on not being that woman

You guys. The silence. It's inexcusable. Especially because 1 month ago today, I got married.

And I'm sorry. And I promise that we're going to blog about the ceremony (which was oh, so holy and worshipful and community-focused and exactly what we'd hoped for) and the reception (which was staggeringly, breathtaking beautiful thanks to my talented mother and her talented crew) and the honeymoon (which was warm and relaxing and long).

But today I need to laugh, and I need you to laugh with me.

So yesterday I was tooling around on Pinterest, the website which proves that women are, in fact, visual creatures. And while I was on Pinterest, I saw this picture:

[photo/recipe credit]

Don't those look delicious? The simple caption beneath the photo read "Apples + cinnamon + oven @ 200 degrees = homemade apple chips."

So I turned to Jon, who was reading beside me (how great is married life?), and said: "I think I'll make these tonight with the leftover apples from our wedding." Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

I sliced up the apples and arranged them just so on our cookie tray with our silpat pan liner (love!). I went to grab the cinnamon out of the cupboard when I realized we have no cinnamon. However, I'd received a Penzey's spice box decorated with whole cinnamon sticks (shower gifts for the win). I pulled out our the-holes-are-too-small-to-be-a-decent cheese grater and went to work. When that proved nearly impossible, I turned to the Magic Bullet (Ashley knows me so well) and pulverized those pieces. I sprinkled my fresh gourmet ground cinnamon on my apple slices. So certain was I of my imminent success, I saved the rest in a jar to used on future apple chip endeavors.

As I popped the tray of soon-to-be apple chips into the oven, I hugged Jon and remarked smugly, "I might just become one of those women, y'know, the kind who grind their own cinnamon and bake their own apple chips." What I meant was "I might just become the Pioneer Woman."

Okay stop laughing.

I was supposed to flip the chips after an hour. I forgot about them amidst folding laundry and got to them after 1:15. Half were already burned beyond repair and the other half, my ever-loving Cortlands, had been reduced to dry-on-the-outside-applesauce-flesh-on-the-inside apple-ish-kind-of rings.

Together, Jon and I sorted through the chips tasted every one, determining whether it was edible. I threw away many that were too brown to even talk about.

As I cleaned up the kitchen, I turned to Jon and said, defeated, "Guess I'm not that woman after all."

He just smiled, kissed me, and said "Not yet."