One of my goals for The Hiatus -- as I'm now taking to calling my soon-to-end sabbatical from working -- was to learn how to cook. Or at least learn how to appear like I can cook.
There's a certain amount of pressure a Type-A young woman feels these days to be a ridiculously shrewd career person, but in her spare time also manage to be athletic, funny, pretty, well-groomed, environmentally conscious and above all, able to whip up a fantastic gourmet meal using just the ingredients in her almost bare kitchen cabinet. Er, or maybe that's just me. No -- wait a second. Part of that might be my Type-A neuroses, but the stuff about the cooking is definitely not just me, as evidenced by the very astute writers of this here blog.
So, the past few months I've been trying to learn how to cook new things. And, although this is great in furthering my goal to learn how to appear like I can cook, even more importantly, it takes up a lot of time. A lot of time. Because I approach cooking like any other unemployed Type-A neurotic. There's perusing recipes, reading recipe reviews, shopping for ingredients, going to a different store for supposedly superior ingredients, second guessing the wisdom of selecting that particular recipe in the first place, etc. That takes up a lot of time, which is good, because I have a lot of time on my hands to fill.
Half the time I undertake to cook something, I buy all the ingredients, and then they stay in the refrigerator for days because I get sidetracked. Okay, truthfully, by the time I run around and buy all the ingredients, I've gone to multiple stores and am too tired to make anything. So, a lot of the cooking efforts never make it past the grocery-purchasing-stage.
The other half the time I decide to cook something, I fall victim to the deadly coupling of arrogance and laziness, with a healthy splash of stupidity for good measure.
First, the Arrogance -- even though I can't cook, I'm convinced that I can somehow modify the recipe slightly so that it will be even better than anyone ever imagined. This frequently involves me scrounging through my spice cupboard for that little special extra ingredient which I have no doubt will bring the recipe to the next level and make Thomas Keller come running to my apartment, like the pathetic chef that he is, begging me to please just let him in on The Secret, just this one time, of how I make my mashed potatoes so deliciously mashed potato-y. At the moment, the special ingredient of choice is The Shallot, a teeny-tiny baby onion that I somehow went 32 years without using, and which I now throw into everything to make up for lost time.
Next, the Laziness. For example, if a recipe requires something as complicated as using separate bowls for ingredients, sifting, cooling, candy thermometers, or buying a special spice of which you use only 1/4 tsp, then I just skip that step, because they can't possibly expect that anyone will actually go to that kind of effort. The exception to this rule is if a recipe calls for using a food processor, in which case I'll run to get my heavy processor and use it to chop anything and everything in sight. Food processors are fun.
Finally, there's the Stupidity. Inevitably, whenever I veer off recipe with extra spices and/or skipped steps, whatever I'm making turns out icchy. Yet, it must be sheer stupidity that keeps pushing me to continue to alter recipes at will, and expect them to turn out well. Of course, I always blame the recipe. (Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on Martha Stewart.)
You can imagine my frustration, then, when tonight I attempted to make a chocolate mousse pie, following the recipe almost to the letter. (Well, not 100%, but close.) And it turned out like liquefied mud, only less tasty. I don't understand how mixing chocolate, whipped cream and sugar can turn out to be anything other than a big puffy chocolate cloud of happiness, but somehow it did not deliver.
Obviously, I blame the recipe. But what frustration. I wasted all that time, money, clean dishes, and skill on a pie that sucked. And I had such big dreams for this pie. I wanted this pie to be worthy of a clever Waitress-inspired name. Something like "My Ex-Husband Earl is an Overbearing Hog, but We'll Always Have Paris . . . and this Pie" Chocolate Mousse Pie. Never mind that I don't have an ex-husband (yet) and don't know anyone named Earl (other than the tv show) -- it's a great name for a pie, no? Instead, I'm sheepishly showing up to a dinner party tomorrow night with a pie that should be called "Hey Guys, I'm Trying to Learn How to Cook, Sorry About How the Pie Looks...and Tastes, but Here, Have Some More Wine" Chocolate Mousse Pie. It's just not as catchy.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here
Being unemployed and everything -- although not for much longer -- I have lots of time to think, as I've mentioned before. So lately, I've been pondering a lot about what it means to live in the present.
Oprah and the like are always touting how important it is to live in the present, in the moment. (Don't you miss the days of talk shows with the whiny Phil Donahue, where you were guaranteed to see some good old fashioned housewife drama, not have THE SECRET, whatever that is, pushed down your throat.)
Anyway, I've been thinking about just being. It's a tall order for me. I spend most of my days dwelling on past happenings, or looking forward to future events. Like today, I've been thinking about the past (Driver's Ed in high school, the Pierogie Cook-Off I went to on Saturday, the Jimmy Kimmel tribute to F*ing Ben Affleck, etc.) and the future (starting a new job, making a roast chicken next weekend for the first time, hanging out on my balcony in the spring, finding a pair of plaid clam digger shorts).
More often than not, I'm anticipating the next event to happen in my life. Even when I was traveling last year, on the trip of a lifetime one might say, I was often thinking about where I was going next, instead of just enjoying where I was. I was in the middle of Namibia, climbing 200-foot sand dunes that look straight out of The English Patient, and I was contemplating what I was going to wear to my friend Phil's wedding in New York the following month. Really? I mean, I dig the dress that I bought, but I think I could have waited until I was back in the US to contemplate such things. But even in everyday life, I feel like if you are constantly looking to the future or the past, you are destined to miss out on so much in life.
There was a brief moment this past weekend, though, where I was completely in the present. I can't say it was pleasant, but for about ten minutes, I was just being. Just being enraged, that is, while driving around the Costco parking lot looking for a parking spot.
The Costco in Arlington, VA is the only one around here. So everyone goes there. And for some goofy reason, I decided that it was worth driving down there to save a few bucks. I ventured down to the already crowded Pentagon City area, and pulled up to the gated Costco parking lot. I'm pretty sure the Pentagon City Costco parking lot was supposed to be Dante's Tenth circle of Hell, until his editors made him cut it out because the audience would not even believe that kind of horror exists.
It's pure insanity -- with people walking everywhere, cars lined up five deep to wait for one possible parking spot. No one watches where they are going, with their carts full of oversized packages of toilet paper and peanut butter. (Me -- I just wanted a big thing of cheese, and some cheap alcohol. Maybe some multi-colored baby peppers. Is that too much to ask?)
I was so in the moment as I drove around for fifteen minutes, barely avoiding hitting other cars or pedestrians traversing through the parking lot. Did I mention no one watches where they are walking? It's worse than that, though. Instead of politely moving to the side of the parking aisles, everyone pushes their cart right up the middle of the aisle, as if the super-wide aisles were made just for their cart full of oversized bags of Tyson's Chicken Chunks. And the whole time, I wasn't thinking about the future, or the past. Just about how I was going to park somewhere without killing someone first.
By the time I got in the Costco, I was too flummoxed to even shop around. I grabbed the cheese and a bottle of wine, and ran for the check out. But, I did have a brilliant idea. Prison overcrowding? A problem no more. For the worst offenders, they can just be sentenced to drive in circles in the Costco parking lot for twelve hours a day, without being able to park. I started thinking about what sort of things I'd need to do to get my plan approved to solve this prison overcrowding thing, and how the people across the land would love me for being so brilliant, and how I'd parlay that into a guest visit on Oprah, and then maybe buy some fancy red-sole Christian Loboutin shoes to wear on the show like Oprah does.
And just like that, I was fixated on the future, and no longer living in the moment.
Oprah and the like are always touting how important it is to live in the present, in the moment. (Don't you miss the days of talk shows with the whiny Phil Donahue, where you were guaranteed to see some good old fashioned housewife drama, not have THE SECRET, whatever that is, pushed down your throat.)
Anyway, I've been thinking about just being. It's a tall order for me. I spend most of my days dwelling on past happenings, or looking forward to future events. Like today, I've been thinking about the past (Driver's Ed in high school, the Pierogie Cook-Off I went to on Saturday, the Jimmy Kimmel tribute to F*ing Ben Affleck, etc.) and the future (starting a new job, making a roast chicken next weekend for the first time, hanging out on my balcony in the spring, finding a pair of plaid clam digger shorts).
More often than not, I'm anticipating the next event to happen in my life. Even when I was traveling last year, on the trip of a lifetime one might say, I was often thinking about where I was going next, instead of just enjoying where I was. I was in the middle of Namibia, climbing 200-foot sand dunes that look straight out of The English Patient, and I was contemplating what I was going to wear to my friend Phil's wedding in New York the following month. Really? I mean, I dig the dress that I bought, but I think I could have waited until I was back in the US to contemplate such things. But even in everyday life, I feel like if you are constantly looking to the future or the past, you are destined to miss out on so much in life.
There was a brief moment this past weekend, though, where I was completely in the present. I can't say it was pleasant, but for about ten minutes, I was just being. Just being enraged, that is, while driving around the Costco parking lot looking for a parking spot.
The Costco in Arlington, VA is the only one around here. So everyone goes there. And for some goofy reason, I decided that it was worth driving down there to save a few bucks. I ventured down to the already crowded Pentagon City area, and pulled up to the gated Costco parking lot. I'm pretty sure the Pentagon City Costco parking lot was supposed to be Dante's Tenth circle of Hell, until his editors made him cut it out because the audience would not even believe that kind of horror exists.
It's pure insanity -- with people walking everywhere, cars lined up five deep to wait for one possible parking spot. No one watches where they are going, with their carts full of oversized packages of toilet paper and peanut butter. (Me -- I just wanted a big thing of cheese, and some cheap alcohol. Maybe some multi-colored baby peppers. Is that too much to ask?)
I was so in the moment as I drove around for fifteen minutes, barely avoiding hitting other cars or pedestrians traversing through the parking lot. Did I mention no one watches where they are walking? It's worse than that, though. Instead of politely moving to the side of the parking aisles, everyone pushes their cart right up the middle of the aisle, as if the super-wide aisles were made just for their cart full of oversized bags of Tyson's Chicken Chunks. And the whole time, I wasn't thinking about the future, or the past. Just about how I was going to park somewhere without killing someone first.
By the time I got in the Costco, I was too flummoxed to even shop around. I grabbed the cheese and a bottle of wine, and ran for the check out. But, I did have a brilliant idea. Prison overcrowding? A problem no more. For the worst offenders, they can just be sentenced to drive in circles in the Costco parking lot for twelve hours a day, without being able to park. I started thinking about what sort of things I'd need to do to get my plan approved to solve this prison overcrowding thing, and how the people across the land would love me for being so brilliant, and how I'd parlay that into a guest visit on Oprah, and then maybe buy some fancy red-sole Christian Loboutin shoes to wear on the show like Oprah does.
And just like that, I was fixated on the future, and no longer living in the moment.
Monday, February 11, 2008
I'm Super, Thank You for Asking
I' ve been feeling kind of contemplative lately, dozens of questions running through my head. Like:
Is it weird to make your bed at 10 pm? I was reading some magazine article last week, and the author was talking about her sister's weird friend who would make her bed at night, if she forgot in the morning. Well, last night I found myself changing my sheets and making my bed at 10 oclock at night. And I wondered - Am I a Weirdo? Maybe, but not for the sheets thing. I mean, what could be better than cool, clean sheets on a Sunday night.
Who am I going to vote for in tomorrow's primary? I have no idea. I'm a registered Dem, and the two choices seem so similar. And either would be kind of exciting. I guess I should be glad that I even get to vote at all, considering DC's lack of representation otherwise. (Interestingly, both candidates were on the local station tonight touting how DC should have representation. That's a political promise I'd love to see come into being.)
What makes a superdelegate "super"? Again, no idea. But, in my head, I wish they would all have to respond to the question "How are you doing?" with the South Park Movie song "I'm Super, Thank You for Asking." Otherwise, what's the point.
Is VH1's Rock of Love only good in light of the writer's strike? I think the answer to that is no -- the show is genuinely good, in a lowbrow, trashy kind of way. For the uninitiated, Rock of Love is a reality dating show like the Bachelor, except the eligible bachelor is one Brett Michaels of Poison fame and acclaim. I'm not ashamed to admit I saw Poison live and in concert -- chronologically, this was after the Duran Duran concert, but before Crowded House and Depeche Mode. I'm also not ashamed to declare my love for Brett Michael's latest project. The contestants on the show are sleazy with a capital Ho, and not afraid to let America see that side of them -- or any other scantily dressed side of them, either. Huzzah for VH1 and Brett Michaels both for bringing this show to the masses. And huzzah to the lovely ladies who make the show everything that it is.
Have I been moisturizing enough in the New Year? Probably not. A few weeks ago, I switched focus, and was working on my new year's resolution not to get diabetes, instead of moisturizing more. (You'd think it would be easy to work on both at once, particularly since I have yet to start a new job, but you'd be dead wrong.) Anyway, yesterday I gave my skin the old glance over, and I realize I've been so neglectful on the moisturizing front. This happens every year. I start out strong with lots of product, but it only lasts a few weeks. I mean, sure, my blood sugar is probably lower and everything, but do I have soft and lovely skin? Not a whit.
Is it time to take another trip somewhere? I've been thinking about doing a little traveling again. Maybe somewhere in the US. The current thought is to check out Asheville, NC and maybe Pigeon Forge, TN. I lived in Asheville for about a year when I was in elementary school, and I had absolutely no idea what a cool, artsy little town it was. My most vivid memory of Asheville is of my seventh birthday party, where we invited the whole class to the party (because someone said that was the etiquette) and then only four kids came. We were eating little individual ice cream cups for months. So sad. Anyway, I'd love to go back and check out the town and the Biltmore Estate as an adult. As for Pigeon Forge, it goes without saying that the small Tennessee town is home to Dolly Parton's eponymous Dollywood theme park, a place I've longed to see for many years. The time has come, I think.
So that's what I'm thinking right now. Dollywood and Presidential primaries. Perhaps that should be how I decide. Anecdotally, or at least on Sunday morning political talk shows, you hear stories about how people allegedly elect the person President that they would most like to have a beer with. (It makes sense for the Clinton era, in that it seems beyond debate that Bill Clinton would probably be a more fun beer swilling companion than Mr. George H.W. Bush. I'm not sure how applicable it is to later elections, though.)
In any case, maybe I should ask myself: which candidate would be more fun to tour Dollywood with? Is Hilary more likely to whoop and holler on Daredevil Falls or would she cry like a baby at the highest, fastest waterfall ride in North America? Would Obama pout about getting his suit wet on the Smokey Mountain River Rampage, or would he shake it off and suggest we go get a deep fried twinkie dog and a funnel cake whilst we dry out? Good questions. I only wish I had called in to the local station tonight to ask.
Is it weird to make your bed at 10 pm? I was reading some magazine article last week, and the author was talking about her sister's weird friend who would make her bed at night, if she forgot in the morning. Well, last night I found myself changing my sheets and making my bed at 10 oclock at night. And I wondered - Am I a Weirdo? Maybe, but not for the sheets thing. I mean, what could be better than cool, clean sheets on a Sunday night.
Who am I going to vote for in tomorrow's primary? I have no idea. I'm a registered Dem, and the two choices seem so similar. And either would be kind of exciting. I guess I should be glad that I even get to vote at all, considering DC's lack of representation otherwise. (Interestingly, both candidates were on the local station tonight touting how DC should have representation. That's a political promise I'd love to see come into being.)
What makes a superdelegate "super"? Again, no idea. But, in my head, I wish they would all have to respond to the question "How are you doing?" with the South Park Movie song "I'm Super, Thank You for Asking." Otherwise, what's the point.
Is VH1's Rock of Love only good in light of the writer's strike? I think the answer to that is no -- the show is genuinely good, in a lowbrow, trashy kind of way. For the uninitiated, Rock of Love is a reality dating show like the Bachelor, except the eligible bachelor is one Brett Michaels of Poison fame and acclaim. I'm not ashamed to admit I saw Poison live and in concert -- chronologically, this was after the Duran Duran concert, but before Crowded House and Depeche Mode. I'm also not ashamed to declare my love for Brett Michael's latest project. The contestants on the show are sleazy with a capital Ho, and not afraid to let America see that side of them -- or any other scantily dressed side of them, either. Huzzah for VH1 and Brett Michaels both for bringing this show to the masses. And huzzah to the lovely ladies who make the show everything that it is.
Have I been moisturizing enough in the New Year? Probably not. A few weeks ago, I switched focus, and was working on my new year's resolution not to get diabetes, instead of moisturizing more. (You'd think it would be easy to work on both at once, particularly since I have yet to start a new job, but you'd be dead wrong.) Anyway, yesterday I gave my skin the old glance over, and I realize I've been so neglectful on the moisturizing front. This happens every year. I start out strong with lots of product, but it only lasts a few weeks. I mean, sure, my blood sugar is probably lower and everything, but do I have soft and lovely skin? Not a whit.
Is it time to take another trip somewhere? I've been thinking about doing a little traveling again. Maybe somewhere in the US. The current thought is to check out Asheville, NC and maybe Pigeon Forge, TN. I lived in Asheville for about a year when I was in elementary school, and I had absolutely no idea what a cool, artsy little town it was. My most vivid memory of Asheville is of my seventh birthday party, where we invited the whole class to the party (because someone said that was the etiquette) and then only four kids came. We were eating little individual ice cream cups for months. So sad. Anyway, I'd love to go back and check out the town and the Biltmore Estate as an adult. As for Pigeon Forge, it goes without saying that the small Tennessee town is home to Dolly Parton's eponymous Dollywood theme park, a place I've longed to see for many years. The time has come, I think.
So that's what I'm thinking right now. Dollywood and Presidential primaries. Perhaps that should be how I decide. Anecdotally, or at least on Sunday morning political talk shows, you hear stories about how people allegedly elect the person President that they would most like to have a beer with. (It makes sense for the Clinton era, in that it seems beyond debate that Bill Clinton would probably be a more fun beer swilling companion than Mr. George H.W. Bush. I'm not sure how applicable it is to later elections, though.)
In any case, maybe I should ask myself: which candidate would be more fun to tour Dollywood with? Is Hilary more likely to whoop and holler on Daredevil Falls or would she cry like a baby at the highest, fastest waterfall ride in North America? Would Obama pout about getting his suit wet on the Smokey Mountain River Rampage, or would he shake it off and suggest we go get a deep fried twinkie dog and a funnel cake whilst we dry out? Good questions. I only wish I had called in to the local station tonight to ask.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Finally Some Pictures (well, sort of)
A number of peeps have been asking me to post some pictures of my travels. But, until last night, I hadn't even downloaded the Africa pics from my camera. I was afraid the sheer volume would crash my aging computer.
After much ado, I found the cord I needed and hooked up my camera and downloaded all my pictures from Africa. All 568 pictures. So, clearly I need to do some editing, and figure out how to post a link to an album of travel pics. But in the meantime, here's one:
These zebras walked up while we were stopped at a watering hole having coffee.
And another:
Musafa
After much ado, I found the cord I needed and hooked up my camera and downloaded all my pictures from Africa. All 568 pictures. So, clearly I need to do some editing, and figure out how to post a link to an album of travel pics. But in the meantime, here's one:
These zebras walked up while we were stopped at a watering hole having coffee.
And another:
Musafa
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)