It's Just as We Suspected

Fucked Update

2010-05-05T21:17:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, I wrote this:

http://justaswesuspected.blogspot.com/2008/05/happiest-blog-post-ever-sincerely.html

That's over now.

One of the Worst Things I've Ever Done

2009-10-11T03:30:00.000-07:00

Oct 11, late PM, 2009

I was going to edit this tonight, because it was overly influenced by emotion, and there are parts that do not parse or make sense because of that. But I couldn't yet. I will soon. If you happen to run across this before I do, please be gentle.

I guess I got some shit wrong. I got the main shit right. http://www.kusi.com/home/63965302.html

Oct. 11, early AM, 2009

This blog has been dormant for months. I couldn't begin to say why. I thought it would pick back up again when my work life became more normal.

But I'm avoiding the subject.

Tonight, I did one of the worst things I've ever done. Maybe The Worst. I'm not sure. I haven't lived my whole life yet.

And yes. We're stream of consciousness tonight. And yes: I'm still avoiding the subject. And finally . . . it's not tonight. It's tomorrow morning.

Tonight was normal. I went to dinner with the parents-who-can't-abide-each-other and the Boy Who Got His Own Laptop Today. It was nice. I had cocktails. I had sashimi (unusual) and didn't take crap from the parents (also unusual).

And then we came home. And I tried to set up my son's new laptop (unsuccessful, due to NO DOCUMENTATION) and my new MacBook (semi-successful due to NO NEED FOR DOCUMENTATION) and the main thing was I got my son to bed and had a couple of nice conversations with my online friends. Nice, friendly, light conversations. As per usual. As per normal. How I love normal.

I'll cop to playing with my new MacBook a little late. And having one of those nice light online conversations online with my old high school friend. So, it came to pass that it was waaaaay late in the eve, or waaaaay early in the morn to be chatting. And we signed off and went to bed. Well, presumably. I went to get a glass of water.

And that's when I heard the car crash. Not on the street directly in front of my house. I could tell it was on the street in front of the street directly in front of my house. The busy street. The one upon which I've heard so many car crashes before.

And here's where I hate myself the first time: I waited. It was clearly a very hard crash. Just from the sound two rows of houses away, I could tell. That was one hell of a crash. It didn't wake anyone else in my household but the dog. But they are all deep sleepers, and I was awake. I knew from the sound the crash was serious. But, I changed my shoes, got my sweater, found my phone, and then walked out into the fray to make sure someone had called the fucking cops.

Why was I surprised to hear the screams?

As it happened, no one had called the fucking cops. Because the two or three rational witnesses had pulled out the most-mangled bodies and started CP FUCKING R. Which they performed for well over an hour. And which I know, because I fucking watched. So that their wives wouldn't have to.

And that was the horror thing. You'd think the worst is watching someone die. You'd be wrong. Somehow, I, along with some other women I've never seen or heard of before, but who are evidently my very, very awesome neighbors, took charge of the wives who had witnessed their husbands get creamed in their car. Oh, and their mom was on the fucking car-crash-victim list too. The mom they had come to visit.

So, these desperate women, who cannot help but see their husbands prone on the sidewalk, receiving the most critical of care, are alone in the world but for me and a couple of other strange women who do not speak their language. Korean, as it turns out.

At this point, I know for sure emergency teams are on the way. But, it has been more than ten fucking minutes, and how the hell can they take so much goddamn time when the BODIES in question are so clearly fragile. They need more than these fantastic, courageous amateurs who are so willing to stick it out to the end. Or farther.

That's what I ignore. I walk past that drama. I don't want to see it, because I know it's not . . . I just . . . I know. It's bad.

I realize my story has become a little confused, but it's only because this really happened only a couple of hours ago.

I walk over to the two women -- the wives, I find out later, of the men on the ground receiving the endless CPR. And the daughters -- I find out later -- of the grandma they came to visit, and whom I never saw.

I go there because these women are screaming and hysterical. That's all anyone can hear. The screaming of these two women who only know their life-support system just crashed into oblivion. There are other women trying to calm these wives down, but they can't. The Two Wives speak only Korean, and no one conscious at the scene knows that language.

The Two Wives are truly hysterical, and clearly trying to get near to the men they rely on, but the other comforters and I understand that allowing them to do so would be a horrific mistake. We almost literally wrestle the hysterical Two Wives across the street, and down into a sitting/reclining position. This process is so hard. All I want to do is take away their grief. Make it go away. Make them stop screaming and struggling and compulsively looking at their husbands receiving the most dire of treatment. I can't take it all away. I rub their backs, and physically move them toward each other, encouraging them to hold an hug each other, all the while murmuring, "You must stay here and let the professionals do their jobs, there's nothing you can help with over there, they're in good hands, hug each other, you need to be here for each other now."

And they have no fucking clue what I'm saying because they only speak Korean. And the cops have no Korean translators available and can only keep saying, in the weirdest gentle way, "Keep these ladies calm, or we will have to cuff them and put them in the back of the car." I show these hysterical women some sort of sign for handcuffs and try to demonstrate arrest, but they don't get it. And then I wonder what the hell about it would be so horrible for them. They have clearly gone to the worst place they can go. It tears my heart fucking open to see them sprawled on the driveway begging for something I don't truly understand because it's in Korean, but I think very well might mean something like "Make this not be true."

So, now it's been an hour, two hours, who knows? It's been a long fucking time, and this is what I've noticed: The ambulances have left without sirens. The cops have been cordoning off a huge piece of the neighborhood with crime scene tape. I realize I didn't quite see what ambulances left with whom, because I was so busy trying to be the shield in between the Korean ladies and whatever was happening to their loved ones. But . . . none of the emergency crew is moving with urgency. And I don't see the victims on the sidewalk anymore. The Korean ladies are calming down sooooo slightly. But they are noticing their relatives aren't in sight any more too.

A cop walks up to another cop near me and says, "Wanna tell them they're at Scripps?" I hear this, and think, "Oh! I will tell these poor ladies their husbands are at Scripps and they will know where to go, and all will be fine." So . . . I tell the young boy who has been translating as best he can to let the Korean ladies know they should go to Scripps, and he does. The younger, more hysterical lady looks at me and in desperation asks, "All right?" I don't know the answer to the question, but I think if the authorities are willing to send the relatives to a particular facility, it must be not so bad. So, I say, "I hope." And smile.

Everyone seems calmer now, and I witnessed nothing, so I should get out of the way. But I want to make sure I'm not needed anymore and so I explain to a cop who I am and how I came upon the scene. He has no problem dismissing me back to my home. But not before he gestures to the Korean ladies and says to his partner: "Should we tell them now?" His partner looks down and says, "No. Not until the social workers come." And I know I have just reassured a woman I don't know that her dead husband is alive. But I walk back home.

Making My Day

2009-06-10T20:29:00.000-07:00

So, I've been posting on a contentious thread at another blog where my handle is linked to my craptacular blog. Thought I'd check in for the first time in over a month. (Yeah. Sorry, all you minions of mine.)

Anyway, the first thing I noticed was the latest posts on my blogroll. Okay -- a buncha stuff I've already read, and then, the greatest post title ever from phibetakitten: ass menagerie.

Dear Lord

2009-05-09T05:20:00.000-07:00

My son has a portable game device that inexplicably has an alarm one can set. He set it. That's why I'm up at 5:21 on a Saturday morning. What does one do at 5:22 on a Saturday morning when one is slightly hungover and doesn't want to wake anyone? One turns on the East Coast feed of Food Network.

And then one sees the horror that is Sandra Lee. And she's saying, "One package of chocolate cake mix [pours in bowl] and one can of cherry cola [pours in bowl]." And one thinks, "I'm still asleep, and this is my nightmare."

Sometimes, It's a Link.

2009-04-22T19:54:00.000-07:00

All I can say is this enraged me. And motivated me to do more for women's rights.

http://pasadenaweekly.com/cms/story/detail/babies_bibles/7127/

Inappropriate Animals

2009-04-19T18:50:00.000-07:00

This is a late, cheap birthday present to phibetakitten.

I went to Earth Fair in Balboa Park today with my brother, his two sons, and my son. Before I suffered heat stroke and had to humiliate myself by asking to go home early before we'd been able to do anything for the Earth other than collect a whole bunch of well-meaning pamphlets written on dead trees, I saw these inappropriate animals:

Two black standard poodles with really long fur wearing animal-print visors.
One Pomeranian with 24-square cubic furlongs of fur standing out on end.
Two puppies falling about five feet from a backpack onto the promenade.
One "freaky bug," as so described by my nephew.

When we got back to my house, the following inappropriate animal drama*ensued.

Scene: Youngest nephew and my son play out in the backyard. Oldest nephew gets up to no good in house. Bro and I collapse on family room furniture, making "uuuuunnnngggghhh" noises.

Youngest nephew on patio (YNOP) to my son: Dude! Never ride this bike again!
My son: What?
YNOP: Never ride this bike again! It has a black widow!
Me to Bro: Uh . . .
Bro (already getting up): Yeah. I'm on it.
YNOP to my son: I'll get a cup.
Me: Uhhhh!
Bro to YNOP: Get away! Let me check this out.
Bro: Yep! He's right!
Me: I'll get bug spray! I'll get oven mitts! I'll get you a bulletproof hazmat suit and build a bomb shelter underground for the remains!
Bro (coming in door): What? I got rid of it.
Me (astonished): How?
Bro: I squished it. With my foot.
Me: Weren't you afraid it would run up your leg and KILL YOU?!?
Bro (scoffing): No.
Me: I would have been.
Bro (disgusted): I know.
YNOP to my son: That was a black widow.
My son: We get them all the time.

*Some occurrences embellished for dramatic effect.

Another Letter

2009-04-08T15:59:00.000-07:00

Dear Media,

For the record, I too think Michelle Obama is very attractive and well dressed. But that is exactly as much time and energy I need to expend on that thought. And it was probably too much time to actually report on that subject in the news, for heaven's sake.

I know Mrs. Obama is just a girl, but she also has a fabulous education, an interesting and impressive career, thoughts and opinions of her own, and very possibly some ideas about how to make positive change in this country. Perhaps we could hear about that sometime.

Regards,
People Who Think

The Economy Sucks

2009-03-31T15:13:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, some people I really like and respect were laid off today. And, naturally, to top it off, too many of the idiots got to stay.

For the record, I work for one of the industries that's supposed to be darn near recession-proof. And the layoffs and cost-cutting measures are nowhere near insignificant. This shit is bad, people. And it's brought to you by bad people. Who are getting richer even as we speak.

One More Thing

2009-03-30T20:06:00.000-07:00

Dear celebrities (and everyone else),

If you feel the need to start your statement with "I'm not racist/sexist/ableist/homophobic/etc., but . . . " the very next thing you say is whatever you said you're not 99.98 percent of the time.

Where the hell have I been?

2009-03-30T19:11:00.000-07:00

Okay. You know how sometimes you're scared of your mail? Because maybe some overdue bills are there, or letters from the lover you don't like anymore, or maybe even some stuff from PETA, and you don't support them anymore? Well, that's how I've been feeling about my blog.

And you know how sometimes you go through some stuff, maybe at work, maybe at home, that might be great comedy if you can look at it through the proper lens, but that good lens isn't working right now, and you can only see it through the unfunny crap spectacles and you don't want to share it, because it's not entertaining?

And maybe you don't want to answer the phone, because you don't know if it's friend or foe, and maybe you're ninety percent sure it's friend, but you just don't know?

Well, that's how I've been feeling about my blog.

But I think I'm ready. Again. To try to be interesting. As if I ever were.

Join the Impact

2008-11-14T15:34:00.000-08:00

I encourage all my friends and family to join the international protest against California's hateful and discriminatory Proposition 8. Don't let the malefactors win. Show your support, and maybe we can educate the ignorant.

http://jointheimpact.com/

VICTORY!

2008-11-06T10:23:00.000-08:00

America, you did the right thing. I know we have a lot of work to do, but today I am rocking my new short hair and my new black president. And I have every hope that Ms. Obama is going to be as strong an advocate for women as Ms. Clinton.

California bigots, I invite you to fuck right off, but you are not going to harsh my high.

Shameful Confession

2008-07-30T14:27:00.000-07:00

So, I basically haven't eaten at McDonald's for years because a) I don't like it and b) everything there has ten million calories. And I know that a) should preclude b), but in the past, it didn't always, because sometimes Mickey D's was just too convenient and cheap. It wasn't until I decided that if I'm going to "spend" 1700 calories on one meal, that meal had better rock my world rather than be just tolerable, that I really left McDonald's (and most fast food) behind.

Fast forward many years to when my son is introduced (by my MOM) to McDonald's. Now I basically have to go to McDonald's a couple times a month to get Happy Meals (i.e., food that gets thrown away and a really crappy plastic toy made by slave children in China). If I'm hungry too, I usually grab something for myself somewhere else, like the French bakery nearby my local McDonald's.

Today, my son wanted to eat at McDonald's so he could play in the (also craptacular) play structure because he hasn't had enough exposure to flesh-eating bacteria lately. I didn't think I could get away with bringing my own sandwich to a "restaurant," so I resolved to try to find something to eat at McDonald's.

I settled on this. The southern-style crispy chicken sandwich is a fried piece of chicken breast on a bun with a pickle. And, to their credit, McDonald's now provides easy access to nutritional info at their locations, so I knew in advance that the sandwich is 400 calories, which I deemed reasonable for something I figured would be bland and unmemorable, but filling.

Imagine my surprise when I took a bite and liked it. I mean, I'm not saying this was some kind of delectable gourmet snack, but it was tasty, and here's why: The chicken itself tastes like pickles! This totally appeals to the seriously trailer-parkish part of my palate that enjoys the occasional bowl of ramen noodles with melted American cheese slices, pickle sandwiches on soft white bread, and Tater Tots.

So now I'm looking forward to the next time the junky toys change genre at Mickey D's and Chase wants to get his next Happy Meal. I'm not going to make a habit of it, of course, because there's probably a ton of junk like growth hormones or DNA-altering herbs and spices in there, and because I recently renewed my commitment to pesca-vegetarianism, but, dang that pickle-chicken made me say yum!

Open Letter to Rachel Ray

2008-07-27T11:37:00.000-07:00

Dear cacklin' Rachel Ray,

Everyone knows what nutmeg is.

SHUT UP already.

Thanks,
Everyone

My Life on the (WT)F List

2008-07-25T17:00:00.000-07:00

I went to Comic Con today. I'm going to post a longer entry with pictures later, but I can't do it now because my feet hurt.*

Anyway, every other time I've attended Comic Con, I've seen at least a couple celebrities -- usually minor ones, like Erin Gray, Lou Ferrigno, and random Playboy bunnies. The last four times I've gone, I've had close encounters with Gene Simmons.

Well, today, I saw just one. Stephen Fucking Baldwin. And he was signing autographs and sort of roaring at people. I thought about taking a picture, but then realized he wouldn't know I was taking it to show people how ridiculous he looked today and would just assume I loooooove heeeeem. So I didn't.

But you have to believe me, I saw him and he was acting like an idiot. And he loves Jesus. Just so you know.

*How does sore feet prevent me from blogging? I would have to walk a couple feet to the table to get my camera so I can download the pix. I don't see that happening today.

Oh yes. Food. (Trader Joe's Lemon-Pepper Paparadelle)

2008-07-20T17:35:00.000-07:00

I love citrus. Citrus fruits are my favorites, with pears a close second. I mean, I'm not gonna turn away strawberries and nectarines during the summer, but citrus fruits are so versatile and full of pop, they enhance any kind of cuisine.

One of my favorite recent discoveries is Trader Joe's dried lemon-pepper paparadelle. I've had citrus-infused pastas before, but this paparadelle has a super bright lemon hit, along with a nice savory black pepper finish. I've had it with acidic sauces, like arrabiatta, but I thought it would really get along great with a cream sauce.

Problem is, in the summer, I don't want the heaviness of a real cream sauce, and I definitely don't want my stove running any longer than necessary. So, I did a little thinking, and this is what I came up with.

Trader Joe's Lemon-Pepper Paparadelle with Ricotta and Creme Fraiche Sauce

1 cup part-skim ricotta
1/2 cup creme fraiche
1 to 3 garlic cloves, minced
1/3 cup Italian parsley, finely chopped
1 pound lemon-pepper paparadelle, cooked al dente
1/3 to 1/2 cup pasta water
salt and pepper to taste

Put paparadelle on to boil in salted water.
Meanwhile, in a mixing bowl, stir together ricotta, creme fraiche, garlic, parsley, salt and pepper.
Once pasta is al dente, drain, reserving at least 1/2 cup of water.
Put pasta back in cooking pan and add ricotta mixture, tossing to incorporate.
Add pasta water and stir and toss until sauce is smooth and creamy.

Serve pasta with grated parmesan and parsley sprigs.

Recipe: Lime smoked salmon with avocado

2008-07-17T21:13:00.000-07:00

A recipe that's been in my repertoire for years, and happens to be one of my mom's favorites, is grilled salmon with lime, chive, and avocado vinaigrette. It's super simple, delicious, and I think it came from a special issue of Bon Appetit magazine about eighteen years ago. I can't find the original recipe anywhere anymore, so I'm just going to claim it as my own until the copyright police find me. Heck -- who knows how I've changed it over the years? Anyway, the fun part is making the leftover recipe (which will be my next post. probably).

Lime-Grilled Salmon with Avocado Vinaigrette

Adjust amounts to fit your needs. In this case, we had too much salmon for one meal, which is why the leftover dish came about.

I used an outdoor gas grill and hickory chips for smoking. I'm sure a charcoal grill will also make this pleasantly smoky. If you wish to use a grill pan or indoor grill, it's still a delicious meal without the smoky taste.

Salmon

If you are using an outdoor gas grill, set your woodchips up for smoking as directed.

2 pounds wild-caught salmon, fileted
2 to 3 tablespoons fresh lime juice
kosher or sea salt
fresh ground pepper
1/8 to 1/4 cup olive oil

With the salmon skin-side down, sprinkle the lime juice over the salmon. Sprinkle salt and pepper on top. Drizzle olive oil over, and rub mixture into salmon until well coated. Let sit for ten to twenty minutes.

Grill fish until it bounces back to the touch (about eight minutes on medium-high on a gas grill).

Sauce

2 medium avocados, diced
1/4 cup lime juice
zest of one lime
1/3 cup of olive oil
1 tablespoon finely chopped chives (or more to taste)
salt and pepper to taste

Combine all ingredients in a small bowl. Let rest several minutes (while fish cooks). Taste, and adjust seasoning as necessary.

When fish is done, serve with several spoonfuls of sauce on top. Accept the kudos when your mom acts like you're a big chef!

Here, It's Peace.

2008-07-14T18:22:00.000-07:00

One of the really wonderful things that has happened to me in the last couple of years is I've met a really interesting, intelligent, and artistic woman through my son's friendship with a schoolmate. She's a thoughtful liberal, and a funny and complex person, which can be a little rare in the environment in which I live.

One of the really crappy things that has happened to me over the last couple of years is my situation at a job I would otherwise really like. But that changed last week.

I have been trying to see Michele's show since it started, but a combination of stress and circumstance kind of kept me away. In fact, it kept me from a lot of fun activities I would have liked to attend. Though I have seen some of the works she exhibited in the show (and maybe that's not the right word for it -- I am not a visual artist) in her home and online, I knew it wasn't the same as seeing them properly hung, with statements and context. I already knew I find her work powerful, but when the artist is standing there holding the work up before you, it is (for me) difficult to lose myself to the experience.

Though the craptacularness of my job changed by the end of last week, there were still a lot of unanswered questions, mixed emotions, and general disbelief. I walked out of work on Friday afternoon with a sort of surreal potential for celebration.

Saturday was another interesting day. I will blog about that later.

Sunday, I woke up knowing Michele was going to take down her art at 3:00 pm. It was my priority to see it before it went away. I was sad I wasn't going to see the show on a day when Michele was there to talk about it.

Michele's exhibition was titled "Here, It's Peace." I had talked with her before about the meaning of that, and I know it's meant both literally and not literally. Many of the pieces for this collection have a sort of desert camouflage motif, but even though they evoke the current combat situation in the Middle East, they do not literally depict it. And, in fact, the images are also meant to (as I understand it) evoke other types of war and peace. For example, they might suggest the "war" of an illegal alien crossing the border versus the "peace" of a family in San Diego enjoying a day at the beach. Or the "war" of a woman or children who are abused by a violent patriarch versus the "peace" of a happy marriage.

As I say, I have seen many of the works before in other contexts, and always, I have been aware of the juxtaposition of the conflict and the harmonious. But I have always related more to the socio-political implications of the works, especially with regard to the USA's current conflicts.

Sunday, I woke up with an invigorated heart and sense of self. I was ready to let the past go, and give my energy back to my personal life, my friends, and most of all, my son. After entertaining him for a few hours, I set off to see Michele's exhibition.

The San Diego Art Institute is located in Balboa Park. It was very busy, so I had to park far away from the SDAI. For some reason, I felt in a hurry, and dashed off, noticing nothing around me and passing pedestrians left and right, to get to the SDAI.

I got to the SDAI and went downstairs to see Michele's exhibition. It was a rare hot and humid day in San Diego, and I relished the cool quietness that was the exhibition room. Michele's exhibition was the first thing I saw.

I'm not sure I saw the show in the order Michele wanted me to see it, but, for me, the order in which I saw it meant everything. One of the first things that struck me was this painting. There was a poem by Ivan Sigg accompanying the painting that moved me, and I hope Michele will give me a link to it. What really struck me was that for me, the politics were in the background. They were there, but this painting reminded me that personal relationships are what's important. What transcends the politics. As I moved through the rest of the works, I saw things I hadn't seen before. I saw Michele's relationship to her motherhood, which is so similar to mine. I saw her fears and her bravado. I saw and felt orange where before I had seen only camouflage. I saw so much more than I had before.

Note: I'm still processing her piece on Ingrid Betancourt and cannot comment on it now.

Because I was by myself, I could sit on a bench and really let the pieces speak to me. I did that for awhile before I moved on to the pieces behind me.

Those pieces seemed to get more hopeful.

I must say that every piece I saw seemed to speak to me in a new way, and I kept thinking for each piece, "This is my favorite." But then I came to this: http://www.micheleguieu.com/art/2008_atimetoheal09.htm

This was the piece I felt summed up everything I was feeling. It's beautiful, it's powerful, it speaks to me about my motherhood, my nurturing, and my conflicts. I stood before it for a long time, letting it draw me in. The most important part for me is it spoke of my relationship to Michele and of our mutual relationship to our kids, our culture, and our concerns.

If you don't know Michele Guieu's work, you should.

And this is what I wrote to her soon after seeing her show: https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7032908168451246317&postID=5644467662597390856

Goodbye Boss Wack

2008-07-13T16:03:00.000-07:00

If you are among my legion of fans who check my blog daily for a new post (Hiya, Gumbeauxgal!), you might have noticed I've been AWOL for, like, two months. There's actually a good reason for this: For about two years, I've been dealing with an increasingly hostile situation at work that recently became intolerable. In a nutshell, my boss was an idiot.

Oh, I know what you're thinking. "Oh, come on! It's the same all across corporate America. Everyone's boss is an idiot, and the same problems exist in every company, and you're just a whiner, or this is your very first job."

Ahem. I'm sorry to disillusion you, but this situation was truly so. fucking. special. (Apologies to Radiohead).

Over the last two years, this boss nearly toppled our entire organization. It almost would have been easier to take if Boss Wack were evil. Instead, BW is pathetically unqualified to perform the work expected. And, unfortunately, BW was too incompetent to carry out the very good advice (even specific instructions) of the many employees who wanted to see the organization (and by association, BW) succeed.

As the situation declined over the years, several of BW's employees developed both emotional and physical symptoms of stress, including digestive trouble, chronic migraines, high blood pressure, anxiety, and depression. Of course, our loved ones advised us to simply "leave work at work" and detach our emotions from the office. Unfortunately, we are all highly ethical, committed to our customers, and invested in quality. Our work is too big a part of our lives to be able to compartmentalize in that way.

Numerous complaints to the higher-ups and traditional HR channels resulted in naught . . . until last week.

As of last Friday, BW is no longer our boss. Several of those who remain likened it to getting out of an abusive relationship, because that's what it essentially was. There was obviously no physical abuse, but there was emotional abuse, and many levels of inappropriateness. None of us has experienced anything quite like this before, and we all have many years of experience in corporate America.

So, the tides have turned, the wall has come crashing down, and a bunch of good people are suddenly happy campers with the weight of the world off our shoulders. We don't know exactly what will happen next, but the future is rife with opportunity and hope.

And that means I have my energy for my personal life back again. I can be happy and funny, and, of course, brilliant again. Let the post-athon commence!

Happiest Blog Post Ever. Sincerely.

2008-05-05T16:09:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, one of my dearest friends, M, called me at work after being MIA on e-mail for longer than is usual. I picked up, and asked how she was. Instead of saying, "Fine," she asked if I had a moment to talk, so I knew right away something was up.

M has always been very health-conscious. She is fit, she exercises almost every day, she avoids anything even remotely suspected of being carcinogenic, she monitors her cholesterol intake, and she eats bean burritos with remarkable regularity (no pun intended). And she's only 42. So, how in the hell is it possible I was listening to her tell me she had a cancerous polyp in her colon?

I don't know if I found the news particularly shocking because I love M so much, or because I just assumed her healthy lifestyle rendered her impervious to serious illness. In any case, all I could think were such nonsensical things as "Why her? It isn't fair! How could this happen to her?" As though it would be more fair or comprehensible if it happened to -- I don't know -- my son's teacher? My aunt? The woman in front of me in the supermarket line?

So, there it was. It wasn't fair. It isn't fair when it happens to anyone, but M is close to me, so this time, I care. A lot.

M told me the next step would be surgery to remove the part of the colon with the polyp. The surgery is major: They have to cut her open. It's not something that can be done with a scope and a tiny incision. Plus, only after the surgery would they know the severity of the situation.

Fast forward a couple of weeks. M had her surgery last Thursday, and the procedure went well. Astonishingly, the good news came back only two days later: The surgery was completely successful, they were able to completely remove the polyp, and no cancer had spread beyond the part of the colon they removed. As of today, she is home, feeling much better, and hopped up on vicodin.

M said she feels almost like it didn't even happen. Like the pain and worry of the surgery is a small price to pay for the fantastic outcome. I danced when she told me. I've never been so relieved.

I know I will have to face my friends' mortality someday, but I can go back to believing that day is far away. At least for awhile.

Mission Accomplished

2008-05-01T16:00:00.000-07:00

Five years ago today, we won the war President Bush so thoughtfully started for us.

I'm sure that's very comforting to the many thousands* who have died in the war since then.

*Because I count Iraqis.

Vesuvius and the Super Boys

2008-04-15T14:14:00.001-07:00

In recent weeks, my son, Tornado Boy, and I have been making "play dates" with one of his school friends, Spiderman, Spiderman's little brother, Batman, and their mom. We've had great fun at various parks around town, so last Saturday, we decided to go to The San Diego Museum of Natural History together to see the exhibition A Day in Pompeii.

Spiderman and Batman's mom is an artist whose work, I believe, is often inspired by photographs of her family, so she always brings a camera to our play dates. This was fortunate for me, because I forgot to bring my camera. We weren't allowed to take photos in the exhibition, but while we waited our turn to go in, we were treated to a history of first century (Common Era) Roman soldiers (centuria) by the reenactment group Legio IX Hispana. About eight people in full ancient centurion armor and weaponry, all handcrafted by the reenactors from traditional materials and methods, transfixed the super boys immediately. The super boys cautiously approached a pair of centurions holding large wooden shields, along with iron swords and javelins. The centurions described their armor and weapons, and then kindly posed for a few photos with the boys, playfully brandishing their weapons. Batman asked, "Are you going to kill us?" and one of the soldiers responded, "Only if you touch the artwork!"

The exhibition itself was both fascinating and poignant. There were several marble sculptures, which I particularly like because of the way sculptors make such hard material look like flowing robes and soft skin. It was interesting to find out how wealthy the rich in Pompeii were. The homes would have been luxurious and richly decorated, with lush, intricate gardens and beautiful artwork. Of course this was supported by servants and slaves who had very little and were often treated poorly. The volcano didn't discriminate, however.

I found a couple of things particularly interesting.

The citizens of Pompeii, a small city by current standards, worshipped a variety of gods and belonged to many sects and cults. It seems as though the various beliefs existed side-by-side, with no significant conflict resulting. I need to do further research to find out why this might have been, or whether it is even true, but with different factions of the same religion fighting viciously just within my own country, I am curious about how it might be possible for people of diverse beliefs to "just get along."

And then, during a video presentation, we were told that the launderers of Pompeii placed jugs around the city to collect the urine of any townspeople who felt the urge, and then they used the urine as an early type of bleach to brighten fabrics. "Ewww," I said, showing off my scholarly intellectualism.

I think the moms maintained a higher level of interest than the super boys did, but several aspects of the exhibition definitely had an impact on the super boys. Of course, the casts of the bodies of people and animals trapped by the lava and ash intrigued and moved us all. I think the boys absorbed enough information to have a rough understanding of what happened and to start to think about the similarities and differences between our lives and those of ancient cultures.

In the end, though, they mostly wanted to go to the park. So we did, and we played until the super boys had to rush off to save the day.

On John McCain and Jon Stewart

2008-04-15T13:39:00.001-07:00

I wrote the following piece for my ill-conceived web site in 2006. I still see people are sometimes surprised to find out John McCain is not such a moderate, so I thought I'd repost this here, as it still seems sort of relevant.

On April 3, 2006, the glorious Jon Stewart conducted a short interview with John McCain on "The Daily Show," during which he chided Senator McCain for his decision to deliver a speech at Jerry Falwell's tax shelter of intolerance, Liberty University. The interview generated two responses of note: Senator McCain has been lambasted by liberals for evidently losing his mind and supporting uber-conservative Jerry Falwell, and Jon Stewart has been lauded by liberals for finally relentlessly hitting a conservative guest with tough questions. I'd like to address each of those points.

John McCain has been a right-winger the entire time.
During the 2000 and, especially, the 2004 election years, John McCain seemed almost moderate-- compared to George W. Bush, Karl Rove, et al. That's an important distinction. Let us not forget a number of political observers have advanced the theory that Richard Nixon was reasonable, compared to the current administration.

In 2000, John McCain had a 67% approval rating from the John Birch Society, and a 91% approval rating from the Christian Coalition. By 2004, he had a 90% rating from the John Birch Society (Project Vote Smart). These organizations don't give approval like that to moderates.

What we saw in 2004 was Republican Party infighting. And liberals were so desperate to see a chink in the conservative wall, some quickly embraced John McCain, going so far as to suggest the Democratic party court him as a potential presidential candidate. I think the idea was lobbed half-jokingly, but I believe it was a case of kidding on the square.

So now people worry Senator McCain has suddenly gone bananas in endorsing at least one of the more powerful dark forces within his party. I believe it's just the opposite. He's behaving like a man who wants to be President of the United States of America and knows there's only one party whose support can make that achievement remotely possible.

How many times does Jon Stewart have to say "fake news show" before you believe him?
I think it must have started when a flurry of media reviews suggested some great percentage of young adults learned of current issues and events primarily through "The Daily Show." For the last year or so, I've read numerous complaints that Jon Stewart doesn't dog his guests with hardball interview questions. He's criticized for being a soft -- what? -- journalist? I wonder if that isn't because he's actually a comedian. Doing a comedy show. On the Comedy Channel. With comedy.

Granted, he's often able to sting a guest with a pointed observation or express complete disagreement with his guest, but nine times out of ten, it's funny when he does it.

It was the same with John McCain on April 3. McCain had some idea of what he was about to get, and he seemed to come into the interview prepared to be ribbed. He mostly responded with humor, and Stewart was able to push for answers in a way that maintained the comedy, while (maybe) getting a couple of flustered responses from Senator McCain.

I happen to think the significance of what has been seen as McCain's major slip is overrated. Frankly, I think he was joking around.

I have a few more posts I want to work on this week, but I will try to update this piece with links to my sources in the next few days.

Feminist

2008-04-08T18:58:00.000-07:00

I don't typically just link to someone else's more brilliant blog, but this resonated with me:

http://shakespearessister.blogspot.com/2008/04/important-announcement.html

Sing it, sister.

Breaking News: Kittens Still Cute

2008-04-06T09:55:00.000-07:00

Especially when sleeping, as the potential for serious injury is so much lower.

By the way, certain poodles are also easy on the eyes:

Will Nobody Think of the Pancakes!?

2008-04-01T10:48:00.000-07:00

As my legion of faithful readers knows, I am very concerned about what America is doing to poor, innocent pancakes.

Until recently, it had not occurred to me that the largest threat in the Pancake Axis of Evil would be The International House of Pancakes (a.k.a iHOP, as if we wouldn't see through their disguise.) My naivete was due, in part, to the fact that I don't ever eat there. Why would I go to a crowded, plastic-coated, weirdly-shaped place with embarrassing dish names when I can get my pancake needs satisfied here? Or here? Or, dare I say it, at home?

It sort of surprised me a couple of weeks ago when my son woke up on a Saturday and informed us that we would be going to iHOP for breakfast. I didn't even know it was on his radar, since we never go there. My mom and dad thought it would be harmless enough -- perhaps even a nice change from the usual, high-quality restaurants we frequent, so we got ourselves in the car and drove to the nearest fake Swiss chateau, or whatever it's supposed to look like.

Inside, I got my first inkling of the horror that was to come. First of all, at 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday, there was no wait. Every other breakfast place in San Diego always has a line out the door at that time on a weekend.

When I got into the tiny lobby, my son pointed to a poster bearing images of characters from Horton Hears a Who around this startling item:

"Oh my God, what is that?" I exclaimed. "It's what I want for breakfast," my son explained.

Indeed, iHOP has invented Who-cakes in a cross-marketing campaign for the recent movie version of Horton Hears a Who. What they are is a stack of about six pancakes covered in not-found-in-nature pink and blue sauce with candy sprinkled all over and a lollipop stuck in the center. For children. For breakfast.

Now, I'm not super vigilant about my son's diet. I try to make sure he has a fairly good balance of veggies and pasta and proteins and such, but I let him have cookies and candy, and I indulge him with milkshakes and pie for dessert, probably more often than I should. But this particular monstrosity really tested my limits. In the end, I let him order the Who-cakes.

My son ate approximately one bite of one of the less-sauce-covered cakes, and declared himself finished and asked for some of my veggie omelet. I asked how he liked the Who-cakes, and he declared them "kinda maybe yucky." Unfortunately, so was the omelet, though it wasn't as much of an assault on the eyes.

So, sense prevails, even in six-year-olds. They may be taken in by advertising, but they will figure it out when something is just not good.

Finally, in another terrible strike against pancakes, our waiter revealed that the iHOP does not stock real maple syrup. What the hell?

Green, Green Orzo Salad

2008-04-01T10:26:00.000-07:00

Last night, I made an orzo salad with a lot of green ingredients. It tasted like spring.

1/2 pound orzo, cooked al dente, dressed with a bit of olive oil, and cooled
1 cup frozen peas prepared according to package directions and cooled
1/4 cup garlic-infused olive oil
zest and juice from 1 medium lemon
2 T mint, chopped
2 T chives, chopped
salt and pepper to taste
3 oz crumbled light feta cheese

In a medium bowl, whisk together the olive oil, lemon zest and juice, mint, chives, and salt and pepper. Add orzo and peas and toss to coat with dressing. Fold in crumbled feta.

This tastes even better the next day.

Give Jay Your Gayest Look

2008-03-26T08:06:00.001-07:00

Jay Leno just keeps making friends: http://shakespearessister.blogspot.com/2008/03/gayest-looks-for-leno.html.

So, here's my gayest look for you, Jay.

What an asshole. Also? Not funny.

The Flu Sucks

2008-03-19T08:59:00.001-07:00

This might be the first time in several years I've come down with the actual flu, as in high fever, fake-sounding cough, horrible headache, and general all-over "owwwww, unghhhh" feeling.

But soon, I will update you on the latest salvo on America's War on Pancakes.

Here's a preview:

Fettucine with Green Pea Pesto and Spring Herb Salad

2008-03-16T09:50:00.000-07:00

I've been watching Jamie Oliver's new series on FoodTV and getting inspiration from some of the things he makes. Not so much lately, though, as the latest few episodes have been about game and lamb, and I do my best to be a pescatarian, if that's a word.

A couple of weeks ago, a salad he made inspired me to try to recreate it, and for some reason, I thought it would go nicely with a green pea pesto and pasta dish. I'm not going to write out a recipe, because I used a recipe from Gourmet magazine for the pesto (with the addition of a little tarragon and parsley), and the salad was just arugula, Belgian endive, Italian parsley, and raddicchio tossed with a lemon-tarragon vinaigrette. The point is, it was really good, and I remembered to take a picture of it.

Actually, there's more: My son LOVED the pasta. In his little mind, pesto now means the pea mixure that was on that pasta, so I have finally found a way to get him to eat vegetables. As long as I puree cooked veggies with garlic and parmesan and call it pesto, he seems to be willing to eat them. (I recently tried this with roasted cauliflower and called it "white pesto" and it worked.)

Aside: The plates in my house reflect my mom's taste, not mine so much.

OMGWTFPOLARBEAR!!1!

2008-03-16T09:30:00.000-07:00

If you are a fan of Lost and a fan of funny, you will like this. I command you.

Food: It's What's for Dinner

2008-03-14T09:19:00.000-07:00

I just noticed that my friend Gumbeaux Gal has linked to my blog as one of her favorite food blogs, so I'd better post about food again right quicklike.

Last night, I didn't think I had anything in the house to make for dinner, but I definitely did not want to go anywhere, so I opened the fridge and looked for inspiration. There it was, in the form of a bag of cleaned, sliced crimini mushrooms from Trader Joe's that if I didn't use right now, would probably convert to something unrecognizable overnight. Well, maybe they weren't that bad, but let's just say I had a bag of mushrooms I needed to take care of.

I've always got pasta on hand, and lately, I've been buying bags of Trader Joe's mini ravioli to feed my little boy. So, with the mushroom mini ravioli, sliced mushrooms, some fresh thyme and sage, and some onion and garlic, I created:

Carmelized Double-Mushroom Ravioli in a Pinch

1/2 bag of Trader Joe's mini mushroom ravioli
1 bag Trader Joe's sliced crimini mushrooms (about two cups sliced mushrooms)

1 medium sweet onion, diced

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 T fresh thyme leaves
1 T fresh sage leaves, minced
1/2 cup dry white wine
olive oil
salt
pepper
grated parmigiano-reggiano

In a stock pot or large sauce pan, bring a whole bunch of water to a boil, and then add salt. Cook ravioli according to package directions, and drain.

Meanwhile, In a hot saute pan, add just enough olive oil to coat the bottom. Add mushrooms and cook over high heat until mushrooms give off their liquid and begin to brown (about ten to fifteen minutes*). Add onions, and season with salt. Cook until onions and mushrooms begin to caramelize (about ten more minutes*). Add garlic and herbs and cook until garlic turns golden and mushrooms and onions are nice and brown (about five more minutes*). Deglaze the pan with the wine, and cook until wine reduces by half. Season with pepper and more salt, if necessary.

Throw the cooked ravioli in with the mushroom mixture and toss. Top with grated cheese and enjoy.

Variation

I seriously considered adding about 1/4 cup of cream once the wine was reduced. Also, I think rosemary would be nice in place of the sage. If I'd had spinach on hand, I would have added that too, as well as some crushed red pepper.

*All times are approximate and reflect the crappiness of my stove.

It's National Grammar Day!

2008-03-05T13:00:00.000-08:00

Because I am a writer and editor, several coworkers and acquaintances have alerted me to the fact that today is National Grammar Day.

Imagine my delight! A whole day devoted to picking on people's grammatical and spelling foibles!

Okay, okay. I get that it's sort of all in fun, and, sure, I make fun of some of the grammatical errors I see in the wild. But, and here's the important part, not to the faces of the people who made them.

It's not really "celebrating good grammar" that bugs me, and if this holiday can result in editors getting presents, I'm all for that. This is what I object to:

If you see a sign with a catastrophic apostrophe, send a kind note to the
storekeeper. If your local newscaster says "Between you and I," set him straight
with a friendly e-mail.

That's not a celebration of good grammar; it's a celebration of bad manners. I mean, it's sort of what I do for a living, except I'm doing it for professional writers who are well aware of the standards they need to follow, and who also understand that it's impossible to be perfectly precise, consistent, and accurate without that "second pair of eyes." They get that it's not personal (well, most of them do). They also have a set of published guidelines reflecting industry-standard usage. Nonetheless, sometimes when they speak off the cuff, they say things like "between you and I" or "I don't feel good," or "Fuck this bullshit," though that's not technically incorrect. My point is, you wouldn't find it in one of their manuals.

Guess what? I do that too. And I write conversationally in places like this blog. And I've noticed people think I sound friendlier when I say "I'm good," rather than "I'm well" in response to "How are you?"

And I haven't even gotten to things like regionalisms, colloquialisms, dialects, accents, and lolcats. All of which I totally love. Did you understand that? Because it wasn't grammatically correct.

Which brings me to this from the National Grammar Day site:

If we don't respect and honor the rules of English, we lose our ability to
communicate clearly and well. In short, we invite mayhem, misery, madness, and
inevitably even more bad things that start with letters other than M.

This is simply retarded.

Other than a very new English speaker, who doesn't understand that a pet store sign reading "Cat's: 50% Off!" means there's a sale on cats? Or that the newscaster who said "Between you and I" means -- well, to be honest, I have no idea what that means, since newscasters talk to huge audiences, and so can't really keep secrets. So maybe that was just a bad example. Should I send a "friendly" e-mail to the National Grammar Day people pointing out their huge fucking mistake?

Speaking of which, again from the site:

Seriously—sort of.

Not a grammatically correct construction, people. So, I guess I must not be able to understand it.

So, I'll just go back to picking the nits I'm paid to pick, and not obsessing over misspellings on Italian menus or worrying about how many people pronounce err as "air" instead of "er" (betcha didn't know that one -- thanks, Mr. High School English teacher for that unnecessary little bugaboo), or whatever the newest thing is that's Killing the English Language.

In the meantime, I am grateful for all the coworkers who sent me and the other editor pats on the back about the job we do for them. And I promise, I am not really that uptight about this, and now that I've ranted, I can go back to remembering it's all in fun. 'Cuz I totalleh lurves teh lnguaj.

This post is especially for phibetakitten, who LOVES SHIT LIKE THIS. In case you can't tell, I'm being sarcastic.

D'oh!

2008-03-04T11:31:00.000-08:00

I've had a big crush on Tilda Swinton since I first saw her in Orlando. I just now realized it's because she's been David Bowie the entire time.

Duh.

Congratulations on that Oscar, Tilda!

Tyler Florence Does Not Understand the Concept of "Buddy"

2008-03-01T11:15:00.000-08:00

On Saturday mornings when I have nothing to do before a play date at 1:30, I do not tidy up my room or go for a walk or write my best-selling novel. No I do not. Instead, I park myself in front of Food Network programming for, like, five hours. I watch all the shows, whether I like them or not. In fact, I think I like the shows I don't like more than the shows I like. I mean, Jamie Oliver just makes me hungry, but Paula Deen provokes deep, philosophical questions like "What were you mainlining when you thought Velveeta should be an ingredient in fudge?"

Today, I watched Tyler's Ultimate with Tyler Florence, which I don't find particularly interesting in either respect, but what am I going to do -- laundry? He was making something out of a beef shoulder, and in trying to describe where on the animal the cut comes from, he said, "You see, our cow buddy here . . . " and pointed at the beef.

Pssst! Tyler! When you have an animal killed so you can eat it? It stops being your buddy pretty much right away. It probably questions whether you were ever really friends at all.

I guess this didn't bug me as much as when the Cuban lady kept saying "shrimpies," but . . . sheesh. One Rachel Ray is way more than enough.

Kitten Lessons

2008-03-01T10:59:00.000-08:00

I'm having to relearn what I've forgotten about having a young kitten in the house. Mish-Mish has been teaching me the following kitten lessons:

Toilet Paper Is Kitten Crack
Kleenex Is Also Kitten Crack
If You Sleep with Your Feet Outside the Blankets, Your Toes Are Fair Game
Do Not Leave Your Beverage Unattended, Even if You Think It's Implausible That a Kitten Would Drink a Greyhound
Cats Are Nocturnal, You Know
There Is No Barrier So High a Three-Pound Kitten Can't Jump Over It
You Are not the Boss of Me
People Legs in Pants Are a Convenient Mode of Transportation
Your Hair Is Also Kitten Crack, Especially at 2:00 A.M.

Being an Atheist Is Hard!

2008-02-28T09:56:00.000-08:00

I'm an atheist. My ex-husband is an atheist. Therefore, our son is an atheist. Seems reasonable enough, right? I mean, no one questions it when a Catholic mom and a Catholic dad have Catholic kids. But you should hear the shit I get from people when I say my son is an atheist.

"How can you say that? He's not old enough to make up his mind!"
"If you brainwash him like that and he dies, he'll go to hell."
"How will he learn morals if he thinks there isn't a God?"
"My kid believes in God, so tell your kid not to tell my kid he doesn't believe in God."

And so forth.

That's on top of the fact that at least three kids at school repeatedly tell my son he's going to hell because he doesn't believe in God. We're talking six-year-olds, people. So, apparently, it's perfectly fine to brainwash your kid until he turns into a tiny, Jerry Falwell-style, neo-conservative hater, but it's totally unacceptable to encourage your kid to think for himself. And can I just point out that it really should be obvious that "You're going to hell" is probably the most wildly ineffective argument possible when you're talking to an atheist?*

So, as the title of this post says, being an atheist is hard, and it's not just because we're going to hell. As an adult, I occasionally wish I could pass off various human atrocities and natural disasters as "God's will," and convince myself there was some good reason God wanted to kill a bunch of babies in a hurricane or whatever. Intellectual honesty and critical thinking take effort, and sometimes, aren't very comforting or fun, especially considering the current state of affairs in this country. But, in return, I get to have an open mind, an interest in science and keeping myself educated, and a deep appreciation for the genius that is Jon Stewart. Who should call me at his earliest convenience.

But the hardest part of all is teaching this style of thinking to a child. The day he watched Bambi and figured out that everyone is going to die, including mommy, I wanted to convert on the spot to any religion that would let me tell him that after we die, we all go somewhere great to eat unlimited macaroni and cheese while watching The Upside Down Show and making Lego robots together. But no. I had to spend several heartbreaking hours consoling a little boy who was learning to deal with the idea that one day, mommy will probably go away forever. That seriously sucked.

On the bright side, my son gets to learn that there are reasons for everything. The sky isn't blue because God made it that way or little fairies painted it when they were drunk. He knows that the sky is blue because, uh, something about refraction, I think, and . . . honey, let me introduce you to a great invention called Google.

And that's really the meat of the whole thing. Google has all the answers, so who needs God? Google will never smite you. Google is totally new testament.

*Explanation for those who don't see why this is obvious
Hello, Christians! See, atheists don't just not believe in deities. They also don't believe in all the stuff the deities supposedly (more of the not-believing, here) said in their various books, alleged (see?) appearances, visits with schizophrenics, and messages on trees or tortillas or toast. So, as an atheist, I don't believe in God, hell, the devil, angels, or lepers, and I'm kinda undecided on what I think went on with the whole Jesus thing. Just kidding about the lepers.

Meet Mish-Mish

2008-02-27T18:17:00.000-08:00

This is Mish-Mish. She is a twelve-week-old Chausie kitten who is currently purging my home of invisible-to-the-human-eye terror threats.

It's been about sixteen years since I've had a kitten. My last kittens were Fear and Trembling, a sweet, adorable, if non-litterbox-oriented pair of "mutt" shorthairs I adopted upon pressure from a former coworker who didn't believe in neutering her cats. They weren't that smart, and they weren't that proud, but they loved me and I loved them. Fear died over the summer, and Trembling died early this month. That was the first day I ever lived without a cat family member.

Between the time I was about six until I got Tremor (a year before Fear and Trembling), my family favored purebred exotic cats, like Siamese, Burmese, and Tonkinese. After my family's long-lived, beloved Burmese, Killer, died, my dad expressed an interest in Abyssinians, which I had also always coveted. When Trembling died, I started looking into Abyssinian rescue organizations, thinking that "when I was ready," I might want to adopt an Abby or Abby mix. I found an Abyssinian and Chausie breeder and rescue service, who happened to have one female Chausie they desperately wanted to adopt out. I researched the breed, and when I discovered they're more affectionate and better with children than Chausies, I figured I'd better meet that kitten. I did, and it was very-much-like at first sight.

She came home with me (and about eighty dollars' worth of Chuao chocolates) on Valentine's Day. She hid under my bed for about eighteen hours, and then began reminding me of what it's like to have a kitten.

Fingers typing on a keyboard are a scourge that must be exterminated. Dust bunnies will not stand. Six-and-a-half year old little boys are a very interesting science project and/or transportation system. Toes? Another scourge. By the way, that snack you're eating? Drop it, or she'll pounce. In fact, pounce is her middle name. Oh -- and there was nothing in the available material on Chausies that mentioned they can jump ten feet vertically from standing.

It's been fun. And she's certainly worming her way into my heart. I miss my old lady kitties, but I can see my new longtime kitty companion in Mish-Mish.

Question: Why Won't They Give Me a Normal Amount of Food?

2008-02-27T11:42:00.000-08:00

Answer: It's because they like me.

Where I work, we have an on-site cafeteria. The level of tastiness of the offerings is unpredictable, but having the option on site sure is convenient, since we don't have anything nearby that we can walk to. And there are some consistent items, like the salad bar and deli sandwiches, that one can eat in a pinch.

So, what you probably don't know about me is that I'm sickeningly nice almost all the time. In any given transaction, I probably say "please" and "thank you" about a dozen times. Once, when I called a friend at her family's house, her brother who answered the phone gave me crap about being too polite. "Fuck you!" I replied. Fictitiously.

Anyway, I am very polite to service workers, and when I see them on a regular basis, I try to find out their names and have just enough small talk to make the interactions friendly without slowing them down in their jobs. (Aside: This is different from my mother. Woe betide the supermarket cashier who asks her how she is.) In a nutshell, I treat the staff of the work cafeteria the way I would treat my coworker acquaintances, because . . . they are coworker acquaintances. Apparently, this attitude is unusual in my office.

As a result, the staff tend to like me and they sometimes do favors for me. Like, the cashier sometimes doesn't charge me the quarter for my daily giant cup of water. The chef tells me when he's going to make my favorite soup. The sandwich maker automatically puts dijon mustard on my veggie wrap. And the guy in charge of serving the "healthy choice" entrees piles ten times more food into my container than he puts in anyone else's.

I've tried to explain to him (politely!) that for me, more isn't better in this area. Especially since the healthy choice entrees I am likely to try are typically some form of pasta with veggies or tomato sauce. But he always just smiles and keeps putting more in, sometimes brushing me off with an "it's good for you." I've finally stopped begging him to stop after every giant spoonful, even though it's really horribly wasteful to have to get rid of three-quarters of the meal. (Why don't I share with someone or save the leftovers for the next day? It's never really that good.)

Today, I weighed my orecchiette with roma tomatoes, basil, fat-free mozzarella, and garlic (which still ended up pretty much tasteless) on the salad bar scale: 1.34 pounds. Of pasta, basically, since there was but one tomato in my container. So, more than a full standard package of pasta. That's what people want you to eat if you're nice.

Guilty Pleasures

2007-11-13T10:32:00.001-08:00

I pride myself on a certain amount of snobbery, but I must confess to having more than a few guilty pleasures. For the moment, allow me to indulge my snobbish side while I explain what I mean by guilty pleasure.

I believe the term guilty pleasure has suffered from a bit of the Irony Effect. Alanis Morissette screwed up a generation's understanding of the true definition of irony. I don't know who messed with guilty pleasure, but my experience indicates many people think it means "something you feel guilty about but still like to do it, so you have no intention of stopping." Like smoking or drinking. Or cheating on your diet. I define guilty pleasure the One True Right Way: "something you like that you would be ashamed to have your friends know about." Like Kid Rock. I'm hardcore.

But most of my guilty pleasures fall in the area of food. My mom has never been the most imaginative or fastidious of cooks. She honed her cooking skills over a period where meat and potatoes ruled the dinner table, and frozen and convenience foods were fabulous new ideas. So, many of our family dinners comprised a pan-fried or oven-roasted protein, Rice-a-Roni, and a small portion of frozen vegetables. I don't recall the spice rack getting a lot of action during those times. We definitely had no knowledge of fresh herbs, and a limited understanding of fresh vegetables: corn on the cob for Independence Day, occasional green beans, and potatoes (though scalloped potatoes from a box showed up frequently on our plates).

Sometime during my late teens and early twenties, probably influenced by all the varieties of fresh and delicious foods I had during a stay in France, I started to develop my own interest in cooking. Guided by Bon Appetit and early cooking shows like "The Frugal Gourmet" and Jaques Pepin's show on PBS, I gravitated toward fresh ingredients, including lots of herbs and fresh garlic, and explored the world through food. I also decided to become a vegetarian, and for years, I eschewed the hearty, nutritious, but boring, meals my mom made.

In the ensuing years, I have maintained my love of cooking, trying new flavors, and experimenting with new dishes. Unfortunately, I also got a lot busier in life, what with having a child and working a stressful full-time job. Also, I moved back in with mom and dad after my husband and I split up.

As unmemorable as most of my mom's dinners were, she had a couple "special" meals she made that really stand out in my memory. Recently, after a long stressful week, she made what I discovered I still consider the ultimate comfort food: The Joy of Cooking's version of Chicken Cacciatore, as modified by my mom. As I described previously, my mom does not like cooked onion, so she substitutes onion powder. She also uses garlic powder rather than regular garlic because in the fifties and sixties, I don't think Americans had discovered garlic yet. She doesn't drink wine, so she uses the old standby bottle of dry sherry we keep in the cupboard pretty much just for this dish. Finally, because she hates mushrooms, but my dad loves them, instead of fresh sliced mushrooms, she uses canned whole button mushrooms that she can easily avoid when plating up her serving. The sauce is made by thinning out tomato paste and the chicken juices with the sherry. The chicken is served with a side of spaghettini and green beans, and the whole thing is drizzled with the sauce and then sprinkled with parmesan.

Don't ask me why, but I love this. There's something about the blend of crappy "wine" and rubbery mushrooms that takes me straight back to a secure, comforting family dinner after a winter day. These days, I have been known to turn and flee if I see canned mushrooms in a salad bar or as an ingredient in any other recipe, but in this one dish, it's the only thing that will do. I confess that when I lived by myself, I tried to make this dish using fresh ingredients and the original recipe, but the result did nothing for me. It didn't have the tang of the vinegary sherry. It didn't have the little bursts of salty brine that come when you bite into a canned mushroom. It didn't taste like home, or like mom.

I love mom.

I Totally Submitted a LOLcat!

2007-11-13T09:43:00.000-08:00

Here it is: http://www.thecheezburgerfactory.com/View.aspx?InvisibleOrch128394493592500000.jpg. Maybe I'll be famous!

Uranus? Are You Kidding Me?

2007-11-07T11:36:00.001-08:00

Why are the astronomers wasting time reclassifying Pluto, when what they really need to do is rename Uranus? Can I be the only one mystified, here?

America's War on Pancakes

2007-11-05T10:08:00.000-08:00

Looking back, I suppose I should have known it was inevitable, but I just didn't realize the pancake was such a threat. In my own experiences with pancakes, they've ranged in threat level from innocuous (say, an iHOP short stack) to divine (my friend Margaret's perfectly spiced gingerbread pancakes, for example). Evidently, my experience was not typical, as there is no other explanation for recent developments than an angry public's response to pancake aggression.

What developments, you ask? Why, the humiliation and subjugation of the entire pancake race, of course! Haven't you heard?

It started innocently enough with the Pancake Puff device. On the surface, it doesn't seem like such a bad idea. Who's against puffy stuff, right? But then you get to thinking about it. A puffed pancake is pretty much just a muffin. So, that niche is already filled. And if you need to put stuff in your pancake, all you have to do is roll it, like people have done for centuries. The pancake shape is what sets it apart! You don't need to inject it with pudding, because you can just blop the pudding on the pancake and roll it. And if you really want to make a pizza out of your pancake, I don't think the world wants to know about it.

But it was about to get much worse. Recently, a coworker alerted me to this crime against pancakity: Pancakes on a stick. Around a Jimmy Dean sausage. With chocolate chips. This is when I first started to suspect there was an anti-pancake agenda in this country. I don't know how it started or why, but I began to see that a rising tide of pancake hatred was flowing over America. And America wasn't afraid to fight the pancake insurgence. With chocolate chips.

I had no idea at the time how far the people of this country were willing to go to win the war against pancakes. It wasn't long before I learned how deep the pancake hatred went. The very same coworker who spotted the besticked pancakes pointed out this monstrosity: The Batter Blaster. The American people hate pancakes so much, they confine them within aerosol cans! Organically! (Presumably, this was one of the lessons learned from the cheez internment of 1953. What an embarrassing episode in this country's history!)

I don't know what's going to happen next. If you care about the pancakes of your future, write your representatives and ask them to step in to stop this massacre! I believe this can only get worse: The Batter Blaster is imprisoning waffles too!

Yummy, Yummy Anchovy-Mushroom Pizza

2007-10-17T12:50:00.000-07:00

The Background
I'll tell you what: If you don't like pizza, there is something wrong with you. I state that unequivocally, without fear of contradiction. It would not surprise me to learn that neither George Bush nor this man likes pizza.

I do understand why many people would not like anchovy pizza. I happen to love anchovy pizza, but can't usually make it for myself because I typically share my pizza with my little boy who wants only cheese. If I do a half-and-half thing, he sees the anchovies on top of mine, and thinks they have somehow contaminated the whole thing. Plus, it can be unpleasant to end up getting a large piece of anchovy in a smallish bite. So, last night, I set out to find a way to have my anchovy pizza and still share with my little boy.

The Recipe
This is not so much an actual recipe as it is a method. Or a series of suggestions, if you like. Quantities are based on taste, and many substitutions could be made. For example, any pizza dough would work, and you could substitute a different type of mushroom if shitakes aren't available. In any case, these are the ingredients I used:

1 package Trader Joe's pizza dough

olive oil

shredded mozzarella cheese

8 ounces shiitake mushrooms, thinly sliced

approximately 1 1/2 cups simple marinara sauce leftover from last time I made pasta

1 clove fresh garlic, minced

3 anchovy filets, chopped

2 or 3 sprigs fresh thyme, leaves stripped off woody stems

Preheat your oven to 425 degrees. (Note: This is for the Trader Joe's crust. Use whatever temperature settings work best for the crust you are using.)

Heat about two tablespoons olive oil in a saute pan and toss in the mushrooms. Do not add salt. Saute, stirring occasionally, until mushroom water has evaporated and mushrooms are caramelized. This can take awhile. Last night, it took about thirty minutes. Add a pinch of salt and a few grinds of pepper toward the end of the process. Remove the mushrooms from the pan and set aside.

Roll out or stretch the pizza dough to fit your taste and your pan. In this case, I decided to make a thickish crust on a round pizza pan. Brush or spray the crust with olive oil, and then sprinkle with about 1/4 cup of shredded mozzarella. The cheese should just dot the crust, not form a layer. (This is a tasty way to weight the dough so it doesn't puff too much when you par-bake it.) Bake the pizza crust in the oven for ten to twelve minutes, until golden brown.

While the crust is baking, heat a couple teaspoons of olive oil in the pan you used for the mushrooms. Add the anchovies and cook until they "melt" into the oil. Add the minced garlic, marinara sauce, and thyme and stir until anchovies and garlic are well incorporated into the sauce.

Remove the crust from the oven and spread with the sauce. Sprinkle caramelized mushrooms over the sauce. Top with shredded mozzarella to taste. Pop the pizza back into the oven for about ten more minutes, or until mozzarella is bubbling and browned in places.

Slice pizza into a manageable number of pieces and eat! Well, you might want to wait for it to cool first. Or you could put it on a plate with a sprig of thyme if you're into presentation. Some people would probably take a picture before they take a bite!

The Result
Yummmm! Well, that's just me. The anchovies lent a savory depth to the sauce, and the mushrooms were almost smoky and . . . well, they tasted brown. In a good way. The thyme brightened everything up a bit, whilst the tomato sauce provided a touch of sweetness.

I would love to tell you my little boy ate it up and loved it, but after I spent a good hour working on that pizza, he told me he'd rather have the Kid Cuisine my mom had gotten at the supermarket. Damn you, Kid Cuisine, with your whimsical characters and included crappy desserts!

The Future
Next time I make this, I will make the crust thinner. To be honest, I was just a little lazy about it last night. Depending on who you're serving, just about any vegetables could probably be added. I think it would be especially good with some thinly sliced eggplant, but I'm an eggplant whore. In general, I really liked this savory, salty pizza. As with so many sauces that include anchovies, the taste was not the strong, fishy one many people expect, but the anchovies' presence was noticeable and tasty!

Miss Mouse

2007-10-16T13:10:00.000-07:00

You, Miss Mouse, are the young woman who refused to let me in on the jammed freeway entrance with four converging lanes yesterday morning, even though my car was half a length ahead of yours, and you risked scraping the sides of our cars together in your desire to win your car-length of advantage over me in traffic that was not moving.

I will confess to some momentary pettiness on my part. It's true that I had the "courtesy" right-of-way and that I would have had to do a bit of maneuvering to avoid sideswiping the car on my right to let you in safely, but I could have managed it, I'm sure. But your insistent creeping on my left opened up a little hidden pocket of road rage left over from my younger days, abruptly ending my iPod-induced chair dance.

When the car ahead of me moved, I crept up into the space it left. Of course, you did too. I wondered whether I would finally find out what happens if neither driver gives an inch. If we collided, no matter whose fault the crash turned out to be, I would have to talk to you. The prospect was not appealing. Once you pulled up even with me, I looked at you, thinking to confront my nemesis eye-to-eye.

That's when I noticed you are a mouse. Not just because of your mousy hair or nose. Your entire demeanor mewls, "mouse." You felt me looking at you, so you looked down and away to avoid the terrifying gaze of a complete stranger in another car on the freeway. What could I have done to you? Given you a disgusted look? Flipped you the bird? Shaken my fist? I suppose it's possible you believed I was a gun-toting freeway psycho, but that would have meant your insistence on displacing me was suicidal, not just stupid. I rejected the idea.

Then I had my revelation: That car-length advantage was all you have! Not just over me, but at all. If you can't face the driver you're trying to squeeze in front of, whom can you face? What possible challenge could you surmount? Your hunched posture, your nondescript ponytail, and your misunderstanding of the place of denim jackets in a stylish wardrobe conveyed to me everything you don't have. And with that realization, I began to catalogue everything I do have:

Confidence
An impact in this world
A great family
Many wonderful friends
An ability to use makeup stylishly and with a sense of whimsy, rather than as obvious compensation for overplucked brows
Respect
Good hair
Nice manners on the freeway (usually)
An excellent bra
Talent for developing consistent bulleted lists
A creative streak that allows me to turn a minor freeway annoyance into a blog entry

So, I stopped. I held up the people behind me. I let the drivers on my right confusedly push past. And finally, you looked at me long enough to see me wave you in. Quickly, you looked back down, pathetically shaking your head as though to indicate you think I'm pathetic. But I basked in my benevolence, knowing I had given Miss Mouse her one opportunity to be a big shot -- by overtaking a stranger's car in stop-and-go traffic.

Five minutes later, when I passed you further up the freeway, I barely noticed because I was so busy chair dancing.

Lentil and Sausage Soup. If you call it "stoup," I will cut you.

2007-10-15T09:59:00.000-07:00

The Reasoning
As the millions of you who have faithfully followed my meandering mutterings have likely deduced, I have no clear idea what to do with my blog. Until the light bulb comes on, I will take the common road of bloggers throughout time and post whichever of my thoughts I believe the world cannot do without. Also, I plan to steal ideas from others. In this post, I take a leaf from my friend Gumbeauxgal's blog, and post a recipe I puttered with that came out pretty darn good.

The Background
It all started sometime last week, when my mom wanted to make black bean soup. She got the idea too late in the day to soak the beans, so we talked about other options, like using canned beans (ick). I said she could always have used lentils, which don't need to be soaked before cooking. She hasn't cooked much with lentils, but then reminisced about a soup she used to get at a great no-longer-existent restaurant called Cane's (owned by these people). The soup she remembered had red lentils and some kind of sausage. I had black lentils in the pantry and a curiosity about andouille. So, I decided I would make lentil and andouille soup on Sunday.

The Recipe
Because I spent the last half of the eighties and all of the nineties as a vegetarian, I haven’t cooked much with meat, especially “exotic” meats and sausages that weren’t available in San Diego until the last decade or so. So, though I know how to make a vegetarian lentil soup, I did some research on the web to figure out how long I was going to have to cook the sausage. I came up with this recipe. Based on the reviews, I knew right off I was going to make the following changes:

I increased the amount of the veggies to one-half cup (more or less) each.
I omitted the first half hour of cooking the lentils in the broth by themselves.
I made my own creole seasoning rather than using a commercial product. This is the recipe I used.
I used twelve ounces of sausage.
I used fresh thyme.

Then I had to make some further modifications due to personal limitations:

I could not get hold of my aforementioned friend Gumbeauxgal to find out whether good andouille is available in a San Diego market. Rather than risk disaster, I instead opted to use Trader Joe’s smoked chicken-turkey-garlic sausage.
My mom hates, hates, hates the texture of large pieces of cooked onions, celery, peppers, and probably some other vegetables. For my mom, large is defined as detectable. Therefore, instead of dicing or even mincing the vegetables, I essentially turned them into pulp in the food processor. I drained off some of the water that pooled in the bottom of the processor, and then sweated them with a bit of salt for five or ten minutes.
I couldn’t find beef broth, so I used all low-sodium, organic chicken broth and reduced the amount of broth from nine cups to eight.
Finally, to make extra super sure that my mom would not notice any sort of vegetation, after cooking, I stuck the ol’ stick blender in there (being sure not to “catch” any of the sausage) and whirred it around for awhile. It seems to have worked!

The Result
After about an hour of making my house smell like smoky sausage heaven, the soup came out pretty darn good. My mom loved it, which means I successfully hid all the veggies from her (and makes me think those books that tell you how to sneak veggies into your kids by pureeing them must have some merit). Though smoky, the sausages weren’t overly salty, so, with the couple big pinches of kosher salt I added during the cooking process, the soup was perfectly seasoned. There was a bit of a kick from the cayenne in the creole seasoning, but not too much, so this soup would be good for kids. Sourdough rolls dipped in were divine. And in the end, it’s healthy!

The Future
As good as it was, I will continue to refine this soup. For me, it was a little thin, so I will definitely increase the amount of lentils the next time I make it. I also felt it was a bit celery-riffic, so I would change the vegetable proportions to those used in mirepoix. Here are some of the other tweaks I will try:

Create a vegetarian version using vegetarian sausage and/or liquid smoke and vegetable broth.
Increase the cayenne, if not serving kids.
Find out how to get andouille and use it. I’m still dying to know what it tastes like!
Experiment with different varieties of lentils.
Add rice.
When using the chicken sausage or other lower salt sausage, render pancetta or bacon for the fat in which to start sautéing the mirepoix.
When using the stick blender in the future, I will cook the sausages whole so I can remove them easily, blend, and then cut them up and put them back in.

The End
While I was shopping at Trader Joe’s for the remaining ingredients I wanted for the soup, I remember standing in front of the Greek yogurt section wondering if I ought to get some for the week. I couldn’t think of anything I would use it for, so I didn’t get any. It would have been absolutely perfect dolloped on top of a nice hot bowl of this soup. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that! Let that be a lesson to you all. Always get the Greek yogurt.

An Open Letter to Guy and His Big Bite

2007-05-07T15:30:00.000-07:00

Dear Guy, from "Guy's Big Bite" on the Food Network,

Surely I'm not the first person who has begged you, for the love of all that is holy, to stop tasting your oh-so-manly, meat-stuffed-meat, pseudofusion greasetronomy and pronouncing it "money."

If an actual cool person ever used that expression, he stopped ten seconds after Swingers came out. (Psst! Swingers is about guys who think they're hip, but are actually pathetic. Okay?)

Clearly, you think you're a rock star, but real rock stars don't use hackneyed expressions like "That's so money" and "It's on like Donkey Kong." Plus, I hate to break it to you, but there are no rock stars on the Food Network. No matter how blond you bleach your hair, no matter how often you refer to yourself in the third person (smooth, dude), and no matter how many times you name one of your wake-n-bake entrees after a cocktail, you're still just a no-repeat Saturday throwaway on the Food Network. Your audience is way more Good Housekeeping than Maxim, so you might as well just try to make good food instead of a spectacle of yourself.

By the way: It's 2007. I know! That's fifteen years later than you thought it was.

Can I become cool at age almost-41?

2007-04-26T10:37:00.000-07:00

I just signed on to twitter. I don't really know why, but I suddenly feel it necessary to reenter the realm of random communication with strangers, after having left message boards and discussion lists behind last year. I can't figure out myspace.com. Twitter seems easier, but weirder.

Anyway, I noticed all the cool kids at Twitter have web sites and blogs, so here's mine. I have opinions -- oh, yes indeed. But a life? That is what I don't have.

I know all the words to the Go, Diego, Go! and Pokemon: Battle Frontier theme songs. I know how to put together Bionicles. I have a good score in Viva Pinata. What's that spell? I have a five-year-old son.

Let the Healing Begin

2006-11-21T09:45:00.000-08:00

I believe I expected too much. A fortnight has passed, and it's still all the same. I hug my knees to my chest. I love my greyhound.