Reunited And It Feels So Good: Mother Edition

My mom loves her antique cell phone. (It's not quite rotary, but it's close.) She hates touch screens. She firmly believes that buttons should be pressed and not tapped. She also likes to feeling of security she gets when she picks up her phone and it weighs three pounds heavier, thus assuring her that her cell phone compadre is saddled up and ready to go.

Sadly, her favorite style of phone is a dying breed. Last time she went in the Verizon store to get a new phone, she promptly shut down every attempt the polo-shirted salesman made to convince her to try a Droid or an iPhone.

"Just touch the screen. Please, just touch it."
"Yes, very nice. But I want one with buttons."
"It has an amazing camera, you can basically take high-def pictures with it."
"I already have a camera. I need a phone."
"But with this, you get a camera AND a phone."
"I don't want a camera that is also a phone. I want a phone that is a phone."

Her tastes were so particular that the salesman, defeated, eventually trudged to the back of the storage room to search for one "with buttons." Eventually he came back from his archaeological dig with this flip phone.

She still felt the "flip" keyboard might be too "fancy" but she settled because, yes, it has buttons and weighs three pounds.

So you can imagine my mom's panic when she thought she had lost her phone. She had been over at my sister's house, helping her and my brother-in-law pack up some boxes for an upcoming move. She was One With Phone over there. (One With Phone = she has the phone on her person. This does not mean she hears it ring. She just has it. On the odd occasion that she catches it chirping from her purse, she has never actually answered it before it goes to voicemail. Come to think of it, maybe it's less of a phone and more of a mild-mannered beeper that doesn't like to interrupt anybody.)

By the time she gets home, the phone is nowhere to be found. She searches her purse. She searches her pockets. She and my dad prod and peer at every part of her car's interior, calling it on regular intervals for the hope that a dying ring would lead them to its remains. No luck.

Odds are that the phone had tumbled into a box of pans or glassware and is on its way to my sister's new home. Not a big deal, since my sister is moving to a house that is located literally a half mile from my parents' house. But still, its unsettling.

Fast forward twelve hours later. My parents come down to visit. I'm riding in their car. They tell me the saga of the Lost Phone. I offer to give their number a ring, on the off-chance that it still has battery power and my sister may hear it amidst the boxes. Call connecting ...

                                   BUP        BUP
         BUP          BUP           BUP                  BUP       BUP
BUP                 BUP                                                                         BUP


......

                                  BUP        BUP
         BUP          BUP             BUP                 BUP       BUP
BUP                 BUP                                                                         BUP

What's that?

Why, that's the generic ringtone of a cell phone that has no data plan and thus cannot download custom rings.

And the call is coming from INSIDE THE CAR.

Two seconds and one scrambling hand reaching under the front seat and there you have it.

Mom and Phone.

Reunited and it feels so good.

The Year 2013: 1. Suano: 0.

This is why I never make New Year's Resolutions. By 7PM, January 1, it has already blown up in my face

I wanted to try making more meals at home. You know, expand my dinner repertoire beyond cereal and chips and salsa. So, for Christmas, I asked for a crock pot. I figured that would be a good place to start. From my vague understanding of slow cooking, you pretty much chop up a lot of stuff, dump it into the thing, give it a stir, and let it simmer while you're away. I imagined a romantic scene of coming home after a hard day's work, only to be welcomed by the comforting aroma of chili or pulled pork wafting through the front door. It would be like Leave It To Beaver, only in this modern version I would be Ward Cleaver, briefcase in hand, and Crock Pot would be my very own June.

I had tried this slow cooking experiment a few years back, but that was when I just had a mini crock pot. "A slow cooker for a single person!" is what the gleeful giver chirped at me. I quickly auto-corrected "single person" to "spinster." I don't imagine any bachelors unwrapping one and immediately cooing about the many white chicken chili recipes he had been dying to try.

Needless to say, it hadn't gone well. The whole point of slow cooking is getting a great return on your time and produce investment. With the Spinster Slow Cooker, I had to do almost the same amount of prep each time for a measly two servings. Plus, the second serving always looked so forlorn, slumped there in the bottom of the pot, that I wound up shoveling it in my mouth or pouring it down the drain.

But now ... thanks to a generous aunt ... I am armed with a full-sized crock pot. Nothing small or singular about it. I could make barbecue beef for an army with this thing.

So, on this first day of a brand new year, I scour the interwebs and select chicken tikka masala as my first slow cooker endeavor. I am addicted to this classic Indian dish but have only made it in the past when I have about three hours to kill. Needless to say, it's never on the menu during the week. The thought of digging into this delicious mess of chicken, tomatoes, and spices is too tempting to resist!

It starts off easy enough: chop up some onions, mix up some tomato paste and water, add in some chicken breasts. A little garam here, a little masala there, and BOOM. Chicken tikka masala bubbling in a crock pot. I set the timer for eight hours later, set the recipe aside, and go off to do something incredibly productive. (Like stopping by a local superstore ... and maybe ... buying two new lamps.)

(I know. I have a problem.)

Eight hours -- and eleven and a half episodes of Gossip Girl -- later, and it's dinner time! Having resisted my any sneak peeks, I finally unlock and lift the lid.

It.

Looks.

AMAZING!

All that's left is to stir some cream into the crock pot. I grab the carton of heavy cream and check the recipe to see how much it calls for. That's when I spy that I missed an ingredient. Apparently I have to mix in a few tablespoons of corn starch to thicken it up. Whew! Thank goodness I checked the recipe again. I mean, how horrible would it have been to wait all this time and then screw it up with the last step?

I dump a couple spoonfuls of powder into the cream, give it a stir, and take it over to the crock pot. It smells exactly like the masala I order at the local Indian restaurant. This dinner is going to be epic. I can't wait to see what it looks like with this extra cream stirred in! And, with that, I pour the last two ingredients into the crock pot and start stirring.

Then, something starts to happen.

Something goes wrong.

Horribly, horribly wrong.




Here's a fun fact: corn starch? Not nearly the same thing as baking soda.

In fact, when baking soda is substituted for corn starch, it turns a dinner entree into a foaming, expanding, out-of-control science experiment. I just spent the last eight hours making a tomato-and-chicken volcano.

Of course, I handle this kitchen crisis with the cool, calm, and collected approach that any owner of a full-sized crock pot would possess.

And, lest you think, Pshaw! That's just Suano, exaggerating an everyday life anecdote again, I give you photographic evidence. As the foam cleared, I was left with this.

Congratulations, crock pot. Consider yourself christened. The pot-portion of the crock pot is currently soaking in the sink.

Raisin Nut Bran for dinner it is.

The Year 2012 2013: 1. Suano: 0.