How to Make a Topiary

The other week I arrived early at an early in the morning appointment in Pasadena. Because I had time to kill, I parked in a nearby shopping center thinking maybe I could do a bit of window shopping. There was an Anthropologie, one of my most favorite home/clothing stores (it would be my absolute favorite if its items weren't so unaffordable), and a perfect store for window shopping. Unfortunately, it wasn't even 9 o'clock in the morning, so Anthropologie wasn't open yet. In fact, the only store I found open at the center at that hour in the morning was a Walgreens.

I'd never thought of Walgreens as a go-to place for window shopping.

But I was bored with plenty of time to kill, so I went inside and wandered the aisles. I got asked if I needed help several times by the employees inside who were hurriedly organizing and stocking shelves before the rush of the day began. I continually said no, though I probably past by each of them three times as I looked and looked at beauty products, skin products, cards, candy, etc. I wasn't interested in anything I was looking at.

Until I found the most adorable porcelain flower pots I'd ever seen.

I didn't know what I wanted to do with them or where they would belong in my home, but I knew I wanted them. Funny enough, everything about them looks and feels as though they should have been for sale next door in Anthropologie. Everything except for the price. The price is what sold me on them. Even if I didn't know what I was going to do with them or if I had a place for them in my apartment, I knew I couldn't go wrong for $1.29 each.

$1.29 each. Can you believe it?

I took them home and admired them for a day or two, contemplating how the little cuties could be put to use and shown off. It was difficult to come up with a use for them, as I don't have any sort of a garden plot or a porch available to me and I don't have a window sill suitable for flower pots' contents to see the sunlight.

And then it came to me. TOPIARIES. Like this one. Only smaller, of course. I would make decorative topiaries out of artificial floral materials.

I didn't know how to make topiaries, though. So I googled it. I found several different instructions, all of them extremely vague for the amateur interior floral decorator, but after a little research, I felt confident that I understood the materials that I needed and the procedure for making what I wanted.

I went on a shopping spree at Michael's for my materials, then I came home and performed the following steps:

1. I unwrapped a bouquet of fake twigs. I bought the twigs to use as a topiary-trunk.

2. I cut the twigs down to the height that I wanted, being sure to use the the thicker, sturdier bottoms of the twigs rather than the thinner, flimsier stuff at the top. The tops were just wimpy, not suitable for a tree trunk, as can be seen in the above picture.

3. Using two different purchased bouquets of twigs, I made two tree trunks by twisting the twigs together and rubber banding them at the ends. I made the trunks differ in height by a few inches on purpose.

4. Next, I used modeling clay to form a sturdy base at one end of each trunk.

6. I inserted the clay bases into my adorable porcelain pots, and kept packing in the clay until it was obvious that the trunks weren't going anywhere anytime soon.

7. I opened up my bag of preserved moss and hot glued a few pieces around the circumference of the base of each tree trunk. Then I packed more moss all around the clay surface in the flower pot so that no more clay could be spotted.

8. I stuffed the tops of the trunks into the center of two styrofoam balls. I felt like the topiaries were missing something (besides the greenery that still had to be applied to the foam balls), so I tied some pretty ribbon to the tree trunks. Apparently my cat was a bit jealous that every item on the table BUT HIM had made it into a picture, so he slyly snuck his way in to one.

9. I began adorning my topiaries with fake ivy leaves, using greening pins and a hot glue gun.

And when I finished, the topiaries looked like this:

Just in case you didn't see how stinkin' cute these flower pots were the first time, here is another close-up shot.

Oh, I just think topiaries are adorable.

They are now constant residents of my dining table, as the proud and shining centerpieces.

Deviled Eggs

With the approach of Easter, I find myself wistfully contemplating the problem of deviled eggs. I feel as though the dish has so much potential, and yet it has never lived up to its potential any time it has ever entered my mouth. I dream of deviled eggs with thick, sturdy whites surrounding smooth, creamy, ultra-light filling that's tangy, salty, and egg-yolky. These deviled eggs would look something like this:

My disappointment in the dish lies in the fact that every time I've made them, and every time I've ever tried anyone else's deviled eggs, the whites are unsturdy, uneven, and often breaking apart, and the filling is thick, lumpy, way to tangy, or they just taste like egg yolks and mayo. They usually look something like this:

Nevermind. I was going to post a picture of a gross looking deviled egg, but then I felt bad because the picture was from someone's blog and they took a picture of it trying to make it look appetizing. And I was going to make fun of it. So...I decided not to.

Anyways, Yuck.

What could be a devilishly tasteful dish, has, on every occasion, proven to be a gag-inducing one for me.

I know the perfect deviled egg exists, otherwise we wouldn't all try to make them every year. I know it. My goal is to find it this year. Give me ideas or recipes if you have any.

This Easter, accompanying my ham and cold spinach salad, will be the perfect deviled egg. I'll close my eyes, take a bite, and drift off to heaven.

Valentine's Day Celebration: Attempt #2

This could have an alternate title:

Sometimes You Need to Throw a Party Just Cuz

On Saturday, February 2oth, Brent and I hosted a party at our apartment. We invited Harrison and Vika (and Ksu, as she is a packaged deal with the other two), Ben and Masha, and Hunter. Originally I had planned and advertised this gathering as a Valentine's Day party, but because people were not in town on Valentine's Day weekend AND Hunter was spreading rumors that he wasn't going to come because he didn't have a date, I went about advertising it as simply a "party."

A party complete with spaghetti & meatballs, a rip-roarin' game of Monopoly, and haikus.

Each and every guest was required to prepare and recite a haiku dedicated to that special someone in their lives...or to my cat, Pdub, if that special someone hadn't quite revealed themselves yet. I had anointed each place setting at the dinner table with a well decorated card with space on which a haiku could be written, and before we said grace we all recorded our haikus on the cards so that we could recite from them. We started with the couple who had been married the longest, and we made our way down to Hunter. I wish I could record everyone's haikus here for you all, because they are all sweet, endearing, random and funny in their own ways, but I let everyone take home their cards at the end of the night to cherish forever and ever. Here are Brent and mine, though:

To Brent:

Cozy to cuddle

Artistic in many ways

Brent has caught my heart.

To Hayley:

She does not like feet

She warms my heart with her smile

She is your sister.

Brent looked directly at Hunter as he recited his final sentence.

Brent's had the potential to be romantic, but it missed the mark at the last second. Darn.

I don't remember Hunter's haiku word for word, but it went something like this:

To Pdub:

I have been trying

To write a haiku for you

But I just cannot.

The haikus were a hit; the two other married couples had prepared many more than just one for each other...meaning either that the idea was super cool and WE'RE super cool for taking part in the haiku recital, or we're all just a bunch of nerds.

After the haikus we dove into the spaghetti and meatballs. Halfway into my plate I got a bright idea. I grabbed a piece of my spaghetti, walked over to Brent, put one end of it in his mouth and and other in mine. We slurped the piece of spaghetti until our lips met.

Harrison and Vika followed suit with many "Awww"s.

So did Ben and Masha.

Hunter stood up, grabbed a piece of spaghetti, put one end in his mouth, closed his eyes and slurped. When he got to the end of the spaghetti piece, he braced with his lips pursed and ready for a kiss, opened one eye, then snapped his finger with a shrug of his shoulder and a "Darn it! Didn't work."

I never thought I would ever, EVER, say this, but, Monopoly was a blast. It must have just been the perfect group. Wasn't boring. Produced lots of laughter. I loved everything about playing it...except for the fact that Ben and Masha, as a Monopoly team, are shrewd and merciless winners. They cleaned everybody else out of the water. Ben did most of the action, but Masha was the brains behind their win. She would give Ben her advice with an evil little whisper and Ben would act upon it...and time after time Masha's plans would come through with victory for the Llewellyns. Ugh. Brent and I didn't have a chance.

We had a delicious dessert of Reine de Saba with Glacage au Chocolat (translated: Chocolate and Almond Cake with Chocolate Butter Frosting) from Mastering the Art of French Cooking. It was extremely rich, but delicious. I recommend eating it with a hot cup of tea.

Again, this post would have been much more entertaining if there were pictures to go with it (and there ARE pictures to go with it, but they are stuck on Brent's computer, which, for the time being, is out of commission). But this'll have to do for now.

Valentine's Day Celebration: Attempt #1

It's a little late for this Valentine's Day themed post, but my excuse is that Brent's computer, which has all of our pictures on it (including the ones I want to post on my blog), has been having issues with letting me access the pictures. Finally, a couple of days ago, Brent fixed the problem. I snatched the opportunity to view the pictures, edit the ones I wanted for my blog and get them all set and ready. I then took a break from the computer. During my break Brent found it appropriate to take apart his computer and put it back together, and ever since then it has not been starting. GRRRR. I'll attempt to do a few posts without pictures...but don't blame me if they're not entertaining.

Last year, February 14th was a wonderful, gushy, mushy romantic day for the two of us because it was the very first February 14th on which either of us had ever been in a relationship. Being the sentimental young lady I am, my heart just fluttered at the thought that mine would be his first and only kiss on any Valentine's Day in his entire life. He bought me flowers, I made him a card, the whole memory is a fuzzy blur of petals and love notes.

This year, our February 14th was sabotaged even before the first Valentine's Day cards made their way to the store shelves.

I asked Brent a few times in the early part of January if we were going to buy gifts for each other for Valentine's Day, and which of us should take care of plans for celebration. Being the practical provider for our twosome family that he is, he pointed out that we had spent enough on Christmas and that Valentine's gifts were a no go. He would always avoid the question of who should take care of Valentine's Day plans.

Finally, maybe a few days before the event, I asked again: "What should we DO for Valentine's Day?"

He braced for what could be a difficult conversation of convincing the wifey, and responded, "You know how I feel about Valentine's Day, right?"

I said something to the effect of, "It's a holiday made up by the card companies?"

"Precisely."

I made things easy and swallowed my heart's desire of a day full of flowers, gifts, sweet nothings, and heart shaped candy and agreed with him that we should lay low this Valentine's Day.

I warned him that I WAS going to make a special dinner for him and me on Valentine's night and that I wanted to watch a romantic movie with him. That was O.K. with him.

I scoured The Pioneer Woman's cooking site for a dinner Brent would flip out over. I chose Pasta alla Marlboro Man and Garlic Cheese Bread with my tried and true tirimisu for dessert.

Valentine's Day comes. It's a Sunday. We go out to lunch with my parents after church. We get to talking about having them over sometime to watch the movie version of The Phantom of the Opera, and I blurt out, "Maybe you could come over tonight for dessert and the movie, if Brent's ok with that." Brent's ok with that. THEN I start to consider my previous words and add, "I'll let you know if we want to officially invite you, cuz I'm not sure I want to share my Valentine's Day with you." (I'm such a selfless, sweet daughter, aren't I? Parents are ones to look up to, though, because my selfish jab just rolls off their shoulders, and they still are as proud of me as before I undid their invitation.)

Brent takes over for his wife who had fallen into a pit of behaving inconsiderately, and says, "We don't need to let you know later. You're officially invited. You're coming, right?"

They're coming. At 7:30. For dessert and the movie.

My new plan for a romantic Valentine's Day celebration: Candle lit dinner. That's all.

I don't know why, but I got started with dinner a little late. Meaning that at 7:15, the meat was just getting brown and the garlic bread was just getting into the oven. By 7:23, I had begun gathering as many candles as I could from all over the home to bundle together as a firey centerpiece on the dinner table. By 7:35, I was calling Brent to the table, antsy and on edge because my parents would be calling up from our front gate at any minute and we hadn't yet gotten around to our Valentine's celebration dinner.

I was totally stressed (for no reason, really). I had run out of time to grate fresh parmesan cheese to top our pasta, so I got out the canister of Kraft grated parmesan cheese that has been in our fridge since before we were married, I believe (I'm an uppity little foodie...I usually only settle for a high class, fresh brick of parmesan cheese, thank you very much). I let Brent know that he should REALLY probably start coming to the table, because my parents were probably parking outside, and as I did so, I shook the Kraft canister to make sure all the cheese wasn't hardened into a huge lump. Three ferocious shakes into it, I noticed a blanket of white out of the corner of my eye all over my clean black table. To my horror, my dining table, chairs, floor, and my left arm were COVERED in Kraft grated parmesan cheese. I let out a desperate and loud, "oh NO!"

Brent: "Babe? What happened?"

Me: Silence.

Brent: "Babe?"

Me: Stubborn silence.

I cleaned myself up a bit and made my way back to the table, and on my way stubbed my toe in a horribly painful way. "OOOOOWWWWW!" I yelled like a toddler. Brent heard his queue, and came to my emotional rescue right away. I needed some warm, husbandly, emotional rescuing at that time.

"What's going on?" he asked as he came to embrace me.

"I spilled the cheese all over and my toe hurts like heck and this is a horrible night. A horrible, horrible night."

"You're right," he says with a comforting twinkle in his eye, "it's just horrible. It is just awful. We should probably just go to bed and hide our faces from the world." He hugs me and kisses my temple.

I search into his eyes and say, "So...it's not all that big of a deal, is it?"

With a smile and another hug he says, "No."

You see...this is why I love my Brent. He is just what I need, when I need him. I throw a temper tantrum, and instead of abandoning me like any sane person would do, instead he is gentle with me. Tender-hearted. Understanding.

And to top it all off, he got in the mushy spirit of Valentine's Day for dinner just for me, taking the initiative to light the candles that I had missed and taking artistic pictures of our meal to remember forever and ever.

The only other sad thing about that night was that there was nothing about the meal to flip out over. I was totally expecting it to be flip-out-over worthy, because every PW recipe I've ever tried is that way. But this wasn't. The pasta was just ok. And the Garlic Cheese Bread was...dare I say it?...too cheesey (I'm sorry). Brent agreed, though he was bashful about it, saying that he felt it was an offense to his self-proclaimed title of Cheese Lover to admit it.

It was not a perfect Valentine's Day, but it was a comforting one. I KNOW that Brent will always love me because he loves me tenderly through temper tantrums. We were able to eat a leisurely meal before my parents showed up, at which time hot tea, tirimisu, the songs of The Phantom of the Opera and some cuddling with my husband melted all the cares of the day away.

stay tuned...

I have SO MUCH to blog about...but I'm having computer problem after computer problem. So please, stay tuned, and I'm sorry about the delay. Fun things to come, I promise!

A Grand Ole Time Being Neighborly

So Aunt Missy, I paid heed to your request. I made The Pioneer Woman’s cinnamon rolls.

This is an official announcement: I do requests. If there’s a recipe you’ve been wanting to try but don’t wanna put on your game face to tackle it, just ask me. Think of me as your test kitchen.

PW’s recipe yields SEVEN CAKE PANS FULL of cinnamon rolls. Her reasoning? When you make cinnamon rolls, you should pass them out to all your friends, of course.

I could have halved the recipe, but I didn’t. Instead, I took PW’s advice, bought six disposable cake pans (7-6=1 pan left for Brent and me), and made cinnamon rolls for the neighbors in our complex.

It’s embarrassing to admit, but Brent and I have been living in our complex for over a year now and we have not met our neighbors. How unfriendly of us, I know. I thought steaming pans of cinnamon rolls at their doorsteps would make up for it, though. I told Brent of my scheme to introduce myself to our neighbors on a Saturday morning by bringing them homemade cinnamon rolls, and whether or not he liked the idea, he agreed to it, even telling me he was going to come with me because he didn’t want me going alone. Sweet guy.

As soon as the first batches of cinnamon rolls came out of the oven and were adorned with their frosting, Brent and I took them to neighbors. Of course, our closest neighbors didn’t answer our knock.

We moved to the next door. I knocked…I waited…I heard a bit of stirring inside. The door opened up, and a groggy, confused-looking college-age guy peered out at us, with a face that said, “What in the world!?” (It was almost noon by that time, mind you, so we were in no way at fault for waking him up…right?) I was pretty embarrassed that we had apparently disturbed his sleep, so as sweetly as I could, I told him we were his neighbors from down the hall, I had been baking all day, and thought he might enjoy a fresh pan of cinnamon rolls. Honestly, and to my offense (at the moment, I’m over it now), he looked like he didn’t want them, but he begrudgingly took them and said thank you.

On to the next door, with my confidence level down three notches.

The next door didn’t answer either.

The fourth door: no answer. As we were about to move on to the next door, one of my laundry-room acquaintances walked down the hallway, the father of a family that I had been praying all week to run in to in order to give them the cinnamon rolls, as I didn’t know which apartment they lived in. I offered him the pan in my hands, but before he took it he laughed and asked if the person living inside the door on which I had just knocked would be mad if it was discovered I had given someone else the cinnamon rolls. He ended up taking them though, and was very grateful to receive them and took them back to his family right away.

My morale rose.

Fifth door: FINALLY Brent and I found a neighborly neighbor where he should be: in his apartment. This guy was really pleased at our kindness, amazed that the WHOLE PAN was all for him. He chit-chatted with us for a bit and welcomed us to the complex. We had to sheepishly admit that we’d been living next door to him for over a year already. I hope to run into him again.

I skipped back to our apartment to get the next batch of rolls. Brent laughed at how excited I got over other people enjoying our gift.

The sixth door we knocked on opened up to a really nice looking lady who, upon hearing that there was a pan of fresh cinnamon rolls all for her, let out a short, nervous giggle like a girl does when a man she knows is WAY out of her league asks her out. We could sense the salivation going on as she gratefully accepted the cinnamon rolls. We chit-chatted with her as well.

After meeting that nice lady, we had two more pans to give away. One of them we wrapped up all cute with a card and put in front of our closest neighbors’ door. The other we took with us into the car and drove a couple blocks to the home of one of Brent’s friends from work to give to his family. The rolls were eagerly received.

It was a bit of a nerve-wracking morning for a stranger-shy girl like me, but after the fact, I think it went quite well. Oh, and I mention that the cinnamon rolls were DELICIOUS? Surprisingly, they were simpler and easier to make than I thought they’d be, and they turned out fantastic. Even delicious the second or third day, heated up individually for a bit in the microwave. They're not as difficult or complicated to make as it would seem, once you make them. In my case, I made the dough the evening before, and woke up Saturday morning to finish them. I think it's definitely a keeper-recipe.

So far the others in my complex seem to agree. I ran in to the father I was talking about earlier, and he stopped me to thank me again for the cinnamon rolls, saying they were really good stuff. He asked if I was a chef; I giggled much like that nice lady had earlier, because I would LOVE to be considered a chef someday, and told him no, I was just experimenting with a new recipe. He said if I ever experiment again, he would be there to taste-test.

Brent and I have also separately run into our closest neighbors (the ones on whose front door step we left the cinnamon rolls), and in addition to taping a really sweet thank you note on our door, they have thanked each of us in person and told us how much they enjoyed the treat.

Here is some behind-the-scenes footage of the cinnamon roll event. This video series is called, "Cinnamon Rolls: The Making Of." (The videos are pretty boring, just warning you. Except for the first one...it's kind of funny cuz I don't realize I'm being recorded till near the end. And I have one still to upload, but I'm waiting on YouTube to make it available.)

Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures

Disclaimer for those of you who find a glimmer of hope in the novel idea of a Tickle-Free Safe-Zone sign hung on your home's front door (aka, wives of chronic ticklers): It doesn't work.

In fact, when your husband walks in the door after work, he will tickle you BECAUSE of the sign. Cuz he thinks you're cute.

Boohoo.