Pasricha Pastiche

I love it when two awesome things combine to become something equally marvellous.

A classic that's a pretty common one for most people might be peanut butter and jam.

But I'm also thinking about when companies produce something - like when H.B. Reese combined peanut butter and chocolate to make Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. My taste buds still sing out in praise of the forward thinking that led to this glorious experience in yummy.

I was similarly impressed with the simple wonder of fry sauce - which is the merging of one part ketchup and two parts mayonnaise (two of my favourite basic condiments)

And this morning, while making my lunch, I marvelled at the combination of President's Choice Smokin' Stampede Beer & Chipotle BBQ sauce with mayo to make a new sandwich spread.

I thought it was worthy of pausing, snapping a quick pic and just acknowledging the wonder when two great things combine to make a whole new thing to enjoy.


* This post is titled "Pasricha Pastiche" in honour of the man of awesome, Neil Pasricha, whose books The Book of Awesome and The Book of Even More Awesome, inspired by his blog, help inspire people to take unabashed pleasure and joy from the many very simply joys each day brings. I had the pleasure of seeing him give a talk in person last month and continue to be inspired by his outlook on life. Thanks, Neil.

Change Is Bad; Trust No One!

… … The title of this blog post "Change is bad; trust no one!" is something a buddy of mine named Mathew used to jokingly utter under his breath, particularly during the sweeping changes that struck Chapters Online during the dot com bust in 2000.

Mathew, someone who embraces change, was being cheeky when uttering that phrase, but the sad truth is it's the mantra of so many people.

I fell victim to it the other day.

But when I paused to actually look at the details, I realised I was being closed-minded and change-averse. And, interestingly enough, I was so upset with the change that I missed the fact that this change was good.

The President's Choice brand recently changed the packaging for one of their BBQ sauces - Smokin Stampede Beer & Chipotle BBQ sauces. Since I first discovered it, it has been among my favourites. We ALWAYS have a bottle in the house.

My immediate thought upon seeing the updated packaging was: "Oh great - smaller package, same price. The big companies are screwing with us again; giving us less while charging the same price, or more." In this case, the packaging changed, but the price remained the same (Although, admittedly, when a consumer gets this frazzled, you might as well have also "upped" the price)

Last night while BBQing, I used up the original sause, so brought out the new bottle. I was so upset, I even went to take a picture of the two of them side by side so I could tweet my disappointment to the world.

Of course, it was only when I was taking the picture that I looked closely at the label.

The new "smaller" package was still 1L - the exact same size as the original glass bottle. Only, the plastic one was, naturally, half the weight and much easier to grip in one hand. Also, when I went to pour it, the new packaging had an "easy to pour" flip lid, while the old one, while classic and stylish with a cork pop top, was messy.

Simply, the old packaging, while "neat" and unique, was too heavy, difficult to fit nicely in the refrigerator, too messy and just think about the freight involved in shipping a skid of them.

The new packaging (which runs the exact same price for the consumer) is lighter, easier to handle, easier to store, and easier to use. It's a phenomenal improvement.

However, remember my initial reaction? Negative. "Change is bad!"

Even though I joke and make fun, I fall victim to this close-minded perspective.

Perhaps there are other things changing that we're missing the boat on. That's definitely worth keeping in mind.

Friday The 13th Rib Recipe

Years back, Francine and I started a tradition with our neighbours. Feeling the urge to do something fun and interesting on Friday the 13th (based on how cool we thought it was that people with motorcycles converge in Port Dover on that date), we started holding "Hot Luck" parties.

"Hot Lucks" were basically "Pot Lucks" in which people brought their favourite hot and spicy dish to share. It was a fun gathering of chilli-heads.  The invite was wide open and more of a "you're all welcome, please just drop in" sort of affair. We went from having as many as 40 people to as few as 5 (that was the year of the Great August blackout of 2003 - but we were cheating a little, since that was a Friday the 14th)

We've toned those down over the years, and in the past little while haven't held the gatherings that would run into the wee morning hours. (Yes, having a six year old changes things up a little)

Of course, our afinity for hot and spicy food hasn't gone away.

So, in memory of those great gatherings, here's a recent VERY EASY rib recipe we've grown fond of. And it's not killer hot, just has an extra touch of heat but tons of flavour.

• Boil ribs for 60 minutes (this can be done ahead of time with ribs kept in refrigerator)
• Place ribs on low heat on BBQ
• After about 10 minutes, coat the ribs with a thick layer of BULL'S-EYE Chicken & Rib Renegade sauce. Wait a few minutes, then turn and add more to other side. (This sauce will cook into the ribs)
• Continue to let cook on low for another 10 minutes.
• In the final 15 minutes of cooking, add a thin layer of President's Choice Smokin' Stampede Beer & Chipotle sauce to both sides of the ribs. (This sauce will add a new sticky layer to the ribs, and only be half-cooked into the existing sauce)

I've found that the combination of these two sauces adds a delightful flavour to the ribs with just enough heat and is very simple to prepare.  Of course, back in the day, I would have likely sprinkled the ribs with Blair's Death Rain rub before adding them to the grill, or mixed in a few drops of Da Bomb Beyond Insanity hot sauce. But that was back when my buddy Chad and I used to try to hurt one another by making a killer over-the-top recipe that would make your eyes water, your nose run, and give you hiccoughs.  We don't do that as much as we used to (not too often, at least)

Another Triumph!

Last year the President's Choice product line released a wonderfully exciting barbecue sauce called Smokin' Stampede Beer & Chipotle Barbecue Sauce. It came in a generously sized 1 Litre bottle. None of this pint sized salad dressing sized sauce bottle. This was a real sauce lover's bottle of smokin' goodness. It had just the right combination of standard smoky barbecue flavour mixed in with chiptle (and, of course, beer)

This summer, they've released a follow up to what was a popular sauce. (Of course, like most fun flavours that are released to the masses and which have a nice hot kick to them, I find that I seem to be the only one who likes them and they disappear off the grocery store shelves shortly after appearing. Hmm, kind of like really cool television shows I like -- shows like Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip or Windfall or that wonderfully classic drama Manimal. No wait, I take that back. I just checked and it looks like Studio 60 is returning to NBC on May 24th. WOO HOO!)

Okay, a bit of a sidetrack there. Back to the sauce. Yes, this summer they've released a follow up sauce and added even MORE kick. They now have Smokin' Habanero Barbecue Sauce. Fran picked it up at the grocery store and I had it last night on chicken. It has the same standard underlying smoked BBQ flavour to it, yet this one has even more of a wonderful spicy punch.

I think I have a winner for what sauce I'll be using on the next Friday the 13th Hot Luck party we hold. This sauce is going to make some awesome ribs.

YOU'RE the Alphagetti Gobbler!!!!

Have you ever gone hunting with a bowl and spoon? And no, I'm not actually referring to the old Libby's Zoodles commercial; but rather, a similar one that I remember from my childhood.

I'm referring to the television commercial that featured The Alphagetti Gobbler.

In the commercial, there are two kids (at least two, I'm not sure if there were three) sitting at a kitchen table and listening to this googley-eyed monster with either a whack of arms or spaghetti-like tentacles warning them to keep their eyes on their Alphagetti because the Alphagetti Gobbler might eat it when they're not watching. (Okay, in my memories, the creature is starting to look something like Kang or Kodos, the alien creates from the Simpsons Halloween specials).

I think at one point the monster points behind them and says: "Hey, there he is!" The kids turn around, and when they turn back, their alphagetti is gone and the one kid says (in what I remember as a voice much like Oliver Twist): "YOU'RE the Alphagetti Gobbler!"

I regularly quote this kid, particularly whenever I want to accuse someone of something (like taking the last donut in a communal box of Tim Horton's donuts, or discovering who it was who borrowed and never returned my stapler . . . you know, important kinds of discoveries). Of course, whenever I do that kid's voice people either laugh their asses off because it had been decades since they saw the commercial, or they have know idea what I'm talking about and are really close to calling a doctor to have a look at me.

This whole train of thought was inspired by fellow blogger and Humble & Fred fan Mike Boon. Ever since I saw Mike and a group of others begin their hunt to find other people who remember The Alphagetti Gobbler and/or video clips or photos of the alleged creature that steals alphagetti's from unsuspecting kids, I'm having nightmares about him.

No, I never did encounter The Alphagetti Gobbler, at least that I knew of; because he does operate in a sneaky fashion. And I do remember at least once when a meatball or two went missing from a plate of spaghetti that I had once -- and NO, I did not sneeze. I think it might have been The Alphagetti Gobbler perhaps branching out and trying new foods.

I've been so consumed by the freaky memories of this monster that I've started a Facebook Group called I Remember The Alphagetti Gobbler. Please join, and please help us find this monster before he eats YOUR kid's Alphagetti's.

Meme - Gotta Have My Sauce

Welcome to another installment of, "Come ON -- tell me the WHOLE story!" AKA "I love to talk about myself", or "Me-Me Monday" for short. The object of the game is to refer to your 101 Things About Me list, pick one of your "things" and tell the whole sordid tale.

66. I've gotta have my sauce.

Every since I was a young lad, I've always had a thing for ketchup. Consider these startling facts from my youth:

a) My mother used to buy ketchup by the case.
b) Whenever we went to weddings or dinner out, my mother used to keep a small container of ketchup in her purse because I had to have it whenever I ate.
c) I used to put so much ketchup on my eggs that my uncle used to say you could put a plate of ketchup down in front of me and I'd eat the whole thing without realizing there were no eggs on the plate.
d) I once put ketchup in my soup (but I never did that again, because it wasn't very good) I sometimes think it's because the soup wasn't good to begin with and not the ketchup's fault.
e) I almost orgasmed last year when I was visiting Pittsburgh and I realized that it was the home of Heinz ketchup.
f) On the night that I proposed to Francine, she'd made a wonderful dinner, including a home-made meatball recipe that used ketchup and beer (is it any wonder I fell in love with this woman?)

I've also always been a fan of merging ketchup with other things, like gravy, egg yoke and things like that. Yummmm. But as I got older, I was able to modify my obsession from ketchup to a general obsession with sauces in general. I like to think that I'm pretty liberal in the adaptation of new sauces into my life. I mean, now, sometimes entire days pass where I haven't used ketchup. (Just some other fun sauce)

For example, when I was in University, a friend of mine from the U.S. introduced me to the act of dipping french fries in mayonnaise. I loved it. Of course, that led to a dilemma whenever I had french fries, because I couldn't decide what to have them with: ketchup or mayo.

The dilemma is now over, of course, since having recently read about fry sauce. Thanks to the good people of Utah (which is apparently home to this marvelous creation) for inventing it.

Fry sauce is basically a mixture of two parts mayo and one part ketchup. Now I have tried that mixture myself, and have to admit that it's a sauce marriage made in heaven.

Of course, I haven't yet tried the real thing, because when I search out more information about fry sauce, I can see that different restaurants from Utah apparently include different ingredients in the mix. (Such as on Arctic Circle's website)

So while I will continue to experiment with my own mixture of this magical recipe, I'm considering seeing if I can do a mail order of the sauce from a Utah area restaurant.

Peaceful, Easy Feeling

Sometimes it’s at the strangest moments when a tranquil moment hits.

Saturday evening, Francine and I went out on a date to celebrate my birthday. It was a fun evening. We started off browsing through Chapters, standing together yet lost in separate dreams of buying practically every book we both looked at, all the while knowing full well that there were already more than enough unread books on our shelves at home to keep us busy reading for well over a year, even if we were to read at some remarkable breakneck speed. But that’s just one of the afflictions we both have in common, and one of the things I truly love about my wife.

The only book we bought was a Baby Einstein book for Alexander. It was “The World Around Me: Oceans” -- because he loved the sister book in the same series “The Sky” so much. Then we walked over to Kelsey’s.

We don’t go out for dinner very often. But when we do, we like to return to a place where we know we’re going to enjoy the food, the prices are good and the staff are friendly. For us, the Kelsey’s in Ancaster has all that. (And they have Molson Export on tap as well -- so, even if they didn’t have all that, I’d still be drawn to it). We discovered a long time ago that even though this Kelsey’s is extremely busy and there’s a long wait for a table (the Silver City movie theatres are next door), there’s a wonderful small section at the bar with about 9 tables where you can just walk in. Whether we bellied right up to the bar or sat at one of the bar area tables, we’ve never had to wait and have always had a great time.

Sean, our favourite bartender, was on duty that night (I don’t think we’ve ever not seen him there - he's a friendly and likeable guy, and though we hadn't been back there in at least 6 months he remembered us), and we ordered a couple of beers and our standard appetizer: Four cheese spinach dip. Because we couldn’t decide on what to get, we ended up just ordering wings. Fran had the honey garlic and I went with suicide. I was a little fearful of how the wings might come when I told our waitress to let the kitchen staff knock themselves out and make them as hot as they could.*

- - - - - -

* Three or four years ago we’d come to Kelsey’s for my birthday and I’d ordered a buffalo chicken sandwich with my standard challenge to see if the chef could make it so hot that it hurt me, made me run to the washroom and thrust my head in the toilet or just run screaming around the bar yelling that my head was on fire. In all the years of doing this, one of the only times any chef had succeeded was that one night.

When they brought our meal, you could smell the sweet, tangy hot sauce from a good ten feet away. The waitress put the plate down and said, “If this is too hot, let me know, and I’ll bring you another one.”

What I heard, though, was: “Here you go mister big tough man. Nobody thinks you can handle this, so why don’t you just admit defeat and order the kiddie meal?”

“No way,” I said, choking back the tears from the fumes off my chicken sandwich. “I’ll be fine.” Francine piped in that I could handle it. Of course, again I didn’t hear those words, instead I heard: “My man is tough and virile and has a penis larger than most porn stars, and when he holds me in his rock solid arms and makes love to me, he lasts all night, and I burn with a never ending passion.”

My eyes had indeed started to water the moment I picked that sandwich up, and on my first bite I had the hiccoughs, my nose started to run and my brow was sweating profusely. After about ten minutes passed and I’d only taken a couple of bites, the waitress came back and again offered to replace the sandwich for me.

Again, I refused. The sandwich was hot -- too hot, in fact. The most painful hot food experience I’d ever had, thank you very much, and I’d tried plenty of painfully hot foods over the years. But I wasn’t going to give up on this. Besides, again I didn’t hear the kind offer, what I heard was: “Let’s be honest here pencil dick. You’re not the same young and strong man your wife married. You’re getting old and weak. We all know it. Let’s just face the facts here, bud. You're no Ron Jeremy. And you don’t have it in you any longer.”

I stood up and said. “I’m going to eat this sandwich, and when I get home I’m going to sweep my wife off her feet and bring her to new heights of ecstacy. And for your information, Ron Jeremy is jealous of my tremendous proportions.” The waitress gave me a strange startled look and backed off carefully without once taking her eyes off me. Kind of the way you saw people back away from Cujo.

It took me nearly forty minutes and several beers before I finished the sandwich. But I did. I think it was the first time since Francine knew me that I’d EVER taken longer than her to finish a meal. (Usually, when making breakfast, for example, I can completely cook her breakfast, set it in front of her, then start to make my own and still be finished my own eggs and toast before she’s half-way through hers).

During this time, the chef had slipped out of the kitchen, and with the gleeful anticipation of a child wanting to see the cherry bomb he’d just set go off and blow the cap off a fence post, he was looking around. He stopped the waitress and asked her a question, and she hooked a thumb in the direction of our table. I’d been doing my silly hot food ritual long enough to know the words being exchanged. Chef: “Where’s the dumb fuck who ordered the ‘hurt me’ sandwich?” Waitress: “He’s over there. But be careful. I think the heat and spice has made him delusional. He’s spouting random bits of madness.”

He looked over and we made eye contact. He froze. Caught like a deer in the headlights. I gestured him over. He slowly shook his head. Uh Uh. “C’mon” I said. He carefully took one step, then another, and stepped up to our table.

“In all the years I’ve asked for killer hot wings or suicide buffalo chicken,” I said. “This is truly the first time that anyone has succeeded in really making me hurt.” He took a step back, still a bit fearful. “Excellent job!” I said, putting out my hand. “Thank you.”

Without another word he scurried back to the kitchen. I looked at Francine, wondering if I’d said something to insult him. She shrugged her shoulders. (What I saw, of course, wasn’t that, but her winking at me, licking her lips and whispering, “Just wait until we get home, big boy.”)

The chef returned with an empty bottle of a hot sauce that I’d seen only once before and held it up proudly. It was called “Da Bomb: Beyond Insanity” -- it was the type of potent sauce that even experienced hot sauce fans are likely to enjoy in small pin prick droplets. He grinned a huge shit-eating grin and proceeded to tell me that he used half a bottle of that sauce on my sandwich, convinced that nobody would be able to eat it. (Just to show you how potent this sauce is, my buddy Shupe bought a bottle for me after hearing me recant this tale one drunken evening at one of our hot luck parties -- it has lasted several years even though I've used it in a lot of recipes in that time)

My mouth and lips and tongue burned madly for the rest of the evening as we ordered more beer then dessert and coffee. It was during dessert that I ran to the washroom to relive myself of the many beers I’d consumed while eating the hot sandwich.

Now, the usual ritual of going to the washroom is do your business and THEN wash your hands.

What I should have done is washed my hands both before AND after. Because, while I didn’t feel anything immediately, by the time I got back to our table, a bizarre burning sensation started down below. As I shifted in my seat and my eyes started to water again, Francine asked me what was wrong.

"It burns," I cried out, then started slamming my forehead on the table, hoping to divert some of the pain. "Oh, it burns, it burns, it burns."

"What burns?" she asked. I widened my eyes at her, saying nothing more then she understood. "Oh."

"This pain is like ten times worse than my hernia." I started ripping out my hair in small chunks of scalpy flesh. But even that diversion couldn't keep my mind off the burning I could feel at the heart of my being. The I began sobbing like the big baby that I was. "Make it stop, make it stop, pleeeeeeease."

We abandoned our dessert and coffee and Fran drove home while I sat in the passenger seat, alternating from sticking my burning mouth and burning private parts out the window, the rush of cold night air acting like a soothing balm.

- - - - - -

I had nothing to fear, this time, of course. Fran loved her honey garlic wings, and my suicide wings were perfect. Hot and spicy and painful enough to bring sweat to my brow and make my nose run a little. But not hot like the buffalo chicken sandwich had been several years earlier.

We enjoyed our beers and some fun conversation, had a great dessert, and headed back home. When we returned we found that Alexander had slept the whole evening, didn't wake up once, and my mother in law had enjoyed a quiet relaxing time.

After dropping my mother in law off, I was driving back on McElroy, a side street and listening to the mixed CD I had made for Francine's birthday a few months earlier. It was just about 11:45 PM. Listening to one of Fran's favourite songs, I was reflecting on how wonderful the day had been. For the first time in several weekends, I didn't work at all for the entire day (okay, I did about an hour's work in the early morning, but it was mostly administrative junk), I got to spend some fun quality time with Alexander and Francine, then had a very relaxing and fun date with my wife.

That's when I spotted the rabbit. He was hopping along in the grass between a chain link fence and the sidewalk, bounding high off the grass in giant, perfect leaps. There was no other traffic on the side street, so I stopped the car, rolled down the window to watch him. The rabbit stopped directly beside me. With his ears straight up and his head thrust up high (almost in a form of telescoping that Mister Bunny used to do), he was parallel to my car and looking straight at me.

We sat there for at least 10 or 15 seconds, just looking at each other. The peaceful, easy feeling which I had borrowed from an Eagles song and which had started to come over me as I was reflecting on my day was finally completed in that moment.

I smiled at the bunny, thanked him and then drove on.

Friday The 13th

Several years ago, Francine and I started a tradition. It started when chatting with my neighbour Chad about the enjoyment of hot and spicy foods, and somehow we got on to talking about how every Friday the 13th, motorcyclists converge on Port Dover.

We thought we'd start our own Friday the 13th ritual. And thus, the "Fran and Mark's Semi-Occasional Hot-Luck" was born, with our neighbours Chad and Trish being the most regular attendees. (It's real easy for them to find the place, of course and even easy to get home at the end of the night). For every Friday the 13th we invited over friends who enjoyed hot and spicy foods to a sort of pot-luck event. We asked folks to bring a single dish to share and we'd provide the beverages.

Over the years, we had as little as five people (during the great black out of August 2003), to as many as 40 folks. And occasionally, we didn't end up holding an event on a Friday the 13th, once when Fran was pregnant and so nautious that the THOUGHT of food was overwhelming, and again today (because I was supposed to be in Dallas this week and to be honest, we're still recovering from Christmas). That's why we'll occasionally have a Hot-Luck close to a 13th and on a Friday.

We won't be having one today, but if you do live anywhere near Hamilton and are interesting in attending, go to my profile, get my email address and let me know so I can include you on the invite list for the next gathering (I'm guessing spring)

But because today is the traditional day for us to be sharing hot and spicy stuff, I though I'd share a quick recipe. I used this sauce originally on ribs -- back in August 2003 -- they got named the infamous "blackout" ribs, but have since applied it to wings, mainly so that my friends who do not eat pork can enjoy the painful delight.

Mark's Blackout Sauce
(For ribs or wings) - Mix ingredients together in the order listed below. For ribs, boil ribs then marinated in sauce overnight. Cook ribs on BBQ occasionally adding sauce. For wings - two options - marinate in sauce overnight, or initially cook wings on BBQ, then marinate in sauce overnight and then reheat on BBQ next day while adding remaining sauce. (For those not all that experienced in cooking, don't re-apply the sauce used when marinating- keep some non-contamined-with-meat sauce aside to use)

- 1 cup of Grace Jerk Seasoning or Grace Jerk BBQ*
*(please note that the Jerk Seasoning is far far hotter than the Jerk BBQ sauce - use with caution - perhaps only 1/4 to 1/2 a cup of the hotter variety)
- 1 cup of Bull's-Eye Hot Southern Cajun BBQ sauce
- 1 clove of minced garlic (or tablespoon of garlic powder)
- 2 tablespoons of The "Original" Louisianna Hot Sauce
- 3-5 drops of Da' Bomb Beyond Insanity Hot Sauce

WORD OF CAUTION: This recipe is very tasty and still quite hot and spicy without the final ingredient. Adding Da' Bomb will push the scoville (heat) factor well over the top and potentially hurt the uninitiated.

DQ Something Different

I received a reminder from Your Scrivener Press to submit a 100 word bio for the upcoming anthology Bluffs where my story "Being Needed" will be appearing in the spring of 2006. Very exciting.

I didn't get much writing done this weekend (except for all the usual stuff that goes on in the back of my head while I'm doing other things), but I did do something fun and creative. I've come close to mimicking the joyous taste of Dairy Queen's Flame-Thrower burger on my home grill.

Here's how I did my version of the wonderful hot and spicy sauce (the toughest part - I found the meat, lettuce, tomato, bun and cheese bit were relatively simple to figure out). While I think I've gotten the taste down to a pretty close match, I think my version is a touch more spicy that the DQ version.

- Two heaping tablespoons of Miracle Whip mayo
- One tablespoon of Tobasco Chipotle
- 3/4 tablespoon of The Original Louisiana Hot Sauce

Mix all three together and you have enough sauce for 2-3 burgers.


Or, in my case, you have enough for a single burger. Yumm. (I kind of have a thing for sauce)

Freight Train Running Thru The Middle Of My Head

Despite the "off" day that my stomach was having on Friday, I certainly didn't want to cancel our re-scheduled "Hot-Luck" again. Glad we didn't. It was a good time. And, as always, there was plenty of good food and great company. The most complained about dish that night (ie, wow, this is too hot) was my neighbour Chad's "Buffalo Balls" - he added habanero, jalapeno and chille peppers into the meatballs he made and then cooked them in a buffalo chicken wing sauce - nice sweet hot taste with a painful afterbite. I got an email from my buddy Peter late on Sunday stating that he hated Chad at least four times that day. ('Nuff said?)

This time around, I made a new recipe that I called "Pizza Panic" - Francine made the dough using our bread machine, using Corona where the recipe called for either water or beer. I ground some dried habanero jalapeno and chille peppers and added them to a can of Unico pizza sauce and let it sit in the fridge for a few hours. I fried up some hot italian sausage with a little added garlic and hot banana peppers. I added this all to the two pizza's and the topped them with some pineapple chunks. In all, not bad at all. One of the other highlight dishes from that night were the chocolate cookies that a friend who couldn't even attend (her musical was opening that night at the Ottawa Fringe Festival), but Arianne had dropped these wonderful cookies off for me at work on the Thursday. A lovely chocolatey taste with a touch of cayenne for good measure - reminded me of a strong cinnamon bite - people enjoyed them as a nice follow-up to their meals.

The keg of Alexander Keith's India Pale Ale that I bought for the event was a hit as well -- it went down smooth -- as the party dwindled down, a few of us, Peter, Steve and Rob, sat in the basement near the bar, pulled a few more drafts out of the keg and whooped it up until about 2 AM. Steve and I (he and his girlfriend Julia were staying with us for the weekend) ended up sitting up for another 2 hours just chatting and catching up. We tend to always do that after the girls go to bed and while the loss of sleep is more difficult to deal with as I get older, it's certainly worth it.