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Re-post Wednesday

  • January 18, 2011

So my friend Tay and her friend Ney started a new blog called Oh So Cheesy. You can read it if you click here.

That’s right. A whole freaking blog dedicated to the yum that is cheesy pasta. Now that Tay and Ney have started their blog, I’ll have no shortage of macaroni and cheese recipes to choose from.

Taylor asked me if she could link to the post where I called Ina Garten the devil. At first I couldn’t find it and I was all wtf happened to my Ina post? Then I remembered it had some *cough*yeti*cough* info in it and it was part of the big Yeti purge.

So I found it, edited it, and voila!

Here you go Taylor!

P.S. Everybody make Mac ‘n Cheese for dinner, ‘K?

The other day, when the offspring and I were browsing the shelves at Barnes and Noble, I noticed a stack of Ina Garten cookbooks. I love Ina, and I love her show on the Food Network, The Barefoot Contessa. I decided to add two of her cookbooks to the already heavy pile of books in my arms because I’ve been looking for some new recipes.

I noticed when I was flipping through them that she had a recipe for Cosmopolitans. I liked the fact that her recipe was for a whole pitcher of cosmopolitans because I’m lazy and Ina’s method seemed preferable to having to mix drinks up one by one.

Anyway, we invited Trish over for dinner last night. We were making baby back ribs on the grill, roasted potatoes, and salad. “This would be a perfect time to try out Ina’s recipe,” I thought. The recipe makes six and Trish and I can each have three which is a perfectly respectable amount, right? (No, stupid). The ribs take quite a while so I thought Trish and I could sip one or two while we were waiting for dinner to be ready.

Anyway, back to the cosmopolitans and why I think Ina is a drunk.

Usually I just follow the recipe on the back of the bottle of Cointreau (just like Bethenny Frankel of The Real Housewives of New York except I’m not trying to pass them off as my own original drink. Maybe no one else has noticed your blatant rip-off, but I’m onto you Bethenny).

The recipe I follow is 1 part cointreau to 2 parts vodka, cranberry juice, and fresh lime juice. I usually use 1 shot of vodka and a 1/2 shot of cointreau, cranberry juice, and extra lime juice. These measurements keep me from getting totally spun out and doing something stupid. Usually. Most of the time.

Anyway, that’s not important. And even though Ina Garten is the devil I am going to admit that I was a complete fucktard for not using any common sense whatsoever. Because I was completely sober when I was mixing up the pitcher, it should have occurred to me that Ina really, really likes vodka. A lot.

Check out her recipe:

Do you notice anything? Like the fact that the recipe calls for two cups of vodka and one cup of cointreau? That’s a shitload of liquor, people (I realize this is not a very good scan and the words are kind of blurry but I’m not messing with the scanner anymore because my head still feels like there are little men in there pounding my brain with jackhammers).

Back to last night. I had only drank drunk consumed about half of my first drink when I started having to speak slowly and really concentrate on what was coming out of my mouth. That seemed odd to me. Also my lips felt tingly. Trish said, “Hey, these are pretty good!” I said, “I know!” We moved on to our second round. An hour or two later, after finishing our delicious rib dinner, Dave said “I think you should just have a beer next.” And I’m all “Why would I have a beer when I’ve got these martinis?” Duh.

Dave put me, and the offspring, to bed at 9:00 which is why I’ve come up with a few other names for Ina Garten’s cosmopolitans: Memory Erasers, Hospital Grade Anesthesia Cocktails, and Dude, I Can’t Remember My Middle Name.

Consider this blog post a cautionary tale. Others may have recently bought this cookbook and they might be thinking about making what Ina calls a cosmopolitan and what I call fucking rocket fuel. I’m just trying to help others learn from my mistake.

You’re welcome.

Sisters are doing it for themselves

  • September 2, 2010

Trish and I went out last night and for those of you who might not know, she’s my twin sister but we look nothing alike so no one ever believes us.

See? I told you.

Anyway, when we go out together we know we’re going to have a good time because we like our cocktails and neither of us has any kind of filter. We’re probably also going to get in some kind of fight too because we both act like we’re eleven sometimes.

Trish has been asking me all summer to drive to her ‘hood (it’s about a half hour away from mine) and have sushi at this place down the street from her townhouse.

“Oh Tracey, when I left the shop the other day (the shop is my dad’s Honda motorcycle dealership. We’ve called it “the shop” for as long as I can remember), dad said, “TTYL.”

“Oh my God, when I talked to him on the phone he said it before we hung up!” Now for some reason this is cracking me and Trish up. I told her I was going to teach dad some other acronoyms, starting with WTF and she bet me $20 I wouldn’t do it because dad isn’t the type to say bad words (unlike his daughters).

Because who doesn’t like posts about twins and mud?

  • August 3, 2010

About a month ago, my twin sister Trish called me up all excited because she won tickets to the Big Country Bash and wanted me to go with her. It was an all day thing and she told me we’d have a blast, listening to country music and drinking beer in the sun.

“But I haven’t listened to country music since Garth Brooks was popular,” I told her. “Like, since 1991.”

“Oh that doesn’t matter,” Trish said. “Besides, Trailer Choir is going to be there. You like Trailer Choir, right?”

“No, Trish, I’ve never heard of them, because I haven’t listened to country music since 1991.”

She then proceeded to ask me if I knew forty-two more country songs, by bands that would be at the Big Country Bash. I answered no, no, no, still no, quit asking me, what part of this are you not getting, no, no, that sounds like a stupid song, no, no, wtf, no, no, Jesus, no, seriously that title is dumb, no, still no, I’ll take no for $600 Alex, no, shut up, no, holy hell, never heard of it, etc…..

But, as I think I’ve already mentioned, they were serving beer so on the day of the Big Country Bash, Dave dropped me off at the concert grounds at noon to meet Trish.

I wore the super-cool cowboy hat I bought at Target. Probably the real country fans don’t buy their ten-gallon hats at Target but whatever, mine was cute and cheap.

It had rained in Des Moines the night before the Big Country Bash. A lot. I mean like flash flood watches and stuff. Which I ignore, much like tornado warnings.

Dave warned me it would be muddy but Trish and I didn’t realize how muddy until we got to the entrance of the Big Country Bash, henceforth known as the Big Country Mud Bash.

We had to cross a moat made of mud that encircled the grounds. Seriously. Either you go through the mud, or you aren’t getting in.

Now I’m pretty sure that one of us is gonna land ass-first in the mud moat and I’m really hoping it’s Trish and not me. She’s got a bad leg and her back bothers her so my money’s on her and once we start making our way across the mud moat it’s every twin for herself. I scaled a particularly perilous section and looked over my shoulder at Trish and damn if she’s not holding her own. Have I mentioned we’re also carrying our chairs and beach bags and we’re wearing flip flops?

We made our way closer to the person taking tickets. Not only have I not fallen, My feet aren’t even dirty. Then I step in a squishy puddle which completely covers THREE of my toes in mud.

I was horrified, partly because sometimes I act like a total princess and partly because, hello? mud.covered.three.toes. I haven’t even gotten in the joint and I’m a mess.

I had two bottles of water in my bag. I snuck them in so that I wouldn’t get too hammered dehydrated but I decided to pour one of them all over my foot so it would be clean again. Is genius plan.

Until we get past the ticket taker dude. Then things really got muddy. Trish and I were trying to figure out the whole ID/Wristband/Beer thing and with each step, I struggled to pull my flip-flop clad foot out of the mud. Also, with each step, those flip-flops are spraying the back of my shirt with mud. A helpful man tapped me on my shoulder, pointed at my shoes, and said, “You’re gonna wanna take those off.”

So now I’m carrying my chair, my bag, and my mud-covered shoes. We still haven’t figured out the whole ID/Wristband/Beer thing and I’m blaming Trish and Garth Brooks and the Grand ‘Ole Opry for getting me into this fiasco.

We persevered though, and finally sat down in our chairs with a couple beers.

The guy behind us slept through half of the Big Country Mud Bash.

I threw my shoes away when I got home.

I especially like the juxtaposition of my Real Housewife of Dallas County fake fingernails with muddy hands.

Trish has muddy hands too but her fingernails are real (she would want me to tell you that).

I was doing okay until I had to stand in line to get us something to eat. I have no words to describe this other than ewwwwwwww. Kinda makes those three mud-covered toes not seem so bad.

It was shortly after this picture was taken that I had to visit the port-a-potty for the first time. The floor was so slick with mud I was convinced I would slip, my foot would hit the door while my pants were around my ankles, the door would fly open, and I’d give everyone at the Big Country Mud Bash the ultimate money shot. Didn’t happen though!

Trish is nice to everyone.

It’s going to rain any minute.

The sky cleared, the sun came out, and Trish made me sit in a garbage bag in her car on the way home.

We’re totally going next year.

The Post In Which I Get My Poet On

  • July 12, 2010

How we spent the Fourth of July – A poem by Tracey Garvis Graves

*clearing throat*

For the holiday weekend, we got out of town

To Tom and Amy’s lake house, ready to party down

Here’s Amy and me, having a smashing good time

Courtesy of a few beers and maybe some wine

Later on in the evening, with the kids tucked in their beds

I received a text that made me scratch my head

I looked a little closer and what did I see

Something that looked quite familiar to me

Son of a bitch, that’s our bed, mine and Dave’s

And those are my neighbors, giving us a Captain Morgan fueled wave

We gave them our garage code, fools that we are

And now they’re treating our bed like a bar!

But it’s all good, and all in good fun

And Dave and I thought of something when our laughter was done

So here’s a message from us to you

Don’t forget, we’ve got your garage code too

Seriously, how could you not want to live in my ‘hood?

P.S. Poetry blows
P.P.S. I don’t think I puctuate my poetry correctly
P.P.P.S. I don’t really care
P.P.P.S. I used no bad words in my poem
P.P.P.P.S. I can write without using f-bombs
P.P.P.P.P.S. Fuckin’ A!
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. *Sigh*

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