Ramen Noodle Chicken Dump Recipe
Thank God is right…this is so simple, and the ramen lovers in your house will be thanking Confucius. It’s very cheap to make, and the time it takes is even cheaper.
One little hint, though. I would use more milk (like ½ cup more), and more cream cheese. I noticed my noodles got a little dry during the cooking process. Watch the chicken too, so it’s not too dry, as you are already using a cooked bird to start. But, if you step up the milk and the cream cheese, it should be ok.
A real cheap dump…every mother’s dream. LOL
Did I ever tell you about the time I pulled out all my lashes because my arm slipped off the sink while I was curling them?
Actually my husband, Al the ophthalmologist, could tell you better how that afternoon went. Another blog post.
In any event, it started my love affair with lash extensions. I am a faithful lash extension wife. Every week without fail we come together as one with my technician, Angela, who speaks very little English, but with her cutest, most delectable Korean accent, tells me every week, for the good and bad of it, “ooooo, Linda, very dry. Ooooo, Linda, too much make up. OOOO, Linda, lashes stuck. OR. Oooo, Linda, very beautiful…..oooo, Linda very easy today.” But, after my hour of someone actually making me shut my eyes and lie still, I emerge like a four year old girl with perfectly symmetric, dark lashes. No mascara, no clumps, and curled like a black Cheeto.
I do not believe in any lash serum developer. I have had this conversation with Al many times, and I stick with my weekly investment. However, as the week goes on, my left eye, especially, can’t seem to hold its own, and the lashes can droop or twist, probably because of the way I sleep or facial soap I use. I usually wear no eye make up, or maybe just a touch, because it detracts from the beauty of the eye falsies.
But, the lash heavens opened, and I discovered two products I so adore to keep up the look, and strengthen the bond, literally between my shorties and my falsies. Enter: Beauty Garde.
So far, I have tried the mascara and the primer, and LOOOOOOVE them. My lashes look like I just got them done. Angela will be so proud…”Oooooo Linda, very nice lash today. No stick.” There is a primer as well.
I am on to the eyeliner, possibly…will let you know.
But, invest in extensions, and if you already have, invest in Beauty Garde and wear those falsies with pride!!!
Every October, we are made vividly aware that it is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. The pink push for mammography quadruples, and the stories of smiling, shield wielding survivors donning pink ribboned paraphernalia decorate social media, TV and billboards throughout the country just like condos popping up on any piece of vacant land in Edgewater, NJ.
But, do we talk about those who didn’t survive? Maybe it’s a harsh reality, but it is certainly a scare booster to get screened. Candy coating the devastating truth that breast cancer can turn you into a mere mortal should be as much of a call to order as survival rates. Granted my mother’s journey started in the early 90s, and we have progressed into another universe as far as detection and treatment, but the fact remains, it’s not all about pink cupcakes and running marathons.
My experience with breast cancer is not a gleeful story of hope and survivorship. It’s a photo album of memories that were cut off when I lost my mother at 28, right after the birth of my first child. Most people think they will live forever, and I am sure my mother did not expect to die, or leave us at 62, but that was her destiny… thank you breast cancer.
I remember her early diagnosis around 55. She had a baseline mammogram that did not detect anything. It was a routine OBGYN exam right after that when her dr., Dr. Richard Levine at what was then Columbia Presbyterian, finished a breast exam, and walked over to the sink to wash his hands. At that moment he turned to her and said, “I need to re-examine you. Something isn’t right.” And, he did, and there was the lump. Later to be identified as a very aggressive malignancy. That moment from God gave my mother another five years with me.
She was baked with radiation and infused with chemo. She lost her beautiful hair…a woman so radiant and fashionista of her time. She was sick and nauseous, battled fevers and infection, but determined to live. She clutched on to the Blessed Mother as her go-to girl, and as she lived healthy, never missed Mass, said her Rosary, and gave her sacrifice of health to the Lord. In return, the Blessed Mother granted her faithful follower health and curly hair during remission. We were doing okay, until the five-year mark hit.
She tried to keep the discovery from me. I was very pregnant with Devin and she was so focused on the arrival of her grandchild, that she put so much effort into masking the reality for me. She told me there was a lump on her lung, which, in the end was a mets to the lung from the breast. Not good.
This time she opted for more heroic, experimental treatment at St. Vincent’s Hospital, where oddly enough my future husband was on staff, under the watch of Dr. William Grace. She loved him and more importantly, trusted him. He coupled up with Dr. Niculae Ciobanu, a hematologist aptly from Transylvania, Romania to execute a new treatment called stem cell. In a nutshell, stem cell extracts stem cells, or fresh cells from your body, and harvests them to recirculate. While all that is going on, your body’s immune system is brought to ground zero, almost death. During that period, stem cells are injected into your body in the hopes they will regenerate and destroy the cancer. And, they did just that. She was cancer free. But somebody didn’t take into account that she had rheumatic heart from childhood, and these harsh drugs are cardio toxic. An avid walker, aerobic participant, diet watcher, non-smoker was no match for these chemicals. She died after falling into a drug induced coma on January 31, 1996.
I was always told to pray to St. Scholastica for snow, because according to her name, she was the patron saint of weather and school closings. I think that’s a big fib, but in any event, she sent the Blizzard of ’96 exactly on the day of Devin’s baptism before she entered the hospital. Her last event.
My heart is in my colon about to escape like a huge hemorrhoid when I go for my yearly mammogram. But I go. I go for my family, because being without my mother and not being able to ever give my kids my mother is the most heartbreaking thing I am reminded of, every day.
So yes, let us support and celebrate the beautiful survivors who are here with us today thanks to the sacrifice and brilliant minds of doctors and scientists who have devoted their lives and talents to a cure. Their hard work is not in vein, especially with so many treatments and earlier detection and technology not even scratching the surface 30 years ago.
But, let’s remember those who tried, but did not make it. Get screened to live, and become a survivor. Early detection makes all the difference, and the choices to aid in that survival are bountiful.
Ok, have a pink cupcake, wear the ribbon, and run the 5k.