Chocolate Chip Surprise Cookies

By Lisa Dovichi

How do you transform a run-of-the-mill chocolate chip cookie into something that your friends will rave about for days? Shh, come closer. It's a secret.

You make them ginormous and give it a surprise chewy chocolatey brownie center (say that 10 times fast)!

Sounds like it should be complicated, right? Nuh uh. It isn't - just a little time intensive. Stick with me, my little chickadee, and I'll tell you how it's done.

You'll need:

• 1 box of your favorite chocolate brownie mix: prepared per box instructions with the extra egg for cake-like brownies and just under baked -- the brownie should be a little sticky.
• Your favorite chocolate chip cookie recipe: prepared but NOT baked

Directions:

• Make cookie dough and put in fridge -- chilled dough works best
• Make brownies and let cool
• Preheat oven 350 degrees
• Mash up the pan of brownies
• Measure 1/3 cup cookie dough, ball it, cut in half and flatten each half into a disk.
• Measure 3 TBS sticky brownie crumbles and place on one cookie dough disk
• Take the other cookie dough disk and place it on top -- making a sandwich
• Seal the edges, place on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper with an inch between each cookie.
• Bake at 350 for 18 minutes or until cookie is golden brown.
• Cool on wire rack (or not) and EAT!

So super delicious and worth all the time the preparation takes. I swear it.


Lisa lives in Livermore, CA with her husband and three children. She's the author/illustrator of the Sugar and Spice Cook-It-Yourself children books series (coming soon) and works from home as an artist and web designer. In her dwindling spare time she changes diapers, experiments with food, is a sucker for DIY projects, and watches bad movies on Monday night with her husband. To get more Lisa visit: www.meltingbeforeyoureyes.blogspot.com.

Haiku For You

By Lisa Dovichi

4ft's creations
Some things shouldn't be on bread
*Shudders* The horror.

Ran out of stickers
Art project needs enhancement
Bandaids for the win.

Lisa lives in Livermore, CA with her husband and three children. She works from home as an artist and web designer. In her dwindling spare time she changes diapers, experiments with food, is a sucker for DIY projects, and watches bad movies on Monday night with her husband. To get more Lisa visit: www.meltingbeforeyoureyes.blogspot.com.

Catfish

by Lisa Dovichi

It's a known fact that cats hate water.

Right?

Well, mostly, but there is always an exception to the rule. And then there was Mr. FlufferNutters. A twenty-three pound Maine Coon who didn't just like water. He lurved it.

You could not run water. Period.

That cat would streak through sprinklers; hop into a shower; cannonball into a bath; pounce into a sink; jump into the washer; kamikaze dive into a toilet. If it was a container filled with water, Mr. FlufferNutters would find some way to contort and fit his massive body into it. I kid you not, it was a match of speed to use the toilet. Sometimes we'd win and sometimes we'd be knocking on the neighbors' doors to use theirs. Trust me when I tell you that you never want to make a twenty-three pound fluff ball of teeth and claws angry by trying to remove him from his water.

He could and would share if the water source was big enough. There were many a baths interrupted when he'd come in from outside and realize where I was. There's nothing like eau de cat bathwater to make you go for a shower afterwards, let me tell you. And nothing like the looks on neighbors' faces when you show up at their door wrapped in a towel, asking to use their shower. You did NOT drain the tub before his majesty was ready.

If we hadn't already built Mr. FlufferNutters a rep with all the trips to the neighbors he'd really have gained infamy when a neighbor tried to chase him off his lawn with a garden hose. The disbelief on the neighbor's face when Mr. FlufferNutters stopped, dropped, and rolled around under the deluge of water, purring, was priceless. The cul-de-sac still reminisces about that to this day.

It was theorized that maybe Mr. FlufferNutters thought he was a catfish. It's hard to say what went on in that kooky cat's head but I know one thing. He was the best cat I'd ever had and even now, when I take a relaxing soak in the tub with candles and a good book I miss the heavy thudding of his paws as he ran hell bent across the tiles to launch his mass into the tub and have a relaxing soak too.

Lisa lives in Livermore, CA with her husband, three children, and Jack the Beta fish. She works from home as an artist and web designer. In her dwindling spare time she changes diapers, experiments with food, crochets, and watches bad movies on Monday night with her husband. To get more Lisa visit: www.meltingbeforeyoureyes.blogspot.com.

Zombie and Ghost Cake Pops

by Lisa Dovichi

I’m going to just come right out and say it. I’m a sucker for baking.

And anytime Nearly 4ft has a school function that requires baked good donations, I’m the first mom on the sign up sheet -- as a matter of fact as soon as I hear about a function, I e-mail the head cheese and ask if they need any baked good donations. Well there’s a Halloween Bazaar coming up and sure enough they need donations for a cake walk -- anything Halloween themed.

I’m also going to just come right out and say I’m a competitive over achiever. So the idea of blending in with all the other cupcakes covered in black and orange sprinkles or plastic spider and skull rings stuck in them is unacceptable. I got to thinking, “What could I do that would be fun, have kids wanting mine first, and not cost a small fortune in showing up the other parents?” (Yes, I’m that competitive.)

Halloween Cake Pops!

I’ve never actually done cake pops before but have wanted to for awhile now. The Halloween Bazaar isn’t until the 28^th of October and I figured I needed a test run to make sure they would be as awesome in real life as they are in my head. Let me sum up with saying: They are MORE awesome in real life. The cake is moist and decadent, the candy coating is delicious, and they are so much FUN to make!

Try them out for yourself!

Spooky Treats -- Zombie and Ghost Cake Pops

Things you will need:

Lollipop sticks

Parchment paper

A Block of Styrofoam

Edible Ink Pens

Decorating Plastic Squeeze Bottles

Ingredients:

1 box of cake mix (any flavor)

1 16 0z. can of frosting (any flavor)

Candy Melts (green and white)

Directions:

1.)    Make the cake mix according to the directions for a 13x9 sheet. Let cool completely, remove any crunchy crusty pieces, and then crumble into a large bowl.

2.)    Add in 1 can of frosting and with a big spoon mash and mix it all together until its well blended.

3.)    Line a cookie sheet with parchment and roll the cake/frosting dough (will be sticky) into the shapes and put on the cookie sheet. Ghosts are cones and Zombies are squares. Stick them in the freezer so the shape will set. (I froze mine for a couple of hours) Depending on the size of your cake shapes you should get at least 40 to 50.

4.)    Melt Candy Melts in a microwave safe bowl for 30 seconds at a time -- stirring between times until melted. (Microwaves vary -- mine took a minute to melt an entire bag of Candy Melts). 

5.)    One at a time -- dip the tip of a lollipop stick in the melted candy and then insert the stick into the bottom of a cake shape. Gingerly dip the cake into the melted candy, rotate until fully covered, and then gently tap the sides of the bowl with the stick (while still rotating) to get the excess candy off.

6.)    Stick into a block of Styrofoam and let the candy harden.

7.)    For Ghosts -- after the candy has hardened take edible markers and draw on the ghostly faces. 

8.)    For Zombies -- Make eyes by taking some white melted Candy Melts and pouring it into a squeeze bottle. On a cookie sheet, lined with parchment paper, make little candy “dots” and stick them in the freezer to set. Use green melted Candy Melts in a squeeze bottle as “glue” for the eyes. After the candy has hardened take edible markers and draw on the eyeballs and the mouth. 

9.)    Voila! Delicious Spooky Treats!

Lisa Dovichi is cackling over her cauldron knowing that you'll become the next addict to Cake Pops. When she's not evilly plotting to take over the world with baked goods, she is a cover artist for Musa Publishing, a writer, and a web designer.
 

The Chocolate Cupcake Adventure

By Lisa Dovichi

I had a yen for chocolate, 3ft had a yen for chocolate, and the Grumpybutt ALWAYS has a yen for chocolate so we decided it’d be fun to bake some chocolate cupcakes. Normally, I do all my baking from scratch and by myself but the mini-me’s wanted to help so I chose to cheat and bought a box of chocolate cake mix and frosting. Shhh, don’t tell anyone. I thought I had an idea of what I was getting myself into (thus the box) but really I had NO idea!

3ft, my six-year-old, was in charge of cracking eggs. He did a great job, but I’m not going to lie, we had to play ‘fish the eggshell out of the batter’. In the future when 3ft tells me he’s an egg cracking professional I will have him show off his skills in a separate bowl and not straight into the other ingredients.

The Grumpybutt, my year-and-a-half-year-old was in charge of peeling the wrapper off the butter and putting it in the bowl for beating. Yes, there were a couple of bites missing out of the block by the time he was done but I swear the cake didn’t miss them. I had to fish out some butter wrapper too, but not out of the batter, out of the Grumpybutt’s mouth instead -- apparently his first bite was before he took off the wrapper.

 

On to the mixing. 3ft told me he was also a professional mixer so I let him hold the mixer. He cranked that puppy up to 12. And after we cleaned up the explosion of cake batter off the counters AND cupboards and salvaged what we could, he didn’t have any more problems. (Note to self: 3ft might be full of bologna when it comes to what he’s a pro at doing.)

At that point, I was just hoping we’d have enough batter to fill a cupcake pan so I gave each boy a beater so I could quickly fill the cups before anything else happened. As I’m filling the cups, I noticed that the Grumpybutt is emptying them as fast as I am filling them. He’d climbed back up onto the stool and was dipping his beater as fast as he could for more chocolate -- the little ingenious weasel. I pulled him off the stool and set him back on the floor when 3ft insisted the Grumpybutt had more batter than him so he climbed up and started dipping his beater into the bowl.

What could I do? That’s right, what anyone else would do: give up. I gave them the bowl, a spoon, and a spatula. Out of a mix that was supposed to make 24 cupcakes we only got 12. It was worth it though I’ve never laughed so hard or seen chocolate smiles so big. They had a chocolatey blast and I’ve got pictures to blackmail them with when they’re older.

Portrait of an Artist as a Young Girl

by Lisa Dovichi

“No, we’re going to get in trouble,” I said.

“No we’re not. She loves art and wants us to do this,” Christy said.

“She wants us to scratch pictures into her car?”

“Yes, it’s my mom’s friend. She’s totally cool with it. She asked me to.”

“You’re lying.” I gathered up the chalk I was drawing with on the sidewalk and walked away.

I should’ve kept walking. But did I? Oh nooooooo. I had to glance back. And there she was, scratching something into the hood of a red Mazda with a rock. A brand new shiny red Mazda. My famous last thought was: Surely she wouldn’t be doing that if it wasn’t true.

Oh yes, I turned around. And because of my infallible six-year-old logic I grabbed my own rock and promptly started scratching my name (yes my name -- the better to find me with m’dear) and E.T. -- my favorite movie at the time, and other random drawings of rainbows, unicorns, and puppies into the hood of the, let me say again, shiny new red Mazda. In my defense, Christy scratched her name (first and last -- I didn’t know how to spell my ridiculously long last name at the time otherwise I probably would’ve too) and E.T. as well as her pieces d’art onto the hood of the car as well. I mean we had to sign our masterpieces, right? We finished our ode to Picasso (cubism is the ONLY way to go when scratching into paint with a sharp sided rock) and feeling pretty proud of our handy work, we went inside to have a snack.

Fast forward to after dinner (we’re talking hours -- like I’d forgotten I’d done it hours). I was lying on the floor watching cartoons when there was a knock at the door. A woman I’ve never seen before starts screaming, spittle flying, at my mom about how I ruined her new paint job.

“How do you know it was my kid?”

Oh pickles, I knew I should’ve just gone home! I started inching my way out of the living room. I knew it was me. I knew I was in big trouble. And I knew when I said but Christy said it was okay that it wasn’t going to save my bacon.

“Because she wrote her name!”

My mom turned and froze me with a look. “She can’t be the only Lisa in the apartment complex.” I knew she knew but I could tell she was still holding out the hope I wasn’t stupid enough to have actually done what I was accused of.

Sorry Mom, I was that stupid.

“True. However Christy Liarpants (which wasn't her real last name, by the way) was kind enough to write her first and last name and I’ve just come from there and Christy says it was your Lisa who did it with her.”

Fast forward past the graphic violence against my person that ensued. Let’s just say I was right, that Christy told me it was okay didn’t save my bacon and I couldn’t sit for a couple days and leave my shame at that. I can’t remember a single time I was ever in that much trouble before or after than I was when I channeled my inner Picasso.

I’ll bet Picasso never got spanked for expressing himself. Sure, sure he probably never expressed himself into the paint job on the hood of someone’s brand new car but that’s beside the point!

The New Year’s Refusal

By Lisa Dovichi

Nu uh.

Nope.

No way.

I’m not going to do it this year. I refuse. I will not get sucked in. Every year I do and every year I fail at it, miserably, on the very first day. The. Very. First. Day.

Naturally, I’m talking about making New Year’s Resolutions. Every year I make the same grandiose plans that most every other woman makes: eat healthier, lose weight, exercise more, dun dun dun…go on a diet. And like I said, I fail every time. Every. Time.

I have a great excuse, though. My birthday is New Year’s Day. The day we’re supposed to start the year with a clean slate and the high expectations of accomplishing our resolutions this year, I’m celebrating with cake, pizza, and all the largesse that a birthday is required to have. Talk about blowing the slate clear out of the water -- mine is circling in the atmosphere somewhere.

Sure you ask, “Why can’t you start on January 2^nd?” Easy. I’m too stubborn and filled with OCD. Whenever I start something new it has to be the first day of the week, the first day of the month, or yes, the first day of the year. I find I have the most successes when I start in May -- whichever first I happen to land on.

Why can’t New Years be May 1^st instead? Is that too much to ask?

So this year my resolution is to not make a single one…

Crap.

I’ve failed again.

Image credit: parentsconnect.com

Christmas Monster

By Lisa Dovichi

Yes. I did it. I created the monster. It was an accident, I swear -- I had no idea it would turn out this way.

Let me explain.

A couple of months ago, in preparation for the Christmas toy overload, I started telling 3ft, my five-year-old, to “put it on his Christmas List” whenever he asked for toys while we were out shopping. I thought I’d scored on genius when 3ft happily went along with it and it got me out of having to buy a toy without having to use my fall back of, “You’re not old enough for that one,” -- using the age suggestions on the package to deny my child the toy. I have a backbone, really, but it’s easier to avoid the whining, pleading, begging, and unavoidable crying by using the age card.

Suddenly everything was going on his Christmas List -- and I mean everything. Every infomercial (like the giant cupcake mold and one each of the Pillow Pets), every toy, every game, even toiletries (what’s a five-year-old need with a little nose and ear hair remover gadget, I ask?) were being added to the list. Granted some of the items make a mother ask, “Where did I go wrong?” but in and of itself this list isn’t a big deal. I can handle a ginormous list. I make one every year myself.

Except for…

Somewhere, somehow, it got lost in translation that just because it’s on a Christmas List doesn’t mean you’re going to get it. My child thinks that Santa is going to bring him everything on that list. I’ve talked myself blue in the face that the list just gives Santa, friends, and family ideas on what to get you for Christmas based off of stuff you want. He just smiles angelically and tells me he knows he’ll get everything because he’s been such a good boy this year. Now I ask you, how do you fight with that logic?

Exactly.

You’d do as I did and tell him, “But honey our house isn’t big enough to hold it all.” I have a backbone. Really.

Photo credit: janeheller.mlblogs.com

Senility

By Lisa Dovichi

I’ve been losing my mind lately (listens to the peanut gallery saying “Losing? It has been lost for ages”).  I’m going to be twenty-six for the ninth time pretty soon and I swear old age is setting in. I’m constantly forgetting things…kind of.

The other day the rain heavily poured down as we lunged out of the cozy dry car. My husband grabbed Mr. Grumpybutt, our nine-month-old, and 3ft, our five-year-old, and raced toward the double doors leading to the rainy day haven that is the mall. I, as the resident pack mule (hee haw), grabbed all the paraphernalia that comes with lugging an infant around -- you know, everything you own plus the kitchen sink -- and took off after them.

After maneuvering through the screaming kids in the play area, one of which was my own, I finally made it to the corner booth my husband had secured.  Apparently we weren’t the only parents that thought the mall play area was a perfect place to take the kids on a rainy afternoon. I instantly lost what felt like fifty pounds when I dumped the myriad of bags in a pile that I had hanging from all over me. Then I shucked off my wet sweater and laid it out over the mountain I’d created in hopes that it’d dry some before we left. I got comfortable and watched 3ft run around like a hellion and pretended he wasn’t mine.

About an hour in, 3ft got thirsty and asked for some water. I’d forgotten our water bottle which is usually what happens so that’s not why I think I’m getting senile. No big deal, I thought, I’ll just buy him one.

I reached for my purse and grabbed air. I muttered curses under my breath and tried to remember when I’d had it last while I looked frantically around for it. My husband asked me what’s wrong and I told him. He started looking frantically and Grumpybutt, thinking it was a game, started shaking his head back and forth, looking too.

I hysterically thought, “What if I left it in the car?” I shimmied back into my wet sweater and raced for the car, hoping that someone didn’t notice it, break in, and steal it. It was raining even harder, naturally as I waded up to the car. No purse. No obvious signs of a break in either.

I slumped back toward the mall, looking more like a drowned rat instead of a pack mule, and tried to remember when I’d had it last -- and couldn’t. I ran different scenarios of how to tell my husband my purse was gone to lessen the blow.

My favorite one:
Me: I just got a call from the doctor, turns out I have cancer! Only 3 months to live.
Husband: Oh my god, baby, that’s terrible.
Me: If it were true it’d make losing my purse not seem so bad, right?
Husband: I’m so relieved you’re healthy it doesn’t matter you lost major credit cards, social security cards, and your ID.

Yeah, I know, it’d never work so I prepared myself to suck it up and just tell him it was gone.

I got back inside, peeled off my sweater, and draped it over… yes. My purse. Never once had it occurred to me to look UNDER my sweater for my purse with ALL the other stuff I carted around.

So, is it senility if you only thought you forgot it or just the mother of all blonde moments?








Photo credit: dailymail.co.uk

The Most Awesomest Sandwich

By Lisa Dovichi

“Can I make my own sandwich, today?”

Truly, the scariest words of impending doom to ever be uttered by a child -- especially my “creative” child. Bread slices all over the world cringe in terror and I shudder inside, knowing I’m going to have to watch him eat it.

To watch him make his creations is beyond fascinating. He’s very serious and thoughtful as he rifles through the pantry cupboards and roots around the refrigerator. He considers items, then begins pulling out the random foods and condiments that strike his fancy. He piles up his choices on the counter next to the plate provided and drags his stool over so he’s tall enough to actually reach everything.

Sometimes his masterpieces require something cooked like an egg or something sliced like a banana or a tomato. That’s when I get pulled in to be the lovely assistant and the only time I’m permitted to touch anything. Let me repeat: that is the ONLY time I’m allowed to touch the sacred ingredients or the butter knife with which he applies them.

He starts by putting two slices of bread on his plate. They stare at me in horror, pleading with me to not let the atrocities about to happen, happen. I ignore their silent cries and ask 3ft if he needs anything cooked or cut up today.

“No, thank you,” he says angelically, but there’s no mistaking the mad scientist gleam in his eyes.

I step back, thankful not to be a part of the obscenities about to begin. He glops a thick layer of mayonnaise in the center of one of the slices of bread. It kills me to watch it sit there, clumped in the middle -- I’m a perfectionist spreader and my condiments have to be an even layer from crust to crust on all sides of the bread. I refrain from saying anything. This is, after all, his creation, his masterpiece, and perhaps it’s done that way on purpose.

Like a surgeon, he meticulously unwraps a slice of American cheese -- careful not to rip it as he removes the plastic lining. He places it squarely on top of the mayonnaise and adjusts it until it’s perfectly centered on the bread. What makes the cheese so special that it’s placed just so but the mayonnaise is sloppily globbed on?

Okay, okay but so far it sounds like a reasonable sandwich, does it not?

I’m not done. That’s just the beginning.

For this particular work of art, on the other slice of bread he applies a heavy dose of Nutella. Then onto the mayonnaise and cheese side of the sandwich he piles on a mountain of miniature marshmallows and a smiley face made out of pepperoni slices. Then he slaps the Nutella slice on top and squishes it down. I wonder if he can hear the Jaws theme playing in the background because I sure can.

He finishes off this ensemble with a Crunchy-Cheetos-and-banana-slices garnish then carries it over to the table. He sits down and sniffs the sandwich like it’s a fine wine (I don’t know where he gets that from).

“Mmm-mmm-mmm,” he says, his eyes alight with anticipation.

As he picks it up, the mayonnaise squishes out the side (I don’t know how since it was clumped in the middle) and marshmallows tumble down to the plate. I watch in amazement as he takes a humongous bite and chews it -- Nutella and mayonnaise coat the sides of his mouth and make a trail up his cheeks.

“How is it?” I ask hiding my disgust.

“It could’ve used some Marshmallow Crème, but it’s pretty good. Want a bite?”

I shake my head vigorously and watch him hork down the entire sandwich in a matter of moments. I swear the Cheetos and bananas ended up inside the sandwich at some point. This is the same child that will turn up his nose and make gross faces at Stroganoff, Baked Chicken, or Meatloaf, refusing to eat any of them.

Luckily for me, I have a high gross out factor so I was able to eat my lunch alongside him with little trouble. I would starve to death otherwise -- it’s become a regular thing for him to make his own lunch.

“The Most Awesomest Sandwiches” have included:

1.) bread, fried egg, banana slices, tomato slices, and mayonnaise.
2.) bread, cheese, mayonnaise, fruit gummies, sour cream and cheddar chips, and key lime yogurt.
3.) bread, ketchup, mayonnaise, cheese, strawberry yogurt, and Cheetos

These are just his repeat offenders, he comes up with new ones all the time.

Horrifying, right? But we have a deal. I promise not to say anything and let him do it (a real act of willpower), and he can put whatever he wants into his sandwiches (who am I to stifle creativity?) as long as he does two things: 1) eats the entire creation, and 2) doesn’t force me to share.
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Totally grossed out? Come back to where it's safe. Follow Lisa's crazy journey down the healthy living path at Melting Before Your Eyes. 3ft gets mentioned often but not his sandwich creations!

Adventures in Exercising

by Lisa Dovichi


I’ve recently started going to the “gym” in my apartment complex. I put quotes around gym because I have a hard time thinking of a tiny (it’s downright claustrophobic if more than three people are in there), humid, poorly lit room with one treadmill, one elliptical, one upright stationary bike, one recline stationary bike, and two weight machines practically stacked on top of one another as a gym. But, given the very nature of this horrid little room’s contents and the full wall mirrors on EVERY wall that’s what it’d have to be called.

Last night, I unlocked the “gym” door and opened it, and the lights were off. It was almost completely dark as it was around 8:30 at night. I thought EPIC SCORE, I get the whole place to myself. I’ll totally get the good upright bike -- the recline bike is old and squeaks really loud when you pedal. Then there’s the bonus of no one else seeing me panting, sweating, and jiggling in all FOUR of the wall length mirrors.

I walked in, took two steps toward the bikes, expected to see myself reflected in the mirrors, and let out a blood curdling scream (you know, the kind that rivals nails on a chalkboard) and scared the crap out of the sweaty guy, wearing headphones, riding the upright stationary bike. I say it served him right. He was hiding…er… I mean riding in the dark.

Let me explain. See, I had my headphones on. It’s about a five minute walk to the “gym” because, naturally, I live on the completely opposite side of the complex from it. So, I had my headphones on already and they were blasting for the walk over. I didn’t hear him riding when I walked in. I didn’t expect to see him because, hello, the lights were off so it’s pretty dark and he’s lurking around the corner behind the door (yeah the little room is set up really weird). Therefore the blood curdling scream as I had ten years scared off the end of my life.
 
The guy grabbed his chest and laughed, insisting I nearly gave him a heart attack. He said he hadn’t heard the door because his headphones were blasting and didn’t even know I was there ‘til I screamed. I stood there, heart pounding, clutching my chest, and tried to catch my breath. I nearly gave him a heart attack? Please.

He apologized for it being dark and told me the room didn’t get as hot with the lights out but I could turn them on if I wanted. Seemed like sound logic when my brain kicked back in. The room does get incredibly hot and humid -- especially with more than one person working out. After I swallowed my heart back down, so it'd be in my chest where it belongs and not in my throat, I told him nah, it was cool. I figured, he was there first if he wanted to be in the dark so be it. So, I stumbled over to the yucky bike and slammed my shin into it. That’s what I get for being nice.

However, I began to question my decision to let him keep his dark. I got on the horribly squeaky bike and started pedaling and to my embarrassment I could hear the rapid rhythmic, metal scraping metal, "eee eee eee eee" over the Offspring blasting in my ears. It didn’t matter how I tried to position myself or if I grabbed onto the pin that held the seat in place, the loud squeaking wouldn’t stop. I kept glancing in the mirror to see if his hulking shadowy form was looking over at me because he could hear it too. Then I noticed the windows were open, so I had to wonder if anyone walking by outside could hear it. Then I wondered if anyone would be thinking what I was.

I have a gutter brain and it was wallowing in the filth. How could it not when I was in the dark humid little room listening to that rhythmic squeaking, our heavy breathing, and the sound of our sweaty limbs slapping together -- well you can see where I'm going with this (if you have a gutter brain like myself). So not only did I have ten years scared off the end of my life (thank you very much, sweaty guy), but I was stuck on the crappy bike doing the soundtrack for a low budget porn movie for a half an hour. Bow chicka bow bow.

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Lisa Dovichi terrorizes enriches the lives of her husband and two sons, 3Ft of Fun and Mr. Grumpybutt, with the help of a killer Boston Fern named Audrey. By day, she’s a freelance writer, blogger, web and graphics designer, artist, children’s book author and illustrator, and a budding novelist. By night, she’s an exercising fiend. In her spare time -- wait she doesn't have any.

Want more of Lisa’s healthy lifestyle adventures? Join her on her wild ride at Melting Before Your Eyes.

Mutant Turkey

“I’ll cook this year!” I should’ve clued in it wasn’t as easy as I thought from the large collective sigh of relief from the other potential cooks, but I was too busy imagining the glory of my perfect Thanksgiving turkey to pay attention.

A complete turkey novice, I researched hundreds of turkey recipes until I found ‘the one’, entitled ‘The Perfect Turkey’. This recipe guaranteed your family would rave and shower you with compliments.

I’d done the math and decided, for the entire six people who would be attending dinner, one of whom was a two-year-old, a twenty-pound bird was a must.

The night before Thanksgiving, per the recipe of wonder, I prepared a salt/sugar brine in which to soak my turkey for the recommended twelve hours. The recipe swore this would ensure the meat was juicy and tender.

Thanksgiving came, shining with promise. I followed my guaranteed recipe to the letter. Meat thermometer into the thigh, turkey into a cooking bag, in the oven for three hours, per the foolproof directions.

Three hours flew by and I checked the thermometer. It showed the right temperature. I took out the turkey; it was a delicious golden brown. I prepared myself for the accolades as I cut into the bird.

I swear the thing gobbled at me. It wasn’t done.

I remained calm. No big deal, it happens, right? Reinsert thermometer, bird back in bag, and into the oven for another hour.

My family waited with anticipation. Again. An hour later, the thermometer indicated it was really ready, so I pulled it out and cut into the thigh meat. The bird gobbled in protest. Back in. Back out. Still raw.

We played this game a little more, then, since the side dishes were cold and my toddler was starving, I gave up, sliced off some of the more done parts, and nuked them in the microwave. I flipped the rest of the turkey back in the bag and flung it in the oven.

It baked while we ate, while we did the dishes, and while we ate pie. Each time I checked the bird was still kicking.

I turned the temperature down, left it to slow cook, told my husband to watch for fire, and went shopping. When I got back four hours later, I wasn’t shocked to see it was still raw.

I ended up baking that mutant turkey for two days and nights and it never did get completely cooked. At least we have it waiting for next year. Maybe I’ll start cooking it on Halloween. That is if the family lets me.