Receipes of the Year, or, Vincent's Favorite

I've been planning several "Year In Review" posts for two or three months now. Best Books of 2008. Best Movies of 2008. Best New Albums of 2008. Best "Your Mom" jokes of 2008. Best Moment of 2009 (which is undoubtedly going to be January 2nd at the Sugar Bowl). Anyway, you get the picture. Like I said, I've been planning these for a while now. Yet with the few free moments I have, writing blog posts just is not a priority. Best Night's Sleep of 2009 keeps getting priority. Sorry you two. I'm sure you've survived without a new update.

So, without further ado, here are a couple of the best recipes cooked in 2009. Tthe first two are new to me this year. Odd, I think, that all three are desserts. While all three of these qualify as my favorite dessert, a friend told me that this first one was his favorite bar-none. Restaurants included. I hope you like it too.


Ameree's Mtn. Dew Apple Turnovers

2 cans Crescent rolls
2 Granny apples, peeled and cut into eighths

2 sticks melted butter
1 1/2 Cup sugar
1 Tablespoon Vanilla

1 can Mtn. Dew

Wrap apple pieces in crescent roll pieces and lay in 9x13 pan.
In medium sauce pan, melt butter and stir in sugar until just mixed. Add vanilla. Pour over rolls. Pour most of a can of Mountain Dew all over into dish. (I do all but about two swallows. Otherwise they aren't quite flaky enough).
Bake 350 F for 40 minutes. Remove from oven.
Sprinkle with cinnamon.

These things are awesome, and they go really quickly, so be sure to get one early.



Jenny's Bread Pudding

Pudding
2 loaves white bread, cut off crusts, cut in cubes
1 1/2 Cup sugar
4 eggs, beaten
1 1/4 cup heavy whipping cream
1 1/2 cup milk
1 stick butter


Caramel Sauce
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 stick butter
1 cup corn syrup
1 1/3 cup heavy cream

Caramel Sauce: combine sugars, corn syrup & butter in sauce pan over medium heat. Remove from heat and add cream.


Mix all the pudding ingredients except bread. Fold in bread. Put in non-stick 9x13 pan. Pour 1/2 cup of caramel sauce on top. Bake 350 F for 30 minutes. Rotate pan 180 degrees in oven. Bake 30 minutes more until golden brown on top. Pour remainder of carmel sauce on top. Serve with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream.

This is really tasty but super-rich. People can't usually handle too large a piece, so this will feed more people than you'd expect.



Mom's Strawberry Cream Cheese Cake

1/2 white box cake mix, bake ~15 minutes.

Whip 1 pint cream, add 1/2 cup powdered sugar.
Whip 8 oz cream cheese with 1 cup powdered sugar.
Fold cream and cream cheese together. Spread over cake.
1 pkg danish junket with 1 1/2 cup water. Put as many strawberry slices as will fit on top of cream. Pour junket over top while still hot. Chill and serve.

This has been my personal favorite for the last 10 years. The apple turnovers might be edging it out currently, but I don't know if they can hold on to the lead once the novelty wears off.

Sacrament of the Damned, or, Folgers in the Sacrament Cup, or, Gone Fishing

I was nine years old when I became a hardened sinner.

Grandpa wanted to teach me to fly fish, so we planned a weekend trip – just the two of us. I loved him, of course, but this particular grandparent was more intimidating than the mean-old-lady-substitute-Primary-teacher.

We rode up in Grandpa’s ancient diesel VW Vanagon – a vehicle never known for its stealth. Add to that the fact that, due to a childhood illness, Grandpa was deaf in his right ear, and it becomes clear why all our conversations sounded like a shouting match. But though these barriers to communication were high, they did not stop Grandpa from hollering a few jokes at me as we puttered north from Salt Lake. Jokes I would never repeat to my mother.

“What was the last thing to go through that bug’s brain?” he barked, pointing at a particularly large red-green splotch on his windshield.

“I don’t know,” I shouted. “What?”

“His anus.”

We got to the fishing hole before dark, time enough to pull in a few rainbows. Gramps did not have a pair of waders small enough for me. So I got to “cowboy up, kid.” Even in mid-summer, the water was icy, and numbed my skinny legs quickly. Grandpa had attached a billy club to his waders. He used it to crush the fish’s head as he pulled it out of the water. As for me, billy clubless, I was just supposed to break the fish’s back with my bare hands.

Fishing was rapidly losing its allure.

Finally, the sun sank below the horizon and I gratefully followed Grandpa to the van, shivering the whole way. We drove to a parking lot, warmed up a nice dinner of pork and beans, and retired for the night. I knew that a full day of fishing awaited us tomorrow. A day full of fire and brimstone, damnation and hellfire, because God had me in his scope, and was about to pull the trigger.

I woke as Gramps fried up some of the previous night’s catch. I still have no concept of his actual skill at cooking trout –I’ve never been able to bring myself to try one again. I picked at my fish for some time while he worked at the stove, fiddling with a strange, tall pot that had a transparent bubble on top. The clear bubble flashed brown occasionally, letting off strange gurgling noises, too. After a few minutes, Gramps finally poured me a mug of whatever it was. Pushing the mug across the breakfast table he muttered, “Here’s some sugar, if you want it.”

I was nine. Of course I wanted sugar! I wanted even more after I tried Grandpa’s new drink. Could he make nothing that tasted decent? A liberal dousing of sugar was the only thing that made the drink passable. I stopped pretending to eat the fish, and nursed this new breakfast drink instead. It soon became clear, however, that I had scrimped on the sugar. So I added more after every few sips and quickly found the point of diminishing returns: the sugar stopped helping. The drink became cold.

There I sat, longing for the pork and beans of the night before, picking at a mauled trout fillet, playing with a half-cup of brown swill swimming over a bed of undissolved sugar, when Grandpa’s harsh voice scolded me:

“What, you’re gunna be a damn Mormon brat and not drink your coffee, either?”

Suddenly the reality of Grandpa’s bitter brown liquid became horribly clear. I sat dumbstruck; my mouth suddenly glued shut. A flood of Primary lessons came rushing back to me. “The Lord has given us these bodies. They are holy temples. And cursed is he who defiles a Temple of the Lord,” I could hear Sister Purplehair declaring, “How would you feel if someone spray-painted graffiti all over the Salt Lake Temple? Well, that’s how Heavenly Father feels when we don’t respect our bodies!”

And here I was pouring filth straight into my temple!

My mind was racing. “Coffee! How could you be so blind, Bryce? Maybe you wanted to be blind. You wanted to be led away in sin. You wanted to walk close to the edge. Well, you’ve done it now. You’ve walked up to the edge and jumped right off. I sure hope Hell is nice this time of year. Hello, Brother Lucifer, long time no see.”

Plainly, I had become one of the vilest of sinners. But I did not want anyone else to know my shameful secret. The seriousness of my sin swirled in my mind as the water lapped around my legs that Saturday in the fishing hole. That my fallen, sinful, and horrifying state should be kept from my family, and especially my parents, was painfully clear to me. The first few years of my deception turned out to be easier than I had feared. I was not due for my next bishop’s interview until I was 12; and not having the priesthood meant no monthly PPI’s questioning my worthiness.

The Sacrament, however, was a challenge. My education in this area had been quite complete. You were NOT supposed to partake of the Sacrament if you were not worthy, unless you wanted to ensure your own damnation, of course. Woe unto him who eateth unworthily and what-not. I knew that I had already bought my ticket to the underworld, but I did not need any more flight insurance.

So I developed a strategy to hide my shameful status as a Sacrament non-partaker. When passed to me, I would pinch the bread between thumb and forefinger (right hand, of course!), bring it toward my mouth, and deftly palm the piece of bread. It could then be slipped inconspicuously into a pocket while a bit of artful misdirection on my part – pretending to chew and swallow – completed the illusion. That was the easy part. Smooth sailing to this point. I was a David Copperfield in training. I could make anything disappear. Until the next tray arrived.

Water. It was just an ounce or so, but it was a liquid ounce. I could not simply palm and pocket this. Nor could I merely pass the tray untouched. The whole ward would obviously see that. Neither could I just press the cup to my lips, as Pops would surely notice. I had no choice but to actually allow the water to enter into my mouth. Only then could I evade detection as the whited sepulcher that I had become. But once in my mouth, it was imperative that it not proceed down my throat to water the seed of damnation inside me.

I was a skinny, limber child and could easily double over on the pew. It seems only obvious that I would assume this reverent, contemplative pose after taking the water. Letting the water trickle out from my mouth onto my knee thus became child’s play. My father, who could detect whether or not water had been sipped from the small paper cup, would never notice the four inch wet spot on my knee. Or, if all else failed, I could wait until the Sacrament was over, go out into the foyer, run the drinking fountain, and place my lips into the stream of clean water . Only then would I allow the damning water to dribble out of my mouth and down the drain.

This continued for three years.

As I neared my twelfth birthday, I became aware of an upcoming event that could bring my house of cards crashing down around me: the required interview with the Bishop prior to my ordination to the Priesthood. I had the Articles of Faith down pat, but I had no idea what questions the Bishop would ask me or what the consequences would be for failing to answer one correctly. Public humiliation? Denial of the priesthood? I did not know, but my conscience was not completely seared by my wicked past. I resolved that I would not tell a lie to the Bishop. I knew I was already in deep enough.

The bulk of the interview passed without note—my worries were for naught—until that damning last question. The one designed to catch sinners like me.

Yes, there were things in my life that would keep me from receiving the Priesthood.

Lower-lip quivering, my mouth opened. And though the powers of hell conspired against me, making the walls close in around me, my throat dry up, and my stomach clench, I confessed.

I can still hear the Bishop laughing.

My Country, Tis of Thee, or, Go UTES!, or, Oh, Canada!

In true American style, as a self-declared patriot, I declare that if the nation does not vote The University of Utah Utes the National Champions of the National Collegiate Athletic Association Football Bowl Subdivision, I am moving to Canada.

Word of the Time Period

Koro.

Worth googling. I promise.

It's A Really Great Song, But I Wouldn't Like It, or, An Open Letter, or, Ways to Antagonize Your Audience

Dear Sir or Madame Whose Blog I Occasion,

Why do you people think you have better taste in music than I do?

I've got news for you. You don't.

Believe it or not, I don't actually want to listen to your music while reading your blog. Not now. Not ever. I'd rather listen to a) the quiet whir of the heater under my desk, b) my own music, c) that "It's Delilah" crap 24-7, d) a dentist's drill, or e) basically ANYTHING other than your particular music. It's amazing how opposite our taste in music clearly is. I won't begrudge you treating yourself to that slop, but it's like you are making me pay a tax with my ears for the privilege of viewing your blog. Maybe it's just my fiscally conservative upbringing, but I just don't think the public will tolerate this particular type of taxation much longer. So, please, if you love our great country, get rid of those auto-play songs!

Now, as most reasonable people have discovered, providing people with music they can choose to listen to whilst perusing your blog is acceptable webehaviour. But removing my choice in the matter? Forcing me to listen to your music, which invariably stinks wore that tarry-black-red-brown gunk that comes out of someones nose 2 weeks after sinus surgery, while my browser is aimed at your blog? That sounds awfully similar to communism, and smells worse than the Tijuana dump. Hopefully people come to their senses quicker than Castro. Because communism kills, people. Communism kills.

Sincerely,

Peetie

Crack Cocaine, Marijuana, and Jazz Music, or, Family Practice = TV Time Out, or, People Are Crazy

I'm at a Family Medicine clinic this month, which means my hours are, as my friend Matthew would put it, sweet. Which means I started a new TV show that someone recommended a long time ago. It's a little Canadian show called Corner Gas. I haven't seen enough to give it my own endorsement, but the opening was probably the best I've ever seen. Judge for yourself.




And they have a Wallflowers song during the title sequence.

Sweet. Except . . . I thought Canadians were supposed to be all nice and polite and stuff . . .



Also, I found a couple of new comic sites to add to my Google Reader. A Softer World is awesome. They are consistently hilarious, if you are a bad person. Another which is usually pretty funny is Married To The Sea. The other day their comic reminded me of some of our patients.

We've Never Lost a Fireside!, or, Going Bowling, or, GO UTES!

Poor taste?



Add salt. Makes it better.

Things Worth Staying Up For, or, Go UTES!

What's the best way to cap off a 14 hour day at school?



It didn't even feel that early the next morning.

When I Grow Up, or, My Thoughts Exactly

People keep asking me what type of physician I want to be. I'm still not very sure, but that decision needs to be made in the next 6 months.

If I had to go back and do it again, I would, and I would want to become just like Robert Kirby. The guy is the most consistently awesome writer since, well, Dave Barry. Sortof. Agree or disagree with his content, he pulls this off masterfully.

http://www.sltrib.com/lds/ci_10809759

Robert Kirby, Salt Lake Tribune

A couple of years ago, I wrote a column in which I announced my official position on gay marriage. Basically, I don't care.

Not only do I not care if gays get married, it is none of my business. As a flaming heterosexual, it's a full-time job for me just to keep my thoughts clean in church. I don't have the energy to fret about somebody else's libido.

The column must have resurfaced on the Internet. I'm getting mail again telling me what a failure I am as a Mormon because I'm not solidly behind Proposition 8. As I understand it, the California ballot item would prevent the domestication of homosexuals. Or something like that.

Here are just a few of the attempts to get me to see reason.

"Are you a member or not? Do you want gays to get married in the temple? Please follow the brotheren's [sic] council [sic] on Proposition 8. This is a important gospel principal [sic]." G., e-mail.

"No unclean thing can enter the house of the Lord. Gays are unclean because of the Scriptures. You have to be hot or cold about it or the Lord will spat you out." T., e-mail.

"Were you listening in church when the letter was read from the First Presidency about supporting proposition eight?" R.Y., e-mail.

"Get with Prop 8 or your [sic] a homo." Anonymous, letter.

Hard as it is to counter such brilliant logic, my position hasn't changed. The only serious concern I have about gays getting married is that they'll register someplace pricey.

The church is serious about the sanctity of marriage. I get that. But aren't more potentially "dangerous" marriages already being performed out there?
For example, I hear in church all the time about marriage being ordained of God.
But I also hear about how the glory of God is intelligence.

Shouldn't it be against the law for stupid people to get married? What's more harmful to society - two well-dressed men getting married and settling down, or two idiots tying the knot and cranking out any number of additional idiots?

You should have to pass a harder test to get married than the one we currently have. Essentially, there are but two questions: "How old are you?" and "Is that your sister?" Hell, you could pass this test just by guessing.

There are drawbacks. Most people get married when hormones and youth make them about as dumb as they'll ever be. So, even a relatively easy test would by default raise the age limit to about 40.

With an increased marriage age limit, there would be fewer births. Genealogy would become easier to do. With fewer births, there would be fewer children born gay. Hey, isn't that what Heavenly Father would want?

OK, I was just kidding about that. But if you're really serious about putting a stop to gay sex, let them get married.

Sappy, Sentimental, and/or Sincere

http://apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap080722.html

Worthwhile five minute study break.

Why It's Cool To Be Marginalized, or, Woe Unto the . . . Gullible?

It becomes so easy to screw with people when you're part of a marginally acceptable group. For whatever reason, I was eating a donut during a meeting this morning. With a spoon. A friend of mine was next to me, and thought it awful strange.

I told him that Mormons believe that eating things with our hands makes the food dirty, allowing Satan to take control of our bodies.

Hook.

Line.

Sinker.

Of course this kind of thing is always followed with, "You know I'm joking, right?" I'm sure my friends are just trying to be polite to the religious nut-jobs, and I know it's not nice to take advantage of that, but it sure is a lot of fun screwing with people.

Going to Hell?, or, Dating, or, What are you up to this weekend?

To quote a recent friend,

"Isn't it fun that we are at the point in our lives that everyone is scared for our eternal salvation so they try to hook us up with everyone they know! Cuz you know that when we hit thirty we are doomed, right? [. . .] But you, I'm afraid are a bit closer...you should work on that before you burn!"

Serious and slightly depressing, or, Life in general

So, I have no idea how to handle a certain situation I have been facing weekly, if not daily. This morning's ride in the elevator up to my hospital floor illustrates perfectly, I believe.

Entering the elevator with only a few other people, I smile at the 50-60 yr old woman, holding two cups of coffee. Saying hello, I ask, "How are you?"

Turns out that trivialities like that, when wearing a white coat, are not taken as such. The woman replied, "Well, they're taking my grand-daughter off of everything today, and they're just going to let her go."

__________________________________


What do you do? I mean, what in the world is there to do?


__________________________________



I said, "Oh, I'm so sorry." and I was.

I felt bad for her and her family.

I also felt bad that I'd asked the question, and I also felt bad that I was wearing the white coat.

Why the animosity towards the white coat? Not only because it is the fomite from hell, but because it made her want to share about the little baby, who was about to die.

And "they" were the ones doing it.

And "they" wear white coats too.

Just like me.

__________________________________

On a related note, is there a good way to walk out of a dieing person's room and say, "Have a good day"?




I realize this is disjointed. I should rework this instead of posting it immediately. But I'd rather not dwell on this anymore than I already have. I'll attempt humor again in the next post.

OVERHEAD LINES: A New Fetish? A Truly Potent Potable?

Guy, to guy: Dude, you doing the Elk Urine?

(The capitalization was audible).

10 more days; 10 DAYS MORE!

OVERHEAD LINES: Umm, what?

Woman to man: Can you saran-wrap her? I can't get to her right now.

Two recommended reads

I came across two articles in the past couple of days that I really enjoyed. The first is by Robert Kirby, who is a great tongue-in-cheek writer for the SLTrib. For anyone not aware of the Trek phenomena that seem so popular among Mormon youth groups, be grateful.

Kirby: Crossing the plains was a pain
Robert Kirby
Tribune columnist
Article Launched: 06/21/2008 12:00:00 AM MDT

My great-great-grandfather Korihor Kirby trekked to Zion in 1855. He brought along my three grandmas, a regiment of children, two oxen, a dog, a sack of mustard seed and a banjo with a set of teeth marks in it.
The fact that they crossed the plains at all is the only resemblance my ancestors' experience has with the correlated version of what transpired. That we came at all is either a miracle or a misunderstanding.
The popular history of the great Mormon migration is one of vast hardship endured through faith and prayer. There were miracles aplenty along the way - food falling out of the sky, unseen Nephite spirits helping pull the wagons, and babies born in bison stampedes.
I concede that such things probably happened, but not that they were the rule. All sorts of Mormon personalities crossed the plains, including my family.
According to Grandpa Korihor's daily ledger titled Brethren That Owe Me Money, he wasn't exactly wild about coming to Utah. He liked Nauvoo. From his own pencil stub:
"Sun. May 20 (1855) - Church. Another discourse about gathering unto Zion. Am NOT going."
"Tues., June 5 - Dance. Pres. Pratt unduly attentive to Sister Grimm. Ministered unto him with banjo and fist."
"Wed., June 6 - Sold tavern. Leave for Deseret in morning. Anyone not in wagon gets left."
My grandmothers'journals contain mostly domestic observations about the overland trail, how hard it was to wash clothes, feed children, and keep the wagon clean during Family Wagon Evenings.
Grandma Meany occasionally took the time to pen her spiritual convictions, all of them heartfelt essays about how much God hated her husband.
"July ? - Delivered another child in the rain. It's what I get for marrying a Telestial spirit."
This isn't to say that my ancestors didn't receive divine help getting to Utah, just not the kind you'll read about in Ensign magazine. From Korihor's ledger:
"Aug. 1, Platte River - Mustard mush gone. Children clamorous about remaining distance. Went river pray for deliverance or drown self. Pelican hit by lightning. Dined on same. Beak and feet to bishop for tithing. Lord good but not overly generous."
My ancestors arrived in Salt Lake City Sept. 22, 1855, having taken nearly twice as long to cross the plains as the average Mormon.
Today, Mormon youth re-enact the pioneer trek as a way of understanding what it took to build Zion. Four grueling days of pushing a handcart across Wyoming teaches them something, I guess. Reading about it is enough for me.
It's not enough for my editor, though. She called me into her office today and told me to go buy a hat and a bucket of sunscreen because, "We're sending you to cover one of the LDS treks next month."
rkirby@sltrib.com

The second is by a blogger over at madhousewife.wordpress.com, and while the whole article was fine, it was two paragraphs that I really liked. Most of you know there are types of Mormons that drive me nuts. This woman hits the nail on the head with one of those types.

This is not a Mormon blog. It’s a blog written by a Mormon lady who occasionally goes all Mormony on you. I enjoy mocking my own culture sometimes–not to be all subversive and in your face, but because that’s just how I roll. I mock because I love. I love being a Mormon, and I love Mormondom in general. That doesn’t mean I’m blind to the church’s flaws and weaknesses, in its leadership and/or its membership. Some people wonder why, considering all my doubts and alleged square-peggishness, a sarcastic suckhead like me sticks with an institution that is designed for cookie-cutter sheep-type people with great teeth and awesome hair. Well, the fact is I am not that special, I don’t like my boat rocked, and my teeth and hair are pretty great, if not outstanding. But it comes down to this: the church is my home. Mormons are my family. We’ve got our skeletons and our crazy Aunt Myrtles. I can take good-natured jokes about this stuff because I’m willing to own the kooks and the skeletons. And in turn I can joke about it because I have such deep affection for the community–an affection I think is obvious to anyone who reads me without prejudice.

It is not obvious to a certain subset of Mormons, people who think being Mormon means never having to be ironic. I’m sorry that you people are irony-deficient. I wish there were a supplement you could take, because then you wouldn’t leave random comments on my site telling me that I’m bigoted and have no manners. This happens from time to time, and I usually shrug it off because, whatever, they don’t know me and they don’t care, why waste the emotion. When somebody leaves a comment like, “Your a little retard, Mormons are great,” I don’t even feel compelled to correct their spelling, or to point out that “retard” is not a euphemism that charming people use. I definitely don’t see the point in explaining that I myself think that Mormons are great, because if they didn’t want to understand the first time, they’re usually not motivated to get it the second time either.

OVERHEARD LINES: Creation of a Vegetarian

Man: What did you do today?
Little girl (with excitement): I got to hold a baby chicken!
Man: Oh, that's nice, because that's exactly what we're eating tonight.

OVERHEARD LINES: Woman at Mexican Restaurant, with therapist?

"I've had plenty of old people touch me at the supermarket."

Getting What You Pay For, or, Clint Clips the Competition, or, "Oh Boy"

The problem with free stuff is that obviously you get what you pay for. Even if it's as simple as cleaning up the neckline. I hadn't realized how much hostility Clint had built up inside until after asking for a favor. Doesn't quite have the steadiest surgeon's hands, does he? At least his fees are affordable.

I'm done. DONE!

If I hear the words "High" and "Yield" anywhere near each other - even in the same sentence - I'm going to have to punch someone in the throat.

USMLE Step 1 was my blyad! (hopefully)

I just thought this was cool. I'm a geek, I know. Maybe two of you will like it too. Geeks.

Memorial Day

Suggested read of the week. Really. Read this.



My thanks for their sacrifices, whatever shape or form, however large or small.

Times It Is OK To Be Blue, or, Only in the UT

From SLTrib's Sunday paper:

Delegates at the Salt Lake County Republican Convention on May 8 passed a resolution on energy independence that states, "Utah alone has enough oil and natural gas resources to supply the United States for tens of thousands of years."

Two delegates - a geologist and an engineer - stood to speak against the resolution because, they said, that statement was blatantly false.

But they were talking to Utah Republicans, who have shown disdain for science getting in the way of ideological blustering.

The resolution cited as its source "members of the Utah State Legislature," the same body where the statement once was made that since there is a dog species, and there is a cat species, but there is no "dat" species, the theory of evolution obviously is bunk.

But there is such a thing as a "cog." Hah! Take that, flawed-GOP-logic!

I also feel like that would fit in well in a Brian Reagan bit. Take that as whatever commentary you will on the Utah legislative bodies.

Distractions, from Mormon Culture, or, as Mateo woud say, "How Embarassing!"

Mormon horror movie titles.

Book of Mormon, peep edition (no stones involved).

These both provided moments of mirth this morning (oh, Bryce and his clever use of alliteration! He's so smart! I bet he's going to score a million on those boards he should have been studying for instead of looking at random tidbits on the Internet!).