Canning continued…

I just finished my final canning project for the week, and am currently listening to the sweet popping sound that indicates my apple butter is hermetically sealed from the world. Very exciting. That picture up top is my apple butter on a lemon biscuit/cookie. It was delicious. I’ve also got lemon rind candying away on the stove, and some interesting dinner in the oven. I’ll fill you in.

My apple butter, which is now on its third day, has been an arduous process of trying to get it to caramelize sufficiently without burning it. I thought that leaving it in the crock pot overnight on low heat would accomplish this fairly well. But this morning, at 7 a.m., I came down to find my apple butter had burned through and through. This set off a remarkable temper tantrum on my part. I even stamped my foot while yelling “Now I’ll NEVER have any apple butter!!” There were also some flavorful word choices added to that sentence. You see, Chris and I were up extremely early to complete another run. We’re brain-damaged like that. So I was in a total huff and we ended up leaving the house about 20 minutes late. In the car, Chris mentioned that he wished we weren’t late, at which point I was still mourning the loss of my apple butter and was unable to be nice. So I said “GOD! Shut up already about the lateness!!!” He was quiet for a moment before saying, “I’m sorry that your apple butter burned.” That comment really pissed me off, and prompted me to reply, “Okay FINE. I’m sorry you’re being such a B*TCH, since we’re obviously all about the passive-aggressive apologies right now.” Silence swirled around the car as it dawned on both of us that I needed to take my own advice. Point made.

We reached our running site, which is slightly outside San Antonio because it appears that San Antonio has a law against thinness or the pursuit thereof. We proceeded to run another 13.5 miles! Because we are AWESOME. It was great. Last time the suckiness of the run was amplified by the fact that the complimentary water stations placed every few miles by the local tri-sport store had been taken away by the time we were on our return trip, so we were desperately dehydrated and had to run that way until we were two miles from the car and found a fire station that would let us drink out of the hose…and we did. THIS time when we reached the water stations on the first half of the run we took a jug from each and hid it in the woods. Well, Chris hid it in the woods since I’m afraid of Texas nature. But it was hidden, so even if they came to take them away before our return trip, we’d still have water. I even took off my engagement ring before we left so when my little fingers turned into sausages from the edema it wouldn’t cut into my ring finger. We were PREPARED. And managed to shave 23 minutes off of our time. So we were able to laugh at the irony of the water stations still being in place this time, making our whole water-heist a waste of time. Chris went back into the woods to replace the jugs so as not to disturb the natural habitat of the fire ants.

When we got home, I made us a hearty breakfast of turkey sausage, eggs (I had Eggbeaters so I could feel self-righteous), and whole wheat cinnamon pancakes with diced honeycrisp apples inside. Some dark, amber maple syrup and butter, and it was post-run utopia. Here is a picture of Chris’s breakfast pieces (minus the sausage). He likes his eggs yolks to still be runny; a practice I find repugnant, but comply with. I have a tendency to do everything I can to comply with peoples’ egg wishes, since mine are so frequently ignored. My preference is over hard. By this, I mean that the egg is golden brown around the edges and the yolk is opaquely yellow all the way through. This NEVER happens at restaurants. EVER. The closest they come is to have the yolk be a solid-but-translucent orange inside, which I can’t eat (won’t). I tried changing the way I ordered it, “I’ll have my eggs over ROCK-HARD,” but found that this was easily mistaken for an entirely different breakfast offering, if you catch my drift. I have now found the perfect way to ensure I don’t receive gooey eggs, and that is to say “I’ll have the French toast.” Works a treat.

Dinner last night was particularly Texan. I got some of those little fajita skillets and some prime sirloin, and served them up with seared peppers, onions, cheese, and my new salsa creation. Gawd. I love fajitas. And now I have the skillets, so my fajita circle is complete.
A close up of my personal fajita assembly:

Okay, I have to go finish dinner. I made some buttermilk honey mustard dressing (no mayo–hellz yeah!) and am serving up a spicy chicken over cucumber and lettuce salad. Only the chicken is actually Boca meatless Chik’n. I’m feeding it to Chris and not telling him. Hehehehe.

5 thoughts on “Canning continued…”

  1. I just always get frustrated when I order eggs ‘over hard’ and they come to me with the yolk intentionally broken.

    But since the whole point of over-hard was to avoid eating the yolk, I can now just ask for ‘fried eggs, yolkless’

    Since I live in a place slightly healthier than San Antonio, it works…but barely.

  2. Um… how is it that I thought I had a wonderful chicken topped salad complete with home made spicy honey mustard dressing (or as I will now call it, awesome sauce) only to find out, one day later…ON YOUR BLOG… that the chicken was a lie?

    It’s ok, though. I don’t mind. I’ll keep catching up but as long as I don’t discover any other secrets, like you hate Texas or have recently taken stripper-type dance classes at our gym, I think we’ll be just fine!

  3. You're so funny. You're so cute. I love that you & Chris are fit. I am a sloth. A cute sloth, but a sloth nevertheless.

    Sorry about the apple butter, man. I've never made it, but when I burn stuff it makes me sad. Sad cause it's a waste of $$.

    I have something on my blog for you. Come pick it up. It's not a jar of apple butter, but you'll like it.

  4. Yeh, girl. You can post the icon on your blog. It’s yours to do whatever you want with. You can pass it on to others or hold onto it. Whatever. Oh, and I’m mad that Chris now knows about the faux chicken.

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