We Are We Are We Are Mature

I'm like the McGyver of Bronze Age dairy products.

Yogurt warmers hold six cups. Considering the time and trouble involved in a batch of yogurt, the yield has to be a little more persuasive. After a little study of the average temperatures of yogurt warmers and food warming trays, I realized those temperatures weren’t even shouting distance from one another, so I thought about things in your house meant to safely generate some heat safely for long periods of time and stumbled on heating pads. I took an old, old roasting pan, lined it with cloth napkins and tested the temperature of water in a one quart Pyrex measuring cup and found it stayed consistently in the right range for as long as I needed. So. With careful stacking, I can get two pints and twelve 1-cup containers into the lined roaster, which is plenty of yogurt for just shy of two weeks. Also, I’m glad I had more to work with than a few paper clips.

Yet Every Distance Is Not

Four cases of tomatoes disguised as thirty-six jars of sauce, diced tomatoes and roasted halves. Don't be fooled by their mild manner: they are BADASS.

Ice Is Slowly Melting

Though I promised Reverend Billy of the Church of Earthalujah I’d only buy free-range thongs and locally grown bras, I admit to backsliding so my ample rack wouldn’t, by which I mean bras were on sale at Stein Mart and I bought three. They were probably made in China but I can’t read the tag pressed up against my yoga-toned back muscles. Is it hot in here or is Climate Change happy to see me?

This chart is full of untasty surprises.

Tomatoes? How can yogurt and cheese be so different?

The report is worth reading, mostly for the purposes of review. You know how it is: you read something, your brain knits into socks you recognize in your mental sock drawer, then a year later, your brother-in-law tells you everyone has always worn striped tights. You know it’s not true, but how do you prove he’s a raving nutburger? So read the report.

You Tell Me What’s Going

When I saw the commercial for this, I growled, “Grrrr. Ruh roh.” I don’t have to see this movie to know it’s bad news. For crying out loud, it’s called The Help, which, if you know anything about using or have ever used words yourself, should tell you this movie is the latest in a long series in which White folks tell you all about Black folks.

It will not startle you to discover I am not alone in feeling that way. Further, that Oprah loves it in 2011 caused me to frown until I developed a headache, which helped me forget where I read about Oprah. About that, I have mixed feelings.