A Fistful of Dynamite

Mr. Crankypants has been rattling his cage more than usual, so we put a 2nd padlock on it. He's wound tight. He's like a stick of dynamite in a Sergio Leone movie.

The other day I was driving up on campus and Mr. Crankypants was in the passenger seat. We're stopped at the crosswalk and this college student - talking on his cell phone, eating an apple, and listening to his Ipod - leisurely crossed in front of us. The kid was more intent on talking and eating rather than crossing. When Mr. Crankypants saw that the kid was wearing flip flop when the temperature was in the 40's, that was the straw that broke the llama's back. Mr. Crankypants threw a vicious elbow into my ribs, and snarled, "Hit the son of a bitch!"

Then he rolled down the window, pounded the side of the car, and screamed, "Hey! We're driving here!"

In his sleep, Mr. CP's been mumbling something about John Boehner's country-club tan. I don't know what that's all about, and I have no intention of asking Mr. CP about it.

With him being gloom and impending doom, I've decided to take him on vacation. I'm taking him camping, where he'll sip whiskey, eat cabbage bombs, and sleep underneath the stars. There he will live an idyllic existence free of idiots, politics, and absurdness. I'm hoping that the stick of dynamite will be reduced to a mere firecracker.

We'll send you dispatches from the road.

chompin' on a bit I just can't spit,

muddywaters

Mr. Crankypants, Taco Hell, and the Chicken Enchilada Grilled Stuft Burrito!!!

Mr. Crankypants is combustible, so we try to censor any stimuli that may cause him to flare up. For example, we've deleted FoxNews from our cable directory, we don't invite him to eat at Applebee's, and we never ever discuss politics in his presence. However, it's impossible to create a completely sterile environment for Mr. Crankypants. He's bound to encounter irritants in this crazy world.

For example, last weekend we were watching a little college football and commercials for the following Taco Bell product kept airing:

This sent Mr. Crankypants into a tailspin. He already refers to Taco Bell as Taco Hell, and now they were insisting on butchering the English language by referred to something as STUFT and they were pushing a product that makes no sense at all: Chicken Enchilada Grilled Stuft Burrito! Each time the comercial aired, he twitched and mumbled something about the corporate bastards ruining America.

To soothe Mr. Crankypants I poured him a whiskey and cola, and then I made him watch the following SNL Taco Bell parody.

Mr. Crankypants laughed so hard that he snorted whiskey out his nose. I guess, laughter is the best medicine.

support your local Mexican restaurant,

muddy

Mr. Crankypants: BBQ Beer

I think a man ought to get drunk at least twice a year just on principle, so he won't let himself get snotty about it.

~Raymond Chandler

The other day I'm kicked back reading Mr. Chandler's The Big Sleep, and muddywaters comes home from the liquor store with a wet-dream grin on his face. This worried me. When muddy visits the liquor store, he usually answers the Sirens' call of those corporate marketing bastards, and he returns with some fruit-infused beverage.

I told him to wipe that grin off his face. I explained how I survived the Great Wine Cooler Scare of the 1980's, and I don't care to revisit that estrogen ash heap. He told me that I was being a jerk and a bit sexist, so I told him to quit acting like a pussy.

Normally muddy would go upstairs to pout and read some Jane Fucking Austen, but he held his ground this time. He then started telling me that he had something that would put hair on my chest. Then he pulled this out of his bag:muddy beamed and pointed to the beer like he was Vanna Fucking White.

I mellowed and attempted to comprehend the scene playing out before me.

I like the smokey taste of BBQ brisket washed down with a Shiner Bock, one of my favorite beers. I also like Guinness, which has a smokey taste. Could it be possible that after all these years, muddy knows me better than anyone?

Rather than contemplate the possibility that muddy and I were becoming one, I grabbed a cold Shiner, The Big Sleep, and headed to my hammock. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading Mr. Chandler and thinking about girls with smiles that I could feel in my hip pocket.

I'd like to buy a vowel,
Mr. Crankypants

WTF at KFC

They say a picture is worth a thousand words:

The new KFC Double Down sandwich is real! This one-of-a-kind sandwich features two thick and juicy boneless white meat chicken filets (Original Recipe® or Grilled), two pieces of bacon, two melted slices of Monterey Jack and pepper jack cheese and Colonel's Sauce. This product is so meaty, there’s no room for a bun!


Here at TGS we'll just call this the What-the-Fuck sandwich!

Watch the language around the youngsters,
Mr. Crankypants

OKC: National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum

muddywaters often slings disparaging comments my way, but I'm here to tell you that life with him is like being on picnic with Satan. I was frequently reminded of this on our recent road trip to Oklahoma City. Never travel with the guy because food is the only thing ping-ponging around that little brain of his, and these are the only three questions he ever ponders:

1. When are we going to eat?
2. Where are we going to eat?
3. What are we going to eat?

That's the range of his conversation, 24/7. Imagine being on a road trip through the great state of Oklahoma. You want to talk about why the dirt is red. You want to talk about the Oklahoma land rush. You want to talk about The Trail of Tears and the Native Americans. You want to talk about Les Paul and the fact that he invented the electric guitar in Oklahoma. You want to explore Oklahoma's rich music history. You want to do all of this and explore the great state, but you're with a companion who possesses a one-track mind and he only wants to eat. It's a f'ing drag.

On the entire trip, I was only able to do one thing on my agenda, visit the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum and he managed to sour that experience for me. At a museum I like to immerse myself in the experience, spending hours viewing exhibits, but he rushed me through the museum. He flit around like a hummingbird in a field of honeysuckle, but he never returned with any damn nectar. I don't think he savored a thing in the museum.

At one point I was immersed in an Albert Bierstadt painting, a grand work of art that beautifully captured the light of the sunset in the West, and muddy rudely interrupted me by tapping my shoulder and saying, "Hey, come check out this Nudie suit that was worn by Marty Robbins. We should buy a Nudie suit."

Then muddy dragged me around to a series of places in the museum that allowed photography, and he insisted I snap photos of him.

He posed like some ass clown in front of stuff that didn't really matter a hill of beans to me.
I spent so much time taking asinine pictures of him that I didn't get to really enjoy the museum. I didn't get to see all of the fabulous art, the Western exhibits, the beautifully landscaped grounds complete with sculptures, or their great exhibit on the history of the electric guitar.
Next time I'm returning without muddy, so I can enjoy this grand museum that's worth the trip to Oklahoma City. Plan on spending the day there because it will take at least 5-6 hours to see everything.

Keep the Ass Clowns at home,

Mr. Crankypants

Don't Mess with Kansas Pt. 3: Celebrate Good Times!

Once upon a time before the goddamn bastards whittled me down to a cranky nub, I was a wide-eyed, eager boy who possessed a jaunty demeanor. During this fabled age, I was overcome with giddiness the last week of January because we would break from the rigors of reading, writing, and arithmetic, and celebrate the birth of Kansas.

I'd immerse myself in coloring the state seal (To this day, I still consider the best in the Union) and my imagination would sweep me away. I'd soon find myself manning the plow underneath that glorious sunset.



Later in the week we would color meadowlarks, sunflowers, cottonwood trees, and jayhawks.

I miss those days. We stopped celebrating Kansas Day around 5th grade. I don't know why we stopped.

Last week I was talking to a fella who grew up in Texas, and he recalled his elementary days celebrating the Lone Star State's birthday. He remembered: learning about the Alamo, coloring a picture of a Bowie knife, a longhorn shitting on the playground during a school assembly, and being indoctrinated with he belief that Texas was on the right side of the cause during the Civil War. His face lit up as he recalled these stories.

I thought: This is the stuff that matters, but I don't get to enjoy the stuff that matters because I'm engaged in the general bullshit of living.

I'm too busy doing shit like supporting capitalism, rubbing elbows with people who don't read poetry, and fertilizing my lawn with chemicals that will eventually drain to the Gulf of Mexico and contribute to the dead zone. Combine all of this with watching others making a general clusterfuck of things, it's no wonder I walk around with a scowl.

Before I started these posts on Kansas, I didn't like this blog and found it a general waste of time. Now I'm ready to admit that muddywaters has the right idea. Maybe this blog will help me remember what really matters in this life, and maybe I can get to the joy of actually living a life that matters.

Tonight I'm breaking out the Crayola box.

As a child, how did you celebrate your state's birthday?

Celebrate good times. Come on!!!
Mr. Crankypants

Don't Mess with Kansas Pt. 2: Feelin' Kansas

People like to bemoan the monotony and flatness of Kansas. They talk like traversing I-70 through Western Kansas is some Biblical ordeal. These drama queens travel with a DVD players, ignore the scenery, and focus on the destination rather than the journey. Western Kansas is my litmus test to weed out boring people in my life. If someone tells me that driving Western Kansas is boring, I know I have a boring person on my hands. I have little patience for those individuals. They're boring people who are incapable of creating their own entertainment and who are unable to find something interesting in their surroundings.

The songwriter Tom T. Hall stated the following: "There are two types of people in this world: Those who have traveled the world and seen nothing, and those who have only traveled around the block and seen everything." When you get down to it, how you look matters more than where you look.

For the record, Kansas isn't flat. Anyone who has traveled to the Flint Hills, the Arikaree Breaks, the Gypsum Hills, or the University of Kansas campus know this. Last week I found a globe with those topographical bumps I love so much, and I felt up Kansas. She's not flat. There are certainly flatter states out there:

Illinois.


Louisiana.
I think, Florida might be the flattest.

However, there's nothing wrong with a flat state. If you view the landscape from the right perspective, you WILL find something interesting, and in the process you'll find yourself transformed into a more interesting person.


are we there yet?
Mr. Crankypants

Don't Mess with Kansas Pt. 1

Some people refer to Kansas as flyover country. I'm fine with this label because that means those folks aren't visiting Kansas, and this means Kansas has fewer assholes than most places. I'm all for fewer assholes.

Now there are assholes in Kansas, but most of them live in the eastern portion of the state, so if you want to decrease your chances of running into an asshole, just head west. By the time you get to Hays, you should be in the clear. I find comfort in this.

Don't mess with Kansas,
Mr. Crankypants

Rattling Mr. Cranypants' Cage

Last week I informed Mr. Crankypants that he needed to start contributing more to this blog. I made the mistake of doing this while he was reading. He hates it when someone interrupts his reading, so with a scowl, he looked up from Volume II of Shelby Foote's The Civil War: A Narrative, and said, " This blog was your idea. I don't have time for self-indulgent shit. In fact, I don't even read your blog. Besides I have the Siege of Vicksburg to tend to this week."

Then he left the room whistling "Dixie" and I didn't see him the rest of the evening.

At that point, I saw that there was no reasoning with the man, so under the cover of night while he slept, I commandeered all three volumes of Mr. Foote's masterpiece and buried them under our oak tree in the backyard. Then I left the following note on his nightstand:

January 25th is Kansas Day. You will write series of posts commemorating our statehood. When this is done, I will return your books.

Sow the wind and reap the whirlwind,
muddy

We'll see how this act of agression plays out here at The Greasy Skillet.

preserve the union,
muddy

Beer Bread

This past weekend my wife and daughter traveled to Disney World, so I spent the weekend alone. I realized that I don't really like just cooking for myself. I also spent a lot of time talking to myself. A lot of my conversations, like the following, were with Mr. Crankypants:

Mr. C: What are you cooking?

ME: I'm baking a beer bread. It's a quick bread.

Mr. C: Bread shouldn't be quick. Good bread demands time, attention, kneading, proofing, and the hands of an artist. Those things build flavor, and there's nothing quick about it.

ME: Well, this bread is convenient. It also uses beer, which I think is kinda cool.

Mr. C: Convenience is the scourge of American culture. What kind of of beer did you use?

ME: Coors Light.

When he heard this, Mr. Crankypants picked up his copy of Don Quixote, grumbled something about shit and me being an idiot, and then he left the room. I didn't see him the rest of the afternoon. I must say that I was terribly lonely.

Here's the recipe I used from a book simply titled Baking by Chuck Williams. It's not a bad recipe; however, using dried chives didn't really add to the flavor of the bread. I need something with more punch.

Beer Bread

Ingredients:

• 2 1/2 cups flour
• 2 tablespoons sugar
• 1 tablespoon baking powder
• 1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 table chopped fresh chives or 1 1/2 teaspoon dried
• 1 1/2 cups beer
• 1 cup of cheddar cheese

Preparation:

1. Preheat the oven to 375 degree, and grease a 9-by-5-inch loaf pan.
2. In a bowl, mix the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and dill. Stir int he beer and cheese until blended.
3. Pour and scrap the batter into the pan. Bake until a wood toothpick inserted into the center of the oaf comes out clean, about 50 minutes.
4. Allow to cool for 10 minutes, and then turn out onto a wire rack.
5. Enjoy
   

keep your skillet good and greasy,

muddy

Mr. Crankypants and A Night Fraught with Eminent Peril

I've lived with Mr. Crankypants for 39 years, and for the most part I like him. We share many of the same beliefs. For example, we both possess an intense hunger for life and an acute awareness that the clock is ticking. Therefore we're always in the midst of a craving. However, we have our differences. While I try to skip jauntily down the bright side of the street, he plods down dark alleys. He's a misanthrope who prefers to live inside his head, and his failure to communicate frustrates those around him, and ultimately, him. I think, the thing that's really frustrating is that he expects others to read his mind. We all know the folly of this expectation.

Consequently, he often feels he's surrounded by people who don't understand him, and this frustration bubbles into conflict. He always acts like he's backed into a corner. In the end, I'm left cleaning up the wreckage in his wake. To illustrate the type of damage control I have to do, I'm allowing Mr. Crankypants to share his account of an incident on a recent family vacation to Denver:

Mr. C's story:

We're in Denver with muddy's wife and daughter, and I have Jack Keroauc rattling around in my bones, so I want to see the real Denver, the backstreets and dive bars that Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarity would have roamed. I craved a "night fraught with eminent peril" and Mexican food, real Mexican food, not some chips and salsa followed with a plate covered with yellow melted cheese over lardless refried beans. I wanted the real deal, so I head to a part of town where pawn shops. bail bondsmen, liquor stores, and homes with barred windows dot every street.

We're driving and spirit of Woody Guthrie is alive, and I feel like singing "This Land is Your Land" because I finally feel like I'm experiencing Denver, not some gentrified hipster version of the town that resembles a gentrified version of every other city in America. I feel like the night is ripe with opportunity.

I'm soaking up this experience when I notice Muddy's wife scrunching her nose like she just smelled something unpleasant. I know what's coming. There's a pause, and she opens her mouth, "Do you think this is the safest place to be? Maybe we should eat somewhere else?"

I head into a tailspin at this point. I want to spew profanity, but I know better than to do this around children. Instead I resort to raising my voice, maybe even shouting, "Maybe we should just head to the suburbs, and eat at Chili's, or better yet Applebee's. Their pick-three menu ought to put a cheery smile on everyone's face."

I don't know what happened after that point.

muddy's Interpretation of Events

We end up going to the restaurant Mr C. selected and the food was great. However, Mr. C failed to mention that he followed his little tirade up with 30 minutes of scowling, silence, and pouting, so I don't know if it was a great meal. After all good food doesn't solely make a great meal. You need great company, and he failed to bring this element to the meal. Later I apologized to my family for Mr. C's actions, and much later I was finally able to talk some sense into Mr. Crankypants. I just hope he learned something from this little episode, so we don't have a repeat performance.

Mr. Crankypants: Beer for Idiots

Normally here at The Greasy Skillet, we keep Mr. Crankypants away from the keyboard because we like to keep things positive. Lately though Mr. Crankypants has been rattling his cage and has been a bit unbearable. It all started this summer when he tried to purchase a new battery for his cordless. drill. He returned with a new drill and upset because purchasing a new one was cheaper than a new battery. He's grumbled all summer about our disposable society, landfills, the economy, the environment, and how the man's always backing him into a corner.

Consequently the we've agreed to give him his own regular post, something that would allow him to vent and curb his grumblings. We'll see how this goes.

The corporate boys at Coors are probably somewhere in Golden, Colorado, at this moment giving each other congratulatory back slaps for their recent stroke of ingenuity, a beer bottle label that turns blue when the beer reaches a suitable drinking temperature. I know the man at Coors is trying to persuade me to spend my hard-earned money on his product, but he’s only succeeding in pissing me off by insulting my intelligence. Here in Kansas we to ice our beer down well before we plan on drinking it. In addition to common sense, God blessed me with the sense of touch, so that I’m capable of grabbing a beer and gauging whether or not it’s a suitable drinking temperature. Just as I don't need a warning label telling me to not operate a backhoe after consuming a six pack, I don't need this label.

I have a sneaking suspicion that the demographic Coors is targeting is the same group who purchases this:


It’s also the same blindfolded demographic that eats processed Pizza Hut pasta in their own homes and who think they’re eating fine, handmade pasta in a fancy schmantzy restaurant. Don’t get me started on this idiocy; such gimmicks are for schmucks.

Today I'm driving to Colorado, and I'm contemplating driving to the the Coors headquarters, so I can kick the collective assess of all involved in this asinine plot to snare my hard-earned beer money. However, when push comes to shove, I probably won’t waste my time. Instead, I’ll just roll down the window when I drive by and unleash a flurry of profanity that will flutter away in the rarefied mountain air. Even though no one will hear those words, I’ll feel a hell of a lot better.

Stick it to the man,
Mr. Crankypants

PS . . . I'll stick to local beer.

The Backyardigans Swing-of-Death

Tomorrow I promise to begin posting again. Until then, here's a revised post culled from my family blog from March of last year. This post helps explain why I don't care for Disney World:

Ella and I in front of the Swing-of-Death before a deathly pallor enveloped me.

Much of Monday was spent at the Mall of America Amusement Park. For the record I hate shopping malls and amusement parks. I know what you’re thinking – This guy IS Mr. Crankypants. He’s such a killjoy. This guy doesn’t like malls or amusement parks, but he enjoys visiting a Spam Museum and grocery stores. Boy, he must be a miserable travel companion. Well, hold on to your proverbial horses. There are several rules of the road that I follow, and one of them is the following: When I travel with others, it’s best to comprise and do things that I wouldn’t normally do.

My daughter is quite the thrill seeker, and like most kids she loves amusement parks. Up to this point in her life, the biggest amusement park she’s seen has been the Dundy County Fair, so you can imagine her awe when she looked across the wide expanse of rides at the Mall of America. The first ride she attacked was The Backyardigans Swing-Along, which I dubbed The Backyardigans Swing-Of-Death. It’s a simple ride based on the age-old, merry-go-round concept – the rider sits in a swing that viciously swings in circles. Some find this fun. Fear first crept into my bones when I saw a sign that announced there was a 230 pound weight limit. I haven’t weighed myself lately, but I began to ponder the impact polishing off a box of Milk Duds yesterday may have had on my weight. At this point my daughter turned to me and said, “I’m so excited.” There was no turning back.

When the ride attendant buckled us into our swings, my palms began to sweat and I feebly smiled at my wife who watched “safely” from afar. She laughed and sinisterly smiled. She seemed to be enjoying this too much. When the ride began, I deathly pallor washed across my face. We started to circle. I tried to feign enthusiasm for the ride, and I talked to my daughter to make her feel at ease. She screamed, “This is so much fun.”

The ride began to circle more quickly. my daughter giggled with delight, which fortunately muffled my sobs. As we circled she started talking about the other rides she wanted to experience. A queasiness began to bubble in my tummy. I closed my eyes trying to soothe myself. I think, I even mumbled the Lord’s Prayer and promised to be a better human being if I survived. I then envisioned vacationers from all over America who would go home and tell the story of the guy who vomited on The Backyardigan’s Swing-Along at the Mall of America. Ten years from now, I would be at a party and someone would tell this story, bringing this urban legend full circle. Eventually, the madness ended and both my feet were on the ground. I wobbled with the first few steps I took as my daughter seemed to skip and bounce over to my wife.

This story has a happy ending because I thoroughly enjoyed seeing my daughter enjoy herself on all of the rides.

I’m grateful that most rides had a height limit. If my daughter would have been over 42 inches tall, I may have faced an untimely death. Thank goodness for rules and regulations.

When the Road Gets Rocky

Tomorrow I'll begin posting about my recent trip to Florida. Until then I thought I'd share a post that I wrote last year prior to our Minnesota road trip. This is a slightly revised post I wrote for my family blog.

I have found out there ain't no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them.

****Mark Twain

Mark Twain really hit the mark with the above quotation. Hitting the road with someone is the ultimate litmus test for a relationship. I knew early in my relationship with my wife that we were destined to be together because we traveled so well together. I love my wife’s childlike exuberance when it comes to the little joys of the road. She’s one of the few people I know who doesn’t think the I-70 drive across western Kansas is boring. She appreciates the gradual shifts in the landscape, and possesses eagle eyes that can spot deer, wild turkeys, and the many other gifts nature has to offer. It’s a treat to travel with her.

However, there are moments when we’re driving down the highway and I look into her eyes ,and I sense that she would like to wrap both hands around my neck and vigorously shake me. I know this desire crosses her mind. Even when you travel with those you love, there are moments when tensions run high and the van just isn’t big enough to provide the space that is sometimes needed between individuals. I know that there are times that I annoy my wife. My wife probably finds the following things annoying:

• As you know, I can be a bit of a grouch. When I'm crotchety, my wife and daughter call me Mr. Crankypants. This is their way of telling me that I need to change my mood. As you know, things don't always go as planned on vacation, and I get grumpy when schedules go askew. I don't always cope well with eating at a later time or dealing with the frustration of navigating unfamiliar territory. I'm sure my crankiness on the road annoys my wife.

• When I travel there are times when I don’t feel like talking. I simply want to drive down the road, enjoy the scenery, and listen to some music. However, my wife who is a chatty soul sometimes likes to visit as we travel. When I’m in one of these introspective moods and she’s in a chatty frame of mind, I thwart off her attempts to stimulate a conversation by responding with single-syllable responses or grunts. I’m sure this annoys her. However, things are looking up for her because my daughter is also a chatty soul, so my wife has an ally in the battle for conversation.

• I love visiting local grocery stores when I travel. I can spend at least an hour at a local store browsing the aisles looking for products that are unique to the region I’m visiting. Then it's common for me to purchase several items from these grocery stores. Of course, my wife has to pack these culinary treasures, and I think this annoys my wife. In Florida last week, I abstained from purchasing a can of boiled peanuts because I didn't want to face her wrath.

• When I travel and grow tired of hearing music, I like to listen to podcasts. I especially like the podcasts from NPR. One of the programs I listen to is The Kitchen Sisters, who do features on food in America. I can listen to 90 straight minutes of this program, which is about 45 minutes more than my wife can tolerate. We also have an unwritten agreement that I play no Bob Dylan or Willie Nelson while traveling.

• On trips I’ve been known to embark on little side trips that I view as adventures. However, these adventures consist of us driving around lost, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, and wasting 4-5 precious vacation hours, like the time I forced her to visit Turkey, Texas, home of the Bob Wills Museum. I’m sure she often thinks, “Why did I marry this guy?”

Fortunately, the road goes on forever,
muddywaters

Don't Let the Bastards Get You Down: Feta Cheese Puffs

Greetings! Mr. Crankypants is in the house. Today muddy delegated the post to me because he claims he's too busy. I guess he hasn't considered the possibility that I'm also busy, and I have better things to do than post for his little food blog. If you ask me, he needs a new hobby. All this writing and taking pictures of food seems a bit asinine. If he decides to Twitter or create a Facebook profile, I'll dissolve our partnership. I don't tolerate such nonsense.

Anyway, I am busy too. I'm teaching with no planning period. I'm one of the prom sponsors this year. Prom is this weekend. It should be noted that I hate proms. My daughter has developed a love for all thing High School Musical, so these damn kiddie pop songs have been trampling my cerebellum for two weeks straight. I'm not well, and I'm really in no mood to post. I'd rather be outside lounging in the hammock. It is spring after all.

While I'm here in front of the keyboard, I guess I should post a recipe. This recipe goes out to Zeke, the character in High School Musical who has a passion for baking. Stuff a few of these tasty bites in your pie hole. They'll make you happy. Promise.

Feta Cheese Puffs

Ingredients:

• 4 tablespoons butter
• 3/4 cup water
• 3/4 cup all-purpose flour
• 3 large eggs, at room temperature
• 1/4 pound feta cheese or blue cheese, crumbled

Preparation:

1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees and grease two baking sheets.
2. In a saucepan, bring water and 4 tablespoons of butter to a boil.
3. Remove the pan from the heat, and add the flour. Beat with a wooden spoon until the mixture leaves the sides of the pan and forms a ball.
4. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating until smooth after each addition.
5. Stir in the cheese.
6. Let the batter sit for 15 minutes, and then drop batter by rounded tablespoons onto the prepared baking sheets. You should have about 2 dozen puffs. Bake until golden, 20 to 30 minutes.
7. Serve.
   

Ugh!
Mr. Crankypants

Mr. Crankypants is in the House

muddywaters received a Nintendo Wii for Christmas, so right now he's downstairs playing a game. It's a damn waste of time if you ask me. A 38-year-old man playing a game where the objective is to ride a warthog isn't exactly the type of activity that will pull our economy out of its current abyss. If he's not going to help the economy, he could at least give the environment a helping hand by going outside and churning his compost pile. While muddy is downstairs wanking away with his Wii, I commandeered the computer, so I could get a few things off my chest.

First I'm annoyed with Pizza Hut. Lately they've been pounding the airwaves pimping this new Natural pizza. I really don't know what the hell it is. I just know that the damn commercial they've been running has detracted from the great joy I derive from watching college football bowl games. Each time I catch a glimpse of the commercial, I think: If this pizza is made with natural ingredients, what the hell is in the other pizzas? Then I picture some chemical plant in New Jersey churning out ingredients for Pizza Hut. Natural pizza. This just pisses me off. If you're thinking of sending me something to alter my mood, please don't send me this:


I shoudn't have to explain why an edible fruit arrangement annoys the hell out of me.

Think for yourself &
Question authority,
Mr. Crankypants