Or pork cracklin. Well, we might have pork cracklin. I don’t actually know if Winter Park has pork cracklin because before Saturday morning, I’d never tasted pork cracklin. Now, though, I totally understand why there is an entire Network dedicated to Food and I firmly believe pork cracklin should have its own show. I can’t say pork cracklin enough. It’s like I’m trying to resurrect those few, brief moments I had with pork craklin before it was gone. Pork cracklin, pork cracklin, pork cracklin. It’s not working.

Here’s LB’s sandwich. Notice his hand. If you had a sandwich with pork cracklin on it, you would feel possessive as well.

Here are our potatoes. They were also ridiculously good. Although they were not pork cracklin.

Here’s the truck where we bought our pork cracklin. Although it was a lot more full when we bought our pork cracklin. This is several hours later when I went back to visit.

Pork cracklin.

Our entire weekend wasn’t completely consumed by pork cracklin (officially). We also went to Mount Davidson and looked at some of the most amazing views I’ve seen of the city, we tooled around the Mission, we visited the ocean that I completely forgot we lived by (LB: That makes sense that you’d forget the entire Pacific Ocean.) and took a bunch of pictures, which I’d planned on posting here until I found this website and realized my photos of San Francisco are like overcooked bacon to Caliber’s pork cracklin.

Fine, my plan was a little lame. But you know what is not lame? My adoration for Joel McHale. I know, I know. The first thought that pops into all of your minds is “But, what about G.Love?” And readers, I have given this many, many hours of thoughtful contemplation and have come to the conclusion that there is room enough in my heart for both G. and Joel with a little left over for Becks, if he’s so inclined.

And what better way to convey my adoration than by trying to plant one on Joel every time he came on screen? I figured I’d pucker up a couple of times, LB would return with dinner and we’d settle in for a quiet evening with our stories. Except, turns out it’s not quite that easy…

The photo log presented here documents one woman’s descent into Crazy Town and should not be viewed by: ex-boyfriends, future employers, small children, Joel McHale, G. Love (or Special Sauce for that matter), people who suffer from heart conditions, anyone over the age of 25 or anyone under the age of 30.

A couple of noteworthy details:

-These are the photos where I look least crazy.  If you can imagine. Please don’t.

-LB walked in in the middle of it all. He looked at me. He looked at Joel. He put his hand out for the camera.

-From here on out, you never again have to worry about taking a bad picture because I can guarantee I will have posted one on the Internet that is worse. It’s my gift to you. Go forth and grimace.

Dear me, where was I? Yes. Did you know that you can make your computer talk? And did you know that NFL games are infinitely more interesting when accompanied by computer-generated commentary?

“Do these brown pants make my butt look fat?”

“I just made me a touchdown. San Diego, tonight, you are on KP duty.”

“I would just like to say boo-ya, in your face. That was an early Halloween joke.”

Updated: So in rereading my commentary I just realized they sound so very, very lame when not done in a computer-generated voice. I apologize.

Updated 2: I was just informed that they are also lame when done in a computer-generated voice.

Updated 3: I was also just informed that there was an entire “Office” episode dedicated to this so there is absolutely NO POINT to this post so please stop reading immediately.

Updated 4: LB’s computer won’t stop saying “boobs”, which I’m going to go ahead and blame on a computer hostage takeover so if I’m dead tomorrow you know why.

Updated 5: Just been informed that “boobs” was also used on the “Office” so LB’s computer can’t even come up with an original idea and all I can say is THANK GOD IT’S 5:00 AND QUITTING TIME.

I went along by myself (LB was sick and honestly, I just didn’t have it in me to spend all day describing to LB the very real pain the dancers would feel after their performances. When they would be unable to lift their phones.) and ended up watching a Mexican dance and then a very abstract dance which featured a lot of dancing with suitcases, all of which was topped off by a dancing man-bird. I’m not sure how else to describe it. Basically, while we walked to the train stop, a guy dressed like a bird performed leaps and spins, culminating in a telephone pole dance that almost took out an unsuspecting lady who happened to be walking by. It looked like a whole lotta fun.

The idea was we’d then get on the train and head off to the next stop, which featured synchronized swimming (what a day, right?). So, I got on the train and sat down with an open seat next to me. And sat there for about five minutes waiting for everyone to board the train (still with the open seat by me) while all the other passengers around me talked and laughed with their friends. And I started to feel like I was back in 8th grade. And 8th grade really, really sucked. Except for Chad Kellogg, who was really cute and had great (albeit heavily gelled) hair. So, I got off the train.

And then, because I’m not 12 and solely concerned with whether or not my hair wings have fallen, I spent the next hour walking around the city, berating myself for not making more of an effort while wondering if maybe I’m not that much fun anymore and maybe this shows I don’t actually know how to “be myself”anymore and maybe, just maybe, if I’d smiled a bit more, or looked more friendly, or, I don’t know, pulled out my Step routine, or something, I’d still be there, laughing away, with my trolley-full of admirers.

You can see where this was going. I arrived back home thoroughly despondent and delivered LB the bad news – he actually had married a social outcast; my days of Friendly Kara were behind me; all he had to look forward to were long days of nothing fun, ever again. And you know what he said?  “Sounds like you weren’t having that good of a time; probably a good thing you left.” Wasn’t having a good time. Probably good I left. Damn.

And THAT is why I married this man.

PS – I have to say something very brief about Saturday’s Fun Project, which was lying in bed, reading (aka. Best Morning Ever). I finished up “Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie”, an absolutely delightful book. It reminds me a bit of the “No. 1 Ladies’ Detective” series in that you just can’t get enough of the main character, Flavia. Such a fun read for these chilly fall days.

With this in mind, I went to my first Step class, something I’ve always wanted to do but was too scared to try because, well, frankly, I lack basic skills in the coordination department. I am the gal who broke her ankle after falling off of a sidewalk. You know the flat bit of concrete generally considered safe for babies, wheelchairs and runners? Not. So. Much.

No matter. I decided Step sounded a lot more fun than pounding the treacherous curbs and sidewalks of San Francisco and that regardless of how many times I tripped over my step (no pun intended) I would keep smiling and concentrate on having a good time.

And, holy cow, was it FABULOUS. A million times better than running any day. There was so much to take in I hardly had time to concentrate on the moves, evidenced by the fact that the only move I actually mastered was the “Funky Repeater,” essentially, a knee bend. In fact, I was so entertained I completely forgot I was working out (remedied today by my inability to extend my calf muscles at all, which means I either have to walk on my tip-toes or hunched over with my knees bent, a source of endless amusement for a certain someone who keeps asking me to fetch things), something that has never happened before.

Not only were there mambo steps and cha-cha-chas and a “Superstar Pivot”, which was all about who could bring the best Supermodel pose (in my mind), but our instructor sang the moves in time to the music. Which is hard. I know because last night before my Class Reenactment Performance, I practiced forever in the bathroom and still couldn’t get it down. There’s something about counting while changing octaves and staying on beat that was just too much for my brain to process. He was good, people. Really, really good.

Also good? My neighbor’s dance moves. He did not miss a beat, kept his toes pointed and even got our instructor back on track when he lost his place, all while shouting out things like “It’s a Step Emergency!” and “Love it! Move it! Do it!” I wanted to fold him up and put him in my pocket to pull out for times when it’s boring around the house.

As for my performance? Awful. A lot of the time I was so lost I just stood on the step, watching everyone else. The rest of the time, I looked like an octogenarian who’d had a few too many wine coolers. I’m totally going back.

So, as long as we’re NEWLYWEDS we decided to do it up right with dinner out and flowers and the whole bit. The coup d’ etat was that we each planned an activity for the other person that we thought they would like (aren’t we adorable? We’re newlyweds!).

Now, I don’t know what my activity is because it wasn’t happening last weekend (weird because Zara is open every day…) but Chris’ Lovefest Event was to go to Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, this huge 3-day free music fest in the park. Honestly, I didn’t know many bands that played, except Lyle Lovett (whom I adore and I was going to say is third on my list of singers I’d most like to marry but I won’t because that is a totally inappropriate comment for a newlywed to make) but it was all in the Name of Love and they were selling Kettle Corn so, no matter.

And then what can only be described as the Most Fantastic Thing I Have Ever Seen in a Park happened. We turned a corner and there was this guy, sitting at a typewriter with a sign that said, “Pick a topic. Offer a price. I’ll write you a poem.”

Of course, we did it!

Three minutes, one phone number and an eye-rolling amount of flirting from a scantily clad pair of ladies later (seriously, this guy is like the Sensitive Poet’s answer to George Clooney. It didn’t matter their age, the ladies love Lynn Gentry…), we had our poem.

I love being a newlywed.

The first thing to do is make the cake (German Chocolate variety, please) according to the directions on the box. You’ll then want to spread half of the mixture around the bottom of a 9 x 13″ pan. I don’t actually have one and it won’t fit in my Baby Oven (a technical term) so I’m going to use a pie plate pan (again, technical usage is preferable). It should look like this only in the bottom of your bigger pan. Bake that sucker for 15 minutes at 350 degrees (whoops – you were supposed to have heated up your oven to 350 so do that, only earlier).

While that’s baking you’ll want to mix on your stove top (in a pan, silly) the caramels, butter and condensed milk and let them all melt together over low heat. Now, sometimes, it takes a really long time to get all of those damn caramels out of their wrappers so if you have to cheat and put it on high just to get the thing done before the cake’s done baking, well, we don’t judge here in Kara’s Kitchen, ha, ha!

Pull your cake out of the oven and notice that even though you thought there wasn’t that much batter in the pan, it seems to have expanded above what you thought possible. Ha, ha! Pour caramel mixture over cake until it dangerously teeters on the edge of overflowing. Briefly think, “I wonder if this is going boil over when I put it back in the oven?” Instead, place a cup of chocolate chips on top of caramel. Briefly toy with idea of trying to jam cake down to fit other cake batter over it. Laugh at stupidity of that idea. Put pan back in oven.

Register surprise when caramel and chocolate chips begin to overflow out of pan and drip down sides of pan. Pretend it will magically right itself and go back to reading Twitter updates. Laugh hard at wittiness of LittleGirlBigGlasses. Sneak a peek at cake and notice the volcanic eruption continues.

Remove cake from oven using bath towel after realizing all clean towels are in the wash and no longer own an oven mitt. Decide cake will look less “worn” if excess caramel/chocolate matter is scraped onto top. Scrape onto top.

Enjoy. Serves 1 husband who really, really loves you.

For the full recipe minus commentary, click here.

**This is not an actual photo of Lovah Boy.  He didn’t want me to post one of him so I found one of a guy who looks eerily similar.

For the past two years I have needed a new website.  My old one sort of worked and you could kind of buy cards (excellent for a shopping site, wouldn’t you say?) but it was always breaking and not loading and basically prevented me from selling my cards with any kind of regularity.  So, I hired this AWESOME web guy, whom I absolutely adore, who emails me back and everything (I know! Imagine that!) and he has the template up so – in theory – my site should be just about done.  Except that right now I’m averaging one card upload a week. At this rate by the time it’s done, my cards will be collector items because paper won’t exist anymore.

And dumbest part about all of this?  This is the first time I’ve ever had the space to dedicate time to my writing and cards.  In the past, I’ve been working a fairly full-time freelance copywriting schedule and tried to shove my cards and writing in around it.  But, with the move out here (and LB’s support – the guy really does rock), we decided it’s time to get it all up and running.  And then I stopped doing…anything. What the hell?!?

I know there is this (smaller now) part of me that believes that work = hard, not fun and lots of crying.  That the place where I’m most comfortable with work is when I have panic in my stomach and tension in my shoulders.  But a growing part of me understands that THIS IS WRONG.  That if I can just (finally, Kara, finally) put my cards and writing and creative ideas out there and let go and have fun, it will all work out in the same way so many other things (love life, weight, friends, family) did once I gave up worrying and started enjoying.  It’s like there is a big neon sign flashing “Hey lady!  Remember these hard-won lessons? You don’t have to relive them AGAIN!” and I can’t see it because I’m looking around for the exit to CrazyTown (actually, that would be a really huge neon sign and I have to say there is a pretty good chance I would notice it but you get the idea).

But I’m changing that – I uploaded cards today.  And tomorrow I’m going to write descriptions for them. And the day after that maybe I’ll make up some new ones and…well, you get the idea – you probably don’t need my full to-do list.  It’s a very small step down what feels like the right road.

(I’ll give your eyes a moment to recover.)

After that debacle I purged my closet and had what I thought was a lean, fashion-friendly closet.  So, imagine my surprise when my sisters come over to help pack up my closet and we found these treasures….

1.  Jacket bought (at considerable expense) to jump-start my career as a “working woman.”  I remember standing in the boutique (in Canada, no less!) agonizing over whether to buy this or a black shirt dress. Fortunately, I chose timeless. I always do.  (Sidenote: Molly is brushing her bangs with a comb found in the pocket.  Used to keep it on hand in case, I don’t know, I needed to tease my perm?)

2.  This was my first “vintage” piece (I believe it was circa 1993, bought it in 2001).  When paired with a moderately flared, slightly distressed jean skirt, it says, “I am short-waisted,” like few things can.

3.  This was one of my first purchases from Anthropologie and, I have to admit, the only thing I’ve ever bought from there that I’ve never worn.  See, parts of my brain still work.

Because I was moving everything myself (LB was already in San Fran) I told LB that we needed to weed out his closet and get rid of everything he hasn’t worn in the past 10 years. (Soooo mean!) Typically he lets me in there once a year and after a whole lot of moaning and groaning concedes one t-shirt that has so many holes in it it looks like an old-school football jersey. (Remember those?  Even I could see mesh was a look that wasn’t going to stick around.) After about an hour, it was not going well.  We’d thrown away one tattered T-shirt and had a pile waist-deep of things he wanted to “think about,” when I stumbled upon my saving grace – the Halloween box.  Turns out “hobo clown” is easier to swallow than “out-of-date.”

Molly and Jill wasted no time in putting together a “Greatest Hits of LB’s Closet.”  Okay, so Jill doesn’t look good in everything.

So that was so much fun I’m thinking we’re going to have to do more of it.  Because I have A LOT of ridiculous pieces of clothing.  Many that I still wear in a way that is undoubtedly funky and creative, just like that pea green jacket.