Let us all pause in the counting down for an important announcement.

We're still counting down to 1,000, and this post will serve as 997, but I have a very important announcement for which we must all pause.

Today is Bubba and my 8th wedding anniversary.

HOLY MIRACLES

I say MIRACLES because LO I am no easy dame to be married to.

To whom to be married? To which? I'm confused. Bubb - which way is it? You know all the answers. TELL ME NOW.

Also, help me shave the cat.

Ugh, it's like this all the time. Poor man, I fear he's still realizing what a tragic misstep it was to link himself to me permanently. I require a lot of attention. And detail. And attention to detail.

I'm sorry that I hoard running shoes and garden gloves in your garage.

I also assume that he knows all things. Which, I feel, is a very old fashioned-y way for a wife to feel about her husband, but this guy has done nothing but reinforce this assumption of mine over the years and I'm just going to be OK with the fact that, in this way, I'm old fashioned.

As far as I'm concerned, he's a genius. He knows a LOT of things. And those things he doesn't know? Well, he figures them out. Which I know because I have never - not once - heard him utter the phrase, "I don't know. Let's just forget about it."

Nope. It's either, "Yep. Here's how you do it." or "I don't know. Let's figure it out."

I love that. In a SO MUCH I'LL MARRY IT kind of way.

Cases in point:
(Hey! A bulleted list! My absolute favorite! Another secret surprise I didn't unveil until after our vows were official with the state. Strategic Crazy, that's my style.

• SplitboardI decided I wanted to go into the backcountry with him after he started going backcountry skiing so that we could, as a pair, avoid the blech lines and crowds at the resorts and also so that we could bring Jada and spend our days in the woods, which is what we prefer.

• 
  

  

  I prefer it.

  So, what did this man do? Um, found a cheap deck online, gave it to me for Chrismahanakwanzika and then proceeded to saw it in half.
  
  Then he built me a splitboard so perfectly balanced and tuned that my first trip into the backcountry was a screaming awesome success.
  
  Just like that. Man + board (+ new swears even I hadn't heard before) + tools = splitboard
  
  
  
  
  Miraculous.

• Brewing beer
  About a year ago some friends left their brewing stuff behind while they went traveling abroad. Bubba inquired about the potential use of their brewing equipment - just in case maybe he was sorta thinking about trying to brew beer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A year later, like now, he has made no fewer than a dozen spectacular brews, including a particularly stunning oatmeal stout (not pictured because we drank it at light speed) which I'd like to be bathed in on a daily basis. It's glorious, rich, flavorful and an absolute delight after a rowdy day on the slopes. Right now we're drinking a Bourbon Porter made with Maker's Mark that is nothing shy of fuckingawesome.
  
  Man + carboy + sacks of grains and things = beers
  
  Miraculous.

I'd keep going through the list of miraculous shit that this man pulls out of his hat on a daily basis (mountain biking - like for reals mountain biking, masterminding a home network, grape trellising, CSS/Javascript/HTML/Scripps/Moveable Type/More Computer Languages I Don't Speak, knots - all kinds of knots, rebuilding cars, welding, programming the sunuvabitching super remote...), but I think you get the point.

This guy's awesome. He can DO anything.

And, the kicker and Moral of the Story, if there can be one for a blog post about a wife's love and devotion for her husband on This The Day of Their Anniversary, is that he thinks that *I* can do anything, too.

Well, at least that's the act he's putting on in the sweetest and most genuine fashion.

See, perhaps you've noticed that I have a lot of hobbies. I do a lot of random things. I try a lot of this and that. I also obsess, get up to my ears in and lose myself to some of these hobbies.

Take the garden for instance. Yikes.

It's true. I do it. It's OK to talk about it.

Well, you may be interested to know that every time I even casually and quietly mention that I might want to try my hand at something - anything - new, he's the absolute very first one (probably because he's usually standing right there keeping me from killing myself while I try some other random thing) to be all, "YOU SHOULD! TRY IT!" or whatever.

And then later, when I'm waffling, he'll be all, "Come on, man - you're going to be awesome/win the race/love it/have honey/look great in that sweater/grow a hundred pounds of vegetables/be fluent/etc.

And despite the many things he's encouraged me to try over the years, he's never lost that enthusiasm.

Yes. It's possible that he's insane. It is also possible that I'm insane and the fact that we found and linked ourselves permanently to one another is not coincidental because no other person would have either of us, but I love him tons and he's a genius and he thinks I can do anything and let's not forget that he is - HANDS DOWN - the funniest fucker that I know. 

And because you just sat through that whole rambling gushing post about my Bubba, I will share with you all a recent gem of his that totally got me right in the funny parts.

This is my sports bra.

It's from Enell. They just call it a sports bra. Even though it is the most stranglyest, suffocatingest, most GET THIS THING THE HELL OFF OF ME after a race-ingest contraption ever wrapped around two unknowing boobs.

It works, don't get me wrong, but it is neither flattering nor comfortable.

Bubba knows this. Which is why, when I get ready to go running and go through the process of inserting myself into this torturous device, he calls it either:

The Boston Marathon Strangler

OR

Fort Knockers

See? Funny guy. And that's just a random off-the-cuff comment made in the wee early morning hours as I'm getting ready to go out for a run. Imagine what it's like when he's fully awake, caffeinated (or drinking) and in full Laugh Riot mode.

Yeah, it is a bit scary. You're right. But it's worth it.

Anyway, set the countdown to three posts and - JUST FOR BUBBA - I love you, man.

Like, a lot. 

Just try not to be an asshole. That's all I'm saying.

So, you guys have some random ideas for me to cover over the last few posts before we hit 1,000.

And, I'm sure I'll half-assedly cover some of them, but I'm sorta keen to delve into another topic of great controversy because why not and all...

Religion.

Yep, I said it. It's a big touchy DON'T GO THERE subject with everyone and, you know what, I'm just totally going there.

I'm four posts from 1,000 and I'm probably going to alienate the rest of you who haven't already been alienated by my other offensive posts when I tell you that I think that organized religion is bunk.

For me.

I do not embrace it.

That said - I know lots of good lovable people who totally DO embrace it and, you know what, I think that's fine, too.

And I think it's great that we live in a country where you can decide to embrace it or not embrace it and that's technically OK.

Sadly, much like the No Kids thing, saying that you don't believe in organized religion is also frowned upon and inspires many Askers of Why.

The part of it that gets me is that it's not that I'm saying that YOU or PEOPLE shouldn't believe in organized religion, I'm just saying that *I* don't.

I am not into organized religion.

Much in the same way that I'm not into NASCAR or MMA or golf or birding or the color pink or a million other things that *some* people get REALLY into - as though it's a religion. 

I'm not into those things.

And no one gives one fat rat's behind that I'm not into any of those other things that I'm totally not into.

People only seem to pipe up with their obnoxious WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOUs when I say that, although I was born into a Jewish household, I don't practice and I don't believe in God and I don't follow the teachings and avoid eating bacon or delicious lobster because a book says that it's a no-no.

It's just not what I believe. It's not what I'm about. Although I am a spiritual and curious person who seeks out enlightenment and some other usually-reserved-for-organized-religion types of activities, I don't go to church or synagogue and I don't believe in God.

I won't go into the whys and hows of why I don't embrace organized religion or believe in God because that's not the point. The point is that, much like the fact that I don't want kids and don't watch NASCAR and don't bow at the altar of Wal-Mart or wear head-to-toe pink - I don't do organized religion.

Are you offended that I'd lump Christianity or Judaism or Catholicism or Buddism in with NASCAR? Probably.

I imagine that might really bother some people.

And it bothers me that my ski season gets lumped in with Christmas and my fall honey harvest is lumped in with the Jewish high holidays.

Because snowboarding and beekeeping are two things that I *am* into and they are inextricably linked with these events in organized religion - something I *am not* into.

But, that all falls into the category of WHATEVER because, in my mind, we are not all here to be the same.

In my mind, the best thing I can do to contribute to my happiness and to the happiness of others as they go about their lives doing the things that they are into is for me to just try not to be an asshole.

That's basically as close as I get to religion - I try not to be an asshole to people and let them go about their lives in pursuit of happiness as I go about mine.

I guess my beef has to do with the fact that, for whatever reason, my not being into organized religion is an issue for other people. Even though those same people don't care that I'm not into NASCAR or Nickleback or reality TV or whatever.

Why is that?

Why care that I don't believe in one book that you've read but then not care that I don't believe in one TV show that you watch?

To me, that's a conundrum.

Not that I want these people getting on my back about whatever it is that I'm *not* doing that they think I *should* be doing, but it makes a godless heathen wonder.

Anyway, my solution to this is to give zero fucks and just go about my life trying to not be an asshole to people despite their Askings of Why and When and whatever that has to do with me not doing the things they think that I should be doing.

And for those of you who ARE into organized religion or NASCAR or beekeeping or birding or Nickelback or weaving your dog's hair into unitards for your other dogs - keep on keeping on, if it makes you happy and fulfilled.

Just do whatever the fuck makes you happy and, maybe, if you're into it, try not to be an asshole while you're at it.

That's all I'm saying.

---

Countdown goes to four posts and the next one I'm really answering your questions. All of them.

Should be interesting. Or at least really, really confusing.

#1 (and 2) Tomato Day

I realize that I'm supposed to be here writing about mysterious and burning topics, but I think that you know that the #1 Tomato Day is the burningest of topics in my weird little world.

Also - burningest - it's my newest word. Enjoy that little nugget.

Speaking of enjoyable nuggets, though - WOULD YOU JUST GET A LOAD OF THESE:

They're supposed to be green, you smart ass.

Yes. In a weird turn of events, the green-when-ripe Green Giant tomatoes were the first to spring forth fully ripe from the plants. So, even though they don't look like the ripe red #1 tomatoes of previous years, they are indeed quite ripe and totally ready for feasting.

Also, the first Gravenstein apples and a sad old lemon.

Except, because of activities related to the BIG HUGE THING NEWS, I haven't been home to eat them.

YET.

This weekend, though, it is SO ON. I'm going to eat their effing pants off. It's going to be wild.

OK, it'll probably not be wild at all, but I will eat them and even share some with Bubba and probably the neighbors and it will be lovely. I imagine there will be some olive oil and fancy ass charcoal sea salt (it's a thing) involved and I will take photos to share with you as proof of the act itself.

Then I'll also be able to tell you whether this green-when-ripe tomato is as delicious as I was lead to believe.

And it fucking well better be because I will tell you that these are not the most satisfying tomatoes to see on the vine.

Call me traditional (that'd be a first), but I expect my tomato plants to have reddish fruits on them.

More like it.

 Even if the fruits are more pink or purple than red, I'm OK with it, but green just sort of doesn't do it for me. My eyes need to see some color out there because right now it's a lot of green.

Booooooooooooh-ring. Also - white trash tire potatoes.

But whatever.

I guess I should just be glad that even though it seemed like the first tomato was taking FORever, we're actually only one day past last year's #1 tomato.

I get very impatient when it comes to tomato events.

OK, I get very impatient when it comes to most events. And anything that involves me standing in a line, sitting in traffic or waiting on technology to work (WHY DOES THE DVR TAKE SO LONG TO CHANGE SCREENS? UGH.)

It's not pretty, my Crazy, but there it is.

But the #1 Tomato - she's pretty. And I will eat her fucking face.

Just go on and set the countdown to 5 posts now...

Oh, and if you want me to address some burning question or topic - leave it in the comments or expect more random ass posts like this one. Your choice.

To the Askers of When

Let's just fricken do this - the kids subject.

So, Bubba and I have been together for just about a dozen years, married for eight and happy as two highly immature clams who should probably be supervised at all times but by the magic of expertly honed misdirection are running a household in which cocktails and popcorn for dinner are considered acceptable nourishment.

A man for whom the phrase, "Reapply regularly" is completely unknown.

To say that we wouldn't be fit parents for bringing up a well-balanced individual to be a proper citizen is an understatement. We're also not real into kids to boot, so the notion of us bringing a child into the world to fulfill the expectations of parents, grandparents and Askers of When seems a bit...I don't know...ill-conceived.

If you'll pardon the pun.

PARDON IT, DAMN YOU.

I mean, I hardly ever pun. Let me have my moment.

Thanks.

Also, we stab with forks. Which I think is not what Dr. Spock means when he says, "parenting tool."

So, we've tried explaining this position to The Askers of When (we are unfit and aren't into kids) to no avail.

The response we most commonly receive in return for our candid admission is, "Oh! But you'd make great parents! You have so much to teach to the children of our future! And, plus, even if you don't like kids in general, you'll always love your own kids and OH MY GOD THEY'RE JUST SO FUN."

Think about it carefully -- Is this what you want a kid learning?

And then, every time, we have to awkwardly change the subject instead of head butting the Askers of When while screaming, "DOUBTFUL! I KNOW FUN AND THAT IS NOT IT!", which is totally what we're thinking.

Plus, should the devil really spawn children? I think that No.

I just don't know why honesty is not the best policy in this case, but from what I've seen from the frazzled parents who most commonly approach us with this tired Q&A, honesty is not enough.

Perhaps they would respond better to fire?

So, we've resorted to a variety of different responses based on the various aggression levels of the Askers of When:

Aggression Level: Wannabe Grandparents
Response: You know how selfish we are because you remind us so frequently. It just wouldn't be right for us to bring a child into the world knowing that we'd obviously abandon it in front of the television while we did keg stands with Bubba's home brew before running off on a spontaneous backpacking trip into Desolation Wilderness with nothing but our eatin' knife and a crossbow. NOW WOULD IT?

Aggression Level: Wannabe Great-grandparent
Response:  We are terrible awful people who have no excuse for why we do things. We should be put down. (You can't reason with wannabe great-grandparents. They are too sweet and adorable. Just give them the answer that they want OR act so pathetic that they actually begin to hope that you won't procreate.)

Aggression Level: Frazzled parent of young children
Response: Really? You should really work on your salespitch or at least comb the vomit out of your hair before posing that question.

Aggression Level: Understanding parent of teenage children
Response: Really? Yeah. I didn't think so.

Aggression Level: Random Asker of When For Whom This Subject Is None Of Their God Damned Business
Response: We eat delicious little childrens. Like, as a meal. Eating our own would be...I don't know...wrong somehow. We just can't risk the temptation.

Aggression Level: The "Serious" Asker of When For Whom This Subject Is None Of Their Special God Damned Business Either Even Though They Put On Their "I Really Care" Face
Response: Global overpopulation is one of the greatest concerns of our time. We just couldn't, in good conscious, bring more people onto a planet as taxed and resource constrained as this. I mean, if we, as a people, decide to inhabit and destroy other planets, then, certainly we'd consider it. I mean, what are we going to do with our lives otherwise? Pursue happiness or some such nonsense? I think not.

Happiness? Ridiculous.

Unfortunately, none of these responses are adequate, so we keep working up new ones and the Askers keep asking and being dissatisfied with our responses. It's a fruitless and boring game that we play until such time as we are clearly beyond child-bearing age and then asking us such a question would be considered rude and confrontational because what if they can't have kids? Wouldn't that be tragic and sad? We wouldn't want to make them uncomfortable!

Because right now, the question is totally appropriate and not presumptuous or accusatory at all.

OK - so that's what the deal is with us and kids. We're not into it.

Will we live to regret this decision? Maybe. Just like we'll *maybe* live to regret the decision to put a kegerator in our garage. Except that we can hock that thing on Craigslist for $50 if we decide we don't want it anymore and, with a kid, I hear that shit is frowned upon.

Set the countdown to BIG HUGE THING NEWS to 6 posts...

Countdown to 1,000 and an adventure of the life variety.

You know what's on the horizon out there? Aside from the sun and shit?

My 1,000th post.

Yep, that's the right amount of zeros. So many that I had to add a comma.

One thousand posts, people - that's a LOT of swears and knitting and growing crazy plants and throwing scissors across the room in a quilting-fueled rage and big messes in the kitchen and adventures with Bubba and old cars and new dogs and oh nooooooooooooooooooooooooo and blahblahblah.

Right? It feels like a lot.

In fact, it feels like I was a totally different person when I started this blog SEVEN years ago.

Wow, let's just sit and think about *that* number for a minute. Seven years of putting words onto the internet in a somewhat coherent fashion. Freaky.

So, here's what I'm thinking - since I keep alluding to this BIG HUGE THING that's coming to Finnyknits and since I have this 1,000th post coming up in...oh...lemme see...SEVEN posts from now, I'm thinking that we'll treat the next seven posts as a countdown to 1,000.

And on the 1,000th post I'll share the BIG HUGE NEWS that I've been sitting on.

The BIG HUGE NEWS that will be so big and huge that our lives (OK, maybe just mine and Bubba's) will never be the same and some people will certainly think I'm scrambled in the brains and some people will think that YAY! and everyone will be able to follow along with what happens after the BIG HUGE NEWS if they keep tabs on this here blog.

Which should be entertaining if what you like to do is live vicariously through someone doing bizarre things with their life. Or you like to judge. It'll be fun for that, too.

But until then, we'll count down with posts about whatever the hell you may want to know about me or want me to write about.

Perhaps a lost topic from the archives?
Perhaps a burning Finny question about whothehellknowswhat?
Perhaps you'd just like my take on the political landscape at the moment or how I feel about the riGODDAMNEDdiculous commercialization of the Olympics and how I will.not.watch.it. now that McDonald's has decided that they're the only ones who can sell "fries" and anyone caught using the Olympics logo or namesake (ruh roh) will be strung up by their toenails and bludgeoned with a trademark infringement lawsuit?

Or...
What ever happened to the Ugly Librarian Sweater?
How come Bubba and I don't have any kids...
How that front yard meadow is working out...
Do you even knit anymore?
How I decided that sewing as a profession wasn't for me...
What ever happened to all that crap you wrote for NaNoWriMo?
Ever think of cleaning up that language?
Don't you think you're becoming an alcoholic?

That's right - whatever you want to know or hear about - leave it in the comments. Go on, don't even be shy about it. That's not what we're about around here, you know that. Get your questions out into the world! Say a swear! There are no bad words here! 

And then, for five posts, I will do your bidding writing about whatever you want.

Then post 999 will feature one special post by one special guest blogger. GUESS WHO.

Then post 1,000 will be me sharing with you the BIG HUGE THING NEWS which is so BIG HUGE THING NEWS so that it now has its own label. Right there on the right. Go click right on it. For practice or whatever.

And then, well, then we will obviously all need a drink, so I will unveil the latest Official Drink of Finnyknits to kick off what should be a pretty exciting or at least entertaining for voyeurs and people who are looking to judge adventure of the life variety.

*sucks in a deep breath and has a minor heart attack*

Today on Finnyknits: We learn a thing.

Once upon a time, Bubba gave me a pile of dirt. Remember?

Yeah. Me too.

And let us also remember that I got all eager beaver crazy puppy over it and, before thinking or adequately scouring the internet for information about it or heeding the warning of my knows-a-lot neighbor, I just went shoveling it merrily into my vegetable beds.

Oh.

Because I thought - OH WELL I'LL TEST THE SOIL AND THEN ALL WILL BE RIGHT WITH THE WORLD.

Sort of. Things are sort of right.

Also, things are sort of wrong.

Overall, things are meh.

Right things: The cucumbers and peppers are happy as muther fucking clams.

Happy

muther effing clams

Meh things: The tomatoes and potatoes are not.

Just whatever.

Um, those tomatoes should be a hedge by now. Whoops.

And why do we think that is, class?

Because jackass over here (that's me) took one look at the magically delicious soil test results with their "YOU DON'T NEED TO ADD A DAMN THING TO THE SOIL" readings and went, pffffffffft, we are so done here.

TOO MAGICAL

Except that I did need to add some stuff to the soil.

I mean, I thought about it, but then based on the information in the soil test kit about what pH level the vegetables liked, I just left it all alone.

I should have added some peat moss to the tomato beds to bring down the pH. That was a mistake.

So, as a result, this year's tomato harvest is looking a lot like last year's cucumber harvest - potentially sucky.


So, that thing we learn today: Tomatoes like a pH between 6-6.5 and cucumbers like a pH around 6.5-7. and mucking about with those numbers too much is bad business and results in lackluster plants who can't absorb the nutrients in the soil adequately because things are just not right for them.

PICKY BASTARDS.

No, I kid. I love the bastards very much. We'll make it just right next year.

And, there - don't say you never learned anything from Finny.

Oh! Bonus thing to learn: What does Finny do when the tomatoes are sucking ass but the cucumbers are being all LOOK OVER HERE AT US AREN'T WE CUTE?

Almost too cute to pick. ALMOST I SAID.

We pickle.

Every cucumber that comes out of the garden.

NO ONE IS SAFE.

Is it just me, or do these look like poos in there?

Pickling to fend off feelings of failure. Pickling to soothe the cries of WHAT HAPPENED I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS that I scream at the tomatoes. Pickling because that's also what I do in the summer because LO we never have enough pickles.

Do you guys eat a lot of pickles? Apparently we do. And my family does. They're the first things to disappear from the cupboard every winter and the first thing I'm chomping at the bit to get back in there.

Enough stories about pickles, though, you get it. I have cucumbers. I have made pickles. They are in the cupboard.

Also, the tomatoes and potatoes are in revolt because their soil is too alkaline wahhhhhhhhh. Except for the dirty hippie who was spared the drama in the raised beds by living in its weird spot elsewhere in the yard.

OK, that's as disjointed as I'm willing to be in one post.

That dirty hippie in my yard

How rude of me to totally not give you the moment by moment account of your Adopted Crop of 2012: the dirty hippie Berkeley Tie Dye tomatoes.

RUDE.

I'm rude.

Meanwhile, also, I'm successfully growing these dirty hippie tomatoes in their weird spot in the landscaping and for whatever reason, their leaves are very lime green.

Weirdness.

Lime Greenness.

Almost, mesmerizing and hypnotic in an inexplicable way.

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeird.

OK, I won't go off on that tangent again, but the color of the plant surprised me. Definitely not all dark green like my other plants.

Oh, and speaking of my *other* plants, The Finny Farm plants that are out in the wild are totally wild.

Like, hey we already have ripe tomatoes on us, wild.

Ingrid's Early Girl

IMQTPI's Stupice

Not sure why all of MY tomatoes that I selfishly kept in my own yard to grow and lord over others have not yet produced a ripe tomato (they inherited their rudeness from moi, apparently), but at least I can take solace in other people's ripening tomatoes.

Sort of.

I'm not real good at that - being happy for other people's ripening tomatoes when I have none. I'm selfish like that.

And also I'm selfish of how muther effing big everyone's tomatoes are getting.

Let us hope that the plants don't decide to turn on the puppy.

In this case, they're just reaching for a beer. Understood.

Monsters, I tell you.

I believe we now call these, Tomato Trees.

It's all very impressive out there. Outside of my garden. Whereas at my house, the situation is pretty good, but not quite as impressive, tomato-wise, which I find to be...you guessed it...rude.

Do not mistake the sunflowers for tomatoes. Even though I like to.

At least these won't EVER be red. Thanks Green Giants for making me feel better about myself.

The Brandywines are painfully slow and also rude.

Thankfully, the cucumbers are really coming to the table this year. Perhaps they can feel my woe with the tomatoes.

Let us console you.

They're even climbing the trellis. Kind of them, really.

So, while I wait super patiently for the tomatoes to come around or at least show the faintest orange tint as a hint that they may ripen this CENTURY GOD COME ON, I've been making pickles.

Not a bad consolation prize.

 Also, salsa verde.

Those who can not be consoled with salsa verde just want to hate.

And I've also been working on a lot of stuff that I'll explain soon under the header, Why Finny's Been So Distant and un-Bloggy This Summer/Year Which Is Super Rude When We Know The Garden Is Totally Growing.

I know.

I've been a bit...distracted. Like I said before, something big is on the horizon and that horizon is getting ever closer.

Soon my friends. And then WATCH THE EFF OUT because WHOA.

The Best Iced Tea Ever. Yep.

I'm just stopping everything to tell you guys about iced tea.

STOP EVERYTHING YOU'RE DOING.

Because it's amazing iced tea and everyone should know how to make it since it's summer and everything but also because it marks one time in my marriage and grown up life when I was a total grown up.

I know. I could hardly believe it myself when it was happening.

See, when summer rolls around, one of the first things I like to do is get the big jug out of the garage, wash the Garage off of it and then fill it with water and a few tea bags and set it out on the back porch for the day to make sun tea.

Ah, sun tea - it's that refreshing summer drink that requires only laziness and water and a few tea bags to create.

And that's where I was going wrong all along.

Except I didn't know it.

The tea would look good, after a hot afternoon of brewing in the summer sun on the back porch, but it was always a bit weak.

It'd get pretty dark, but then I'd pour it over a few ice cubes and add a lemon wedge and...meh.

It was still sun tea, which I loved, but it never had that strong brewed tea flavor that I really loved and found when I got iced tea in restaurants or whatever.

But whatever - I didn't really think about it. I mean, besides me, who really cares how fabulous iced tea is, right? It's iced tea, not, like, tomato sauce.

Until last summer when Bubba totally and aggressively attacked my iced tea making skills.

I realize that is a weird thing for a husband to attack.

Frankly, I was kinda pissed off at him for a while because I couldn't understand why a man who has pledged his soul to the omnipotent coffee bean gave a rat's behind about iced tea to the point where he was ready to go the mattresses over it.

He'd never ordered it at restaurants. He never drank it at home. He barely ever drank MY iced tea. So, like, what the hell did he know about iced tea anyway? Just have your coffee and lay off of my iced tea already you freak why are you attacking my iced tea making skills this is bizarre.

It was a weird conversation - as so many are with the two of us.

Anyway, that was last summer.

We had a few random convos about how my iced tea was weak and he could show me how to make it better and I was all, dude I don't think I need this kind of instruction in my life and he was all, dude your iced tea sucks ass and we called it a draw.

Or, well, I chose to ignore him because that is what wives do when they feel that their husbands are being ridiculous meanwhile we are busy being totally right.

Or not.

I was not right.

And I am here to admit that my beloved Bubba, who is often annoyingly right and brilliant, was once again right and brilliant.

The man knows how to make some fucking iced tea.

But, before I get to this amazing fucking iced tea recipe, please let me regale you with the tale of how I acted like a total grown up.

It was really something to behold.

See, on 4th of July, Bubba asked me where the drink coolers were that I used to make iced tea.

You can imagine that this got a raised eyebrow out of me. The man was clearly about to challenge my sun tea kingdom and was asking for my key to the war chest.

It was a bold ask.

But, because I'M A GROWN UP I totally told him that they were in the garage with the catering stuff (we have catering stuff, I feel like I've told you, but if not, let me know. It's not that exciting of a story, but it explains why I have four dozen place settings and a ton of other catering type stuff like multiple sizes of drink coolers taking up valuable space in my garage.) and he went out to fetch one of the drink coolers.

Then he asked where the tea bags were.

AS IF!

But, no, I told him. In the cabinet with the canned goods. Fine. BUT THAT'S IT. I WILL NOT TELL YOU WHERE THE WATER IS FOUND. THAT IS A FAMILY SECRET.

Somehow, he already knew. Crafty bastard.

Anyway, then I promptly forgot about his iced tea crafting and went to go pull things out of the yard or something.

Then later I returned to find a full jug of the darkest, richest looking iced tea in the drink cooler in my fridge.

Well, I had to taste this for myself.

I was sure it was going to taste like horse piss. Really dark brown horse piss. Which, ew.

Alas, it was amazing.

Like, AH-mazing.

Of course, the smug douche was just sitting there at the bar while I experienced this discovery. With a sweet and innocent smile on his face, just reading Reddit on the tablet and drinking a beer and not even paying attention to me while I sipped the most perfect iced tea in all of mankind.

That he had made.

It was, like, offensively good. All brew-y and lightly sweet, but not from sugar or anything, just from the natural sweetness of the tea leaves and it had flavor and UGH - it was infuriatingly good. I couldn't even pretend to deny it even though my first thought was that I should spit it out into the sink as though it was wretched but that would have been a terrible crime against this masterpiece of iced tea.

Instead, I stood in front of the open fridge, in front of the gloriously full jug of this incredible iced tea, and sipped heartily, feeling the caffeine hit my bloodstream. It was a delight.

Then, as a life-altering epiphany washed over me, I stepped back from the fridge still clutching my glass of iced tea like it was my woobie, closed the fridge door and went to stand before him.

"Bubba, I think you need to sit down."

"Uh, baby, I am sitting down."

"OK, well, that is a good thing because what I'm about to say to you is going to make you weak in the knees."

"OK." *still clicking through Reddit*

"Are you adequately prepared to embrace what I am about to tell you? It's wild."

"Yes." *still clicking through Reddit*

"You were totally right."

*Silence*Stunned fucking silence*He stares.*The Reddit clicking pauses for a brief moment.*

"This is the best iced tea I've ever had and you were right that my iced tea sucked and I didn't know why you were being so aggressively weird about my shit iced tea but now I know why and it's because your iced tea is the best fucking iced tea ever yep and I was brewing horse piss. You were right."

*Little corner smile appears on his face* "I know."

"SHUT UP! I'm being a grown up right now!"

"Uh huh."

"This is a big moment for me. I'm being really mature. I'm admitting that you were right and I was wrong and also that when I die I want a burial at sea - a sea of this iced tea!"

"That's just weird."

"I know. But this iced tea is real good. Good job."

"Thanks, freak."

"Now. Tell me how to make it so that I can tell the world."

"No."

"WHAT!? Don't you keep this a secret. YOU MUST TELL ME THIS THING DAMN YOU. I'm being mature!"

"Obviously."

And then he told me. Because I'm sure he felt like this was a good time to fuck with me since he knew that I was at his mercy because of his superior iced tea making skills. But I'm not a cruel bastard like that so I will not make you beg.

I will just tell you.

It's pretty amazing. As far as iced tea goes anyway.

The Best Iced Tea Ever. Yep.

Recipe by Bubba

Makes 2 gallons

Ingredients
6-8 Tetley tea bags (or some other black tea)
2 gallons of water
1 sliced lemon (optional)

To make

Plop your tea bags in the bottom of the drink dispenser all mamby pamby like.

This may be more mamby than pamby but it hardly matters.

Add about 4 cups of steaming hot water (doesn't need to be at a rolling boil, we're not making soup, here).

Another "right and brilliant" moment for Bubba was when he suggested we get a hot water dispenser. LOVE.

*SECRET THING ALERT* Slosh and stir around those tea bags until you have created what I am now calling a Tea Roux.  Yeah, it's a thing now.

Tea Roux. Write that down. It's a new thing I've invented. The name anyway.

Once you've created an opaque witch's brew of Tea Roux, add cold water.

"Right and brilliant" moment #3: Filtered water from the sink tap. Hallelujah this man is a genius.

Fill it up about 3/4 of the way.

Perhaps the caffeine was already in my system and that explains the shaky photo. Sorry.

*SECRET THING ALERT* Reach into the tea (with clean hands please, you fucking animals) and scoop the floating tea bags off of the surface. SQUEEZE THEM DRY INTO THE TEA.

Don't puss about.

Seriously. Squeeze the ever loving crap out of them. Think of it like therapy for your deep seated personal issues. Then toss the tea bags out as though they meant nothing to you. NOTHING.

NOTHING, I SAY.

Put the lid back on your cooler and put it in the fridge so that the spigot is positioned at the ready. Put a bowl of sliced lemons next to it.

If you want to also have fresh eggs and strawberries in there, go ahead. I'm OK with it.

Fill up a glass with some ice and a few lemon slices and GO TO EFFING TOWN. Just don't spill.

I have been drinking it nonstop since the 4th, so I'm operating at SUPER CAFFEINATED LEVEL #100. It's a good time.

Also, enjoy it, because THAT is how iced tea is supposed to taste.

Thanks, Bubba. You're right and brilliant and I love you. SEE HOW MATURE I AM?

Also, thanks to Bubba's buddy, Brad, who I also love very much, because he taught Bubba this trick gleaned from his times working in restaurants and banquets. As Bubba put it, "If you need to make an assload of iced tea for a late lunch rush, this is how you do it. According to Brad-o."

And don't you know that we do listen to Brad-o.