I could look up a recipe, go to the grocery store, gather the ingredients and cook a new meal every day of my life. That's what I miss most about having an income--not shopping without guilt, or going to the bars, but grocery shopping. Fortunately, I've been able to heat up and enjoy the delicious leftovers I've kept in my freezer the past few months, without spending a dime.
Tonight, though, I marched off to the grocery store in a huff of frustration at the state of my various job applications in pursuit off something else...several days ago, I'd decided to make General Tso's Chicken. I found a recipe that people raved about and followed it with a mathematical precision, as I'd never cooked General Tso's Chicken before, or any Chinese food for that matter. Nor had I ever deep fried anything. I was scared--I feared I would end up at the hospital with burns over most of my body, but, alas, I somehow managed to pull the whole thing off without a hitch. All I have to say is that I sincerely wish that deep frying wasn't so unhealthy, because, not only is fried chicken obviously delicious, but it's delightfully fun to make. It recently dawned on me that cooking is a science, and I've become even more fascinated with it since I've begun to think of it in that manner. Why does the batter fry instantly after it's dropped into the oil? And why does it become hard so quickly? And the sauce, the disgusting, brown sludge that I poured into the pan, what makes it thicken and glaze so beautifully, and so suddenly? I stood over it thinking, after a few minutes, "this is never going to work," and turned around to put some dishes into the sink. When I turned back five seconds later, the sludge had transformed!
Cooking is magic. And what I love most about it is that I'm just getting started. I'm fascinated by the basic elements, and I've barely even scratched the surface. I am reading Garlic and Sapphires by Ruth Reichl, former restaurant reviewer for the NYT, and the meals she describes are like none I could ever dream of. I'm proud of myself for going without a recipe every once in awhile, but I can only dream of creating something restaurant worthy.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
The World Is My Burrito
If you have not already heard--and please don't feel sorry for me--I lost my job about a month ago. There are lots of other opportunities out there that are much better suited to me. I think I hate telling people that I lost my job more so than I hated losing my job, because, honestly, I really don't really feel like I "lost" anything at all. I felt like such an outsider everyday that I spent there--I can't remember one time when I felt passionate about the work that I did, and when I watched others get into heated arguments (it happened frequently) about our material, I inevitably found myself standing there, head cocked curiously to the side, wondering "why do you care so much?"
However, I wish people would stop asking me what "field" I'm in, what "type" of work I do. I've only been out of school for a year, and I don't want to continue doing the type of work that I've been doing. Wouldn't it be awful if you had only one shot?
I may not have solid career goals, but I know what I like. And what I don't like. And my qualities, as they may or may not relate to the workplace. I enjoy people. I enjoy asking questions, but I don't like to be questioned myself--at least not overtly, in a confrontational manner, and, believe me, this is where people generally fail. Asking questions is an art, and subtlety must be practiced. When conversing, my mind is always one step ahead. Instead of asking subtle questions, I subtly steer the conversation in the direction I want it to go. In the right situation, I love talking about myself. And I'm good at talking. When necessary, I can be delightfully entertaining, and I never allow an awkward silence to last for more than a few beats.
I hate the 9-5 lifestyle, I hate getting up for work, I hate the commute. I hate sitting behind the same desk everyday, going to the same meeting everyday. Living like that sucked the creativity out of me, kind of like this Diet Coke I'm drinking is sucking the calcium out of my bones. I felt like the walking dead. I used to lay awake at night thinking of new projects, and I tackled most of them full on. Sure, some fell by the wayside, or just never got started, but at least I cared enough about them to regret it. Now, I just come home and stare at the TV for five hours before falling asleep and most nights I wish I could just stay asleep forever. I don't mean that in some emo, suicidal way...it's just that I care so little about anything I've done in the past year that I might as well have been sleeping.
I think the best ideas are born through conversation, preferably around good music, good food and drinks. I love writing. I love reading too, but, I probably love writing more. And I'm good at it. I love cooking. I love learning about food. I love baking. I love the science behind it. In fact, if they had taught that in chemistry, I probably would have retained some of that information.
Most of all, I love traveling.
I don't want to just read about things--I want to see them for myself. Even about the most exciting events, I don't read news reports about them, or biographies of the key players. I read autobiographies of people who were there. Because if I can't be there myself, the next best thing is to hear about it from someone who was. It's obvious to me now that I was born to be a writer--a journalist. I'm just trying to figure out how to do that. Please bear with me.
However, I wish people would stop asking me what "field" I'm in, what "type" of work I do. I've only been out of school for a year, and I don't want to continue doing the type of work that I've been doing. Wouldn't it be awful if you had only one shot?
I may not have solid career goals, but I know what I like. And what I don't like. And my qualities, as they may or may not relate to the workplace. I enjoy people. I enjoy asking questions, but I don't like to be questioned myself--at least not overtly, in a confrontational manner, and, believe me, this is where people generally fail. Asking questions is an art, and subtlety must be practiced. When conversing, my mind is always one step ahead. Instead of asking subtle questions, I subtly steer the conversation in the direction I want it to go. In the right situation, I love talking about myself. And I'm good at talking. When necessary, I can be delightfully entertaining, and I never allow an awkward silence to last for more than a few beats.
I hate the 9-5 lifestyle, I hate getting up for work, I hate the commute. I hate sitting behind the same desk everyday, going to the same meeting everyday. Living like that sucked the creativity out of me, kind of like this Diet Coke I'm drinking is sucking the calcium out of my bones. I felt like the walking dead. I used to lay awake at night thinking of new projects, and I tackled most of them full on. Sure, some fell by the wayside, or just never got started, but at least I cared enough about them to regret it. Now, I just come home and stare at the TV for five hours before falling asleep and most nights I wish I could just stay asleep forever. I don't mean that in some emo, suicidal way...it's just that I care so little about anything I've done in the past year that I might as well have been sleeping.
I think the best ideas are born through conversation, preferably around good music, good food and drinks. I love writing. I love reading too, but, I probably love writing more. And I'm good at it. I love cooking. I love learning about food. I love baking. I love the science behind it. In fact, if they had taught that in chemistry, I probably would have retained some of that information.
Most of all, I love traveling.
I don't want to just read about things--I want to see them for myself. Even about the most exciting events, I don't read news reports about them, or biographies of the key players. I read autobiographies of people who were there. Because if I can't be there myself, the next best thing is to hear about it from someone who was. It's obvious to me now that I was born to be a writer--a journalist. I'm just trying to figure out how to do that. Please bear with me.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
This Blog Was Written By A Man?
By the way, I keep four different blogs, and, when the Gender Analyzer told me that the first one was written by a man, I thought it must be a fluke. But...the next three as well? Pray tell, what is so manly about my writing style?
It Was A Weekend of Cooking!
Like none other. My feet literally hurt from standing in the kitchen for so many hours. It started on Thursday night, at Townhouse Tavern in Dupont Circle, where, at 1 am, I told the bartender I was in the mood for something fruity, preferably with mango in it. She said that any other night, she wouldn't have been able to help me, but just happened to have the perfect juice. She pulled out a bottle of Tropicana Pure Valencia Orange Juice with Mango, which is about $5 at the grocery store, and completely worth it. She mixed it with Stoli Orange and a little bit of ginger ale, to give it some fizz, although that's completely optional. God knows how many I had, and I woke up the next morning with a pounding headache because I failed to hydrate myself. Not because of this semi-healthy beverage, however!
I've gone through almost two bottles of Tropicana Pure since then--not mixed with alcohol, and I'm not getting sick of it anytime soon! I altered the drink recipe a bit, just to suit my preference of tequila over vodka...and the fact that I'm too poor/cheap to have both!
3 Parts Tropicana Pure
1 1/2 Part Tequila
1 Part ginger ale or Sprite
The next day, after making myself some eggs and tater tots and swallowing my ibuprofen with about a gallon of water, I cooked a pork roast in balsalmic orange sauce. I was quite proud of myself--I've never cooked a freakin' pork roast! That's something my grandmother would do...I had no idea what I was doing! However, because of that, I actually felt challenged in the kitchen for the first time. It came out delicious, and, slow cooked in the oven at a low temperature for hours, pork roast pulls perfectly, and can taste "like pork flavored butter," as some woman on the internet put it, when the internal temperature reaches 200 degrees. I don't have a meat thermometer, so I had just to guess, and I took it out when the meat pulled easily with a fork and there was no pink left.
On Saturday, I made Moroccan Chicken with Dates with a friend, and was highly disappointed to find that it was largely the same recipe I had already been using for Moroccan Chicken, just with dates instead of apricots, and with a ras al hanout mixture, instead of garam masala, which I couldn't tell the difference between. Both recipes are good, however, I prefer my old standby, which includes tomatoes, chick peas and raisins.
What really stood out was the Roasted Red Pepper Pesto Crostini. For crostini, you can use whatever bread is lying around, although I can't imagine that Mrs. Baird's white bread would be very good, but, who eats that stuff these days anyway? Before baking it, I dip the bread in olive oil on either side, which, I'm sure, negates any of the healthy qualities of using whole grain bread, but it sure does make it easier for me to trick myself into thinking it's good for me! The crostini, with olive oil, sea salt, and garlic, is delicious by itself as a decadent snack, but can be turned into a real treat with the pesto, which actually looks quite festive, and would like great in a Christmas spread.
The great cooking weekend was unfortunately marked by a tragedy. The worst kind of tragedy, too--a pie tragedy. :( Just don't ever slide a pie around on the counter, as though you're Tom Cruise in Cocktail. Doesn't end well.
I've gone through almost two bottles of Tropicana Pure since then--not mixed with alcohol, and I'm not getting sick of it anytime soon! I altered the drink recipe a bit, just to suit my preference of tequila over vodka...and the fact that I'm too poor/cheap to have both!
3 Parts Tropicana Pure
1 1/2 Part Tequila
1 Part ginger ale or Sprite
The next day, after making myself some eggs and tater tots and swallowing my ibuprofen with about a gallon of water, I cooked a pork roast in balsalmic orange sauce. I was quite proud of myself--I've never cooked a freakin' pork roast! That's something my grandmother would do...I had no idea what I was doing! However, because of that, I actually felt challenged in the kitchen for the first time. It came out delicious, and, slow cooked in the oven at a low temperature for hours, pork roast pulls perfectly, and can taste "like pork flavored butter," as some woman on the internet put it, when the internal temperature reaches 200 degrees. I don't have a meat thermometer, so I had just to guess, and I took it out when the meat pulled easily with a fork and there was no pink left.
On Saturday, I made Moroccan Chicken with Dates with a friend, and was highly disappointed to find that it was largely the same recipe I had already been using for Moroccan Chicken, just with dates instead of apricots, and with a ras al hanout mixture, instead of garam masala, which I couldn't tell the difference between. Both recipes are good, however, I prefer my old standby, which includes tomatoes, chick peas and raisins.
What really stood out was the Roasted Red Pepper Pesto Crostini. For crostini, you can use whatever bread is lying around, although I can't imagine that Mrs. Baird's white bread would be very good, but, who eats that stuff these days anyway? Before baking it, I dip the bread in olive oil on either side, which, I'm sure, negates any of the healthy qualities of using whole grain bread, but it sure does make it easier for me to trick myself into thinking it's good for me! The crostini, with olive oil, sea salt, and garlic, is delicious by itself as a decadent snack, but can be turned into a real treat with the pesto, which actually looks quite festive, and would like great in a Christmas spread.
The great cooking weekend was unfortunately marked by a tragedy. The worst kind of tragedy, too--a pie tragedy. :( Just don't ever slide a pie around on the counter, as though you're Tom Cruise in Cocktail. Doesn't end well.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Thanks, Sarah
I've always wondered how long I needed glasses before I found out that I did. The transformation was amazing--who knew that you were supposed to be able to see each, individual leaf on a tree? And that the font my teacher used in PowerPoint presentations wasn't really that small? And, while I know the practical uses far outweigh the aesthetic, as someone who doesn't like to wear jewelry, being able to accessorize with eyeware presented a fabulous opportunity! Yes, despite the obvious hassles like dirty lenses and no peripheral vision, I was glad to wear glasses. I wouldn't have had it any other way...
Until this one episode of Will & Grace, where Will's response to Jack's new glasses is "boys don't kiss girls who wear glasses." I was a sophomore in college, and had never had a boyfriend or, really, made out with anyone, and I was feeling more and more everyday like there was something "wrong" with me. When I heard that phrase, I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment, and I surreptitiously looked around the room at my friends, hoping they wouldn't put these two obvious ideas together, as I just had. The next day, I asked my friend Zac if he'd ever liked a girl who wore glasses. He said no, and then I told him what I'd heard on Will & Grace, and that I was beginning to think that, maybe, contact lenses were the first step on the road to...you know.
He told me it was high time I got contacts.
The next day, I made an appointment with my eye doctor, to be fitted for contacts. Six months later, I started dating someone. It was a disaster of a relationship, and one that would cause me grief for the next two years, but, hey, sans glasses, I finally made out with a boy.
These days, I wear contacts most of the time anyway, especially when it's sunny, because I like to accessorize with sunglasses. However, in the winter, I'm more apt to sleep a little bit later and leave contacts out of my morning ritual.
Not on date nights, though.
Recently, while preparing for a date, I asked a friend to help me choose between two different outfits. It was an overcast, blustery day, so I wore my glasses to work, but threw my contacts in my purse as I left the apartment that morning. I groaned about having to go put them in, which would inevitably mess up my make-up. She said "dude, you look way cute in glasses!" And she's right--I've always loved the way I look in my glasses.
Just then, an image of Sarah Palin popped into my head. Even I have to admit that, while the woman may be horrendously ugly on the inside, she's pretty smokin' on the outside. And what would she be without her Kawasaki rimless glasses? Just another piece of Alaskan trailer trash! So, I'd like to take this opportunity to extend my thanks to Sarah Palin, for bringing back the sexy librarian look. Or, at least, helping me to come to terms with my own!
(Oh, and, by the way, that date ended with a kiss.)
PS - No, I still won't vote for you. And I think your daughter is a slut. Hell, you're probably a slut, too.
Until this one episode of Will & Grace, where Will's response to Jack's new glasses is "boys don't kiss girls who wear glasses." I was a sophomore in college, and had never had a boyfriend or, really, made out with anyone, and I was feeling more and more everyday like there was something "wrong" with me. When I heard that phrase, I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment, and I surreptitiously looked around the room at my friends, hoping they wouldn't put these two obvious ideas together, as I just had. The next day, I asked my friend Zac if he'd ever liked a girl who wore glasses. He said no, and then I told him what I'd heard on Will & Grace, and that I was beginning to think that, maybe, contact lenses were the first step on the road to...you know.
He told me it was high time I got contacts.
The next day, I made an appointment with my eye doctor, to be fitted for contacts. Six months later, I started dating someone. It was a disaster of a relationship, and one that would cause me grief for the next two years, but, hey, sans glasses, I finally made out with a boy.
These days, I wear contacts most of the time anyway, especially when it's sunny, because I like to accessorize with sunglasses. However, in the winter, I'm more apt to sleep a little bit later and leave contacts out of my morning ritual.
Not on date nights, though.
Recently, while preparing for a date, I asked a friend to help me choose between two different outfits. It was an overcast, blustery day, so I wore my glasses to work, but threw my contacts in my purse as I left the apartment that morning. I groaned about having to go put them in, which would inevitably mess up my make-up. She said "dude, you look way cute in glasses!" And she's right--I've always loved the way I look in my glasses.
Just then, an image of Sarah Palin popped into my head. Even I have to admit that, while the woman may be horrendously ugly on the inside, she's pretty smokin' on the outside. And what would she be without her Kawasaki rimless glasses? Just another piece of Alaskan trailer trash! So, I'd like to take this opportunity to extend my thanks to Sarah Palin, for bringing back the sexy librarian look. Or, at least, helping me to come to terms with my own!
(Oh, and, by the way, that date ended with a kiss.)
PS - No, I still won't vote for you. And I think your daughter is a slut. Hell, you're probably a slut, too.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
...What I've Learned So Far (in the kitchen)
1. Always double the amount of tomatoes. Nothing was ever ruined by having too many tomatoes.
2. Always halve the amount of oregano, parsley too. As benign as they seem, there's nothing worse than that leafy, dry, "too much parsley" flavor.
3. Stop adding ingredients when you feel like there's something missing. Put it away and start again tomorrow.
2. Always halve the amount of oregano, parsley too. As benign as they seem, there's nothing worse than that leafy, dry, "too much parsley" flavor.
3. Stop adding ingredients when you feel like there's something missing. Put it away and start again tomorrow.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Someone Who Deserves More
Over the weekend, I met a man named Howard. He's 33, which, by today's standards, is very young. Yet, he seems so much older. While he shared some of his deepest, most personal thoughts, which I am now broadcasting on the internet, he admittedly is very shy. Howard is the type of man I can see, very carefully, making dinner for one, and settling down to watch the History Channel in the evenings. Despite the fact that he wants to settle down with the right woman and have a family, unlike most men in his age group in major metropolitan areas, he is not married, has never had a girlfriend, and is still a virgin. He is a man of utmost conviction. That I know of, he has never compromised his integrity to God or to himself. He admitted that he has thought many times of entering the priesthood, but knows that cannot give up his dream of having a family. In my eyes, Howard is not a particularly attractive man, but not unattractive. He is tall, large framed, and has a pleasant laugh and a friendly face. His eyes are especially kind, but have a hint of something else--a certain sadness that isn't perceptible upon first glance. He seems downtrodden. And it is nothing less than heartbreaking to watch.
This is a man who has so much to offer, and has truly lived his life at God's mercy, and, so far, that life has not included that which his heart desires, which is the noblest thing I know of. Dating experts, image consultants and anyone who proclaims to know "what women want," could provide a thousand reasons why Howard is single. He is too shy, perhaps he isn't the take-charge kind of guy. Maybe he's a bit nervous, and socially awkward. Maybe not dating enough has caused him to approach the opposite sex with trepidation, and, like how babies become disgruntled when held by people who feel uncomfortable around babies, women react adversely when they subconsciously pick up on Howard's nervousness. Maybe Howard doesn't know how to dance, and he needs Will Smith to teach him. Maybe the women that are drawn to Howard have different romantic goals than he does. Maybe they view sex differently than he does...I spent my weekend trying to think of ways in which, like Will Smith, I could comb Howard into a person that beautiful women would want to fall in love with. Because, let's face it, ladies--we need more men like Howard to to marry us, to raise our children, and to remind us that being a man means coming home to the same woman every night, making a living for his children, and never compromising his values. As Barack Obama once said, we need less baby daddies, and more fathers.
But, now that I think about it, that was actually pretty selfish of me. Howard even mentioned how he keeps politely declining a female friend's offers to "hook him up," and I missed his point entirely. Howard will not settle. He doesn't need or want to change himself in order to become someone he believes to be deserving of great love.
And now, as I sit here, in the dark, writing in exhaustion, unable to sleep because every time I close my eyes, I think of Howard sitting next to the campfire, enjoying the presence of others, but keeping to himself. As I drank too much wine and belted out the lyrics to "Sweet Caroline," and "I Will Survive," Howard sat, contemplating his own life as he stared into the glowing embers, whose warm glow caused everyone else to lower their inhibitions just a little bit.
As I recall Howard's silence, I'm filled with a deep sadness. I know Howard deserves so much more. And I admire him, I truly admire him for having such strong convictions, and for never compromising them.
Although it is the image of Howard's face that has been burned into my mind that reduces me to this blubbering mess, I know that I am not only crying for Howard, but for myself, too, and the parts of me that I see reflected in Howard, and also the parts of me that aren't enough like Howard. And for the fear that I could "end up," just like him.
This is a man who has so much to offer, and has truly lived his life at God's mercy, and, so far, that life has not included that which his heart desires, which is the noblest thing I know of. Dating experts, image consultants and anyone who proclaims to know "what women want," could provide a thousand reasons why Howard is single. He is too shy, perhaps he isn't the take-charge kind of guy. Maybe he's a bit nervous, and socially awkward. Maybe not dating enough has caused him to approach the opposite sex with trepidation, and, like how babies become disgruntled when held by people who feel uncomfortable around babies, women react adversely when they subconsciously pick up on Howard's nervousness. Maybe Howard doesn't know how to dance, and he needs Will Smith to teach him. Maybe the women that are drawn to Howard have different romantic goals than he does. Maybe they view sex differently than he does...I spent my weekend trying to think of ways in which, like Will Smith, I could comb Howard into a person that beautiful women would want to fall in love with. Because, let's face it, ladies--we need more men like Howard to to marry us, to raise our children, and to remind us that being a man means coming home to the same woman every night, making a living for his children, and never compromising his values. As Barack Obama once said, we need less baby daddies, and more fathers.
But, now that I think about it, that was actually pretty selfish of me. Howard even mentioned how he keeps politely declining a female friend's offers to "hook him up," and I missed his point entirely. Howard will not settle. He doesn't need or want to change himself in order to become someone he believes to be deserving of great love.
And now, as I sit here, in the dark, writing in exhaustion, unable to sleep because every time I close my eyes, I think of Howard sitting next to the campfire, enjoying the presence of others, but keeping to himself. As I drank too much wine and belted out the lyrics to "Sweet Caroline," and "I Will Survive," Howard sat, contemplating his own life as he stared into the glowing embers, whose warm glow caused everyone else to lower their inhibitions just a little bit.
As I recall Howard's silence, I'm filled with a deep sadness. I know Howard deserves so much more. And I admire him, I truly admire him for having such strong convictions, and for never compromising them.
Although it is the image of Howard's face that has been burned into my mind that reduces me to this blubbering mess, I know that I am not only crying for Howard, but for myself, too, and the parts of me that I see reflected in Howard, and also the parts of me that aren't enough like Howard. And for the fear that I could "end up," just like him.
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