing with all of my creativity. Where I wanted to go to art classes, he thought I ought to be in marching band. It got kind of interesting when it came down to scheduling my classes.
It would almost be like that scene in Harry Potter when Uncle Vernon digs into Hagrid about going to Hogwarts. My dad would get all obstenent saying "She will not be going!" His face would be red, and he'd suddenly have a british accent.

Ok, not really, but somehow he got it into his head that my mother who has about as much of an attention span as I do, would find the time to sit down and teach me how to paint. That what little instruction she was able to give me between working at Wal*Mart, and doing other motherly type dutes, would be sufficient enough to make me as awesome as her. So that was his main reason for insisting that I go down the path of music instead of picture making.

This isn't to say that I despise my years of playing trumpet and french horn, but I really wanted to have that concentrated teaching put into my art.

So I have been pretty much left to learn on my own. I mean, I suppose I could take some classes at a workshop, but like art school, that costs money. Money that I do not have.