The Best Damn Apple Cake Ever.

So, ever since my brother-in-law, AC, got divorced a year or so ago, my husband has taken to inviting him over for dinner every now and then. Yesterday, we had a surfeit of bratwurst, so the WCM invited AC over. I sauteed a lot of sliced onion, then simmered them with the bratwurst in lager for about 40 minutes. I made my very favorite red cabbage with bacon and goat cheese, and whipped up my late mother-in-law's famous mashed potatoes. That woman was a nasty piece of work sometimes, but she made ass-kicking mashed potatoes.

So, the mind wandered a bit while I was mentally making preparations to produce this epicurian feast, and asked my consciousness what I was going to serve for dessert with this meal? Hmmm, said consciousness, how about an apple cake? You've got lots of apples to use up, why not make them even yummier with cake? Mind responded with a mental two-thumbs-up and we were all resolved that apple cake it was to be.

So here's how it was accomplished:

I preheated my oven to 350 degrees.

Then, I took a stick of butter and melted it in my medium-sized frying pan. To this, I added six peeled, cored, sliced apples, and sauteed them for about 5 minutes. Then, I added one half cup of white sugar, 2 tablespoons of ground cinnamon, and one quarter cup of packed brown sugar, and let this bubble away for a while - about 15 minutes - until there was a lovely cinnamon caramel sauce. I turned the heat off, arranged the apples with two forks so that there was a single layer in a rough concentric-circle pattern, and prepared the cake batter.

You need:

1 stick of butter
1.5 c. sugar
1/2 c. canola oil
1 teaspoon vanilla

3 eggs

1/2 c. milk
1 teaspoon vinegar or lemon juice

1.5 c. flour
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
dash ground cinnamon

(See how those ingredients are separated? There's a reason for that!)

Cream the first set of ingredients together until you've got a smooth mixture. Add the vinegar to the milk. Combine the last four ingredients together in a smallish bowl. Then, you're going to add these ingredients in a round-robin fashion in three batches: one egg, stir, a splash of milk, stir, a bit of flour, stir, and keep going until you've used up all your eggs, milk, and flour. (a normal person would've said to combine, alternating wet and dry ingredients, but y'all know that I'm not normal!)

Pour the cake batter on top of the apples in the skillet and spread it out until it covers them completely. Put the whole shebang in the oven for about 40 minutes, or until the top's a golden crackly brown and you can stick a toothpick in the center of the cake and have it come out clean.

Let the cake sit for about 15 minutes and try not to pick of the crunchy edges. I know, they're damn near irresistible, but you're going to have to try. Slap a platter on top of that skillet, flip it, and unmold the cake. Be careful, because the caramel on the bottom of the pan is still liquid and you don't want to scald yourself!

Let it cool all of the way - or, if you're like me, most of the way - before slicing it up and devouring with with your choice of beverage. I recommend milk, personally, but it would pair wonderfully with tea (Earl Grey. Hot. Make it so!).

Hey, didja hear that?

Didja? Huh? Didja hear that?

Listen very closely, now, as you'll soon hear it again.

Wait for it...

Here it comes...

AAAAAaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..........

Summer vacation is here.

Tomorrow is a day where I have NOTHING to do. Nothing planned, nothing required beyond a few phone calls in the morning. NOTHING.

I'm looking forward to it.

So, how've you all been?

Small Change

Standard disclaimer: not my real life, this is a strict work of fiction, from the fertile and twisted brain of a very horny woman...

Usually I am the dominant one - the one who cannot sit still or wait to touch. I approach, reach out, capture and still with my body. Impatient to feel, craving the silken burn of his hands and lips, I rush to begin and take the aggressor's role. Rarely is satisfaction so pleasingly wrought as when I work for it thus. The control of it calls to me, the power and mastery of the situation fulfill me. Almost as rewarding as my own climax is the knowledge that I caused another's.

This day, though, he made me wait. Not physically restrained, but held off by his regard and posture, I waited, wondering what lay unsaid between us. Head to the side, I stood in my delicate heels, attending his desire. An eyebrow arched, a devilish smile, his hands lifted and caged my jaw, angling my head and drawing me forward to meet his mouth. One hand slid further into my hair, firmly anchoring my mouth to his. The other hand traced down my back, pulling me closer to his promise of pleasure. My own hands flew to his shoulders, seeking balance, and searched for his shirt buttons, fumbling ineffectually at my attempts to uncover his body. Breaking the kiss, shaking his head, he murmured a playfully disapproving "no." He slid his hands around my waist and untied my dress. As it unfolded and slid noiselessly to the floor, he slipped my lacy camisole over my head, tossing it carelessly on the puddled dress.

He stepped back to survey his work, and I ducked my head and fought to keep my hands by my sides instead of crossing them protectively over my scarred midriff. Two fingers on my chin raised my face. his gentle "stop it" rang loudly through my head - loud enough to straighten my spine and square my shoulders. "We'll keep the heels," he stated decisively. "Everything else goes." My eyes, shocked, flew up to his. Never had I bared myself completely to him. I had always covered part of myself. My fingers trembled as he stepped behind me to unhook my bra. As it slithered down my torso, he cupped my breasts from behind, feeling their weight, teasing their sensitive tips with his thumbs. My head fell back against his shoulder as I absorbed the caress. his lips cruised my shoulder up to my ear, leaving a tingling trail that tightened those peaks further.

His palms flattened on my ribcage and slid inward and down, firmly pressing my soft abdomen, feeling the scarred ridges left there, holding me immobile. As his one hand quietly made its way under the elastic of my panties, the other cupped my jaw and twisted my head, granting him access to my mouth. I welcomed his tongue as I welcomed his long fingers, both thrusting inward, invading my body. My hips gyrated with the rhythm he set, brushing his hard length behind me. I sagged back against him as he withdrew his fingers, but jerked upright when he knotted his hand in my lacy underpants and ripped them from me.

"The bed," he muttered and tilted his head toward the snowy duvet, soft as a cloud. Not sure of his intent, I perched my bottom on the edge of it. "Further back," he instructed softly. I watched, fascinated, unsure, as he sat on the edge of the bed and slid his hands from my ankles to my knees. As he parted them, arranging them akimbo, I fell back, supporting myself on my elbows. The delicate, tentative swipe of his tongue against my most sensitive flesh raised gooseflesh and pulled a moan from deep inside me. Murmurs, pleas, exhortations to the supernatural passed my lips in no random or coherent order. I could only feel his mouth and hands on me, lips sure and firm one second, soft and tender the next, slowly building the pressure within me.

The burn began at my knees, slowly surrounding me in torpor. The slide of two long fingers inside me released the burn, and it streaked like wildfire up my legs, coalescing at the juncture of my thighs. My head thrashed on the pillow, my body convulsed helplessly, consumed completely by the stark, sheer pleasure he brought me. As I regained enough strength to lift my head and peer down at him, I saw more of that impish devilment in his eyes and wondered idly what more he could have in store for me...

Runaway

Whoops!

See the thing is, I got really busy recently. First, I took up this running thing (still not a fan, by the way), and then I got a social life with some visiting friends, and then I got sick (upper respiratory infection, ick!), then I found this trilogy of cowboy romances and just didn't even turn on the computer for, like 2 days, and do you know how many Facebook notifications you get if you don't log on for 2 days?

And don't even let me mention how busy May is for me in school terms - and the last two weeks are killer, what with Senior Final exams, being a single parent for a weekend while the WCM goes searching for the preserved remains of deceased crustaceans in upstate New York, then regular final exams, then packing everything up, then getting my grades in, then finally, about the second week of June, just being able to lean back and go "AAaaaahaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh" with a tall glass of iced tea and a cookie.

So, I'm ready to run away for a while and hope I don't wig out too badly before that blessed second week of June.

Running

In the past, if you've been reading a while, you may have heard me wax rhapsodic over Pilates. I've enthused about the Wii fit, as well. I may even have penned a sonnet or two about walking, though it was more on the ability to do so than on any enjoyment received from such.

Just recently, I've started running, as I want to do that 5 K. I can promise you, I believe, to never wax lyrical about the joys of running. Quite frankly, it's almost more than I can manage to get one foot in front of the other in a synchronized fashion and propel myself forwards into motion. I can just about run a quarter of a mile all at once now. While shamefully proud of this rather negligible accomplishment, I will tell you that the joy is only in the accomplishing it and not in the actually doing it.

Frankly, I have always thought that the process of doing something - for a hobby, mind you, not professionally - was far more important than the end result. For me, I have always found more enjoyment in the creation of a scrapbook page than I ever have in regarding the finished page itself. The crocheting is more fun than smoothing the finished afghan on my lap, and the reading of the book, getting lost in the words and the story, are far more delectable than merely finishing the requisite number of pages.

I am struggling, therefore, with running. I want to like it, as it's a very healthy habit that I'd like to be able to adopt. Many of my friends are running now, and I'd like, literally, to keep up with them. However, for the life of me, I can find no joy in doing it.

GTFO!!

You know, sometimes I really wonder why certain people became teachers. They whine, bitch, moan, complain, kvetch, and kvell so damned much about every little stinking thing - the students included - that you don't half think they'd have made far better use of their lives doing something like, oh, selling insurance or cleaning the streets or scooping poop in public dog parks.

See, there was this faculty meeting after school today. It was unusually long, as there've been a lot of issues raised recently regarding our governor's controversial wage cut for all state employees. People are understandably grumpy about it - after all, who in their right mind ever welcomes a ten percent reduction in salary? Yeah, that's right: nobody. However, there was one complete castrating bitch strident harridan today that just had to pipe up about the plight of the teacher. You know, how we don't receive paid holidays, take work home all the time, and are generally unappreciated.

Ok, so sure, she has a point. However, there are some perks - at least for me, personally - that make up for those things.

• One, I don't ever have to work on my birthday. It's during the summer. I have a whole summer free - sure, I don't get paid for it (although it seems like it, since I elect to spread my salary over the 12 months instead of taking it only during the 10 months of the year that I'm in the classroom), but then nobody can compel me to set foot into my classroom on that day.
• Two, I get to exercise my creativity on a daily basis. I'm not stuck in a cubicle, chained to a computer, slogging through reports and figures. I tried the cubicle-farm wage slave thing and didn't like it. The soul-deadening experience was not an experience I want to repeat.
• Three, I actually get paid to do something I love. During my very first teaching job, where I didn't have direct-deposit and had to pick up an actual paycheck every week, I routinely forgot about payday. The school secretary would chase me down to give me my money. It was, and still remains, somewhat of a bonus to me - I get paid to come to school every day.

All of this doesn't mean that I don't actually work, because I do. I work hard. It just means that I love what I do. This colleague of mine, well, let me just tell you that this is her second career. She started in industry and has come to teaching through the alternative route to certification. I think it's time for a reminder to smack her upside the head: if, once you've been teaching for a couple of years, you find yourself lamenting the downsides of the classroom and longing for the cubicle, just remember - you're not tied to the profession. If you don't love it, then do us ALL a giant favor and GET THE FUCK OUT ALREADY!!!! Quit your goddamn bitching, STFU, and get on with your life. Nobody wants to hear it, I promise you! You are obviously not cut out for teaching and should do something a little more personally financially rewarding for you.

Thus endeth my rant. Thank you for listening.

Hot and Delicious

Did you ever have a day when you got exactly what you wanted and needed at exactly the moment you both wanted and needed it?

I had that day today. It was a Professional Day, which meant no students in the school so teachers could get their grades in the computers. After a morning of hard graft grading papers, I stumbled down to the Work Husband's classroom nearly incoherent with hunger, and stood in front of him, wild-haired and dead-eyed, mumbling "Food. Me. You. Now."

Bless him, he chuckled at me and took me to lunch at the diner down the road. A quick glance at the menu inspired me to order the Cheesesteak Wrap. Now, if you're not from around Philly, you're not going to know the glory of a cheesesteak. This is a sandwich made from very thinly sliced beef that's been thrown on a grill and shredded by two metal spatulas until it resembles a pile of brown rags. This is then slathered in cheese and cushioned on a soft long Italian roll. I prefer mine with fried onions, American cheese, and thick lashings of ketchup. This was what I had today, but in a wrap, not a roll.

People, it was hot, juicy, meaty, thick, salty, greasy, and delicious. It was everything I needed in that exact moment, and completely satisfied me in a way that very few things have ever managed to do. Gawd. I'm shaking right now just remembering it. Mmmmmmmm...

So, fortified by both the food and the convivial conversation - the Work Husband is not the Work Husband merely for his looks alone, you see - I was able to very nearly finish my work today. All in all, it was a very nice way to come back to school.