Here I am, working dehydrating magic. I've developed a new addiction as of late. This is all Sue's fault. See, she brought these veggie chips in one day to work, and they were good. Really good. Like, "Let's skip lunch and just inhale this whole container" good. We almost came to blows over the last carrot chip.
The problem is that the tastiest chips are made by Aurora, and they cost $7.49 per eight ounces. So it's an expensive addiction.
"Can you make your own?" Jason asked, grumbling over the $30/week habit I'd developed.
"Probably, if I had a dehydrator," I said, through a mouthful of taro root chips. So we ordered one.
Once it arrived, I couldn't wait to get started. First up: bananas.
I cut them too thick, I didn't pre-treat them with lemon juice to prevent browning, and I didn't leave them in long enough. They looked like flattened, gooey rabbit turds. I was not easily deterred, however. I just needed to try something else. (Not celery, though. That was also a fail, unless you like eating mushy, flavorless sticks.)
I peeled, cored, and sliced all of the apples in the house. It's pretty hard to mess up apples. I set to dehydrating.
Success! They came out perfectly—I'd remembered the lemon juice, sliced them to the perfect thickness, and they were leathery, tasty, and ... small.
As I ate the entire batch over the course of the next forty-five seconds, I thought about the magical shrinky-dink qualities of the dehydrator. How could I use this new power for good?
Or evil?
The apples really did have a shoe-leather quality about them. What if I tried to dehydrate a shoe? Would it shrink? Or just turn brown and rabbit-turd-like? I like to think of myself as a scientist. And science wanted to know what would happen to a shoe.
The problem is that the tastiest chips are made by Aurora, and they cost $7.49 per eight ounces. So it's an expensive addiction.
"Can you make your own?" Jason asked, grumbling over the $30/week habit I'd developed.
"Probably, if I had a dehydrator," I said, through a mouthful of taro root chips. So we ordered one.
Once it arrived, I couldn't wait to get started. First up: bananas.
I cut them too thick, I didn't pre-treat them with lemon juice to prevent browning, and I didn't leave them in long enough. They looked like flattened, gooey rabbit turds. I was not easily deterred, however. I just needed to try something else. (Not celery, though. That was also a fail, unless you like eating mushy, flavorless sticks.)
I peeled, cored, and sliced all of the apples in the house. It's pretty hard to mess up apples. I set to dehydrating.
Success! They came out perfectly—I'd remembered the lemon juice, sliced them to the perfect thickness, and they were leathery, tasty, and ... small.
As I ate the entire batch over the course of the next forty-five seconds, I thought about the magical shrinky-dink qualities of the dehydrator. How could I use this new power for good?
Or evil?
The apples really did have a shoe-leather quality about them. What if I tried to dehydrate a shoe? Would it shrink? Or just turn brown and rabbit-turd-like? I like to think of myself as a scientist. And science wanted to know what would happen to a shoe.
This. This happens.
Pretty amazing, right? I started tossing everything I could find in there. Old clothes, the garbage ... whatever we had lying around the house. An old spatula. The sofa.
When Jason came home, he was alarmed. He did not seem at all impressed that his entire tie collection was now the perfect size for a Kewpie doll. I eyed him. You know, Jason's a tall guy. It's hard to find clothes for him. If he were just a little bit smaller ...
Apparently, Jason recognized (and feared) the glint in my eye. He promptly grabbed his car keys, his favorite t-shirt (how did I miss that?), and took off. I haven't seen him since Tuesday.
I'm not going to lie—this dehydrating thing is addictive. You've been warned: nobody is safe.
When Jason came home, he was alarmed. He did not seem at all impressed that his entire tie collection was now the perfect size for a Kewpie doll. I eyed him. You know, Jason's a tall guy. It's hard to find clothes for him. If he were just a little bit smaller ...
Apparently, Jason recognized (and feared) the glint in my eye. He promptly grabbed his car keys, his favorite t-shirt (how did I miss that?), and took off. I haven't seen him since Tuesday.
I'm not going to lie—this dehydrating thing is addictive. You've been warned: nobody is safe.
On the plus side, Pugsley's lost some weight.
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