Humour

DoughNutcase

/ Diane Henders / 36 Comments

I adore food and I like trying new recipes, but I don’t have much patience for unnecessarily fiddly instructions and I frequently get creative with ingredients.  As you might guess, this creates a certain… tension, shall we say… between expectations and results.

So, yeah, I’ve had my share of culinary failures. But every now and then, I look up a new recipe and *gasp* actually follow the instructions!  Crazy, right?

Ironically, at least half of my misadventures have resulted from following somebody else’s recipe exactly.  Case in point:  The doughnuts I made last week.

I make all my own bread and buns, so I wasn’t daunted by the yeast doughnut recipe I found online.  I always mix and knead my dough by hand; but hey, this time I was following the recipe!  So I proofed my yeast and loaded everything into the bowl of my stand mixer as instructed.  “Mix for a whole 5 minutes to work the dough well,” the recipe said blithely.

Well.

My Mixmaster is only slightly younger than I, and it weighs almost as much.  Plus, it’s ridiculously overpowered — I could mix cement with that thing.  So after about a minute of mixing, the dough got smooth and elastic, as I’d expected.  What I didn’t expect was that the dough would rocket up the beaters with the speed of a scalded snake, force itself through the tiny gap around the beater shafts, and cram the drive head full.

I used up most of my sanity and my considerable arsenal of foul language in the twenty minutes that it took to dismantle the mixer and extract gluey dough from nooks and crannies that were never meant to be in contact with food.

Cleaning out this cavity with a dental pick: Do I know how to have a good time, or what?

But eventually I got the whole mess back into the bowl (or into the garbage, in the case of the crap I pulled out of the drive head).  I let the dough rise, then attempted to flatten it and cut out doughnut shapes as directed.  (Note the word “attempted” in the previous sentence.)

Ha.

More colourful language flowed while I fought the sticky uncooperative mass, and at last I wrangled some approximately doughnut-shaped blobs onto my pan to rise.

Hubby passed through the kitchen and eyed the result with a frown.  “Is this one of those Impressionist things?” he inquired.

I snorted.  “Surrealist, maybe.  Salvador Dali would love these.”

Maybe I’ll frame this photo and call it The Persistence of Doughnuts.

Fortunately those weird mutant blobs fried up into fluffy golden-brown mutant blobs that were ever-so-tasty when coated with cinnamon sugar.  So technically the doughnuts were a success; but the whole episode involved far more work, time, mess, and stress than it should have.

Next time, I’m going to do it my way. Then at least I’ll know who to blame for any problems.

Anybody have a well-tested yeast doughnut recipe? (Just asking…)

Ten Years Off…

/ Diane Henders / 32 Comments

You know the expression “That took ten years off my life”? I know the feeling well — I’ve had quite a few experiences that felt as though they’d shortened my life. That ‘ten years’ must be metaphorical, though; otherwise I’d be dead already.

Nearly drowning at a swimming lesson (there’s irony for you), getting cornered by a guy much larger than me, having my dirt bike’s brakes fail on a steep mountain trail: Thirty years gone right there.

Watching a steel lawn dart (which I had thrown) plummet toward my sister’s head: That must have taken at least twenty years off my life. If I had yelled a warning and she had stopped and turned, I probably would have scored a bullseye on her brain and this story would have had a tragic ending. Fortunately I was paralyzed by horror and she was walking away, so the only end that suffered was hers: I scored a bullseye on her butt. It’s funny in retrospect (as long as you’re not my sister), but at the time it was terrifying.

Okay, no; it’s still terrifying. I love my sister, and just thinking of ‘what might have happened’ makes my stomach clench. I don’t know whether the patron saint of idiot kids was on my side that day, or whether her guardian angel was working overtime; but, yikes! *shudder*

Having a bear sniffing around outside my tent in the middle of the night: Ten years. Seeing a funnel cloud bearing down on our house: Ten years. Getting a phone call saying, “Your husband has a head injury and the ambulance is taking him to the hospital now”: Ten years… no; actually about thirty. But I’m deducting a couple of decades after the fact, because fortunately Hubby was fine. (Except for six hours of amnesia where he didn’t know where he was and he asked the same three questions every five minutes. Those were lo-o-o-ong scary hours.)

A couple of weeks ago I took another ten years off my life, but this time the process was much more relaxing: Instead of abject terror, I used Photoshop.

Yep, it’s time for another cover update for the series — it’s hard to believe it’s been over ten years since Book 1 was published! And since I’ve never been thrilled with the image for Book 1, I decided to change it as part of the new look, too.

Posing for the covers seemed like a good idea at the time: The model is always available, and I never have to pay her. But unlike Aydan, who has only aged two years since 2010… well… let’s just say I’m not forty-eight anymore. Thank goodness for Photoshop’s ability to erase a decade! (Or thereabouts. No need to elaborate.)

Here’s the new look:

The updates should start appearing in retail channels in the next few weeks.

What’s new in your world this week?

Book 18 update: My time has been spent on cover updates lately, but I’m on Chapter 7 and looking forward to getting back into my writing routine!

Battling The Bird-Brains

/ Diane Henders / 22 Comments

A few years ago, I wrote about my battle with marauding robins in our strawberry patch. At the time I was feeling smug because I’d just finished locking the robins out with plastic netting.

Fast-forward a couple of years, and the plastic netting had decayed in the sun to the point where the robins could simply push through it. Fine. We were ready for a permanent enclosure anyway.

We got the wire mesh and steel poles, and then I hurt my back and couldn’t pick strawberries anyway. The strawberry patch turned into a weedy mess, and the robins had their merry way with the remaining berries.

But then, inspiration struck: If I couldn’t pick strawberries from the beds on the ground, why not raise them? Strawberry gutters to the rescue! The berry-enclosure project was revived.

Fast-forward to this spring:

The berry enclosure now protects our strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries! The walls are chicken-wire and the roof is flexible netting. (We can’t leave a permanent roof in place over winter because of snow load.)

We installed the netting roof just as the strawberries were ripening, and I eyed the enclosure with satisfaction. Conveniently pickable berries; birds excluded. Perfect.

Not two hours later, I glanced out the window and spotted a bird in there.

After a moment’s chagrin, I decided we must have left a gap in the roof netting; or maybe on one of the side walls where the wire mesh overlapped. That should be easily remedied. I went out and battened down the hatches, then headed back to the house secure in the knowledge that my berries were now safe.

Two hours later: Another bird in the enclosure. What?

Out I went again. This time I spent a bunch of time kicking up a ridge of dirt all around the bottom of the walls, surmising that the birds must be ducking (or in this case, Spotted Towhee-ing) under the bottom of the chicken-wire.

Just as I finished that sweat-popping chore, the towhee came back and landed outside the enclosure.

“Ha! You’re outta luck, buddy,” I told him. “No more berries for you.”

As I turned away, a flash of movement caught my eye. In the instant it took me to turn back, the towhee was already perched inside on a berry trough. Taunting me with his reedy whistling laugh, the little bastard.

What the actual f***?!?

I’m embarrassed to admit how many more trips to and from the enclosure (now dubbed The Birdcage) were necessary before I figured out that the nylon roof mesh has larger holes than the chicken-wire. It still excludes fat robins, but the slimmer towhees can slip right through. The towhee figured that out in seconds. It took me several days. Who’s the bird-brain here?

The strawberries are just about finished for the season anyway, and the towhee isn’t as greedy and destructive as the robins; so we’ve decided to deal with the roof problem later. But now the towhee comes over and cusses me out every time I go into his berry patch.

Bird-brains. Sigh.

Book 18 update: Progress at last, woohoo! I’m on Chapter 7, and Aydan has just discovered something unsettling about one of her fellow agents.

T&A and Dickie-bergs, Oh My!

/ Diane Henders / 26 Comments

It’s been a while since the universe offered me any naughty news; but apparently my dry spell is over. I came across several snicker-worthy items this month.

The first arrived courtesy of the normally-staid CBC: An article about a startlingly phallic iceberg, spotted and photographed by a man from (appropriately enough) Dildo, Newfoundland: https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/newfoundland-labrador/oddly-shaped-iceberg-nl-1.6825578. I laughed myself silly(er), of course. Every now and then nature delivers a whopper that even I wouldn’t have imagined.

That fine upstanding dickie-berg must have lingered in my subconscious, because only a few days later I was working on Book 18 when my fingers ran ahead of my brain. Yes, Virginia, there is a BIG difference between ‘a long moment’ and ‘a long member’. I corrected the typo, giggling all the while.

Now brace yourself for the weird:

Y’know how a couple of years ago I mentioned that my brain occasionally spews random words for no apparent reason? Well, it happened again. I was sitting at my keyboard, minding my own business, when my brain suddenly blurted, “Tanimura and Antle!”

Wha-a-a-a-t???

Despite my perplexity, those names had a familiar ring; but I couldn’t quite place them. When I did an internet search, I discovered that Tanimura & Antle is a company that grows produce in California. I’d never heard of them before. Or so I thought.

Then, gradually, memory trickled back. I’d bought their brand of romaine lettuce… when I lived in Calgary. Which makes it at least six years ago, probably more. For the record, I don’t shop for lettuce by brand. I go to the store and buy whatever they’ve got. I couldn’t imagine why that tongue-twisting brand name had stuck with me; and I especially couldn’t imagine why it had suddenly popped into my mind nearly a decade later.

But then comprehension struck: It was simply the universe completing the dirty-mind trifecta. All those long years ago, Tanimura & Antle had a different logo, and apparently that poke from the dickie-berg had jarred the memory loose: Their lettuce used to be emblazoned with ‘T&A’ in a stylized font. And my puerile brain never forgot it.

If only I could apply that level of recall to something that was actually important!

Book 18 update: My concentration has been shattered by an out-of-control wildfire less than 10 miles from our house, so writing progress has been slo-o-o-w while I obsessively check the smoky skies and watch for evacuation alerts. But I’m hanging in as best I can, and the zany gang from the Weapons Lab is making Chapter 4 fun to write! Stay tuned…

Army-Surplus Smarties®

/ Diane Henders / 32 Comments

Since I’ve been getting *ahem* older, I’ve been trying to avoid stereotypical ‘Oldster’ thought-patterns. It’s been an uphill battle, but I’m still holding my own.

(Digression: The expression ‘holding my own’ always makes me snicker. Holding my own what, exactly?)

(Wait, isn’t rambling a sign of Oldster Brain? Uh-oh.)

Anyhow, despite my best efforts, I caught myself in Oldster Mode last week when this phrase popped out of my mouth: “These were so much better in the good old days!”

My trigger? Smarties®.

I’ve loved Smarties® for decades. Who wouldn’t love tiny chocolate discs coated with bright shiny candy? They’re perfect whether you gobble the whole boxful in a glorious pig-out, or savour just a few for a calorie-conscious mini-treat. And they make great poker chips: Colour -coded and delicious!

I try not to eat candy too often, but the other day I saw Smarties® on sale and a warm wave of nostalgia rolled over me. I paid and hustled them home, looking forward to the cheery click-click-click of tiny candies hitting the bowl in a cascade of bright happy colours.

Instead, I got this:

Where are my bright happy colours? What’s this sad faded red; this wishy-washy brown; and worst of all, khaki green?!? Yes, the candy shell tastes the same regardless of its colour; but Army-Surplus-Green candy is just wrong.

After the initial shock wore off, my logic-seeking brain still wouldn’t let go of the question: Seriously, why would they choose such a dismal colour? The main marketing point for any edible product is its eye-appeal: The promise, via appearance alone, that eating it will be a delicious, nay, sensuous experience. Near-orgasmic, even; according to some of the TV ads I’ve seen.

But these olive-drab Smarties® look like lima beans. Any kid will tell you that nothing says ‘grim, sad, and yucky’ like lima beans. Most adults don’t associate anything good with lima-bean-green, either. Definitely not orgasms. (And if I’m wrong about that, please don’t enlighten me.)

So was this a dye malfunction that slipped through quality control? A vulgar joke? Malicious sabotage? Or is there actually somebody, somewhere in the Smarties® factory, who eyed those lima bean lookalikes and thought ‘Yum’?

I can’t figure it out. But I couldn’t bear to see that repulsive colour in the bowl of treats I intended to offer my dinner guests, so I picked out all the green ones and ate them. It was a terrible sacrifice, but my guests’ comfort and happiness comes first. (Yes, the green ones were just as yummy as the others; but don’t tell. I’m bucking for ‘noble martyr’ here.)

But I still want to know: Why?

Book 18 update: Wrote two chapters. Deleted two chapters. Rewrote two chapters… hmmm. Can anybody spot an unproductive pattern here? But at least I’ve figured out what went wrong with the story and I’ve fixed the problem, so it should be clear(er) sailing now!

P.S. Thank you to everyone who’s noticed my reduced blogging frequency and checked to see if I’m okay. Your concern and well wishes mean a lot to me! I’m still struggling with this *&#$! back injury, so I’ve reduced my blog posts to once a month to salvage more ‘actual book-writing’ time. I’m waiting to see a couple more specialists, so I’m still clinging to hope! 🙂

’Zon-derwear

/ Diane Henders / 30 Comments

We live almost an hour away from the nearest city, so when we can’t find what we need in the local small-town stores, we order from Amazon. Their delivery service is usually fast, cheap, and trouble-free.

Until last week.

I was expecting a package containing a watch band, a walking foot for my sewing machine (Andrew, I’m blaming that purchase on you), and a pair of bypass pruners. The package was scheduled to be delivered on Friday, and it arrived right on time.

But when I opened it… no pruners. No watch band or sewing gadgets. Nope; instead I’d gotten a 4-pack of men’s underwear. Black.

My brain short-circuited. I double-checked the address label. Picked up the undie-pack and turned it over a couple of times; because maybe if I looked at it from a different angle, it might turn into the things I’d actually ordered. (It didn’t.)

Then I thought, “Could this be a gag gift from a fan?”

It’s not as far-fetched as you might think. I love hearing from my readers, and every now and then I get a letter containing a tongue-in-cheek reference to John Kane’s famously well-packed black underwear. (Hmm, given the subject matter, maybe ‘tongue-in-cheek’ isn’t the most appropriate expression here.) Anyhow, the point is that occasionally I discuss men’s underwear with random strangers; which theoretically could lead to *ahem* unusual gifts.

But I checked the order status, and it showed that the delivery was indeed ‘my’ parcel.

So I called ’Zon and they quickly resolved the issue, with a few giggles on both sides. My original items were re-shipped, and the agent assured me that I didn’t have to return the underwear.

You might be thinking, “Score for Hubby: Four free pairs of undies!” But no; the undie size (you know I wanted to say ‘package size’) is XS: Extra-small. Hubby is not.

So I guess I’ll donate the ’Zonderwear to the local homeless shelter. I can see it now: A middle-aged woman sidles in and hands over a single pack of extra-small men’s underwear. Sounds like the start of a joke… or a novel. Hmmm, there’s a thought…

Any surprises in your world this week?

Book 18 update: I’m on Chapter 3, and Aydan has just had some comfortable assumptions shattered.

And… the series book trailer is finished, woohoo! See below:

Snow Warning

/ Diane Henders / 35 Comments

I grew up in Manitoba, where twelve-foot snowbanks and frigid temperatures were considered nothing more than a worthy challenge. But here on Vancouver Island, businesses shut down and chaos reigns if a few snowflakes flutter down.

Last week my physiotherapy appointment was cancelled because of a few inches of snow. I was on the verge of complaining about the wimpiness of Island dwellers, but I suddenly recalled the sheer joy of those long-ago ‘snow days’ when I was a kid and school was cancelled.  My momentary pique vanished in a grin as I imagined full-grown adults peeking out their windows, happy-dancing and crowing, “Snow day!”

A ‘snow day’ in Manitoba in 1966.

I’ve complained about snow before and I probably will again; but the truth is, I kinda like the white stuff (now that I live in a place where it doesn’t stay around for six months at a time). Snow is pretty and sparkly; and it lights up our gloomy West Coast winters.

There are obvious disadvantages, of course.  Snow is cold, slippery, and dangerous to drivers, walkers, and shovellers; but today I’m here to warn you about its lesser-known and much more insidious downside: 

Snow is fattening!

You’d think fluffy frozen water would be calorie-free.  In fact, when you factor in the extra effort of clearing it and navigating through it, it should be a stellar weight-loss tool.

But not for me. Because when it’s snowing outside, I bake.  And when there are freshly-baked goodies, I eat.  And the longer the snow lasts, the more I bake and eat.

Yesterday my kitchen was gloriously perfumed by fresh cinnamon buns.  A couple of days ago there was a decadent chocolate cake.  Before that, peanut butter caramel squares.  And baklava.  And lemon pie.  That’s not even counting all the goodies stashed in our freezer ‘just in case’. And we’ve only had a week of snow.

I noted a few years ago that it’s dangerous to wear stretch pants on road trips. But it’s much worse than that: I’ve been schlepping around in stretch pants all winter, and I’ve just realized my comfy pants have been conspiring with the snow, too. Now I’m afraid to try on my jeans — I’m not sure I want to know what’s been going on behind my back(side).

Get out the forklift; I might need a boost up these stairs…

Book 18 progress: I’m partway through Chapter 1, and Aydan is finding out how hard Stemp’s job really was. But most of my recent time has been spent producing a book trailer for the series — and I’ve just finished it, woohoo! Watch for it in my next post and on my Facebook page!

I’m Not Stoned (Much)

/ Diane Henders / 58 Comments

Many thanks to everyone who’s dropped me a line to see why I haven’t posted lately — I appreciate your support and concern! The last couple of months have been… interesting. I’ve been struggling with dizziness and nausea that really take the fun out of computer work, so I’ve been snarfing anti-nausea pills, anti-vertigo pills, and Tylenol for the headaches. I thought being stoned would be a lot more fun — I must be doing it wrong. 😉

In an attempt to mimic normal brain function (or as normal as I ever get), I’ve taken to jotting cryptic reminders to myself. They make sense at the time; but a day later, they only make me question my mental competence. For instance:

Run cold for tea!

Our household water comes from a well, so once a year we add chlorine bleach to the system to make sure nothing’s growing in the water lines on the “safe” side of our UV sterilizer. After we purge the lines, the hot water always smells like a public swimming pool for a few days. No big deal if you’re showering in it, but making tea? BLECH!

Normally I’d only gulp one mouthful that tasted like the dregs of a well-used hot tub, and then I’d remember ever afterward to only run cold water into the kettle. But apparently not when I’m on drugs. Hence the note.

*

Appointment at (fill in the blank)!

You’d think this would be a fairly useful and self-explanatory note. It wasn’t.

Whenever I’m making an appointment, I enter the date and time in my calendar and then read it back to the receptionist. I did that, so I’m not quite sure how wires got crossed. But my physiotherapist’s office also sends an automated email reminder; so I knew I’d be fine even if I forgot to look at my calendar.

The morning of the appointment I checked my calendar: Appointment at 11:20 AM. Fine.

An hour before the appointment, I double-checked the email reminder. Appointment at 11:00 AM. Yikes, I had to leave right away! As I hurried out the door, I wondered vaguely why I was having so much trouble keeping the appointment time in my head; but whatever.

Halfway there, my car threw a ‘Low Tire Pressure’ warning. I pulled over to check the tires, worrying that it would make me late. But as I got back in the car, my phone chimed: Half an hour to my appointment. Even with the delay, I was going to be 20 minutes early! I gave my head a shake, thinking I must be a lot more stoned than I felt. (And clearly I was, because normally at that point I would have figured out that something was fishy.)

But no; I finished my leisurely drive, then sat waiting in the car until my appointment time.

Yep, you guessed it: I had arrived on time for my 11:00 appointment; but I wasted it all, waiting in the parking lot until 11:20.

*

The good news is I’m finally feeling a bit better. I’ve been reducing the drugs, and my brain is working fine again. Which reminds me… Note to self: Remember to worzel the fimblegurb!

Book 18 progress: Intensive keyboarding still isn’t my friend, but I had lots of time to think while lying down with my eyes closed. Plotting is complete(ish) and this week I’ll start putting words on the page!

The Shortbread Grinch

/ Diane Henders / 34 Comments

Happy New Year, everyone! I hope you made it through the holiday season unscathed and un-stranded by crazy weather.

I’m still recovering from the lingering side-effects of my COVID booster (or something; who knows), so we spent a quiet December. Good food, good medical care, and visits with family left me feeling immensely grateful.

However…

As you’ve no doubt come to expect, I didn’t make it through the season without a generous measure of foolishness. Case in point: The Christmas shortbread.

Every year I do some baking to give as gifts:  Goodies like gingersnaps and snickerdoodles, along with a confection from my childhood dubbed ‘Cherry Flips’ (a maraschino cherry wrapped in almond shortbread, dunked in cherry frosting, and dusted with coconut)… and shortbread.

Tasty though it is, plain shortbread looks bland and unappetizing. So I usually decorate it with red and green cherries in wreath shapes to make it look a bit more festive.  But this year I really wasn’t feeling very well (and to be honest, I was a bit stoned on anti-nausea pills). So I decided to take a simpler approach with red and green coloured sugar.  I experimented with a few different patterns, and decided on one reminiscent of evergreen swags with a red accent:

Festive, yes?

I painstakingly applied the sugar to each cookie and baked the lot of them.  Then, as I was tucking the finished shortbread into gift packages, a terrible thought occurred to me. To describe it in proper Seussian style, it was a terrible, horrible, awful idea:

“These cookies look like a Grinch butt with hemorrhoids.”

Once that mental image is lodged in your brain, you can never un-see it.  (Sorry about that.)

I didn’t know what to do.  On one hand, surely nobody else in the world would think of that… would they?  But on the other hand, I felt vaguely guilty handing out baked goods with diseased butts on them.

In the end I gave away the goodies as planned, secure in the knowledge that my friends and family are much nicer and more refined than I.  Even if they thought the decorations were questionable, they’re far too polite to comment.

Unlike me.

So if you received Grinch-Ass shortbread from me this year, I sincerely apologize.  I promise it won’t happen again. (But my inner twelve-year-old will snicker about it forever more.)

Did anyone else have food-related ‘oopses’ over the holidays?

Book 18 progress: Sadly, none. I was feeling too crappy to work; and I still have to gulp anti-nausea tablets if I’m going to look at computer screen for more than a few minutes at a time. Hoping to report more progress (and less nausea) soon!

Vampire Teeth

/ Diane Henders / 24 Comments

I realize Halloween is long over and Christmas is only a couple of weeks away. It’s hardly the traditional time to bring up vampirism, but this is something I just have to ask: What the hell is wrong with my teeth?!?

They look normal to me. I’ve never glanced in the mirror and recoiled at the sight of giant gleaming fangs springing from my gums. Yet sometimes my teeth leap out like feral animals and bite the mouth that feeds them.

And once they’ve gotten that first taste of tender mouth-meat, they attack over and over. Several times a day, for days on end; and no part of my mouth is safe. The inside of my cheek; my lower lip; even under my tongue right next to that piece of tissue that attaches my tongue to the bottom of my mouth. How can I possibly bite myself there? I can’t even close my teeth on that part of my tongue if I deliberately try!

(Digression: Apparently that connecting piece of tissue under our tongues is called the ‘lingual frenulum’. In my case, it’s more like a lingual frenemy.)

Anyway, after a week or so the biting spree ends; and everything goes back to normal. But a few months later, my choppers once again develop an inexplicable hunger for human flesh.

I’m pretty sure my teeth aren’t shifting around in my mouth every few months, nor is my jaw realigning. So the only explanation I can imagine is latent vampirism. Something must happen that impels my fangs to extend, and suddenly I’ve got brand-new tongue piercings.

If only I could figure out what awakens the fangs. It can’t be bloodlust caused by goodies like rare steak — I can’t remember the last time we had steak. Nor can it be the phases of the moon: Vampires aren’t affected by the moon. That’s only werewolves…

Uh-oh.

I just realized my problem isn’t vampirism after all. I’m actually a werewolf. Now that I think of it, there’s even a photo to prove it.

Dang. Looks like my tongue is doomed.

Book 18 update: I’ve been under the weather since my latest COVID booster, so no writing progress this week. I’m hoping to be back in action soon!