I recently spent a few days in Miami, where I walked around in amazement at all the tropical fruits growing just about everywhere. You know those quintessential "Florida" images, with the white sand and crystal-clear waters, surrounded by palm trees? Well, look closely--they're not just palm trees, most of them are actually coconut or mango trees, and the fruit is everywhere! I'd never seen so many coconuts as I did walking along South Beach--a homeless guy gathered up all the ones that had fallen naturally to the ground in the area and was selling them to tourists for a few bucks a piece--he would drill a hole and stick a straw into them so you could drink the sweet, refreshing water. Trees along the city's highways, sidewalks and basically any area with landscaping are dotted with green coconuts and orange mangos--I can't imagine going hungry in Miami! With so many fresh fruits growing around, what stops people from just pulling it down? (Apparently, nothing, as evidenced by South Beach's smartest homeless guy!)
At Robert Is Here, a fruit stand on the way to the south entrance of the Everglades that is famous for its tropical fruit milkshakes, I came across all kinds of tropical fruits, including many that I'd never even heard of, like mamey, black sapote and jackfruit. However, I was most enamored with the coconuts.
As a child, I was in awe of these strange, hard fruits (are they fruits?) and became even more delighted by them after my mother told me that they had milk on the inside. Assuming that it was like cow's milk, I made a beeline towards them every time we went to the grocery store, and I would stand there listening to the "milk" sloshing around inside as I shook them, and trying to figure out which one had the most milk and how it got there. My parents would never buy them for me, and now I know why--you have to drill a hole into them to get the juice out, and then whack away the husk with a machete. At Robert Is Here, however, any employee can drill into or chop open your coconut free of charge! My friend Franco's parents were kind enough to buy both a green and a brown coconut for me to try, and I happily sat in the backseat of their car sipping the juice out of them on the way to the Everglades. At home that evening, when I appeared from the bathroom after washing my face, Franco was waiting excitedly for me in the living room. "Want to watch my dad chop open the coconuts with a machete?" he asked. You bet! The green coconut wasn't ripe enough to eat, but I gobbled up the brown one's meat, which was delicious with some sugar sprinkled on it. Eating raw coconut is nothing like eating the sweetened coconut flakes that can be found in the baking aisle at the grocery store, (which I happen to be doing right now) it's much harder, and I'm talking so hard you're not even sure if it's safe to eat. However, there are all sorts of supposed health benefits to consuming coconut, and they are said to especially aid in digestion, which, as someone who suffers from IBS, I am particularly happy to hear. (Please, though, don't use me as a reliable source for nutritional information--or information of any kind, for that matter. I just believe whatever I read on the internet, the parts I can remember, at least, and then pompously inform people at parties that "I've conducted extensive research on [insert topic here]" and that your opinion is wrong.)
In addition to raw coconut and coconut flakes, I am also a fan of coconut milk, though it's one of those things I really, really have to be in the mood for. I find that it can add a delicious and complex taste to curries, but that it can also have a shocking, almost offensive taste if you're not expecting sweet with your spicy. I once traded dinners with a friend at the New York City's Klong because I couldn't face the coconut milk in whatever it was that I'd ordered. Anyway, today was one of those days that I just felt, well, cuckoo for coconuts! Enough so, at least, to give Green Curry Chicken another shot.
When cooking a new dish, or, in this case, a dish that I've screwed up before, I compare several different recipes to find the one I like best, and then try to follow it as closely as I can. However, there are times when dragging myself to the grocery store to collect a very specific list of ingredients (which, if you're cooking Thai food, will always include the elusive Keffir Lime Leaves) is just not an option. Fortunately, my parents keep the house well stocked, and by that I don't just mean that we have a case of chicken broth and some frozen dinners--we could literally feed a small army with what we have stocked in the pantry and freezer. In fact, just the other day, I "went shopping" in the freezer and found, among other things, a pound each of cod fillets, flounder and mahi mahi, 2 pounds of frozen mango slices, mixed berries, four pounds of butter, a couple of frozen dinners, some salmon patties, frozen burgers, a couple of pounds of coffee, a jar of yeast, 3 bags of coconut flakes and a couple of jars of my dad's homemade barbeque sauce...see what I mean? I can usually bake breads and cookies or make a pretty extensive meal without once setting foot out of the house, and sometimes it does just seem ridiculous to bring in more food when I know I should work with what I have. This guilt, combined with my desire to not spend more money on food than we already have and to stay out of the busy grocery store left me with one option--to tailor the recipe to include the ingredients that I already had and find substitutes for ones that I didn't have.
The recipes I've encountered for Green Curry Chicken all seem either far too complex or far too simple--one from a Thai cookbook I recently made came out annoyingly bland, so this time, I used a combination of the recipe on the back of a jar of Thai Kitchen Green Curry Paste and Darlene Schmidt's "Easy Green Curry Chicken." The results were fabulous.
1 can coconut milk*
2 tbsp green curry paste
1 yellow onion, finely chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 tbsp ground coriander
1 tsp brown sugar, or to taste
2 tbsp Thai fish sauce
1 tbsp fresh lime juice
1/4 cup chicken broth
1/4 cup grated coconut
3 chicken breasts, chopped into 2-3 inch pieces
Vegetables to taste, I would recommend bean sprouts, scallions, peas, water chestnut, shiitake mushrooms, shredded carrots...
1 cup basil, or to taste
(All of the recipes you will find call for Keffir Lime Leaves, but I've never been able to find any, and that's not to say I haven't tried--I once spent an afternoon in New York City's Chinatown going from grocery store to grocery store, asking for them. They're in the curry paste, though, so I'm not too worried about it If you can find fresh ones, use about 4, chopped.)
Saute the green curry paste in the coconut milk on medium for about five minutes, then add the onion, garlic, coriander, brown sugar, Thai fish sauce and lime juice. Let simmer until it just begins to boil, and then stir in the broth. Add the chicken and shredded coconut, and cook until done. Add the vegetables with the raw chicken or just before it's done, depending on how crunchy you like them. If you like them soft, saute them in a separate pan and add at the end--the vegetable juices change the flavor of the coconut milk. Just before serving, stir in the basil--authentic recipes will call for Thai basil, but it can't really be found outside of Asian grocery stores and regular basil works just fine.
*An important note, when buying coconut milk, stick to Goya or Thai Kitchen brands--I made this recipe a second time using all the same ingredients, but a different brand of coconut milk, and it was awful--stank up the whole kitchen!
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
The Love[s] of My Life
I'm interrupting this broadcast of my Morocco journal entries to discuss something far lighter and inconsequential: my current TV crush on Jake Green (played by Skeet Ulrich, who, if you'll kindly notice, "totally looks like" Johnny Depp) of Jericho--the sci-fi drama about the small town of Jericho, Kansas recovering after a series of terrorist attacks in which atomic bombs were dropped on at least 8 US cities.
Now, I missed all this while it was happening but, apparently, last year there was a huge pop cultural backlash when CBS canceled Jericho for the second time, which culminated when an army of outraged fans mailed boxes of peanuts to network executives. Unfortunately, their efforts were to no avail, but the producers are planning to release the show's third season in the form of a graphic novel (lame) and possibly, eventually turn the show into a feature film. But, I digress...
When I started watching Jericho last week, I was in bad shape--coming down after a month-long Mad Men binge--and I needed a quick fix. Little did I know that I had stumbled upon something just as addictive as Lost, if not more so. It gets worse, though. My entire life, I have suffered from an innate ability to develop obsessive crushes on fictional characters in television and movies which have (most embarrassingly) included, but not been limited to, Tom Cruise and a cartoon character. Oh, come on, don't act like Dimitri in Anastasia didn't make you swoon. He was hot and you know it! No? Well, maybe it had more to do with John Cusack's voice--on more than one occasion, Cusack's characters have, in fact, been the object of my desire. (All I can say about Tom Cruise is that I was very young, and it was pre-Katie, pre-Suri and pre-well, everything.) Anyway, I was fairly certain that this summer's Fictional Character Crush was going to be Chris Pine's James Tiberius Kirk, as I have seen Star Trek three times now (yes, I'm that popular), but, alas, the lord moves in mysterious ways. Enter, Jake Green of Jericho.
Jake is just the way I like my Fictional Character Crushes to be--brooding, gun-wielding and kind of dangerous, possibly a little bit crazy and, most of all, fiercely dedicated to his cause, whether it is fighting The Others for survival on a desolate island, caught on an abandoned string in the space-time continuum (Exhibit A), smuggling diamonds out of Africa (Exhibit B), a mission to uncover and reclaim his identity and avenge the death of his beloved (Exhibit C), or fighting crime in Las Vegas while battling a gambling addiction (Exhibit D). Five minutes into Jericho's pilot episode, I pegged Jake as an excellent candidate for my next Fictional Character Crush based on the facts that he drives a very cool vintage car, ran away from home five years ago under very sketchy circumstances, and has now come back to claim a large sum of money and then disappear into the mist once again. Mystery! Intrigue! Take that, stir in his commitment to doing the right thing, add a dash of his ninja/Navy Seal/criminal/spy/handyman/sniper skills, not to mention his abs of steel and his sketchy career as a private contractor in Iraq turned world-class pilot (?) and you've got yourself the recipe for the man of my dreams! Ah, yes--don't I know how to pick the good ones?
I truly believe that the only thing more fun than a crush is a Fictional Character Crush. The only problem is that, while I'm crushing on a fictional character, I only have eyes for him. (Before you judge me, please note that when I'm crushing on someone IRL--in real life--I also only have eyes for him. I'm just a one-man kind of girl!) I could go out into my real life, meet a perfectly nice, well-spoken young man, and go home thinking "he doesn't have nothing on Jake Green!" But, let's be brutally honest, he probably doesn't.
However, just like any relationship, Fictional Character Crushes are not without their drama. Oh yes, I'll never forget the Great "Sawyer vs. Sayid: Who Do I Love More?" Debate of 2007. Those confusing months actually ended with the realization that it was perhaps neither, and that without knowing it, I had loved Leonardo DiCaprio's character in Blood Diamond, Danny Archer (see Exhibit B), the entire time. Unfortunately, as is common with Leo's characters, he died, so the relationship never really had a chance to go anywhere. These days, I'm having a hard time deciding whether I am truly in love with Jake, or his childhood BFF Stanley Richmond, a true, all-American farm boy next door who loves his mama, Jesus and America, too, in that Tom Petty kind of way, makes you laugh, and doesn't have near the emotional baggage that Jake does.
However, I think that my love for Jake Green was cemented last night in a dream in which I lived in San Diego, where he and I were the best of buddies. (True story, Jake actually lives in San Diego before returning to his home town just in time for the apocalypse. I, however, have never been.) I was looking for a job (as I have been for quite some time now) and was faced with the harsh fact that if I didn't find employment soon, I would have to move back home (that already happened). I turned to Jake and begged him to hire me, since he owned a bar and was in the process of expanding it into a full restaurant, but he refused. (Jake once mentions that he worked at the Pizza Garden in Jericho in high school, but as far as I know, his forays into the food service industry ended there. I suspect this has far more to do with my interview tomorrow at a local winery and restaurant.) Livid, I demanded that he explain why. Much to my surprise, he admitted that he could not hire me because he was in love with me...plus the apocalypse was on its way, but his old friend had just arrived to help out with that, and, between the two of them, he really thought they could make a difference, and would I like to meet his friend? Why, of course. You could imagine my surprise and relief when Sayid from Lost stepped into the room, because, as I have learned, if there is anyone you want to have on your side when you might have to defend yourself, it is a former officer in the Republican Guard who happens to have "a particular set of skills." Unfortunately, shortly thereafter, I was thrown into a jail cell for a crime I did not commit, where it was very cold and I only had a hospital gown (?) and a bed of hay to keep me warm, but it wasn't all bad because a friendly, baby rhinoceros came to visit once every three days to keep me company.
I'm expecting that to happen any day now.
Now, I missed all this while it was happening but, apparently, last year there was a huge pop cultural backlash when CBS canceled Jericho for the second time, which culminated when an army of outraged fans mailed boxes of peanuts to network executives. Unfortunately, their efforts were to no avail, but the producers are planning to release the show's third season in the form of a graphic novel (lame) and possibly, eventually turn the show into a feature film. But, I digress...
When I started watching Jericho last week, I was in bad shape--coming down after a month-long Mad Men binge--and I needed a quick fix. Little did I know that I had stumbled upon something just as addictive as Lost, if not more so. It gets worse, though. My entire life, I have suffered from an innate ability to develop obsessive crushes on fictional characters in television and movies which have (most embarrassingly) included, but not been limited to, Tom Cruise and a cartoon character. Oh, come on, don't act like Dimitri in Anastasia didn't make you swoon. He was hot and you know it! No? Well, maybe it had more to do with John Cusack's voice--on more than one occasion, Cusack's characters have, in fact, been the object of my desire. (All I can say about Tom Cruise is that I was very young, and it was pre-Katie, pre-Suri and pre-well, everything.) Anyway, I was fairly certain that this summer's Fictional Character Crush was going to be Chris Pine's James Tiberius Kirk, as I have seen Star Trek three times now (yes, I'm that popular), but, alas, the lord moves in mysterious ways. Enter, Jake Green of Jericho.
Jake is just the way I like my Fictional Character Crushes to be--brooding, gun-wielding and kind of dangerous, possibly a little bit crazy and, most of all, fiercely dedicated to his cause, whether it is fighting The Others for survival on a desolate island, caught on an abandoned string in the space-time continuum (Exhibit A), smuggling diamonds out of Africa (Exhibit B), a mission to uncover and reclaim his identity and avenge the death of his beloved (Exhibit C), or fighting crime in Las Vegas while battling a gambling addiction (Exhibit D). Five minutes into Jericho's pilot episode, I pegged Jake as an excellent candidate for my next Fictional Character Crush based on the facts that he drives a very cool vintage car, ran away from home five years ago under very sketchy circumstances, and has now come back to claim a large sum of money and then disappear into the mist once again. Mystery! Intrigue! Take that, stir in his commitment to doing the right thing, add a dash of his ninja/Navy Seal/criminal/spy/handyman/sniper skills, not to mention his abs of steel and his sketchy career as a private contractor in Iraq turned world-class pilot (?) and you've got yourself the recipe for the man of my dreams! Ah, yes--don't I know how to pick the good ones?
I truly believe that the only thing more fun than a crush is a Fictional Character Crush. The only problem is that, while I'm crushing on a fictional character, I only have eyes for him. (Before you judge me, please note that when I'm crushing on someone IRL--in real life--I also only have eyes for him. I'm just a one-man kind of girl!) I could go out into my real life, meet a perfectly nice, well-spoken young man, and go home thinking "he doesn't have nothing on Jake Green!" But, let's be brutally honest, he probably doesn't.
However, just like any relationship, Fictional Character Crushes are not without their drama. Oh yes, I'll never forget the Great "Sawyer vs. Sayid: Who Do I Love More?" Debate of 2007. Those confusing months actually ended with the realization that it was perhaps neither, and that without knowing it, I had loved Leonardo DiCaprio's character in Blood Diamond, Danny Archer (see Exhibit B), the entire time. Unfortunately, as is common with Leo's characters, he died, so the relationship never really had a chance to go anywhere. These days, I'm having a hard time deciding whether I am truly in love with Jake, or his childhood BFF Stanley Richmond, a true, all-American farm boy next door who loves his mama, Jesus and America, too, in that Tom Petty kind of way, makes you laugh, and doesn't have near the emotional baggage that Jake does.
However, I think that my love for Jake Green was cemented last night in a dream in which I lived in San Diego, where he and I were the best of buddies. (True story, Jake actually lives in San Diego before returning to his home town just in time for the apocalypse. I, however, have never been.) I was looking for a job (as I have been for quite some time now) and was faced with the harsh fact that if I didn't find employment soon, I would have to move back home (that already happened). I turned to Jake and begged him to hire me, since he owned a bar and was in the process of expanding it into a full restaurant, but he refused. (Jake once mentions that he worked at the Pizza Garden in Jericho in high school, but as far as I know, his forays into the food service industry ended there. I suspect this has far more to do with my interview tomorrow at a local winery and restaurant.) Livid, I demanded that he explain why. Much to my surprise, he admitted that he could not hire me because he was in love with me...plus the apocalypse was on its way, but his old friend had just arrived to help out with that, and, between the two of them, he really thought they could make a difference, and would I like to meet his friend? Why, of course. You could imagine my surprise and relief when Sayid from Lost stepped into the room, because, as I have learned, if there is anyone you want to have on your side when you might have to defend yourself, it is a former officer in the Republican Guard who happens to have "a particular set of skills." Unfortunately, shortly thereafter, I was thrown into a jail cell for a crime I did not commit, where it was very cold and I only had a hospital gown (?) and a bed of hay to keep me warm, but it wasn't all bad because a friendly, baby rhinoceros came to visit once every three days to keep me company.
I'm expecting that to happen any day now.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
7 Nights in Maroc: Day 2
Everything that [my Middle East Studies professor] Sharon said about the friendliness and hospitality here is true. I want to stay here and continue to be taken care of forever! Tonight, the maid prepared a special dinner of fish cooked in a masala-like sauce to honor Allen's return to Rabat. He brings students here several times a year and, each time, the host-families go nuts over having him back. I really like him, too--he puts everyone at ease and never rolls his eyes if you pull out a bottle of hand sanitizer or makes you feel high maintenance for asking for bottled water. In fact, he makes sure that we only drink bottled water, and he only buys it from stalls in the market that he knows don't re-seal the caps.
The only real "problem" in this place is that going to the bathroom is always an adventure. Yesterday evening, while we were stopped on our way to Rabat for our van driver to pray, Allen asked if everyone was comfortable squatting to use the toilet. "Comfortable" might be a stretch, but I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for this trip. I squatted yesterday in the bathroom of Mohammed's restaurant, tucking my nose into my shirt, rolling my pants up from the top so they wouldn't touch the ground, being careful to touch nothing but the walls and washing up to my elbows with warm water and hand sanitizer afterwards. I knew I could do it again, but it certainly wasn't preferable even in the best of moments, and I worried that I might not be able to manage if I was peeing in the middle of the night, or sick. Allen mentioned that some of the houses we were staying at would have "western style" toilets, but some would not. I prayed the entire way into the city that I would get placed in one of the houses that did and, miraculously, my wishes came true. In fact, our bathrooms here are cleaner than my apartment back home--I just have to get used to showering out in the open*. They don't have a bathtub or a shower curtain, just a drain in the middle of the floor, so everything gets wet!
Outside, in the streets--especially these winding, cobblestone "rues" in the old medina--everything smells slightly of pee, and I swear I saw shit smeared in the street. Beggars in the market walk around with open wounds--this one man today was lying on the ground, a cut on his leg so swollen with pus that he could hardly move it. I'll never forget the sight--the sad little man, sprawled out on the ground in the busiest street in the market with his hands outstretched, begging for money as people made a delicate path around him on either side. I do not know why or how some countries become more "developed" than others--how "proper" sanitation systems come into being, with a regimented garbage pick up (the litter here is also unbelievable) and landfills and all that. Who thinks of these things? I am the only one of the girls on my trip who seems to be making a point of wearing closed-toe shoes with socks at all times, and I worry that the others might be more susceptible to germs in their sandals and flip-flops.
Despite the filth, though, I am still so happy to be here and remain fascinated with the people--just as much as they are with me. I also haven't slept so well since I left Texas! [Prior to Morocco, I was in Burlington, VT and then Sevilla, Spain, neither of which have air conditioning. In the heat of the summer, this can make for some extraordinarily sleepless nights.] Even though it is hot outside and the houses here do not have air conditioning either, the tiled walls and floors cool the house-- to stay cool, I press my flushed cheek up against the cold wall, or sleep with my back up against it.
This morning, we went to Chellah, where I saw a real African vista!
This view, just a short ride outside the city, cemented for me the knowledge that I am in Africa. Honestly, this place is so magical that it's easy to forget where I am, but, every so often, there's a reminder, like the gas stations with the word "Afrique" on their awnings, and a thrill runs through my body when I remember this important, exotic, diverse, challenged continent that I'm walking upon. Coming here is something that I've wanted to do my entire life, and I sometimes have trouble believing that I am really here. I don't think that the other students on the trip really like me--I must seem unfriendly, or they sense that I'm not going to bond with them because I'm constantly staring out the window in amazement, or have my face hidden behind my camera, trying to capture everything. Quite frankly, they're exactly right--I've waited too long to come here to waste my time hearing about their sex lives or their drunken exploits back in Spain and playing card games in the van to pass the time. I'm not about to let anyone stand in the way of my squeezing as much Morocco as I can out of every moment.
*My host family's house would become a hot-spot for the others to use the bathroom, and they would sometimes walk home with me or Kara in pairs, to get at least one good release in before heading back home to be faced with their holes-in-the-ground. I was astounded one afternoon when, at one of the other host family's houses, I discovered a seemingly abandoned bathroom in a door off to the side of the hole that housed an oversized sink, an old refrigerator and a "western style" toilet. It was dark and wet, and there were no windows or a light switch, so I propped the door open, dropped my pants and just prayed that none of their little boys would wander in while I was peeing, or that none of the maids would come by and shut the door! Panic rose when I realized that the toilet didn't seem to be functioning, and, thus, wouldn't flush, and I have no idea what ultimately became of the situation. What shocked me the most is that these people had a fully functional (well, maybe not "functional," but capable to say the least) toilet, yet they still preferred the hole. That is just a cultural divide I'll never cross!
The only real "problem" in this place is that going to the bathroom is always an adventure. Yesterday evening, while we were stopped on our way to Rabat for our van driver to pray, Allen asked if everyone was comfortable squatting to use the toilet. "Comfortable" might be a stretch, but I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for this trip. I squatted yesterday in the bathroom of Mohammed's restaurant, tucking my nose into my shirt, rolling my pants up from the top so they wouldn't touch the ground, being careful to touch nothing but the walls and washing up to my elbows with warm water and hand sanitizer afterwards. I knew I could do it again, but it certainly wasn't preferable even in the best of moments, and I worried that I might not be able to manage if I was peeing in the middle of the night, or sick. Allen mentioned that some of the houses we were staying at would have "western style" toilets, but some would not. I prayed the entire way into the city that I would get placed in one of the houses that did and, miraculously, my wishes came true. In fact, our bathrooms here are cleaner than my apartment back home--I just have to get used to showering out in the open*. They don't have a bathtub or a shower curtain, just a drain in the middle of the floor, so everything gets wet!
Outside, in the streets--especially these winding, cobblestone "rues" in the old medina--everything smells slightly of pee, and I swear I saw shit smeared in the street. Beggars in the market walk around with open wounds--this one man today was lying on the ground, a cut on his leg so swollen with pus that he could hardly move it. I'll never forget the sight--the sad little man, sprawled out on the ground in the busiest street in the market with his hands outstretched, begging for money as people made a delicate path around him on either side. I do not know why or how some countries become more "developed" than others--how "proper" sanitation systems come into being, with a regimented garbage pick up (the litter here is also unbelievable) and landfills and all that. Who thinks of these things? I am the only one of the girls on my trip who seems to be making a point of wearing closed-toe shoes with socks at all times, and I worry that the others might be more susceptible to germs in their sandals and flip-flops.
Despite the filth, though, I am still so happy to be here and remain fascinated with the people--just as much as they are with me. I also haven't slept so well since I left Texas! [Prior to Morocco, I was in Burlington, VT and then Sevilla, Spain, neither of which have air conditioning. In the heat of the summer, this can make for some extraordinarily sleepless nights.] Even though it is hot outside and the houses here do not have air conditioning either, the tiled walls and floors cool the house-- to stay cool, I press my flushed cheek up against the cold wall, or sleep with my back up against it.
This morning, we went to Chellah, where I saw a real African vista!
This view, just a short ride outside the city, cemented for me the knowledge that I am in Africa. Honestly, this place is so magical that it's easy to forget where I am, but, every so often, there's a reminder, like the gas stations with the word "Afrique" on their awnings, and a thrill runs through my body when I remember this important, exotic, diverse, challenged continent that I'm walking upon. Coming here is something that I've wanted to do my entire life, and I sometimes have trouble believing that I am really here. I don't think that the other students on the trip really like me--I must seem unfriendly, or they sense that I'm not going to bond with them because I'm constantly staring out the window in amazement, or have my face hidden behind my camera, trying to capture everything. Quite frankly, they're exactly right--I've waited too long to come here to waste my time hearing about their sex lives or their drunken exploits back in Spain and playing card games in the van to pass the time. I'm not about to let anyone stand in the way of my squeezing as much Morocco as I can out of every moment.
*My host family's house would become a hot-spot for the others to use the bathroom, and they would sometimes walk home with me or Kara in pairs, to get at least one good release in before heading back home to be faced with their holes-in-the-ground. I was astounded one afternoon when, at one of the other host family's houses, I discovered a seemingly abandoned bathroom in a door off to the side of the hole that housed an oversized sink, an old refrigerator and a "western style" toilet. It was dark and wet, and there were no windows or a light switch, so I propped the door open, dropped my pants and just prayed that none of their little boys would wander in while I was peeing, or that none of the maids would come by and shut the door! Panic rose when I realized that the toilet didn't seem to be functioning, and, thus, wouldn't flush, and I have no idea what ultimately became of the situation. What shocked me the most is that these people had a fully functional (well, maybe not "functional," but capable to say the least) toilet, yet they still preferred the hole. That is just a cultural divide I'll never cross!
Saturday, June 6, 2009
7 Nights in Maroc: Day 1
Inspired by Diane Johnson's Lulu in Marrakech, and the fact that I won't be doing any new traveling this summer, I decided to dig out the journal that I kept during my trip to Morocco in 2007. Since it was such a once-in-a-lifetime experience for me, I did my best to record every moment, and I'd like to share that with you now.
Morocco is everything I imagined it would be! I want to move here. I want to marry a Moroccan and live in Morocco and have Moroccan babies. I feel so lucky to be here!
In some ways, I feel as though I'm somewhere completely foreign, yet I also feel this intense sense of familiarity. I have to keep reminding myself that the scenes in front of me are real, and not from Google image searches or one of my books or movies. I can't decide whether or not it's better to know everything about a country before you go there, or not. I've been preparing for this trip my whole life. I gained a feeling of comfort with the culture because of that, but I think I lost the twinge of excitement I get when I arrive somewhere and have no idea where I am.
Anyway, I was most looking forward to hearing the call to prayer. I've read about how it echoes through the city and can be loud enough to wake you in the early hours of the morning. It's not that loud, unfortunately! (Disappointment.) But, beautiful nonetheless. Is it strange to think of it from the perspective of the people who live here, as akin to the church bells on campus back home. Not by meaning, but in that it marks the passage of time and makes one feel comforted.
I keep forgetting I'm in a developing country. Our house is so clean and beautiful and the people on the streets are wonderfully friendly--even the men. I can't imagine any of the things reported by the girls in the previous session--cat calls, getting groped in the souk. In Spain, yes, but here? I can't see it.
Today, we met a wonderful man named Mohammed who told us that "Morocco is our country now," as he showed us around Asilah.
He was so friendly when he met our group, sitting in the sun outside the restaurant where he works, chugging a can of Coke Light. In just a few hours, I developed a most inappropriate crush on him. After he left, Allen explained that every time he brings a group through Asilah, he hires Mohammed to show them around for a few hours, and that, over the years, he's grown to see Mohammed as an adopted son. He said that Mohammed would have been embarrassed to admit that he lives in the shantytowns on the outskirts of Asilah, which is so common here. When Allen explained this, I can't really describe how I felt as being anything other than "final," as though I had just gotten the answer to everything I'd been asking myself all day. Yes, I do feel like a foreigner here; no, I will never see Mohammed again--we're not going to exchange email addresses and become pen pals. Coming to Morocco and meeting a wonderful local made me feel so integrated, like I could be a part of this--like I am a part of this. But, realizing in a split second that I am world's away from my new friend made me feel a thousand times more removed. I expect that is the nature of Morocco--it pulls you in and pushes you out simultaneously. I think there are many layers to life here that will begin to uncover themselves as time goes on, Inshallah.
Morocco is everything I imagined it would be! I want to move here. I want to marry a Moroccan and live in Morocco and have Moroccan babies. I feel so lucky to be here!
In some ways, I feel as though I'm somewhere completely foreign, yet I also feel this intense sense of familiarity. I have to keep reminding myself that the scenes in front of me are real, and not from Google image searches or one of my books or movies. I can't decide whether or not it's better to know everything about a country before you go there, or not. I've been preparing for this trip my whole life. I gained a feeling of comfort with the culture because of that, but I think I lost the twinge of excitement I get when I arrive somewhere and have no idea where I am.
Anyway, I was most looking forward to hearing the call to prayer. I've read about how it echoes through the city and can be loud enough to wake you in the early hours of the morning. It's not that loud, unfortunately! (Disappointment.) But, beautiful nonetheless. Is it strange to think of it from the perspective of the people who live here, as akin to the church bells on campus back home. Not by meaning, but in that it marks the passage of time and makes one feel comforted.
I keep forgetting I'm in a developing country. Our house is so clean and beautiful and the people on the streets are wonderfully friendly--even the men. I can't imagine any of the things reported by the girls in the previous session--cat calls, getting groped in the souk. In Spain, yes, but here? I can't see it.
Today, we met a wonderful man named Mohammed who told us that "Morocco is our country now," as he showed us around Asilah.
He was so friendly when he met our group, sitting in the sun outside the restaurant where he works, chugging a can of Coke Light. In just a few hours, I developed a most inappropriate crush on him. After he left, Allen explained that every time he brings a group through Asilah, he hires Mohammed to show them around for a few hours, and that, over the years, he's grown to see Mohammed as an adopted son. He said that Mohammed would have been embarrassed to admit that he lives in the shantytowns on the outskirts of Asilah, which is so common here. When Allen explained this, I can't really describe how I felt as being anything other than "final," as though I had just gotten the answer to everything I'd been asking myself all day. Yes, I do feel like a foreigner here; no, I will never see Mohammed again--we're not going to exchange email addresses and become pen pals. Coming to Morocco and meeting a wonderful local made me feel so integrated, like I could be a part of this--like I am a part of this. But, realizing in a split second that I am world's away from my new friend made me feel a thousand times more removed. I expect that is the nature of Morocco--it pulls you in and pushes you out simultaneously. I think there are many layers to life here that will begin to uncover themselves as time goes on, Inshallah.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Cooking for One: Give Me One Good Reason Not To
You know those crisp, early fall evenings when you just want it to be Thanksgiving already? It's as though, practically overnight, a little button switches inside my brain, sending my body into a pumpkin frenzy. I start burning pumpkin candles, eating Kaddo Bourani and making Pumpkin Custard--my "healthy" version of pumpkin pie, which is actually pretty healthy already. Just follow the Libby's recipe, substitute brown sugar for white sugar, and forgo the pie crust. Instead, bake it in a glass baking pan and scoop out the sweet filling. A pan of Pumpkin Custard in the oven fills the house with a divine, homey smell. A friend came over for dinner once, just as I had taken one out of the oven, and the first thing she said was "it smells like a home in here." In the midst of one of my periods of pumpkin overload, a roommate suggested Rachael Ray's pumpkin pasta. "I made a ton of it last year," she said. "I can't remember what it was for, but I made a ton and it was really good."
This particular young lady rarely cooked anything fancier for dinner than a bowl of pasta with butter and parmesan cheese, while, several days a week, I cooked delicious, gourmet meals for myself that were large enough to last through 4-5 meals. Seeing her simple meals always made me feel like I overindulged, and I was slightly miffed by the way she worded her suggestion. "Wait," I thought, "what do you mean 'what it was for?' Why not for yourself?" I hadn't seen the recipe, but it sounded like it would be cheap to make. Pasta, a can of pumpkin...maybe some olive oil or butter? None of those ingredients struck me as any sort of delicacy. They did strike me, however, as inexpensive, everyday ingredients put together in a way that would add variety to one's sack lunch or dinner-for-one-in-front-of-the-TV, especially if that person wasn't so inclined to put a whole lot of effort into their meals.
In fact, when I looked up the recipe, I learned that it's full name is "Penne-Wise Pumpkin Pasta," and that it was created to be a tasty, healthy meal for those on a budget. Granted, there's a little bit more to it than dumping a can of Libby's and some pasta together, but I still resented the idea that, for some people, tasty meals were reserved only for dinner parties, impressing men, or eating out. What is so wrong with cooking yourself a nice meal and having it to look forward to when you come home from work, or to bring in a sack lunch to heat up and enjoy during a break from your soul-sucking job? Doesn't it make everything so much more pleasant?
When I started reading Giulia Melucci's I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti a few days ago, which is a memoir of Melucci's life long search for romantic love, failed relationships, overarching love of the culinary arts and how those two areas of her life have always intertwined. At first, I thought Melucci to be a kindred spirit, but I was shocked when I read her admittance that, during a dating dry-spell, her cooking "slowed down outside of relationship and domesticity," and that cooking for others (i.e., a man) is part of its appeal. I've always thought it of utmost importance to do stuff, to have interests and hobbies--to build my life around things that I actually like doing. Things that I do for myself, rather than to impress others. Cooking for myself is chief among those things that I like doing, and I like that it also seems to say "hey, look at how good I am at taking care of myself."
My point is, if you like doing something, why not just do it? Why wait around for someone to do it with? As someone who has never been in a relationship, it probably comes naturally to do nice things for myself--I mean, what's the alternative? Being bored all the time and waiting for someone to walk into my life so that I can finally start living it? Ugh, no thanks. It saddened me when Melucci reluctantly admits that she doesn't begin cooking for herself until later in life, and that doing so is part of her acceptance that "being alone" is probably her destiny. She fills the chapter in which she discusses this with self-deprecating quips like, "if a single girl cooks a fabulous meal, and no one tastes it but me, does it really even exist?" and mentions how saddened she is by those delicious, impromptu meals made to keep leftover ingredients from going bad. You know, the kind that no one but she will ever taste because they can't ever really be re-created. But, what on God's green earth is wrong with that? Not that I care all that much what men think these days (No, I haven't turned into a lesbian, I just literally don't care anymore--take me, or leave me.) but aren't people who respect themselves enough to eat well, have hobbies and do things just ridiculously attractive? After all, I can't recall anyone ever saying "I married her because she was the most boring woman I've ever met!"
This particular young lady rarely cooked anything fancier for dinner than a bowl of pasta with butter and parmesan cheese, while, several days a week, I cooked delicious, gourmet meals for myself that were large enough to last through 4-5 meals. Seeing her simple meals always made me feel like I overindulged, and I was slightly miffed by the way she worded her suggestion. "Wait," I thought, "what do you mean 'what it was for?' Why not for yourself?" I hadn't seen the recipe, but it sounded like it would be cheap to make. Pasta, a can of pumpkin...maybe some olive oil or butter? None of those ingredients struck me as any sort of delicacy. They did strike me, however, as inexpensive, everyday ingredients put together in a way that would add variety to one's sack lunch or dinner-for-one-in-front-of-the-TV, especially if that person wasn't so inclined to put a whole lot of effort into their meals.
In fact, when I looked up the recipe, I learned that it's full name is "Penne-Wise Pumpkin Pasta," and that it was created to be a tasty, healthy meal for those on a budget. Granted, there's a little bit more to it than dumping a can of Libby's and some pasta together, but I still resented the idea that, for some people, tasty meals were reserved only for dinner parties, impressing men, or eating out. What is so wrong with cooking yourself a nice meal and having it to look forward to when you come home from work, or to bring in a sack lunch to heat up and enjoy during a break from your soul-sucking job? Doesn't it make everything so much more pleasant?
When I started reading Giulia Melucci's I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti a few days ago, which is a memoir of Melucci's life long search for romantic love, failed relationships, overarching love of the culinary arts and how those two areas of her life have always intertwined. At first, I thought Melucci to be a kindred spirit, but I was shocked when I read her admittance that, during a dating dry-spell, her cooking "slowed down outside of relationship and domesticity," and that cooking for others (i.e., a man) is part of its appeal. I've always thought it of utmost importance to do stuff, to have interests and hobbies--to build my life around things that I actually like doing. Things that I do for myself, rather than to impress others. Cooking for myself is chief among those things that I like doing, and I like that it also seems to say "hey, look at how good I am at taking care of myself."
My point is, if you like doing something, why not just do it? Why wait around for someone to do it with? As someone who has never been in a relationship, it probably comes naturally to do nice things for myself--I mean, what's the alternative? Being bored all the time and waiting for someone to walk into my life so that I can finally start living it? Ugh, no thanks. It saddened me when Melucci reluctantly admits that she doesn't begin cooking for herself until later in life, and that doing so is part of her acceptance that "being alone" is probably her destiny. She fills the chapter in which she discusses this with self-deprecating quips like, "if a single girl cooks a fabulous meal, and no one tastes it but me, does it really even exist?" and mentions how saddened she is by those delicious, impromptu meals made to keep leftover ingredients from going bad. You know, the kind that no one but she will ever taste because they can't ever really be re-created. But, what on God's green earth is wrong with that? Not that I care all that much what men think these days (No, I haven't turned into a lesbian, I just literally don't care anymore--take me, or leave me.) but aren't people who respect themselves enough to eat well, have hobbies and do things just ridiculously attractive? After all, I can't recall anyone ever saying "I married her because she was the most boring woman I've ever met!"
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
The Importance of Salad Dressing
I've been known to, on occasion, go through periods of eating nothing but salads. For about a year in college, I ate from the cafeteria's salad bar at least once a day, if not twice. Weekends were the worst part, because I could always count on some vital ingredient being left out all together or looking too suspect to eat. However, an offense far worse than wilted looking spring leaves was when they didn't have the right salad dressing. Being the food snob that I am, there are some things that I simply refuse to eat, and ranch dressing (except with the occasional carrot stick) is chief among them, followed by anything from McDonald's and any Budweiser, Coors or Miller brand beers. The only "acceptable" dressing my school's little cafeteria had to offer was a raspberry vinaigrette, which was quite tasty, although I'm certain it was high fructose corn syrup in disguise. Back then, though, it was good enough for me. Apparently, the other students thought so as well, as it was often missing from the spread, and after it had disappeared, no amount of begging the cafeteria employees could bring it back--one woman even deigned to tell me that they never had such a thing! Anytime they didn't have it, the Rolling Stones "I Can't Get No Satisfaction" played in my head as I allowed my day to be ruined by my failure to obtain the key ingredient to the salad I had spent the entire morning daydreaming about. I would curse every dime of tuition I paid to the institution and settle for an inferior sandwich, or, on some particularly maddening days, a burger, and eat it, stewing alone in the corner seat of the dining hall.
It was then that I realized it was time to take matters into my own hands. Back then, I enjoyed going to the grocery store just about as much as one does having a root canal, and went to great lengths to avoid it. I ate a lot of leftovers, scrambled eggs and occasionally made meals out of Pop Tarts, but when those ran out, I was faced with the dilemma of eating the dregs of my pantry, which, for years, included a box of rice noodles whose origins were unknown and a box of Saltine crackers purchased by a friend when I had food poisoning. One evening, on the way home from school, I decided to avoid the grocery store once again, and prayed that maybe I would get too involved in that night's episode of Lost to get hungry. Since there was a fat chance of this happening, and I knew that I had already finished all the eggs, Pop Tarts, packets of oatmeal and pancake mix (breakfast foods for dinner were also a college staple) days ago, I realized, as I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex, that I would probably have to have to eat the rice noodles, if I wanted to avoid the grocery store one more time. I consider what happened next to be my finest act of culinary heroism, because I marched into the small kitchen of my apartment and, as if by magic, pulled out a box of cous cous and a yellow onion. I never figured out how the onion had materialized in my pantry, but why look a gift horse in the mouth? A simple meal of grilled onion and cous cous kept me away from the grocery store for two more days, and serves as a lifelong reminder that, yes, one often can make something out of nothing.
Suffice to say, in those days, it usually took an act of God to get me into a grocery store, so I took myself and everyone around me by surprise when, in the middle of the day on one of those wretched, no-dressing days when the world and all it's inhabitants were against me, I drove straight from the salad bar to the grocery store and bought a five year supply of Newman's Own Light Raspberry & Walnut dressing and a package of 8 Mini-Round Gladware containers. From then on, I slept the peaceful sleep of a human being who knew that her day would never be ruined by an incompetent lack of salad dressing again.
Every morning, I would fill up one of the Gladware containers with my dressing of choice, seal the lid tightly and enclose it inside a Ziploc bag to avoid any mishaps, and drop it into my backpack or purse. My college experience happened to be blessed with professors who cared very little about formalities, preferred to be called by their first names and could not give less of a shit whether we ate lunch or got up to go to the bathroom during class. The semester that I started bringing my own salad dressing to school, I usually ate my lunch during the first few minutes of my grant writing class, impressing both my professor and peers with my salad dressing ingenuity. Secretly, I hoped that I would become known around campus as the Girl Who Brings Who Her Own Salad Dressing to School and that, maybe, a Facebook fan club devoted to me would pop up one day. As far as I know, this never happened--more evidence of the fact that the world is so much less interested in you than you might think (a fact of life that can be comforting, especially during embarrassing moments, like when you show up to a conference in dirty jeans, a sweater and tennis shoes and realize that you failed to get the memo about business casual attire). But, it did allow me to live in relative culinary peace, brought the price of my salad by weight down to a very reasonable amount and, most important, taught me that, very rarely, does the world provide what you want. You've got to go out there and find it yourself.
Meredith's College Salad
2 large handfuls leafy greens
Chopped red onion, to taste
4 yolks of hard boiled eggs, crushed
Chick peas, to taste
Shaved cheddar cheese, to taste
Raisins, to taste
Croutons or toasted walnuts, to taste
2 tablespoons Newman's Own Light Raspberry & Walnut Dressing
Fill the bottom of a large, styrofoam to-go container with the lettuce, and sprinkle the following ingredients on top, making sure to end with the salad dressing. Pour the dressing lightly over all areas of the salad, making sure to reach all corners. Close the lid and shake.
It was then that I realized it was time to take matters into my own hands. Back then, I enjoyed going to the grocery store just about as much as one does having a root canal, and went to great lengths to avoid it. I ate a lot of leftovers, scrambled eggs and occasionally made meals out of Pop Tarts, but when those ran out, I was faced with the dilemma of eating the dregs of my pantry, which, for years, included a box of rice noodles whose origins were unknown and a box of Saltine crackers purchased by a friend when I had food poisoning. One evening, on the way home from school, I decided to avoid the grocery store once again, and prayed that maybe I would get too involved in that night's episode of Lost to get hungry. Since there was a fat chance of this happening, and I knew that I had already finished all the eggs, Pop Tarts, packets of oatmeal and pancake mix (breakfast foods for dinner were also a college staple) days ago, I realized, as I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex, that I would probably have to have to eat the rice noodles, if I wanted to avoid the grocery store one more time. I consider what happened next to be my finest act of culinary heroism, because I marched into the small kitchen of my apartment and, as if by magic, pulled out a box of cous cous and a yellow onion. I never figured out how the onion had materialized in my pantry, but why look a gift horse in the mouth? A simple meal of grilled onion and cous cous kept me away from the grocery store for two more days, and serves as a lifelong reminder that, yes, one often can make something out of nothing.
Suffice to say, in those days, it usually took an act of God to get me into a grocery store, so I took myself and everyone around me by surprise when, in the middle of the day on one of those wretched, no-dressing days when the world and all it's inhabitants were against me, I drove straight from the salad bar to the grocery store and bought a five year supply of Newman's Own Light Raspberry & Walnut dressing and a package of 8 Mini-Round Gladware containers. From then on, I slept the peaceful sleep of a human being who knew that her day would never be ruined by an incompetent lack of salad dressing again.
Every morning, I would fill up one of the Gladware containers with my dressing of choice, seal the lid tightly and enclose it inside a Ziploc bag to avoid any mishaps, and drop it into my backpack or purse. My college experience happened to be blessed with professors who cared very little about formalities, preferred to be called by their first names and could not give less of a shit whether we ate lunch or got up to go to the bathroom during class. The semester that I started bringing my own salad dressing to school, I usually ate my lunch during the first few minutes of my grant writing class, impressing both my professor and peers with my salad dressing ingenuity. Secretly, I hoped that I would become known around campus as the Girl Who Brings Who Her Own Salad Dressing to School and that, maybe, a Facebook fan club devoted to me would pop up one day. As far as I know, this never happened--more evidence of the fact that the world is so much less interested in you than you might think (a fact of life that can be comforting, especially during embarrassing moments, like when you show up to a conference in dirty jeans, a sweater and tennis shoes and realize that you failed to get the memo about business casual attire). But, it did allow me to live in relative culinary peace, brought the price of my salad by weight down to a very reasonable amount and, most important, taught me that, very rarely, does the world provide what you want. You've got to go out there and find it yourself.
Meredith's College Salad
2 large handfuls leafy greens
Chopped red onion, to taste
4 yolks of hard boiled eggs, crushed
Chick peas, to taste
Shaved cheddar cheese, to taste
Raisins, to taste
Croutons or toasted walnuts, to taste
2 tablespoons Newman's Own Light Raspberry & Walnut Dressing
Fill the bottom of a large, styrofoam to-go container with the lettuce, and sprinkle the following ingredients on top, making sure to end with the salad dressing. Pour the dressing lightly over all areas of the salad, making sure to reach all corners. Close the lid and shake.
Friday, May 22, 2009
My Dirty Little Secret
I did something this afternoon that I once vowed I'd never do. Looking back, I realize that I probably set myself up weeks ago, when I began a ruthless assault against the stacks and stacks of "stuff" piled high in my room, including the books, which, for many years, I've refused to weed out. After all, one can never have too many books, right? Well, when it gets to the point where you start to seriously consider constructing furniture out of them, then the answer is probably yes. Anyway, I should have known yesterday that I was just a few steps away from counting them entirely when I was struck with the brilliant organizational idea to divide them into two piles, one of those that I've read, and one of those that I have yet to read.
I come from a long line of book lovers. No, scratch that--I come from a long line of people who have a sickness and can exert absolutely no control when it comes to buying books. In my family, Knowing exactly how many books you have is like counting the calories in a piece of cheesecake--you're better off just not knowing. But, this afternoon, standing above those books in their neat piles on the floor of my bedroom, I couldn't stop myself from counting. It was as though the devil drove me to do it--tentatively, at first, and then obsessively going over them three times to make sure that my numbers were exact.
Ok, are you ready to hear the grand total? I'll tell you as long as you promise not to tell anyone else. Without counting a fair number that I have on loan to a friend right now, I own 295 books. Yes. Nearly twice my body weight. Actually...even that estimate is a little bit padded, because that is actually just the number of read-able books I own, and does not include textbooks, cookbooks, photography books, reference books and travel guides...or the two sitting next to me on the desk that I'm getting ready to send to a friend. (I promise I wasn't trying to further pad the number, I just forgot about those two.)
Out of those 295 books, I've read, from cover to cover, 84 of them. Out of the 211 remaining, unread books, I have partially read 36 of them. The even dirtier secret is that, just last week, maybe because I subconsciously knew that I would soon feel compelled to find out the number of books I own and publish it on the Internet, I filled two extra-large LL Bean boat and tote bags full of books and sold them to Half Price Books. Without re-filling the bags or searching for the sale receipt, both of which I am much too lazy to do, it is impossible to say how many were sold, but I think that, for the sake of everyone involved, that is a number better left unknown.
I doubt that I'd feel as guilty about admitting the total if it weren't for the fact that the number of books that I've read isn't even half of the number of those that I haven't. I'm not sure if the fact that I read non-fiction, which typically takes longer to get through than fiction accounts for anything, because it seems to me that this would cause a sane person to simply buy fewer books. However, the fact is that honestly, I don't feel that guilty about it. I love books. God, I love them so much. Each book is an opportunity to learn about life by sharing someone else's experiences. I tend to feel lost when I don't have anything to look forward to--when I'm not planning a fantastic trip or a fabulous dinner, and I often feel overwhelmed by my desire to experience, well, everything, and knowing that there's not nearly enough time for it all. It is a great comfort to me to know that I have more than my body weight in unread books, each of them bound to fill my soul with new adventures. And, even now, in the bleakest moments following the realization of my addiction, I still swear that there is nothing, absolutely nothing in this world better than a brand new stack of unread books.
I come from a long line of book lovers. No, scratch that--I come from a long line of people who have a sickness and can exert absolutely no control when it comes to buying books. In my family, Knowing exactly how many books you have is like counting the calories in a piece of cheesecake--you're better off just not knowing. But, this afternoon, standing above those books in their neat piles on the floor of my bedroom, I couldn't stop myself from counting. It was as though the devil drove me to do it--tentatively, at first, and then obsessively going over them three times to make sure that my numbers were exact.
Ok, are you ready to hear the grand total? I'll tell you as long as you promise not to tell anyone else. Without counting a fair number that I have on loan to a friend right now, I own 295 books. Yes. Nearly twice my body weight. Actually...even that estimate is a little bit padded, because that is actually just the number of read-able books I own, and does not include textbooks, cookbooks, photography books, reference books and travel guides...or the two sitting next to me on the desk that I'm getting ready to send to a friend. (I promise I wasn't trying to further pad the number, I just forgot about those two.)
Out of those 295 books, I've read, from cover to cover, 84 of them. Out of the 211 remaining, unread books, I have partially read 36 of them. The even dirtier secret is that, just last week, maybe because I subconsciously knew that I would soon feel compelled to find out the number of books I own and publish it on the Internet, I filled two extra-large LL Bean boat and tote bags full of books and sold them to Half Price Books. Without re-filling the bags or searching for the sale receipt, both of which I am much too lazy to do, it is impossible to say how many were sold, but I think that, for the sake of everyone involved, that is a number better left unknown.
I doubt that I'd feel as guilty about admitting the total if it weren't for the fact that the number of books that I've read isn't even half of the number of those that I haven't. I'm not sure if the fact that I read non-fiction, which typically takes longer to get through than fiction accounts for anything, because it seems to me that this would cause a sane person to simply buy fewer books. However, the fact is that honestly, I don't feel that guilty about it. I love books. God, I love them so much. Each book is an opportunity to learn about life by sharing someone else's experiences. I tend to feel lost when I don't have anything to look forward to--when I'm not planning a fantastic trip or a fabulous dinner, and I often feel overwhelmed by my desire to experience, well, everything, and knowing that there's not nearly enough time for it all. It is a great comfort to me to know that I have more than my body weight in unread books, each of them bound to fill my soul with new adventures. And, even now, in the bleakest moments following the realization of my addiction, I still swear that there is nothing, absolutely nothing in this world better than a brand new stack of unread books.
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