Total Time: 2 hr 30 min
Prep: 30 min
Inactive: 2 hr 0 min
Yield: 6 servings
1/2 cup heavy cream
1 tablespoon sugar
4 ounces sour cream
6 ounces homemade mini marshmallows, approximately 3 cups
1 cup clementine orange segments, approximately 6 clementines
1 cup chopped fresh pineapple
1 cup freshly grated coconut
1 cup toasted, chopped pecans
1/2 cup drained maraschino cherries
Place the cream and sugar into the bowl of a stand mixer with the whisk attachment and whip until stiff peaks are formed. Add the sour cream and whisk to combine. Add the marshmallows, orange, pineapple, coconut, pecans and cherries and stir to combine. Transfer to a glass serving bowl, cover and place in the refrigerator for 2 hours before serving.
Now, I’m not usually a fan of super-sweet deserts, but sometimes you just want to blast your pancreas all to hell with a glucose bomb and just revel in the burst of insulin (diabetics aside, of course).
My personal preference is to use less processed sugar than the above recipe calls for, relying on the natural sweetness of the fruits to satisfy…
Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t want to discuss deserts? Okay. Let’s talk about the Knicks. Sigh.
All in all, it was a damned fine performance for a struggling team on the second game of a back to back, especially one crawling through the lean, ever-churning oil fields and barren scrub brush of Texas.
Many, many things went well. Melo hobbled around on a gimpy wheel, but still managed to drain many a tough turnaround even with a rangy Terrence Jones/Chandler Parsons draped all over him, and when the ‘Bockers got him the rock after just a skosh of movement or off-ball action, he was gold, Jerry. Gold. Iman Shumpert continued to do positively wondrous, Shump-tastic things, hitting all six of his treys. That’s 12-14 over the last two games, 19-27 overall and a TS% of about 6,749.51, if my math is correct. That seems good. The fact that the wide-open looks that he used to build an imposing brick-walled brownstone on the Upper West Side for the vast bulk of this toxic, radioactive, SuperFund/EPA cleanup site of a season now falling is even better. But what’s truly bringing a permanent rictus of a grin to Knick Knation is the fact that… well, Shump seems to have returned to the effervescently giddy ephebe that we all have grown so fond of lo these many years and would gladly allow to take our fairest sister/daughter’s hand in blissful, state-sanctioned nuptials (or at least, you know, a couple of dates or something).
It’s certainly a bit of a chicken-and-the-egg paradox. And if he was clanging iron ’13-style, it’s fair to wonder if he’d be gamboling through the tulip-strewn, verdant fields and spreading his magic faery pixie dust hither and yonder. But eff it, let’s enjoy smiley-face Shump for as long as humanly possible. You know, trade value and the whims of a certain carbuncular, dyspeptic, Blues-warbling owner and whatnot. I’m just going to assume he took my advice about giving zero fucks, Bobby Rayburn-style.
Of course, it wasn’t all sweet, sweet, creamery ambrosia salad. They continued to do an absolutely atrocious job for most of the night closing on three point shooters, and if the Rockets hadn’t been oddly going ISO-Beard for vast swathes of the contest, they probably wouldn’t have jumped out to an impressive 81-73 lead entering the final stanza. Seriously, that was weird. The Rockets seem purposely built to shred the Knicks, and yet Harden, though devastatingly effective, wasn’t able to get any of the other Ballistic Missiles involved. And sitting Lin for all of the fourth, when he was shredding the Knicks in transition and on drives to the rim (defensive foibles and shoddy turnovers [Yeah, that was a part of Linsanity, too] notwithstanding) was damned curious,
Oh, you don’t want to read about that either? Yeah, I get that. You want to talk about this.
Suck it, Bargs. You’re not the only one on this team with a constant loop of a wind-up toy anthropoid wearing a fez and jolly lil’ vest, slamming together cymbals running through his so-called mind in lieu of an operant cerebral cortex.
Because, in the post-game media scrum, where we’ve heard every manner of Knickerbocker declare that black was white, up was down, war was peace and dogs and cats like living together, it seems that JR was not exactly well-informed as to the complex statistical algorithms of tonight’s tilt. You know, like the score.
J.R. Smith says he thought the Knicks were down 2 when he took the ill advised three. "That's bad basketball IQ on me," he said.
— Frank Isola (@FisolaNYDN) January 4, 2014
Like every truly great artist, JR returned to the medium that he has surely mastered, the Twitter, to let us know that he was aware of his Martin-Sheen-uses-a-baby-as-a-shield-in-The-Dead-Zone-level gaffe.
Bone head play! Slander well deserved!
— JR Smith (@TheRealJRSmith) January 4, 2014
And of course, it’s not enough that history once again repeated itself, it had to occur in an excruciating, soul-blasting manner that defied Marx’s prediction/dictum that it’d have some comedic value. With that in mind, here’s my hot sports take on what occurred within JR’s gray matter during the timeout directly preceding the ‘Bockers penultimate possession:
SOYUZ. CONTROL CABIN.
As soon as he makes it through the hatch, he TURNS the CABIN LIGHTS ON. There is just enough space for three astronauts to sit surrounded by the CONTROL PANEL that navigates the vessel. He sits down in the command chair. He fastens the safety belt, and looks around, trying to recognize the different buttons on the panel, which are all labeled in Russian.
JR: OK… where was it?… where was it?
He moves his finger across the different buttons, searching.
JR: Where is the power?… Here you are.
His finger stops on a button, which is labeled-BKN
He presses on it and the CONTROL PANEL turns ON. All the buttons light up and with a hum, the Soyuz’s systems start to run.
JR: Good… good… just like training… Gettin’ good. Gonna fly this ship.
JR reaches to the right, where next to the panel, there are several binders, each a different color.
JR: Undocking… undocking… Yes… You tryna get the red pipe…
And He takes out a RED BINDER. It’s all written in Cyrillic. He turns the pages until He sees a GRAPHIC representing the UNDOCKING PROCEDURE.
JR: Ok… Ok… I remember this… yeah, like on that Vodka bottle that I had sent over to my table at 1Oak. Damn straight…
He uses the CURSORS on the panel and selects a function on the COMPUTER SCREEN.He presses another button and- On the SCREEN, a COUNTDOWN- 4:30… 4:29… 4:28… Another RUMBLE in the Station.
JR: We don’t have four minutes to spare. We’re going manual. We blow up one space station an I take 1 shit y’all mad. I get one George Clooney killed y’all mad! Lol #OHWELL.
He flips through the binder to another page. He looks at a diagram and uses the cursors on the panel to change the function on the screen.
JR: Okay. This shit is weird. They didn’t tell me I’d have to read weird Russkie shit.
He releases the SAFETY LOCK on a BUTTON, then begins wildly pressing every single BUTTON that he can find. AN EXPLOSION in the Station makes everything shake. The vibration passes through his body, startling him, and…
JR: Firing the pyros #YOLO…Lol 17 buttons tho! Had to say damn myself!
He presses the BUTTON.
JR: Rezerv rasstyk!
The SOUND of a mechanism releasing reverberates throughout the vessel. It explodes. There are no survivors. SILENCE.
But let’s take a look at that final shot. I’m not trying to be a contrarian/overly cutesy, but there is a reasonable argument to be made that a wide-open trey in rhythm (which JR’s heave certainly was) isn’t as colossal a blunder as Bargs’ Bargnani-ing in Milwaukee, even if Earl is forced to run out into the driving snow and flat make out with irony itself, since he was the one rolling his eyes and thrusting his arms upward in bewilderment when the former’s blunder occurred.
For one, if they did run down the clock, there’s no guarantee that they’d get a better look. You could make the argument that grabbing the lead is a better choice than banking on giving the ball to Melo and letting him pound the rock until there are visible dents in the hardwood, and then tossing up a contested, fadeaway 20-footer, and hoping that you could grind out a win in OT (again, with weary legs, playing on enemy turf).
I wouldn’t agree with that argument, especially considering Smith was in the midst of an outing in which he was a robust 1-8 from distance and he DIDN’T EVEN KNOW THE FRACKING SCORE OF THE GAME, but it’s not beyond the pale.
Anyway, it’s yet another game that they really could/should have one. Shump’s gorgeous clutch three and strip of Harden in the final 2 minutes is gone, like so many of Rutger Hauer’s tears in the rain. Tyson’s clutch rebound to secure an extra possession, and horrified look when he realized what our fave club-goer/conscience-free gunner was up to, yeah, that’s probably gone too. So is the steady play of Beno at PG, and Amar’e’s sudden inability to convert a layup, and the Knicks’ failure to run even a halfway-competent fast break, and Woodson’s Texas Toast-sized lineup choices (and the really, really, really dumb STAT-Bargs pairing to start the 4th quarter–please stop doing that, Son of Wood), and Timmy Jr.’s recent funk, and all of it.
That’s the part I hate the most (even more than the Knicks once again proving that Kidd and the other craggily old wise men that peppered the 2012-13 roster were really the only thing keeping this team from being allowed to park in handicapped spaces, what with their single-digit IQ) is that a game is a story, or multiples stories/narratives. JR’s JR-ness took all of those stories–some of which were quite pleasant–and collapsed them into a single, glowing point of mockery and humiliation. I hate that. I like complexity and contradiction and this team often makes that really, really hard to do, if only because of the blinding, white-hot rage that’s the necessary and logical endpoint to this any many, many other games.
So today, as they head to Dallas, they’ve been reduced to a sad, bitter, tepid little joke, and this is it: If JR Smith had been the 2nd shooter on the grassy knoll, John F. Kennedy would still be alive today. (rim shot) And possibly partying with his failed assassin. (Don’t forget to tip your waitress!)
To the Book Depository! Go Knicks!