i love kitchens.
one of the great pleasures i take in life is the late-night snack. i'm sure this will come back to bite me in the ass (literally) someday, but for the moment i'm going to thoroughly enjoy my cold chicken straight out of the deli container.
maybe it's a hangover from my teenage years, but there's something strangely thrilling about swiping a snack this late at night. everything is so quiet, except here there's a huge racket from the frogs in the pond out back. every floorboard creaks at a volume that you're sure is going to wake the whole house, and when you finally make it up the stairs and to the kitchen you realize your bare feet make almost as much noise on the linoleum as they did on the creaky stairs. opening the fridge is a blinding experience, but once your eyes adjust, they behold a wonderland of previously unclaimed food items. half-eaten chicken, mostly empty take-out boxes, lunchmeat, pickles, and many other things that in daylight would be completely ignored suddenly seem like delicacies. why yes, i would love a single sweet pickle. three bites of chicken sounds delicious. and, wonder of wonders, a lone cream cheese wonton lays completely forgotten at the back of the fridge. (score!)
now, it should be noted that in this house no food is left alone for long. there are enough people, and one in particular who quietly grazes on anything in sight, that food almost never goes bad in our fridge. that delicious cream cheese wonton was only a few days old. i still cannot believe that it had gone unnoticed that long. and oh, was it delicious.
and then there's the odd pleasure of simply sitting at the counter. the kitchen is the center of any home, as many a pillow and apron proudly declares. here one feels close to the action. i can't possibly miss any important events from this perch. this is possibly because our house revolves around the preparation and consumption of food, but also because of its prominent location. tactically, i have a clear view of any activities the neighborhood kids are planning outside, including mysteriously moving around the firepit chairs (i believe they're secretly constructing a fort from which to bombard the enemy ducks and geese with our landscaping rocks). i can count how many times the little bro comes in to stare at the contents of the pantry, and of that number how many times he decides on cereal. i can tell the lady of the house where she put her keys in her frenzy to get out the door. and, more importantly, i can access the all-important internet while brewing coffee and watching tv AT THE SAME TIME.
truly, this kitchen is a magical, magical place.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
spontaneous combustion
huzzah! for never updating le blog! now behold! a CONTENT-FREE! and ANGRY! update late at night:
if one more person asks me with an innocent/blank face: "but what do you have to be mad about? what's wrong with washington?"
... i may actually self-combust. i'm not sure how that happens, but mythbusters says it does, so it must be true.
i get asked this question ALL THE TIME. and i think it's pushing me over the edge (short trip, i know). but i've come to a conclusion: i think people are suffering in our country. suffering from a LACK OF NEWS.
this is a serious condition, folks. there's even a bumper sticker out about it. i believe it reads: "if you're not angry, you're just not paying attention." i'm sure it was first issued for bush-haters, but frankly, it doesn't matter. everyone should be pissed about something (because that's how incompetent our congress is).
maybe we're suffering from over-exposure. we have... how many? 24-hour news channels plus countless radio programs (though those are mostly conservative since liberals don't pay attention past the pretty posters) and an endless parade of emails, if you have the misfortune to have signed up for them.
sidenote:
dear nbc,
yes, i am a right-wing extremist, and yes, i do hate you all, though you do occasionally give me a good chuckle, like this week. in any case, please say hello to my digitus tertius.
love,
me.
continuing:
does anybody watch the news anymore? or are they all just watching nbc, which is pretty much the same thing?
why do i even have to explain myself? i pay attention, and therefore i am royally pissed. i may even start to use the royal 'we' soon, but that might get weird.
so please, if you don't know what your brand new fancy sparkling holy congress and your brand new hero president is doing with all of your tax money and political time, and if you don't know why the tea party participants were all carrying signs, just...
ask me about the weather. or the yankees. please, i beg you. and so does my blood pressure.
if one more person asks me with an innocent/blank face: "but what do you have to be mad about? what's wrong with washington?"
... i may actually self-combust. i'm not sure how that happens, but mythbusters says it does, so it must be true.
i get asked this question ALL THE TIME. and i think it's pushing me over the edge (short trip, i know). but i've come to a conclusion: i think people are suffering in our country. suffering from a LACK OF NEWS.
this is a serious condition, folks. there's even a bumper sticker out about it. i believe it reads: "if you're not angry, you're just not paying attention." i'm sure it was first issued for bush-haters, but frankly, it doesn't matter. everyone should be pissed about something (because that's how incompetent our congress is).
maybe we're suffering from over-exposure. we have... how many? 24-hour news channels plus countless radio programs (though those are mostly conservative since liberals don't pay attention past the pretty posters) and an endless parade of emails, if you have the misfortune to have signed up for them.
sidenote:
dear nbc,
yes, i am a right-wing extremist, and yes, i do hate you all, though you do occasionally give me a good chuckle, like this week. in any case, please say hello to my digitus tertius.
love,
me.
continuing:
does anybody watch the news anymore? or are they all just watching nbc, which is pretty much the same thing?
why do i even have to explain myself? i pay attention, and therefore i am royally pissed. i may even start to use the royal 'we' soon, but that might get weird.
so please, if you don't know what your brand new fancy sparkling holy congress and your brand new hero president is doing with all of your tax money and political time, and if you don't know why the tea party participants were all carrying signs, just...
ask me about the weather. or the yankees. please, i beg you. and so does my blood pressure.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Tonight's issue...
And oh there are so many to pick from. This one is small, but on the scale of zero to crazy gets about a 7.5, so I'm running with it.
A rather large chunk, around five billion (with a 'b'), of the money Congress has set aside for education out of our fancy new stimulus package (part two of forty-seven) will go to funding education programs for children ages 1-3.
Yes. One-year-olds, two-year-olds, and three-year-olds.
Um. Well this makes sense, I mean in 15 years or so they might get a job... er... as a cashier at target... or washing dishes... for about a year. Now, this is important work, to be sure. We would be miserable without them. And if they learn to wash dishes at an early age, and maybe if we get them those toy checkout counters with plastic fruit and vegetables, perhaps we can FINALLY have those highly trained cashiers we've always needed!
Is personal responsibility really this out of style? Are parents now assumed to be so stupid that the government has to step in to teach their kids to speak English and use spoons? Are day care providers so incompetent that they can't keep little Jimmy from shoving that toy firetruck up his nose?
Apparently so.
But fear not! An army of laid-off accountants will be sent in to wipe up the snot in the most cost-effective way possible, and prepare meals with organic, locally grown ingredients (kids in Minnesota during the Winter should consider packing a lunch from elsewhere on the planet). Previously out-of-work bricklayers will be hired by the federal and state governments, carefully trained in the intricacies of Lego skyscrapers, and sent to organize the the Lego city planning commissions during nap time to be implemented during the scheduled 15 minutes of play (before the Union-required hour-long break, in which the kids are on their own, presumably to play Godzilla with Legotown and trick poor Jimmy into getting yet another six-wheeled vehicle lodged in his left nostril). And, as a Gesture of Love and a Demonstration of her Supreme Goodness, Hillary Clinton will Personally extract that fire truck from the screaming kid's nasal cavity.
Well good.
So between this and the fact that the rest of the money will get swallowed up in bureaucracy, my high school will still have no paper to print tests, worksheets, and study guides for students.
No paper. But hey, those little ones are going to be sooo well behaved. And medicated.
A rather large chunk, around five billion (with a 'b'), of the money Congress has set aside for education out of our fancy new stimulus package (part two of forty-seven) will go to funding education programs for children ages 1-3.
Yes. One-year-olds, two-year-olds, and three-year-olds.
Um. Well this makes sense, I mean in 15 years or so they might get a job... er... as a cashier at target... or washing dishes... for about a year. Now, this is important work, to be sure. We would be miserable without them. And if they learn to wash dishes at an early age, and maybe if we get them those toy checkout counters with plastic fruit and vegetables, perhaps we can FINALLY have those highly trained cashiers we've always needed!
Is personal responsibility really this out of style? Are parents now assumed to be so stupid that the government has to step in to teach their kids to speak English and use spoons? Are day care providers so incompetent that they can't keep little Jimmy from shoving that toy firetruck up his nose?
Apparently so.
But fear not! An army of laid-off accountants will be sent in to wipe up the snot in the most cost-effective way possible, and prepare meals with organic, locally grown ingredients (kids in Minnesota during the Winter should consider packing a lunch from elsewhere on the planet). Previously out-of-work bricklayers will be hired by the federal and state governments, carefully trained in the intricacies of Lego skyscrapers, and sent to organize the the Lego city planning commissions during nap time to be implemented during the scheduled 15 minutes of play (before the Union-required hour-long break, in which the kids are on their own, presumably to play Godzilla with Legotown and trick poor Jimmy into getting yet another six-wheeled vehicle lodged in his left nostril). And, as a Gesture of Love and a Demonstration of her Supreme Goodness, Hillary Clinton will Personally extract that fire truck from the screaming kid's nasal cavity.
Well good.
So between this and the fact that the rest of the money will get swallowed up in bureaucracy, my high school will still have no paper to print tests, worksheets, and study guides for students.
No paper. But hey, those little ones are going to be sooo well behaved. And medicated.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
jews and africans.
ooo racy! a racist post! ...not quite.
tonight i had one of those magical moments in which you're flicking through channels, come across a movie, and get completely, utterly, and transcendentally sucked in. it was called 'gentleman's agreement.' as much as it sounds like a porn about two southern gentlemen swapping wives, it's a really amazing film. it's about a journalist in the 1940's who pretends he's a jew to write a series about antisemitism. i laughed, i fell in love with the always amazing gregory peck, and i bawled my eyes out. there are some truly cheesy and unbelievable scenes, but the gist of the story is remarkable, and many of the people involved in the film were later blacklisted, even before mccarthy took the reins. (it has a rather tragic story all around, actually. a book in the making.) if you ever get a chance, watch it. and feel proud of your country, and look at how damn attractive gregory peck can be.
it should be noted that while i was watching this film, i was drinking african wine. which may have something to do with my affection for it. this wine, though... first of all, being an ignorant ass, i had no idea that they made wine in south africa. second... i think they make schizophrenic wine. when you open the bottle, your nose is assaulted with smoke and vanilla and banana. i mean... i'm used to cheap californian and australian wines by now, so... wtf mate? and you can feel each sip in your toes, it's that strong. the first glass is rough, but man that second one is AMAZING. but... over-ripe banana? in wine? really?
haven't decided if it's worth buying again. i can't decide, because the damn wine can't decide what kind of wine it wants to be. sweet? no. bitter? no. mellow? fuck no. it's dancing all over the place. and i give up. wine shouldn't be this much work. wine should work for YOU, making YOU feel happy, following you around like a big red balloon to bring a smile. this wine... well it might as well be french. it says, 'fuck you, you stupid american, you're too bland to experience my full soulfull nature of the savannah! you have never seen a lion in the wild, or even a fucking balboa tree! you aren't from the earth, you're made of plastic, you've never eaten stomach of gazelle, you swine, you cannot understand!'
maybe not. what the hell happened to that nice bland yellow tail shiraz blend i had? it was awfully nonthreatening and very generous with the buzz... maybe i should stick to that. and then continue to eat all-white food. that's what we do here in minnesota, right? it fits into my preconceived notions of white supremacy and american entitlement... (excuse me while i sip my aquafina. that's spanish, right?)
hmm. i must have some pent-up rage somewhere. better post this on TWO! blogs instead of one, maybe it'll be like venting to two people.
tonight i had one of those magical moments in which you're flicking through channels, come across a movie, and get completely, utterly, and transcendentally sucked in. it was called 'gentleman's agreement.' as much as it sounds like a porn about two southern gentlemen swapping wives, it's a really amazing film. it's about a journalist in the 1940's who pretends he's a jew to write a series about antisemitism. i laughed, i fell in love with the always amazing gregory peck, and i bawled my eyes out. there are some truly cheesy and unbelievable scenes, but the gist of the story is remarkable, and many of the people involved in the film were later blacklisted, even before mccarthy took the reins. (it has a rather tragic story all around, actually. a book in the making.) if you ever get a chance, watch it. and feel proud of your country, and look at how damn attractive gregory peck can be.
it should be noted that while i was watching this film, i was drinking african wine. which may have something to do with my affection for it. this wine, though... first of all, being an ignorant ass, i had no idea that they made wine in south africa. second... i think they make schizophrenic wine. when you open the bottle, your nose is assaulted with smoke and vanilla and banana. i mean... i'm used to cheap californian and australian wines by now, so... wtf mate? and you can feel each sip in your toes, it's that strong. the first glass is rough, but man that second one is AMAZING. but... over-ripe banana? in wine? really?
haven't decided if it's worth buying again. i can't decide, because the damn wine can't decide what kind of wine it wants to be. sweet? no. bitter? no. mellow? fuck no. it's dancing all over the place. and i give up. wine shouldn't be this much work. wine should work for YOU, making YOU feel happy, following you around like a big red balloon to bring a smile. this wine... well it might as well be french. it says, 'fuck you, you stupid american, you're too bland to experience my full soulfull nature of the savannah! you have never seen a lion in the wild, or even a fucking balboa tree! you aren't from the earth, you're made of plastic, you've never eaten stomach of gazelle, you swine, you cannot understand!'
maybe not. what the hell happened to that nice bland yellow tail shiraz blend i had? it was awfully nonthreatening and very generous with the buzz... maybe i should stick to that. and then continue to eat all-white food. that's what we do here in minnesota, right? it fits into my preconceived notions of white supremacy and american entitlement... (excuse me while i sip my aquafina. that's spanish, right?)
hmm. i must have some pent-up rage somewhere. better post this on TWO! blogs instead of one, maybe it'll be like venting to two people.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
kettle drums and lawn ornaments.
oh thank god. you can stream hawaiian radio. aaaahhh.... i can almost feel the sand between my toes. i can see it all now, the blinding sun, the pounding waves scaring off all the families with children, and my private waiter. why yes, i would love another drink served in a coconut. no, i don't think it's silly at all, but i don't think it'll fit in the cupholder of my plastic floaty thing. sunscreen? nooo, it's for sissies and that man over there who should be wearing a shirt. actually, could you have him removed, please? thanks. he was doing nothing for the overall look of the beach.
and, waiter, could you get rid of the reggae band for me too? there's a franklin in it for you if you can make it happen in the next three minutes...
why does everyone love reggae so much? come to think of it, why does anyone love reggae at all? between the repeating vowels and the electronic beat.... which sounds oddly like a plastic electronic keyboard i remember from the late 80's... i feel like i'm trapped in some horrific carnival. the music will slow, turn to a minor key, and blood-covered clowns will pop out of market stands wielding fire sticks as everyone runs shrieking to the beach.
maybe it's not that bad. maybe i just live in the wrong climate for reggae. about 4,000 miles from the wrong climate. hey, maybe if i wasn't shivering violently, cursing every cheerful and encouraging snowboarder for a hundred miles to an icy and horrific death, while wondering just how far south you can get on a half a tank of gas, just maybe it would appeal to me a little more.
i often express my dislike for winter, usually in a long groan about how nice it is in hawaii today. i'm usually greeted by sentences like, "oh, you don't hate winter that much, you just need to get outside more! want to borror my skis?" oh sure! i'd love to borrow your skis! i'd love nothing better than to learn a new sport while my nostrils freeze together. or, "look, the sun is shining today, it's beautiful out!" sure, it's beautiful. it might be -17, but in minnesota they call that beautiful. oh look! a little bunny's gone and got himself frozen to our lawn! we'll have an adorable statue to look at all winter! the one response i do enjoy is, "well, it's blizzarding out, want to come over and watch the dumb fucks try to drive up the hill?" (that was in duluth. topher had a great view, apparently.) mostly, i just try and wait it out till spring. which happens in june. and that's a loooong ways off.
i'm hoping to make mai tais this week. shortly after i reach the point of inability to walk under my own power due the combined effects of three kinds of rum, i plan to curl up in a snowbank, fade into blissful hypothermia, and become a lawn ornament.
and, waiter, could you get rid of the reggae band for me too? there's a franklin in it for you if you can make it happen in the next three minutes...
why does everyone love reggae so much? come to think of it, why does anyone love reggae at all? between the repeating vowels and the electronic beat.... which sounds oddly like a plastic electronic keyboard i remember from the late 80's... i feel like i'm trapped in some horrific carnival. the music will slow, turn to a minor key, and blood-covered clowns will pop out of market stands wielding fire sticks as everyone runs shrieking to the beach.
maybe it's not that bad. maybe i just live in the wrong climate for reggae. about 4,000 miles from the wrong climate. hey, maybe if i wasn't shivering violently, cursing every cheerful and encouraging snowboarder for a hundred miles to an icy and horrific death, while wondering just how far south you can get on a half a tank of gas, just maybe it would appeal to me a little more.
i often express my dislike for winter, usually in a long groan about how nice it is in hawaii today. i'm usually greeted by sentences like, "oh, you don't hate winter that much, you just need to get outside more! want to borror my skis?" oh sure! i'd love to borrow your skis! i'd love nothing better than to learn a new sport while my nostrils freeze together. or, "look, the sun is shining today, it's beautiful out!" sure, it's beautiful. it might be -17, but in minnesota they call that beautiful. oh look! a little bunny's gone and got himself frozen to our lawn! we'll have an adorable statue to look at all winter! the one response i do enjoy is, "well, it's blizzarding out, want to come over and watch the dumb fucks try to drive up the hill?" (that was in duluth. topher had a great view, apparently.) mostly, i just try and wait it out till spring. which happens in june. and that's a loooong ways off.
i'm hoping to make mai tais this week. shortly after i reach the point of inability to walk under my own power due the combined effects of three kinds of rum, i plan to curl up in a snowbank, fade into blissful hypothermia, and become a lawn ornament.
Friday, January 16, 2009
ah, technology.
so i have a new flickr account here. it's all full of fancy. actually, it's currently full of shamefully awkward compositions from my photo 1 class. but i'm just pleased as punch i finally got something up. i also have a nearly ancient deviantart account here. these galleries will display photos that will soon be for sale.
viral marketing plan: bombard the internet with my intellectual property until someone buys something. pay bills. eat. make more things.
yep, wish me luck. and let me know if you're interested.
viral marketing plan: bombard the internet with my intellectual property until someone buys something. pay bills. eat. make more things.
yep, wish me luck. and let me know if you're interested.
cookery? or kitchen fuckery? you decide.
my brother and i often urge a certain family-member-who-shall-not-be-named to eat well and exercise more. this is often followed by: we love you!
today she responded, 'well, i love donuts.'
tomorrow i'm going to make an amazing beef stew with red wine in it. i'm so excited that my mouth is actually watering. between my obsession with anthony bourdain and my newfound love of wine, i think i'm turning into a foodie. not a very good one perhaps, especially since i'm going to the ubiquitous and often mediocre olive garden for lunch tomorrow, but i do love to cook. i've gotten to the point where i try to figure out which wine would be best with which meal. i have a list of things i want to try making. i consider it a point of shame that i have yet to roast a whole chicken. risotto no longer scares me. i know what an endive is, and i have a recipe i would like to try that uses one. or four. i consider my mom's chicken fajitas (which were once a big ordeal to make) simple enough that i now think of them as an easy weekday meal. (they're still my favorite thing ever.)
after i conquer beef stew (which is so simple i don't even know why i'm blogging about it. maybe it's the red meat obsession. nom.) ...i plan to make dumplings. yes, dumplings. i love dumplings. but not the stupid ones in those pre-packaged dumpling soups, REAL dumplings. the kind that are delightfully pasta-like, the kind that you don't eat just to get to the meat inside, the glorious kind that we've probably NEVER HAD at the local chinese/asian-american-conglomeration joint. maybe i'll even attempt to make the holy grail of all dumplings, the SOUP dumpling. (yes. soup. in a dumpling. amazing.) now, these things are tricky to make. i have yet to find a recipe for a real soup dumpling, and i don't think there is a restaurant in the midwest that serves them. but god DAMN do they look delicious! unfortunately, they also look delightfully out of range of both my talent and resources. alas!
today she responded, 'well, i love donuts.'
tomorrow i'm going to make an amazing beef stew with red wine in it. i'm so excited that my mouth is actually watering. between my obsession with anthony bourdain and my newfound love of wine, i think i'm turning into a foodie. not a very good one perhaps, especially since i'm going to the ubiquitous and often mediocre olive garden for lunch tomorrow, but i do love to cook. i've gotten to the point where i try to figure out which wine would be best with which meal. i have a list of things i want to try making. i consider it a point of shame that i have yet to roast a whole chicken. risotto no longer scares me. i know what an endive is, and i have a recipe i would like to try that uses one. or four. i consider my mom's chicken fajitas (which were once a big ordeal to make) simple enough that i now think of them as an easy weekday meal. (they're still my favorite thing ever.)
after i conquer beef stew (which is so simple i don't even know why i'm blogging about it. maybe it's the red meat obsession. nom.) ...i plan to make dumplings. yes, dumplings. i love dumplings. but not the stupid ones in those pre-packaged dumpling soups, REAL dumplings. the kind that are delightfully pasta-like, the kind that you don't eat just to get to the meat inside, the glorious kind that we've probably NEVER HAD at the local chinese/asian-american-conglomeration joint. maybe i'll even attempt to make the holy grail of all dumplings, the SOUP dumpling. (yes. soup. in a dumpling. amazing.) now, these things are tricky to make. i have yet to find a recipe for a real soup dumpling, and i don't think there is a restaurant in the midwest that serves them. but god DAMN do they look delicious! unfortunately, they also look delightfully out of range of both my talent and resources. alas!
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
everyone's a poet.
The other day I was knitting my new beautiful black sweater, and I dropped six stitches because I got distracted by Rambo.
Such clashes of temperament seem common in life lately.
There is a new (?) kind of poetry floating around in which people (usually teenage girls) go through old books and underline or circle random words and phrases to form poetry. This could be worthy of praise, were they not stealing entire phrases of another writer's work. And ruining my reading experience in the process.
I picked up a copy of Seven Pillars of Wisdom at a used bookstore the other day. It was written by T. E. Lawrence (of Arabia) and details his adventures during the Arab revolt against the Turks in WWI. It is filled with panoramas of crushing heat and thirst, and the personalities that the sun's anvil creates. Filled with wonders and terrors, a testament to the very nature of mankind, its beauty and its barbarity.
And, in black ink, on every other page, you will find "poems" like this:
"convert!
the difficulty
of being
Arab."
Out of all the words and all the messages you could have found, this is what you chose? Really? In this book, about Arabs, about their complexity and humanity, all you can think to do is convert them? Call me a snob, but I think I need to buy a new copy.
Such clashes of temperament seem common in life lately.
There is a new (?) kind of poetry floating around in which people (usually teenage girls) go through old books and underline or circle random words and phrases to form poetry. This could be worthy of praise, were they not stealing entire phrases of another writer's work. And ruining my reading experience in the process.
I picked up a copy of Seven Pillars of Wisdom at a used bookstore the other day. It was written by T. E. Lawrence (of Arabia) and details his adventures during the Arab revolt against the Turks in WWI. It is filled with panoramas of crushing heat and thirst, and the personalities that the sun's anvil creates. Filled with wonders and terrors, a testament to the very nature of mankind, its beauty and its barbarity.
And, in black ink, on every other page, you will find "poems" like this:
"convert!
the difficulty
of being
Arab."
Out of all the words and all the messages you could have found, this is what you chose? Really? In this book, about Arabs, about their complexity and humanity, all you can think to do is convert them? Call me a snob, but I think I need to buy a new copy.
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