It was an early summer evening and my mom sat on this two-step stoop on the side of our house, kids and fireflies all out and buzzing around like they did back in the 70’s.

My mom loved babies and kids, and had a particular soft spot for a little Hispanic girl who lived a few houses down the street.  I can’t recall her name, maybe it was Nettie (so let’s call her that), but I do recall my mom and Nettie’s conversations. My mom would sit on that stoop and pull Nettie onto her lap and lovingly ask her all about her day….what did she learn, what was her mama cooking for supper, did she have a fun day?

During one of those important conversations, Nettie told my mom that her mama was making “fry shicken,” (pronounced long and drawn out) for supper and my mom loved this so very much.

And now every single time I hear “chicken”, it is always and forever shick-en in my mind, and I can still feel that summer evening, and see as clearly as if it were a picture, my mom and Nettie having a conversation and that little girl feeling loved and seen and heard, nestling her head against my mom’s shoulder. I was only seven or eight years old myself, and I know that I loved that my mom loved Nettie as much as she loved all of us.

So while it’s trendy right now that everyone is talking about “making core memories” by taking their kids on vacations, having big blow-out birthday parties and whatnot – you can’t force-create a core memory. We don’t know what anyone else is going to remember, or who they remember, in fact.

As kids, we went to Disneyworld once (I think) and I remember zilch about that trip except that 1. Nina H. drove us and she drove barefoot and she and my mom debated if that were legal or not and 2. I wanted the pancakes with a mountain of whipped cream for breakfast at the Disney castle and I was told no and had to get boring regular pancakes, except I thought the waitress felt sorry for me for not being able to get my whipped cream dream because my pancakes were piled high with a dome of whipped cream and I excitedly took a giant bite, only to discover it was actually just fancily displayed butter, impersonating a tower of whipped cream.

That’s it. Those are my two core memories from a whole trip to Disneyworld.

But.  I can still feel the sticky-sweet juice of the watermelon that ran down my arms during the summer as my mom cut all us kids huge wedges, and I can see us running to catch fireflies to plop them into coffee cans, where they’d meet an awful death by morning (and I was always surprised they didn’t make it because I poked HOLES in that lid, and put a leaf in that can!), and I can still smell honeysuckle on the summer breeze because they grew all up on our fence, and I can still hear those conversations my mom had with Nettie.

So go on with your fancy and pricey core memory makers. You don’t get to decide what someone’s “core memory” is…and they don’t even know it’s happening when it’s happening.

I’ll take my memory of my mom unknowingly teaching me to be lovingly interested in a little girls recap of her day and dinner, because that memory? Makes me feel soft and as melty as mile-high butter inside.

i am not alone in my frustration with auto-press-one-press-two phone “help” – which I am currently dealing with at this very moment because there’s a $45 charge from my account for something from Apple. But I just got a really nice and knowledgable HUMAN who taught me how to find out what a specific Apple bill charge was – right from my phone, so now I know! Something charged me $40 for a yearly subscription, and it certainly would not be anything I intentionally purchased. If I’m spending $40 on an app, it’s to take pictures of my plants and then have it tell me what the plant needs for optimum health.

I AM curious about that app – but $40 feels too rich, and we are not Kardashians over here.

Recently, I have decided to become Good With Plants, and it’s a whole new world I’m living in.  I’ve now got a hanging-basket protocol, which involved me setting reminders on my phone so I can do all the things when all the things are supposed to be completed.

All The Things includes these three things, and let me tell you why my success at gardening is a questionable outcome. 

One of these items above contains small granules that get sprinkled on the top of the soil and then is supposed to be mixed in a bit with the dirt. Since my baskets are already established, there is not a great way to sprinkle and mix in so I thought, “Hey! Let’s just add ’em to the watering can and they will dissolve and then water it in!” Except they do NOT dissolve, because they are slow release and so then I had to figure out a way to mix them in anyway and now my watering can is clink-clanking around with granules I cannot extract.*

*i enjoyed using the word “extract” because it makes the task feel super important, like I’m Jack Bauer facing a tricky situation.

That’s just one reason why I may not be a success at gardening. I’m always looking for a shortcut.

I purchased very few hanging baskets this year because I don’t want big watering obligations, and then all the plants and herbs at the stores that were already started were SPENDY this year (thanks, Biden!) so I started a bunch of stuff from seeds and honestly, it’s not going great.

It’s the end of June already and I’ve only got this much sprouting.

Yes, those are authentic Haitian Voodoo Dollies above the potted plants.

I purchased those on my first or second trip to Haiti, and I decided to make them GOOD voodoo dollies that represent both My Mister and myself and only good things would happen to them!

Except then we moved (a bajillion years ago already) and they got buried in a cardboard box and never unpacked for many years, and bad things started happening to My Mister and me. So we made it their mission to find them, unpack them, and bring them outside for fresh air.

So far they like the view and the fresh air. It’s been several years already.

My Mister asked, “Why don’t you just throw them out?”

To which I replied, “Why don’t YOU throw them out?! Are you willing to risk the potential consequences?”

No, he was not, Reader.

So there they sit and shall remain.  Occasionally I talk nicely to them, but mostly I try to ignore them.

And I don’t know exactly how we meandered all the way to a story about my possibly cursed voodoo dollies, but maybe it also explains a lot about the way my brain works, with too many tabs opened at once.

This is my planter of herbs that are also questionable; are we going to harvest anything from here or not this year? We don’t know.

I do know I thought this planter would be much taller, but it is not. It’s just short enough the cats think I put a litter box out here for them, and I’ve had to shoo-kitty them out of it more than once.

Cats are a-holes.

Life is tricky and expensive and disappointing, but it’s also magical and creative and hopeful. I planted all these things and started a plant feeding protocol with a lot of hope and belief in myself that just because I have been one thing (bad with plants), doesn’t mean I have to always be that thing. I can learn and change and adapt and become anything I want. Mostly. Except a ballerina. Or a dancer, really. Or a marathon runner. I can’t do things that require legs with great mobility. I have limits.

But! I did buy a book on how to draw flowers, and also a watercolor notebook because I AM GOING TO PAINT AND DRAW – 2026 Me is going to do those things. Or at least attempt. Because I remain curious and hopeful.

What are you going to try this year, Reader? Who do you want to become?

True Confessions #1:  The Girl Who Loves Cake (re: me) has never tried Tres Leches cake before because, to quote me, “I just don’t know what three milks they are putting in there.”

What do you imagine those tres leches to be, Me?

Well, now that you’ve asked (p.s., no one is asking), let me tell you what I have concluded is the only thing that makes reasonable sense.

Leche Numero Uno: Cow Milk. Makes perfect sense, is common and reasonable.

Leche Numero Dos:  It would have to be goats milk? right? They make cheese out of goat’s milk, so it’s a natural conclusion.

As for the Tres Leche:  It must be breast milk. I mean, what else could it be?

Last night my brother popped over with a Biscoff Tres Leche cake and it was soupy looking and also I’m not into drinking breast milk cake. Probably not into it.  Not that there’s anything wrong with it (is there though?), I guess. It’s a milk.

I’ll just paraphrase the convo from here, and also some of it may be just what I was thinking in my head, but it’s my story so I can type whatever I wish, Reader.

My brother (MB): “So…you think one of the milks is breast milk?”

Trixie: “Yeah, probably. I cannot think of one other reasonable type of milk.”

MB: “So….you think there is just a lactation room filled with Latino wet nurses pumping in order to make cakes?”

Trixie: “Yep, probably that’s what’s happening.”

MB: “Interesting perspective. Maybe it’s just condensed milk, evaporated milk and regular milk?”

Trixie: “I may have read that somewhere before, but it sounds like a cover-up to me. Covering up the breast milk. I’m pretty sure it’s cow, goat and breast in that cake.”

Cake tax below:

Except that’s not entirely accurate, because as you can see by what remains of the soupy cakey remnants, I was able to get past my aversion to eating breast milk cake, and ate plenty of it.

I did not eat ALL THAT MISSING CAKE, Reader, so stop with your trying to cake-shame me. I ate some of the cake. In the name of breast-milk cake research.

I deemed it delicious and biscoffy and soupy and yum. And I probably got a bunch of antibodies, so cheers to my good health.

 

 

We are in JUNE and the last thirty days have been a rather rude MONTH, Reader. The weather has been coldish until this very weekend, and today was absolutely sunshiny-beautiful, with my enjoying the glider before the cats decided to hair up the new cushions post haste.

It’s been a slow-go getting ready for summer weather; I’ve had not one, but two damn surgeries lately. I wasn’t really sure if one was an actual surgery because no exterior incisions was made; however I was knocked completely out, and since it’s my body, my choice, I’m counting it as a surgery.  That little incident was a blocked liver duct that landed me in the hospital for five whole days. FIVE WHOLE DAYS. SATURDAY-SUNDAY-MONDAY-TUESDAY-WEDNESDAY. This past Friday I had my tumor and lady insides removed and they sent me right on home.

It’s been fun.

I’m going to post in bite-sized chunks to 1. keep me here without feeling daunted and 2. keep me here because you should know all these things. I mean, not really, but also really, We all should know what’s going on in my insides, because no matter how yucky it is, it’s better than the news right now. Probably.

When I went to the ER over Memorial Weekend, it was 1. a bad decision to go on a Friday over Memorial Weekend and 2. a total CF (cluster-fuckery). They checked me IN and took all my vitals, sent me out to wait on a clean room, and FIVE HOURS later I saw that I was checked out of my ER trip via MyChart. I keep waiting for my survey from that little adventure, but the hospital knows better than to ask my opinion on what I think about that. Because I do have thoughts. Many thoughts.

A conversation that happened while I was in the Clinical Decision Room:

Nurse to me: Oh, I see now why I like you! We both have November birthdays!

Me to Nurse: Oh! Are you a Scorpio?

Nurse: No, I’m a Christian.

Me:  …. ah, right. that’s good too.

 

Where do we start here, Reader? I’m not even sure myself.

We are 3.5 months into the new year and I have intermittently gone swimming (it’s cold and blah blah excuse), I have just gotten off a cruise ship and am getting back on one soon enough. Same old same old, you know.

I’d like to make time to write, so as I said that, I grabbed my computer and took it out to the deck and thought, “Surely I’ll think of something to say,” yet here we are, with a bunch of nothing.  So let’s just do a quick five things.

1.  1.  I have been on a vacuum buying quest to find one that Does All The Things I want it to do, namely, be strong enough to suck up all the dirt at first pass, but also don’t suck my rug up into your roller, just go over it nicely; cordless – i’m in my no-cords on appliances I have to move throughout the house era; lightweight enough that even my trigger-finger hands can swing it around to the steps, etc.  So far I’ve struck out on several brands, and finally settled on the same brand as my vacuum-mop Tineco. I’m …. mildly okay with it. The biggest learning is, this vacuum has a green light on the front that lets you see all the dirt – but also all the scratches on my hardwood floor, that I kept thinking was dirt, so I was going over and over and over and over it. I’ve got a vacuum on every floor now, sometimes two on a floor, and ya know what, I think I’m expecting a miracle. Don’t even come at me with a Dyson recommendation. I have one. A corded version. Do not like. I know, this is an exciting start to what’s happening here.
2. 2.  I’m tired. A lot. I mean a lot lot.  And then I found out I have a giant baseball-sized growth on my ovary or some lady part – they still aren’t quite sure what it’s attached too – I have tricky insides –  and frankly I’m blaming it for everything. Ready for bed at 7 p.m.? It’s my tumor.  Want some ice cream? My tumor does.  And then my MRI came back and said right there in my permanent record “vagina: unremarkable” and while that’s apparently good news for my vagina, I think they could use the word “normal” vs. unremarkable because I was a little insulted and informed my doctor as such. I’ve taken this thing around town back in it’s hey-day and it never had any complaints. That I know of. The doctor drew me a picture of how they are going to take this out and he said, “a few little snips here and here, then I pull everything down through your unremarkable vagina.” and that made me laugh out loud at the vagina doctor’s office. So that’s my summer. Me and my Unremarkable Vagina will be recovering I hope in the sunshine.
3. 3. I’m ready for some nice weather, but also I do not like yard work. I want a cottage-y dreamy flowery yard, but I got mad that I had to use some of my time today spraying weeds and picking up sticks.  I’m at odds with myself between my wants and my actions. Probably my tumor’s fault.
4. 4. I’ve unofficially declared this will be the Summer of Fruit Pies. I tasked myself with making a homemade blueberry pie for our friend’s birthday, and then that didn’t work out as planned because a) I am not interested in making pie crust from scratch and b) the only store-bought crust I am partial to is from Trader Joes, and long story longer, I picked it up but it was frozen and needed 24-hours to defrost, so our friend did get a pie made in his birthday honor, but it never actually made it to him. We ate it and I sang happy birthday with every mouthful.  The pie was really really good.  Next up: Peach. I need to work on my crust design skills a bit.
5.  5. We had a soup-tasting event here in March, and that was so much fun it should have had a dedicated post, but it didn’t and now it’s just an afterthought mention.  I really like having taste-off events and am trying to plan a later-summer / September thing. Will see what I come up with.
6. 6.  And you thought you missed me, huh. Ya ain’t missing nothing, except maybe my tumor.

It is now officially bedtime, probably. I am going to vacuum one quick time, switch the laundry, clean the cat litter and that’s why I’m always grouchy. I need an assistant to just make it through the days. I have to finish reading a book I started so long ago I need to re-read the parts I’ve already read and get ready for an impromptu discussion with some of my book clubber friendies on Thursday.  That’s it. That’s life. Tumors and pies and the whole damn thing.

How I feel walking through each day right now:

It’s just… tough out here. This country has lost its mind on what is right vs. what is wrong.

We’ve mostly I want to believe maybe what do I know been brought up to be decentish folk.  We’ve been taught murder is wrong, not murdering innocent people is right, but yet here we are.

So my ears are laid back, I’m not quite sure of anything, but i’ll still tentatively stick my face out there and see what’s what.

Here are some things I did over Christmas:

1. I made my sister-in-law cry.
2. I shouted across the room for My Mister to “SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY!”  because he needed to shut the fuck up already. My ears were tired of his repeated words.
3. We had a little group here at Chez Bang Bang right before the year ended and we crafted vision boards for the new year. I tried to find some positives for what I want from 2026.
4. On the eve of Christmas Eve, I screamed at a “friend” to take him and his dumb-as-fuck Maga-mind views and get the fuck outta my house.
5. I disappointed people with their Christmas gifts. Not intentionally, but ya know, some people, I can never seem to do enough for, and I just need to let that go.

But! It’s a new year and ICE has only murdered one US Citizen in cold blood in broad daylight so far.

I’m trying to spend my mornings before I look at any newsy things by reading a Holy Moments passage, or a few poems from the book Wild Hope, or just basically anything that puts off the negative world happenings and maybe makes me just a little less scream-y.

That is my 2026 January Goal. To not scream at people to shut the fuck up or get the fuck out.  So far I’m tracking fine this month, and we’re almost half way there.

Which is a good reminder that the years are long, but the days are short, and I’m going to try to spend at least some of them regaining my joy, making me happy, doing something fun, and finding a reason to laugh out loud.

“Grow tomatoes in a pot on your deck,” All The People tell Trixie.

So she buys a single tomato plant, because she’s been down this road before, planting a whole row of potted deck plants one summer, and enjoyed nary a-one. As soon as anything ripened, a squirrel would come down and have a snack, or birds would peck their flesh.  It was a fruitless endeavor, yet still Trixie hoped.

You see, her yard is too hard to dig and plant things. It’s filled with concrete just below that green carpet*.

*Trixie is amused to call her lawn a “carpet,” because it is neither lush nor downy nor plush. It’s rocky and divet-y and full of weeds, a.k.a., Prairie Medicine. She does not fertilize or spray weed killer, she let’s Nature nature, and is lucky it looks as inoffensive as it does for the amount of effort she likes to expend. 

The undiggability of her lawn is not hyperbole.  When the fasty fiber optics crew was out here installing some super fast Gs, Trixie’s lawn BROKE their professional digger.  The Super Fast Gs Installers even commented, “This is some damn yard!” and then ordered a new digger.

But still, she hoped. She yearned, in fact, for the summer-ripened tomatoes of her youth, grown in her own garden that she tended to by hand, carrying 5-gallon buckets of water all. summer. long. to her 1-acre patch, being too young and too un-Interneted to realize that HEY, you can buy extra hoses and LINK THEM TOGETHER and they will REACH THE GARDEN!

The Internet nowadays wouldn’t stand for that kind of tomfoolery.  But this was olden times, all the way back in the nineteen eighties. We didn’t have the Internet to tell us what to do.

So you filled buckets and carried them and watered your plants.

Because Trixie will usually listen to All The People, she bought that single $4.99 tomato plant almost as an afterthought, when it was nearly too late in June for good consideration.

But she considered. And then needed another $20 worth of dirt. And she might as well thrown in some basil, cilantro and sage. Let’s garden-ish.

All summer long she watered and watched and put a little stick in when the plant got heavy. Tied it up with a little bit of plant tape.

She was excited to see the plant flower, although she was concerned it was getting too late. It was August already.

A steadfast eye monitored her tomato, and then two more started to grow.

Trixie remembered she had some tomato fertilizer in the garage and for anyone whom has ever bore witness to that garage, it was clearly divine intervention that guided her to the shelf exactly where that fertilizer was kept.

So she fertilized.

Then The Ripening Began, and the tomato remained the size of a tennis ball.

Trixie waited about a day too long, as it was announced to her, “Hey, you better get your tomato, it’s split open.”

And that was the fruit of her summer effort, Reader.

She had one split opened $25 tomato to enjoy on a slice of buttery toast on a September afternoon.

The other two green tomatoes are even smaller, about the size of a golf ball, maybe a little larger, but still very green. Too small even for fried green tomatoes.

She never did enjoy her sage, and her cilantro only made it for a couple of taco nights before it got leggy, and the basil is thriving, but she doesn’t really know what to do with it, so it remains bushy in the pot.

Will she try again next year? Probably….she is nothing if not hopeful, that maybe the next time will be different.

Rule #1:  Never let a girl with butter and sugar running through her veins take a solo trip to a new Paris-inspired bakery during a fresh pay week.

That Girl (who may or may not be me) spent money like she was the Rockefeller Patriarch.

She wasn’t looking for DEALS.  There were no “deals” unless by deals, you mean delicious flaky pastries she didn’t have to make herself.

Rule #2: Never judge a pastry before you taste it.

This Dubai Chocolate Donut? I had low expectations for it, but I met Jesus when I took that first bite. Maybe it was Elvis.  Someone from another world visited me for a moment as I closed my eyes and savored this crunchy, nutty, buttery delight.

That was the amount I saved for My Mister.  I could not be more proud of me, Reader. It was hard to not eat it all, but I did it in the name of research. I had to know if it was just ME or if it really was that good.

The verdict from MM? It really was that shockingly good. He judged it by it’s appearance – and almost said nay-nay to it – and was a little ashamed of himself for his presumptive dismissal. I could be offended that he questioned MY review. I may not know a lot, but I know two things for sure:

-1. Cats make good bedfellows.

-2. Must-try desserts.

This was my most Rockefeller-y single purchase, clocking in at a whopping $9.99 and I almost – almost – passed on it. But I had to find out more about this Dubai Chocolate craze and so I added it to my box.

I didn’t take a photo before I sliced off a taster so just pretend it’s intact.

Reader. It is good. It’s a solid yum. It can even be worth the $9.99. I can’t say it’s not.  But it’s still not as yum as that donut.

Did I ever tell you about the time I went to Venice by myself for a work trip (well the work trip was to Milan, and then I stayed a little longer and had the option to either go to Venice or to Switzerland, and I chose Venice, which I really truly loved, but I do feel I missed out on Switzerland just a tich. But had I gone to Switzerland, I would have probably felt I missed out on Venice, so there was no winning unless I stayed extra-extra long and did both, which I didn’t so oh well. The point of this segway is that while I was in Venice – alone – also, Venice is for lovers, so I do not recommend going alone – there is nothing to do without a lover except sleep at night and the streets roll up by 9 p.m. – but anyway, on my last morning in Venice I popped into a little cafe and had an espresso and a pastry and that chocolate tarty thing in a shortbread buttery crust was so fucking good, Reader, I bought a second one to take home to My Mister. That pastry traveled in a napkin in my bag on a train from Venice to Milan, spent the night with me in a small little chalet-type hotel where I’m happy to report I did not get murdered, took a taxi with me to the airport, went through security, got on the plane with me, flew 9-ish hours, went through customs at Newark, got on another plane with me and finally landed from the bottom of my bag and into My Mister’s mouth. Upon my arrival home, I held out this small, crumblie dessert and said, “Here….I brought you this from Venice,” and he was not as appreciative as one may think.  Initally. Until he tasted it.  Then, he was quite impressed. And wished there was more, because while I would like to report that I brought the whole thing home to him as his souvy, it was a long flight, Reader, and well, some of it probably got eaten.

Shew. I am hopped up on Sugars tonight. I just taste-tested another one of the treats.  Let’s do a report so we can all go to bed. Or if you’re reading this not at bed time, so you can get back to whatever is on your agenda after spending your minute here.

This is a good glimpse of the inside of that box. I pretended I was hosting a party while I was checking out, and actually I was… a party of one, STOP JUDGING ME.

I purchased one of their $3.99 Palmier’s to see how it compares to the 32 oz box of Petite Palmiers from Costco, because I think those Palmiers are delightful and they are only $10.49 for a giant amount.

Verdict: It is very good, but it is no better than the ones from Costco. Will not repurchase from Paris Baguette, will buy the DEAL from Costco because I’m frugal.

Next up: This thing.  I don’t know what it was called. Hold on, I just had the thought to look at my receipt.

Got it! King Cream Donut, $4.50.

Was it better than it looked? Yes, yes it fucking* was. It was better than you could even imagine an unassuming little blob of dough could be. My Mister finished the second half of it, and was shocked at it’s deliciousness.

*This pastry trip was so damn good, it’s getting all the swears and I don’t care. 

Next up: This thing, Chocolate Supreme Croissant, $5.49.

Here’s its insides:

Verdict: Good. Like, if this was the only thing I had from there, I’d be all Wowie! But it’s not as good as the other things so far, so it’s a won’t repurchase.

Another thing that I bought because you got six of them, Mini Grain Cream Cheese Pastry (6 pcs) $5.00. I felt like My Mister would approve this deal. Less than a buck a piece.

Reader. My least favorite thing.  It just seemed … dry, not cheesy, I don’t know. With so many better things to put in my mouth, this will not be repurchased.

It would be remiss of me NOT to have sampled a savory delight, so in the interest of good journalistic reporting, I present you with this: Four-Cheese Quiche, $4.50

Verdict: I ate the whole thing and didn’t even save My Mister a crumb. Sssshhh….don’t tell him. Will repurchase.

Now, don’t think for a minute, Reader, with your judgy judger brain, that I ate all the treats in this box, because I am a LADY with a delicate constitution and also Type 2, and good lawd, this really made me thirsty tonight.

I still have the following treats for another day:

Coffee Bun, $3.50. It sounds like a dish best served..with coffee. Morning Cake, another favorite reason to get outta bed.

Cream Cheese Pastry, $4.00.  Also a tomorrow thing. 

Well, Reader, after running down my What’s In the Box??? List, I have to say I am mostly surprised that I sampled or ate entirely everything except two things and for that I should be ashamed. I’m not. But I should be.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this trip to Paris by way of pastries I’ve had in my mouth, and it seems to be a theme I’m exploring this summer, as this was my second Paris-inspired pastry trip so far. I didn’t write about the first one only due to lack of time I spent writing, but that trip was to Tous Le Jour, and it also had some very delicious pastry (a mushroom/onion tartlet thingie was divine), but if both these places were vying for attention from Paul Hollywood, I think that Paris Baguette would get the handshake.**

**if you don’t watch the Great British Bakeoff, you won’t understand that reference, but I understand it and since I’m writing it, it stays. Writer’s choice.

And there you have it. I’m not sure what you have, mostly just learning about all the things I’ve had in my mouth in one day. Most of the things, anyway. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

(Reality: the only other thing that has been on my lips today is my kitten’s face, where I smooched the living daylights out of her once again). 

p.s. I did go to my water aerobics class this morning before I embarked on my ad-hoc journey to Paris, but I’m certain that the aerobics class did nothing to counter-balance all this. It was moo. Like a cows opinion. If you don’t get that pop-culture reference, well, you should be more ashamed than I am for eating my way through Paris in my own home today.

We think we know everything in my house, Reader. And what we really know is, WE DON’T KNOW ANYTHING.

The first thing I don’t know is, my font is WEIRD and not usual here, and I don’t know 1. why, 2. is it going to look normal when I publish this, and 3. is my computer punishing me for not being here since JUNE???

I believe my computer is punishing me.

It stopped charging for a while, so TG (thank garth) that my friendie makes sweet sweet love* to a tech genius and then I get the benefits. That truly IS the friends with benefits relationship that matters the most to me!

*First, they’re married so for all the Puritans** here, she’s allowed to make any kind of love she wants to him. I encourage her to do all the dirtiest things because I NEED TECH HELP!! Second, I’m not sure how sweet it actually is, I’m assuming, they both seem to really like each other after all these years.
**Second, we both know that no Puritans are here.

Anyway. Since My Mister has become the Shopper of the House, and shops for the blind guy down the street, and used to shop for an old woman (who has since died), whenever My Mister and I go grocery shopping together it is usually a battle.

I’m not allowed to buy what I want with my own money.

I know, right? It’s crazy.

Only HE KNOWS what’s a good deal and what IS NOT a good deal, because for a time he was in the grocery about four times a week.

I’m not disputing that. But. I am disputing that maybe I SHOULD IN FACT be able to buy the raspberries for two/$6, but NO I AM NOT allowed to make that purchase. That’s NOT a good deal. There’s a better deal at Meijer, they are 2 for $3, except I’m not at Meijer! But I don’t get the raspberries, because we are not Rockefellers.

You can swap out raspberries for any number of items: bologna, bacon, ice cream, pie…any number of things has to be THE DEAL or we’re not bringing it home.

I love a deal. I applaud the deals! But sometimes I want the thing when I’m THERE TO GET THE THINGS.

A few nights ago we popped into the store to pick up a few things for an impromptu company dinner at my house (the pork ribs, were in fact, on a DEAL that I managed to find all on my very own when I was shopping for GENERIC ice cream, because it’s the same ingredients [I checked] as the more expensive brands), and I planned ahead a few meals in my mind and bought the ingredients to make manicotti. Whew. That was a long way to get here.

While My Mister was shopping in another aisle, I browsed the spaghetti sauces and decided to sneak put the Rockefeller-priced $5.99 sauce in my cart because I was hooked on the marketing story of old “Chook” and how this sauce was crafted in their kitchens by Mary Iezzi…

…and frankly, if she crafted the sauce, why is Richard “Chook” Alberini’s name and photo on the jar and why isn’t it called Saucy Iezzi’s with her photo on the label, and now I’m mad ONCE AGAIN AT THE PATRIACHY and at ME for supporting it. Damn me. I blame My Mister for making me rush and sneak-shop.***

***I had to go and ask Almighty Google for more info, and apparently it’s a restaurant in OH, and Chook died, and all I really want to know more about is Mary Iezzi and her sauce and her feelings on this throw-away mention.

When My Mister saw me put the sauce up on the checkout belt, I guiltily and a little smugly stated, “This sauce is $5.99 and I’m buying it!”

My Mister: “Why would you spend $6 on sauce when we KNOW Aldi’s $1 sauce is the BEST.”

Trixie BB: “How do we actually know that it’s the BEST if we don’t try the others?”

MM: “Because we’ve had others! We don’t need to sample all others to know that it’s good.”

Trixie BB: “Tell ya what. Let’s stop and get a jar of the Aldi sauce and I’ll make 1/2 the pan with Aldi cheap-o sauce and 1/2 with Mary Ibezzi’s sauce.”

So that’s what we did, Reader, and we officially conducted an unofficial blindish taste-off in the Chez Bang Bang’s Kitchen. It was blindish, because I had to know which was which, So I couldn’t truly judge, although I did try to make my opinion honest.

Nothing fancy was added to either sauce. Just pure sauces poured into the pan, 1/2 on each side.

I stuffed the manicotti, then used my fresh basil to mark each side. Small pieces for Chook, large pieces for not-a-dollar-any-longer-we’re-now-$1.69-thanks-BIDEN-for-your-fucking-tariffs Aldi sauce.

Into the oven they went.

I did have My Mister test the cold sauce right out of the jar.

MM: “Well, this one has a lot more flavors going on, I have to admit it – it just tastes more expensive. It’s the $6 sauce.”

Trixie: “Well, you’re wrong. That’s the Aldi sauce.”

I tasted them cold as well and had to admit the Aldi sauce was more flavorful. Would cooking them change our opinion?

The results are in, and the answer is:  When cooked, straight up, the $1.69 Aldi sauce with no fancy story tasted almost the same as the $6 Mary Ibezzi’s sauce.

My nephew came down and had a bite from each side, and flat-out declared the $6 sauce better.

Did we reach a conclusion then? Yes, yes we did, Reader.

For the minuscule difference in taste, we will be purchasing the $1.69 Aldi sauce for my home base when I’m not crafting sauce out of crushed tomatoes.  We aren’t Rockefellers.