Assembly Required

Since Boyfriend moved in with me last December, I’ve been considering additional storage in the bathroom – either a shelf or a cabinet for behind the toilet, or a larger built in mirrored medicine cabinet with lights, like those sized for a double vanity sink. My preference is the built-in medicine cabinet mirror setup, because the storage would be plentiful and the added mirrors would reflect natural light from the window and eliminate some of the jockeying for position when we are both in there brushing our teeth, grooming or primping.

Unfortunately, the double wide cabinet setup requires cutting into the wall which means a carpenter, and the lighting requires someone with a clue about electrical work – say, an electrician. And those both mean money. My network is comprised of artists, not tradesmen, and the budget leaves no room for hiring professionals. Consequently, the storage issue has remained firmly lodged at the bottom of the “stuff to do at the house” list. The fact that I avoid shopping unless absolutely necessary means I have not even looked at any storage options in a store. Until now.

After a routine Sunday trip to the trash station, Boyfriend suggested we stop at Lowe’s for a new chain for the chain saw. While there, I remembered the bathroom storage, which had us traipsing all over the store. We finally found them, and after some discussion of the merits of chrome shelving (modern and cool looking, but open shelves mean having to look at the stuff all the time) versus wood with doors (close the doors, hide the crap), the “Cottage White Space Saver” with doors won.

At the register, I had the panic of opening my wallet and discovering my drivers license and bankcard missing. Errrr. I had transferred them from my wallet to the pocket of my jacket the night before, which meant they were hanging in a closet at home. Thank goodness my charge card was not where it belonged (in its secret hiding place at home to avoid frivolous usage) and was lounging in my wallet, ready for action. Crisis averted. I could have my $99 cabinet.

I decided to assemble it while Boyfriend studied, calling upon my previous triumphs with home furniture assembly. My construction resume includes a metal baker’s rack, a small bookcase, two six-foot library bookcases with doors and a matching TV stand with doors. A bathroom etagere should be a breeze.

At 2:00 I opened the box, inventoried the parts and read the instructions. The 52-page instruction booked was a bit daunting, but only the first 17 pages are English, and the rest comprise the bonus foreign language self-study programs – Francais et Espanol. On Page 4, under “Preparation,” it notes an “Estimated Assembly Time: 45 minutes (We recommend two people for assembly).”

The parts inventory revealed a challenge not encountered in previous assembly endeavors. The instructions featured 20 different types of metal parts (AA through TT in the booklet) and 12 wood parts (A through L). And I use the term ‘wood’ loosely – there were 11 pieces of genuine imitation wood-look glit (scientific elements are glue and sh*t) and one piece of cardboard scored to look like beadboard. And the problem? Although nicely depicted and labeled in the instruction booklet, none of the parts had labels. Thank goodness for detailed illustrations and God bless the artist(s) who create them.

The instructions had a bit of an issue – Step 16 describes attaching the hinges to the doors. Step 17 covers attaching the mounting brackets to the cabinet interior. Step 18 is the affixing of the knobs to the doors. Step 19 is installation of the completed unit around the toilet. Unfortunately, there is no step for attaching the doors hinges to the brackets in the unit. Oops. Good luck figuring that step out yourselves, kids. Which, incidentally, took about 30 minutes of focused effort and adjustments to the alignment. So much for that helpful time estimate on Page 4.

Some five hours later, I was newly, intimately acquainted with cams and cambolts, hardware not encountered in past projects. The toolbox is graced with 17 extra finish nails and two brass screws. The bathroom boasted a new etagere, assembled and installed, but absent piece “E.” Important note: This was clearly NOT a 45 minute operation by any stretch of the imagination, but neither was it a solid five hours of labor – I also cooked dinner (pork tenderloin with peach/strawberry/ginger glaze and cornbread stuffing with almonds and cranberries) and we ate and cleaned up the dishes. I nurtured my social networks (a.k.a. goofed off on Facebook) and made multiple plays in my multiple online Scrabble and Lexulous word games. I burned The White Stripes album ‘Conquest’ to my iTunes library.

And piece “E”? Well, it’s the bottom support, the final piece in the installation, the piece that stabilizes the legs and keeps them from spreading apart under the weight of the top portion. And it exists – it’s in the bathroom closet right now – there’s just no way on earth to install it. The instructions leave it as the last piece for some very good reasons. For one thing, the wood (glit), while only a half-inch think, is too thick to fit between the wall and the back of the toilet tank, which in my bathroom is a measly and miraculous not quite ¼ inch of clearance. The height of the support can be adjusted to accommodate the plumbing connections, which is easier to determine once in place. The problem? The slat requires two screws on each side – long, two-inch screws – and there is barely a half inch clearance between the unit and the wall on one side, and the sink cabinet on the other. Not happening. But at least the legs can’t spread very far should they decide to wander.

Crawling Art

The first Saturday of every month, the Nashville Art Community has an Art Crawl – galleries host receptions and stay open until 9. Anyone familiar with an art scene knows that receptions mean free snacks and wine aplenty. Nashville has a free shuttle bus to transport happy art lovers from one cluster of galleries to the next, so it’s a good time.

Last night, Boyfriend, Junior and I headed into NashVegas from C-Ville for a serving of art. We started at the Tennessee Art League, where my friend Terri is the president, and where they have been hosting some great shows lately. Last night was the opening for “Women” with the works of my friends Mitzi and Malcolm, both masters of models, composition and darkroom processing. The third floor gallery exhibit at the TAL was by patients in a mental health program. Many had never made art before, and have now discovered a creative outlet for self-expression. I love stories like that.

We hopped on the Art Crawl shuttle bus to head over to The Arcade galleries, which is usually a five minute ride. Heck, you can walk there in about the same amount of time, but who is that ambitious? (Especially in three inch heels…) The bus can be fun – I have seen complete strangers admiring each other’s art purchases and offering suggestions on shows that must be seen along the route and places to go later. It’s a little weird – people act like best friends while on the bus, but as soon as it arrives at the destination, they scatter like autumn leaves in the wind without another word to each other. Maybe it’s an effect of all the free wine.

Last night, however, we were on some sort of alternate universe bizarre shuttle ride. Instead of the usual quick right turn from the TAL, around a few blocks and bam, arriving at The Arcade, this driver took us up to the traffic light for a left turn leading to an extended tour of some desolate looking parts of town. The ride took about a half hour, and when we passed the same landmarks a couple times it felt like some crazy New York City cab ride. I started to wonder if some nut case had hijacked the bus, done off with the real driver, and was randomly picking up people to fill the bus, drive us to a remote location and rob us all. I kept this suspicion to myself – no point causing a panic. Besides, I read too many murder mysteries as a kid, and have watched a few too many crime dramas as an adult, so my imagination tends to stray down some dangerous alleys. It’s part of my dark charm.

When we finally arrived at The Arcade, it was, to use my Dad’s colorful words, “packed asshole to belly button.” Yeah, it was crowded. (And do you see where I get it from?) A new arts and crafts feature started in the central area on the lower level, plus all the galleries upstairs were open. Several artist friends were exhibiting – Monica and Greg! Melody and Ken! – geez, I know a lot of married couple artists. The amazing Miranda has her own rocking gallery (MIR Gallery). It felt like half of Clarksville was in attendance as a patron or an exhibitor, and I am thrilled we’re taking over the town. Clarksville – it’s not just soldiers and rednecks anymore – and our artists are crawling all over the place.

Tension Details

Details matter. In relationships, the little things can mean a lot – like offering to get something for someone in the living room when you get up and go into the kitchen, reaching for that special person’s hand while you are watching TV, hugging someone you care about for no other reason than they walked into the room, rubbing your boyfriend/girlfriend/child’s back when you know they had a rough day. Free and simple ways to show you care.

A missing button, a stain, wrinkled clothing could be read by others as a simple message that you don’t really care. If the elements happen to coincide in a perfect storm of wardrobe carelessness for a job interview or a first date, when it is assumed you will try to make a decent impression, you could leave the other person wondering what you might neglect later. It amuses me to hear people say “it doesn’t matter if they wear a … (fill in the blank – suit, tie, sneakers, etc – to the interview/date/public speaking gig because it’s the job/personality/speech that matters.” News flash – it’s a package deal. And why have people fixated on your crumpled shirt when you want them to hear your words?

If you’re charging $6,000 for accident repairs, why not go the extra step and buff the whole vehicle so the newly painted rear door and quarter panel have a chance to match the rest of the car with the five year old paint? Or offer me the option to pay the cost difference and paint the whole car while it’s in the paint shop anyway. And when I call about the paint mismatch, don’t suggest I look in the phone book for a detail shop. Guess whose repair shop I won’t be recommending to others? Details, baby, details.

It makes me nuts when an actor is carrying what we are supposed to believe is a bag of groceries, but they are moving it around in a manner that screams that all the boxes inside it are empty. Or when they are “drinking” and you can tell from the way they hold the cup it’s empty and then they don’t even pause to swallow before delivering the next line. Maybe I've taken too many acting classes. Unfortunately, these types of things jump out at me. Everywhere. All the time. Like a curse.

I attended a play recently where somebody in charge neglected details throughout. The play was set in the South, yet, every male in the cast sounded like he was from Boston. I wondered if all these characters were supposed to be geographic transplants, but nothing in the dialogue indicated it. I was willing to look past the dialect issue, but then we were presented with a character discussing the alpaca suit he was wearing, which I could clearly see was blue and white seersucker. Any wool or wool blend fabric could have passed for alpaca, but not summer seersucker. And if the alpaca reference was a scripting issue to indicate a change of season, then it totally missed the mark, because the character in a summer suit screamed that it was still summer on the set.

Another character was holding a pair of cotton pajamas, claiming they are the silk pajamas worn on his wedding night. Look, I know this is a low budget operation, but even a cheap polyester pair of PJs would have had a more convincing drape than the crisp new cotton fabric this guy was holding. A female character asked for help with buttons, and then we got to hear the sound of a zipper as the other character assisted. When the same female character stood there describing her suit in the blue color of some royalty of Egypt while wearing a pale gray ensemble, all I could do was roll my eyes. Of course, by then she was about ready to be carted off to the funny farm, so maybe it was a deliberate script issue, but who can tell, we’d already been lied to with so many other blatant inconsistencies. At least they really drank brown water in all the Jack Daniel's shot pours.

Sometimes I wonder if a lack of attention stems from a general lack of respect – for oneself, for others, for an audience. Is it an assumption (or a fervent hope) that others won’t notice or care? Or is the fact that I do care just one more reason why I was saddled with the “Miss Perfect” label by my siblings (and their friends)? But hey, I’m trying to relax. The tension of paying attention to details is getting to me, too. Maybe I can go for slacking lessons.

Fashion Police

Everyone is a fashion critic lately. This doesn’t ordinarily bother me. In fact, based on my ocassional obsession with fashion magazines and ongoing online subscriptions to Women's Wear Daily newsfeeds, Style Feeder and other assorted fashionista-geared publications, I generally fancy myself the chief of the local fashion police, although I lack the nerve to actually issue citations to strangers, no matter how well-deserved. As for friends and loved ones .... well, I have called out Boyfriend for letting his pants ride down low enough that I (and the whole world) have a full view of his underwear. Yeah, I know it's a 'look,' but I don't care who you are or how much I love you, I don't want to have to see your underdrawers in broad daylight out on the street, thanks. And when he asked, I (gently) suggested that no, he should just fuggedaboutit and not tuck his beautiful cable knit vee-neck sweater into his pants, unless he really wanted to look like some gangster from New Jersey. When shopping with a gal pal, I have issued a slow "Well .... (pause for effect) ... there might be something better..." during a dressing room consultation.

In general, I have a decent sense of personal style (I think), a perception frequently reinforced by positive feedback from others, and which, in my mind anyway, justifies my self-appointed status as fashion cop. Lately, however, I have been on the receiving end of a couple critiques that could be classified as less than favorable. Granted, I have not had any run-ins with Tim Gunn or Heidi Klum or Stacy London or anyone else involved in the made for television fashion industry. But still, depending upon the source of the commentary, it matters to me. Like when Boyfriend gives me the once over after I am dressed for work and says, “Oh, I see you have your school marm outfit on today.” Ouch. At least he has a sense of humor about it. And when I check the mirror, sure enough, an odd-length skirt plus a slightly baggy sweater is clearly frumpy, does not equal my best ensemble and warrants a change into something less hideous.

One night I was dressed and ready to go hear a band in a club with a couple of gal pals. I thought my jeans, converse sneakers and "Dedicated to the One I Love" tattoo design tee shirt were perfect for a metal band in a grungy club, especially when I wasn't interested in attracting male attention. He looked at me and said, “Aren't you going to get dressed to go out with your friends?” I guess I succeeded.

When I ask Boyfriend for his opinion on my attire, I am genuinely interested in what he thinks. It’s not that I can’t dress myself, it’s just nice to get his feedback. And when I ask and he (gently and humorously) suggests that perhaps the sweater from 1980 isn’t the best choice from my extensive wardrobe, I gladly change into something else, say from the WalMart 2005 collection, and make a mental note to retire the offensive item to the “on the way to Goodwill” pile (not to be confused with the “I just bought it at Goodwill” pile).

Recently, I bought three cute hats from Target that I was excited to show him. That was the night he declared me to have “the worst taste in hats.” I’m afraid he’s probably right. Of course, it would have helped greatly if there was a mirror anywhere within a quarter mile radius of the accessories department. Schlepping hats to the fitting rooms to use a mirror seems silly (but maybe that’s just me), so I was checking hats in the pathetic sliver of a mirror mounted on the sunglass rack. Note to retailers – you might sell more stuff if people could see what it looked like on them. Of course, the retail mirror shortage may explain a lot of the fashion frights running around town … grown girls in Loony Tunes pajamas and fluffy scuff slippers at WalMart and Kroger … men with gigantic keg shaped bellies protruding beneath shrunken, stained tee shirts and butt crack exposed by saggy pants … elderly grannies with gray hair and tattoos sporting schoolgirl plaid miniskirts … chicks in skin tight low-rise jeans with gigantic muffintops overlapping the waistband ... and lord help us all, leggings have made a comeback. Brace yourselves for some scary, scary days ahead. Listen people -- just because something is made in what you think is your size, it doesn't mean you should wear it.

The ultimate in scathing fashion criticisms, however, come from Boyfriend’s five year old son. They are raw. They are unsolicited. They come from nowhere. He has repeatedly scoffed at my oversized brown sunglasses, pointed at me, and in the midst of his laughter, spit out, "You look like a bug." A couple weeks ago, my new, favorite dark denim skinny leg jeans were in the laundry so I was wearing my once-favorite Gap boot cut jeans that are now a full size too big and definitely fit better when I weighed a few pounds more. I had cinched a belt to keep them from falling down. Hey, we were at home. In any event, I was standing at the kitchen sink washing a dish or getting a drink of water and staring out the window or something, and suddenly my pants were being yanked down by the back waistband, my belt nearly shredding my hip bones. I turned around, expecting it to be Boyfriend goofing off, and there’s Junior, his eyes level with my butt and his tiny fingers gripping my jeans. And as matter-of-fact as if he was delivering a weather report, he said to me, “Your pants are up too high.” Called out for bad fashion. By a kindergartner. Guilty as charged. Ouch!

Driver School

I recently had the um, pleasure, of attending Driver School. I didn’t have to go. I chose to attend. Like most things in life, there were other options: 1) pay the $135 citation for ‘failure to yield ‘and gain 4 points on an otherwise flawless driving record; 2) appear in City Court in front of a judge, plead ’not guilty’ and receive a date to return and attempt to prove not guilty-ness (in my case, without benefit of evidence like witnesses or photos); 3) attend Driver School at the cost of $120 and avoid the points; or 4) blow it all off and live a paranoid life of fear. I chose Door Number 3. I was actually looking forward to the class, because really, who couldn’t use a refresher on the rules of the road?

On the designated Saturday morning at 7:50, I arrived at the old building housing City Council Chambers/City Court, located on Public Square beyond an ornate fountain that sits on the narrow strip of grass designated as Public Square. The clerk who took my reservation a couple weeks prior had told me the doors are locked at 8:00 and tardy people are not only not admitted, they are assessed an additional fine.

It struck me as amusing that two class attendees, in their haste to arrive on time, parked facing the wrong way on the street, one in front of me, the other behind me. I hoped this was a driving issue that would be addressed in the class, because people seem to park like that downtown all the time.

The capacity of Council Chambers/ City Court was shown on the wall as 109. The room was about 90% full when I arrived, with a mix of drivers of all ages, evenly split between male and female. At $120 a head, the early session was pulling in over $10 grand for the city, and the encore performance scheduled for 10:00 that day was sold-out two weeks in advance. There had been two classes on Tuesday night of that week. I wonder if they run this many people through driver school every month.

At show-time, an officer stood at the front of the room and in a monotone voice, introduced himself and the other officer in attendance (who he referred to as “Mr.Personality”). The next 45 minutes delivered poor quality videos of dramatic car crashes and assorted police chases (usually European) and a droning delivery of a variety of topics – the proper use of turn signals (use them); the legal limit for DUI (.08 – attainable at a pace of more than one drink per hour, depending upon one’s body size); seat belt rules (yes, they can pull you over for not wearing a seat belt!); child car seat rules (age and weight guidelines change every year); speed traps; school bus laws; the owner’s responsibility even if their car is driven by someone else.

The sobriety check point speech was interesting. He mentioned if a driver approaches a checkpoint and does a u-turn, they won’t be pursued. This is good to know, because even though there is not a single sign stating so, u-turns are illegal in this city, and any other time you will get pulled over for a riveting roadside lecture and/or a souvenir ticket.

The most frustrating part of the class was the series of bar charts with microscopic font that illustrated some point about accident statistics that Officer Monotone was droning on about. Even if some other nerd like myself was interested in the statistics, there was no way to decipher the information displayed in a font size usually reserved for legal footnotes in lengthy, complicated contracts. Yeah, I often read those, too.

My favorite topic, aside from the Officer Monotone’s (questionable) commentary concerning his own (potentially questionable) beer consumption which he confessed to exceed the one beer per hour rate (WHY would he even tell us that?), was the new red light cameras which capture images of drivers running red lights “from four unique angles.” When you receive your ticket from the city, it is accompanied by a web link to imagery of the traffic offense “from four unique angles.” Officer Monotone said a driver can try and fight the charge, but the transgression will be shown “right here in this courtroom, on these many screens … from four unique angles.” He sure did love that phrase … “from four unique angles.” I now sit at stop lights trying to calculate the four unique angles.

And after 45 minutes, with no discussion of proper use of turn lanes (I’m pretty sure they are NOT high-speed travel lanes, people!), proper four-way-stop procedures, or other stuff that would have been helpful based on the crazy driving that goes on every day, he announced we were done, THEN he asked if there were any questions. One poor dude had questions, but the answers couldn’t be heard over the sounds of 100 people racing for the exits. I had even comtemplated asking my "Is it acceptable to park facing the wrong way on the street?" question, but it was hopeless at that point -- I knew the answer and the clueless transgressors had already sprinted for the door.

Driver school could have been worse, but it could also have been a lot more interesting and informative. But it’s over now ... as long as I can watch out for those left hand turns.

Techno Babble

I love technology. And I hate it. I love being able to research things whenever I want, shop at midnight, check my bank balance whenever I want without actually visiting the bank or speaking to a customer service representative. Heck, except for one or two rogue accounts that don’t have online payment capability I pay all my bills online. Hello, Savings Bank Life Insurance of Massachusetts … is there any interest in joining the current century any time soon? Just wondering.

There have been so few paper checks written on my checking account that the checkbook is on something like number 85 in the account I have had for two years. A fair number of the 84 checks “issued” were voided by me because, in spite of a 6 year stint in banking that included time served on the teller line cashing people’s checks and a run in accounts payable where the job was to issue checks, I am always writing the amount in the payee line or vice versa. Maybe it’s the fact that lately I need reading glasses to see anything if I have my contact lenses in. Or maybe the usual multitasking is distracting – paying bills plus drinking coffee, watching TV, writing blogs, goofing on Facebook and myspace and my online word puzzle games – all while conversing with Boyfriend, balancing a lit candle on my had and belly dancing. (Ok, I’m exaggerating – I have never actually talked to Boyfriend while dancing with a lit candle on my head. I practice that sort of thing when he isn’t home.)

Between the few checks written and a general lack of focus resulting in the failure to engage in social niceties like sending paper birthday cards (e-cards and Facebook wall posts!), I still have Christmas stamps from 2007. That was how many postage rate increases ago?

In any event …. back to technology, which I think was where I started before that little redirect. I can’t even remember what we did before the instant gratification of text messages, email, fax machines, the ability to pay bills in a matter of seconds by pushing a button. If I recall, we had to plan ahead. We had to wait for things. Wow. Scary.

At the same time I love technology, I hate the baggage that it comes with – like passwords and PIN codes. With ten or so accounts I pay online – utilities, mortgage, and various household expenses (thank you termites!), car insurance, credit card, student loan from my brief foray into academia in the summer of ‘08, the password to access the online banking system, plus email accounts, online games and social networking sites – it’s a crushing pile of passwords. It seems that each of these has a requirement varying from four characters to as many as 20 with some combination of upper and lowercase letters and numeric characters. One or two may have required a saliva sample, but don’t quote me on that. A couple require periodic password changes, and in one case the new password can’t be the same as any of the last five password used. Cripes! All I want to do is pay a bill or read a message.

Yes, I know, I could pay everything at one place through my bank’s online payment system, but it takes 5 to 7 days for them to process the payments, which is the same lead time as me writing a check and mailing it – because, get this, they cut a check at the bank and mail it! Save a stamp and cede control. And when I bolt upright in bed at 2 a.m. on the 14th, suddenly remembering my Citibank bill is due on the 15th this month and not the 18th like last month, I don’t have the luxury of 5 to 7 days at my disposal.

And yes, I also know I could set all of these bills up to automatically hit my bank account, but there are a couple reasons why I don’t. For one thing, I don’t want to be tethered to that (or any other) bank account . If I get mad enough at my bank to act on my fantasies and move my account (trust me, it’s come close a couple times already) – if I had to unwind 10 ACH setups to it – Errrr… which is exactly how they like it.

The other reason is rooted in experience. When I moved to Tennessee, I had a bad experience with an automatic payment setup in Massachusetts. I notified my insurance auto company I was moving and sought guidance on what to do, closed my bank account and got a nice cashier’s check to open a new account, moved to Tennessee, got my driver’s license here and transferred my car insurance coverage to a my new state of residence. In the meantime, in opposition to all assurances thay had provided, the Massachusetts insurance office triggered an automatic payment to my closed bank account, which activated the overdraft line of credit linked to it. A month or two later, after the bank notice had been returned by the Post Office with the address correction info and sent out again by the bank to my new address, I finally received the interest due notice alerting me to the fact that something wrong had happened. It took far too many phone calls to unwind. So no, I won’t let that happen again. I like to run the worst case scenarios and head them off – What if something bizarre happens and my payroll direct deposit from work fails, but there are a couple payments ready to strike on the same day? I am too much of a control freak to sit back and risk that kind of train wreck.

Bread Pudding

This weekend, I was gifted with a bag of assorted bread from the local European bread bakery. It was a generous gift of a generous amount of bread. After running through the obvious usage of bread for breakfast toast, sandwiches and maybe toasting and then freezing some for bread crumbs, I decided to use some of it to make bread pudding. As I mentioned, it was a very generous amount of bread – I still have enough left for all the other uses.

Bread pudding is not a dish I grew up with. My family was not a group of regular dessert eaters, except on the major holidays starring major feasts – Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter. Our desserts of choice were usually in the pie family. Bread pudding was not only foreign to me, the idea of it seemed gross. Bread? In pudding? Yuck. My prejudicial opinion of bread pudding lumped it into the same unfortunate category as tapioca, which I had tried and knew with full certainty I detested. Those pellet things – ewwwwww.

That is, until I went to New Orleans a few years ago with a group of photographers. We numbered about eight or nine women, on the loose in the city for a couple days with cameras and credit cards. Our group included two women who had been there many times and not only knew the most photogenic and interesting locations, they knew where to shop, the great places to eat, and the best menu items at said places. Our photo/shopping/food tour of Nah’lins included Po’ Boys, Oysters on the half shell, pralines, jambalaya, an array of seafood and bread pudding.

My introduction to bread pudding took place at Red Fish Grille after a great dinner. The presentation was amazing – the waiter poured hot caramel and chocolate sauces from tiny pitchers onto each serving of the pudding, artfully swirling the streams of sauce in midair. It was the most sensual dessert presentation I have ever witnessed. Alright, you got me - it was probably the only sensual dessert presentation I have ever witnessed. And it was also delicious. We went back the next day for afternoon coffee and more bread pudding.

After that trip, a member of my photography group who had been on the excursion made chocolate bread pudding for our Christmas party. Oh, yeah. It tasted like Nah’lins all over again.

These were the tasty memories I had in mind when I decided to try my hand at bread pudding. The bar was pretty high, but I felt up for the challenge.

I checked my recipe file, but couldn’t find the bread pudding recipe I was sure was filed somewhere in the 15 pounds of web site printouts, magazine clippings and hand written index cards. The pile was so daunting, I only invested about three minutes really looking before I decided to check the most valuable resource I knew – Google search. The first recipe that appeared on the search results seemed like a winner, if only in the sense that I had all the ingredients on hand. It also had reviews which gave it a gazillion stars, raved about this particular recipe and the instant glory it conferred upon the person making it, and offered suggestions for sauces to accompany it. I stopped searching and started mixing.

The result? One hundred percent winner, in the sense that in a 24-hour period I ate chocolate chip bread pudding for an evening snack, followed the next day by breakfast and then lunch. Did I mention I have obsessive food tendencies? Do I need to? Even better, Boyfriend liked it, too!

In any event, here is the winning recipe – from Allrecipes.com – along with my modification.

Bread Pudding II

Prep Time: 30 Minutes Ready In: 1 Hour 15 Minutes

Submitted By: ELLENMARIE Cook Time: 45 Minutes Servings: 12
This lightly spiced, extra thick bread pudding really hits home. We suggest using a rich egg bread or a moist white loaf in this recipe.

INGREDIENTS:
6 slices day-old bread
2 tablespoons butter, melted
1/2 cup raisins (optional)
4 eggs, beaten
2 cups milk
3/4 cup white sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

DIRECTIONS:

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C).

2. Break bread into small pieces into an 8 inch square baking pan. Drizzle melted butter or margarine over bread. If desired, sprinkle with raisins.

3. In a medium mixing bowl, combine eggs, milk, sugar, cinnamon, and vanilla. Beat until well mixed. Pour over bread, and lightly push down with a fork until bread is covered and soaking up the egg mixture.

4. Bake in the preheated oven for 45 minutes, or until the top springs back when lightly tapped.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © 2009 Allrecipes.com Printed from Allrecipes.com 11/2/2009


My modifications:
¾ semi-sweet chocolate chips instead of raisins
1 cup milk plus 1 cup half-and-half

Enjoy!