Fun Friday with Freshman Frappuccino Flashbacks



Who's name is on the cup? Not yours, Mr. Spock. Not yours.


Happy Friday gang!

I decided to celebrate the best day of the work week with my favorite hot coffee concotion from Starbucks. Though technically, I went to the Barnes & Noble Cafe since it's right next to my office.

My overly elaborate drink order is a triple grande soy caramel macchiato.

For clarification that's three shots of espresso with steamed soy milk and caramel topping.

It's great. It's not too sweet because of the extra shot and it's not as guilt-laden because the soy milk cuts out most of the saturated fat and cholesterol. While I was waiting to order, I glanced at the menu like I always do. Even though, I rarely switch it up. Why mess with perfection? I noted all the frappuccino choices and I flashed back to college, where Starbucks and their bottled fraps were pivotal to many happy mornings.



My three favorite flavors



Freshman year I'd pop open a cold, bottled blend of coffee, milk and sugar, sugar, sugar from the mini fridge and jug it in three or four gulps. Usually I'd do this without even getting out of bed, such was the convenience of dorm-room living. My roommate must have thought I was crazy. It was 2003 and she was already talking about eating organic. She was way ahead of the curve on that one. I just wondered, "Isn't all food organic, like by definition?"

Oh and my breakfast to go with the chugged frappuccino was typically a hunk of Hershey's milk chocolate. If it wasn't so cold here this morning I may have actually changed my order.

Of course, there are things I don't wish to repeat from my college years, like all nighters working on proofs of mathematical equations only to walk in to class frazzled but convinced my three pages of math logic were correct and see that "that guy" summed it all up using six words. I mean, seriously, how did he know to do that? No, I definitely don't want a college do-over but those lazy, sweet mornings are worth recreating from time to time.

Double Shot of Disaster

This was originally posted a year ago on my now defunct Wordpress. I was over there deleting my former blog when I realized a few of my posts were really pretty funny. Here is one about a fateful morning at the end of last November.

I was up early to take a friend to the airport. When I got home it was 6:45 that is earlier than I normally would be awake, alert and dressed. But alert and dressed I was. Well whether I was alert, is to be decided. I chose to be productive. My plan was to do yoga, make espresso, have a healthy breakfast, walk the dog, shower and be on time for work. That sounds uneventful, I know. Really it was supposed to be uneventful, it was Tuesday morning. 

At first my plan was going well. Plans are deceitful that way. I love doing yoga in the morning. My mind is cleared, my body is energized and I feel wonderful. By 7:02 the espresso was on the stove and I was just moving from downward dog into some abdominal stretches. I had enough time to think, “This is nice, isn’t it?” when it happened. There was a sound like rapid fire. A steamy, sputtering, dangerous sound. My first thought was that the espresso was ready but it was too soon and far, far too loud for simple percolation.

My dog was in the dining room. From where I stood I saw him glance at the kitchen warily and then run away with his tail between his legs.

I entered the kitchen and first I only saw the stove, covered in coffee. My first thought was that the espresso overflowed and the sound I heard was the excess espresso burning on the gas flame. I was wrong.

My second thought was that I failed to properly tighten the espresso percolator and that some leaked out of the sides and into the flame. This turned out to also be not only wrong, but a gross underestimation of the catastrophe. Once I allowed myself to take stock of the whole kitchen, I realized something. I should not be allowed to make espresso. But we will get back to that.

It turned out that I forgot an important piece of the espresso maker. The piece which would have prevented the catastrophe from happening is a small round filter. It holds down the coffee grinds when the water and steam are forced up through the espresso. Without the filter, the grinds had free range to be literally blown out of the sides and top of the espresso maker.

It was as if an espresso bomb went off in the kitchen. Please note: I am not exaggerating. Several tablespoons of espresso were now stuck to my walls. Also, several tablespoons of coffee will make a gargantuan mess.


I felt like a member of CSI examining the scene. “Based on the grind splatter here and here, I would say that the majority, 80-90 percent, of the coffee came out through the sides of the machine in question. Somebody really had it in for that kitchen.”

Rather than spending my morning focusing on my breathing and tightening my abs which would be beneficial in between Thanksgiving and Christmas, the two most fattening holidays, I spent it scrubbing chunks of espresso from the white walls, cabinets, stove, floor, refrigerator, blender, oh and the half-dozen boxes of Christmas decorations that I was going to take to storage after work.

I also spent that time contemplating the health and safety benefits of herbal tea. Most of Britain survives on tea. I wondered if I could make the switch. Unfortunately, I am a hopeless case. Even as I loathed the mess on my walls and my utter lack of ability to make coffee I still loved the smell of the grinds and I knew I’d never be able to give them up.

 

 Please note (again): I know I have a tendency to exaggerate and that is why these pictures are so important. I am in no way exaggerating. It took me an hour and fifteen minutes to get the walls, fridge, table, floor, and stove clean. Under the microwave still needs more attention as does the top of the fridge. I knew if I came home from work and saw coffee on the wall I would have a fit. It was very overwhelming. Everywhere I turned there were more grinds in more places. However, I began cleaning one section at a time and soon it wasn’t as hopeless. Soon it began to look like a kitchen again.

 

I had to clean coffee splatter from espresso cups, coffee containers and a large framed poster for what? Why, espresso, of course! This is hilarious, I haven't laughed yet, but I am sure I will. The situation is still too close. It hasn’t yet made the leap from stressful ridiculousness to pure comedy. But I guess that’s partially because I didn’t get to have my coffee this morning.

My Best Scar Story

This post came from a prompt over at  YA Highway...last Wednesday. I am late, okay very late but I couldn't resist posting my best scar story, even if it's overdue. Why? Because I think scars are fascinating. Like Little Bee says in the book of the same name by Chris Cleave, "We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived."

This is not necessarily a story of survival, rather it is a story of childish stupidity and a good reason not to have desserts for breakfast.

At the ripe age of seven I was an early riser. At least, as far as the rest of my family was concerned. My little sister wouldn't wake up until after my grandmother dressed her sleeping form and brushed her hair. I always suspected her sleep coma was an act but never got proof. On the other hand, I was up, dressed, and ready to go an hour before the school bus would arrive. This gave me time to read The Babysister's Club and Anne of Green Gables. 

It was common for me to prepare my own breakfast, this usually consisted of boxed cereal and milk. Nothing complex or dangerous. One morning, however, I had a craving. Summer was in the air and when I dressed in lime green shorts and a splattered paint bodysuit (complete with snaps, I was a fashionista from day one.) I had a hankering for an ice cream sundae.



Me, aged 7.

 Everyone was still asleep and I knew they wouldn't approve of my breakfast choice so I quietly went about with the preparations. I used a chair from the dining room to get into the freezer. Mint chocolate chip, I believe it was the white kind. Oh glorious breakfast!

To top off my ice cream I grabbed the glass container of Smucker's Fudge from the fridge. Now here is where I made my first mistake. I put the fudge in the microwave for a minute and waited patiently, counting to 60 along with the microwave timer. I  questioned why the microwave cooked for 60 seconds whether I hit 6-0 or 1-0-0. What if I wanted it to cook for 100 seconds. I figured most people didn't think about seconds like that. At no point, in that pensive minute, did I question my actions.

Today, I know you don't need to heat up fudge for that long, 15-20 seconds would suffice. Also I know you should remove the lid, something I overlooked. When the microwave beeped I rushed to open it and remove the fudge lest anyone should hear. I did what my mom and grandmother always did, I grabbed the fudge with my bare hand, it was so hot I stifled a gasp but I didn't let go until I had already pulled it out of the microwave.



Dangerously delicious


To this day, I swear the container exploded before it hit the tile floor. There was a crash and scalding hot fudge spewed into the air, like a chocolate volcano erupting. A plume of fudge connected with the inner thigh of my right leg. It burned. I screamed and cried and tried to rub it off but it hurt to do anything to it and the fudge was still hot. My mother came running in and I can only imagine the obscenities that tore through her mind at the sight of me in my bright green shorts dancing around crying. Fudge was all over me, the floor, the cabinets. The mint chocolate chip was melting on the counter top. All before she had her morning coffee. I can't remember if I was yelled at or the details of the fudge being wiped from my leg but I was taken to the hospital, where they wrapped my injury in soft white gauze and covered it in silvadene cream.

I had minor burns on my hand but my leg had a second degree burn. To me it didn't look like a burn, it looked like a giant blister. A blister that took up my whole inner thigh. My mom said if I had worn pants it wouldn't have been so bad, but the fudge connected with my bare skin. I remember when the blister popped, I woke up and thought I had wet the bed and didn't want to tell anyone. I am left with a a scar that resembles, in my opinion, the big dipper. As I acquired the scar while preparing ice cream, the humor of this is not lost on me.

To this day whenever I have Smucker's products (more frequently than I should) I use oven mitts to remove them from the microwave.