They were buds this morning.
May 30, 2009
May 25, 2009
The dessert so nice I made it twice
Although I would consider myself a semi-competent cooktress, I haven't made many forays into baking. Whether this is due to rabid fear of failure or my complacency with a good ol' pint of B & J's Oatmeal Cookie Chunk, I do not know. My repertoire consisted solely of apple crisp and that ill-fated Disaster Cake... until now.
Do you read food blogs? You should. By blogs, of course, I am only referring to the exalted Smitten Kitchen, which I discovered through my dear friend McSamalama. All other blogs pale in comparison to Deb's beautious photos, story-ful prose and down-right darn good eatin'. I've made this Moroccan Stew for a few dinner parties, and each time it enters my guests' mouths they literally shriek with deliciousness.
Deb has often tempted me with her delectable desserts, but until yesterday I was too chicken to give them a go. Dangle anything strawberry-rhubarb in front of my face, though, and I'll do anything you say. Her strawberry-rhubarb crumble was too mouth-watering to pass by.
I made a batch last night along with some Quiche Gone Wild and broiled asparagus to surprise the manf after his long day of selling snake oil at Barnes and Noble. The guy thought he hated rhubarb. You bet your bip he thought again. His verdict? "Perfect."
We got invited to a Memorial Day barbecue today. I got a little cocky, and decided to use the same recipe to make my very first pie with the extra shell I had (I'm too chicken to make my own crust just yet). Behold:
I know that if the pie fell or if the stray alley cat jumped up and snatched it, it would make for a much better tale. But that hasn't happened. So this is the end. OKBYE.
May 23, 2009
Animal, Vegetable, Miracle
These geese wandered within five feet of me while I was waiting to be picked up from my Excel training at a "learning center" in Beaverton. I derived great amusement from imagining them waddling up to my instructor and honking, "You're a quack!" (He wasn't, but, you know... puns.)
The farmers market has been back in action for weeks now, but I only just made my way down there this morning. I wish I could send you a smell-o-gram from this place. Eau de Sustainability, I tell you.
I stumbled upon proof of what I've always known while at the Rose Garden this week. That could totally be my handwriting from a past life.
May 10, 2009
My first piece of crocheted art
About a month ago I went to a crochet-a-thon at the Museum of Contemporary Craft to aid in a new project by fiber artist Mandy Greer. Though I've been knitting for about six years, the only crocheting I've mastered is the chain stitch. With the help of a crochet book my ma got me for Channukah to augment what I learned at the museum, I decided to make a doily.
I thought I was following the directions correctly, but instead of a flat, circular piece of fabric, I ended up with a cone:
At first, I thought: baby hat! I don't know too many infants with cone heads, though, so that was out. Eventually, inspiration struck: bra cup. I set to work making a bridge to go between them, and attempted to make the new cup from the bottom up. Things didn't quite go as planned, and I ended up with the doily I had originally tried to make:
Whoopsies. Do you want to see how silly this looks? Of course you do.
Since the only mirror we have in our new apartment is this small one in the bathroom, I enlisted the help of my infinitely helpful and very shirtless boyfriend to further illustrate the depth of my art.
And now, a side view:
Hawt.
I thought I was following the directions correctly, but instead of a flat, circular piece of fabric, I ended up with a cone:
At first, I thought: baby hat! I don't know too many infants with cone heads, though, so that was out. Eventually, inspiration struck: bra cup. I set to work making a bridge to go between them, and attempted to make the new cup from the bottom up. Things didn't quite go as planned, and I ended up with the doily I had originally tried to make:
Whoopsies. Do you want to see how silly this looks? Of course you do.
Since the only mirror we have in our new apartment is this small one in the bathroom, I enlisted the help of my infinitely helpful and very shirtless boyfriend to further illustrate the depth of my art.
And now, a side view:
Hawt.
April 23, 2009
Grilled Cheese: "Cues I feel good!"
I couldn't help it. The holy grail of grilled cheeses was haunting me and I was utterly powerless to resist its siren call. So, escorted by my buddy Ryan, tonight I entered Cheese-Vana.
The Grilled Cheese Grill resides in North Portland, on Alberta. There is a kitchen trailer (where the grill magic happens) and a school bus a few steps away for diners to sit in (where the mouth magic happens). Before we even ordered, Ryan decided to get on the bus and distribute bouquets of tulips to fellow patrons-- in hopes of appeasing Cheesus, I think.
(I blurred his face to protect his fabulous self from stalkers and other n'er do wells. I don't know that girl so I didn't expend the same effort on her behalf. I'm hoping she can fend for herself on the wild wild interwebs.)
Where the grill magic happens.
Where the mouth magic happens.
This sandwich came with a Worther's Original. As if you needed more convincing to gobble it up.
The Grilled Cheese Grill resides in North Portland, on Alberta. There is a kitchen trailer (where the grill magic happens) and a school bus a few steps away for diners to sit in (where the mouth magic happens). Before we even ordered, Ryan decided to get on the bus and distribute bouquets of tulips to fellow patrons-- in hopes of appeasing Cheesus, I think.
(I blurred his face to protect his fabulous self from stalkers and other n'er do wells. I don't know that girl so I didn't expend the same effort on her behalf. I'm hoping she can fend for herself on the wild wild interwebs.)Ryan decided to order what I so gushingly described to you a few days ago, that cinnamon bread/ Nutella/ marscapone/ grilled banana bliss-mobile. I went with the Kindergartner-- cheddar on wheat-- with some mushrooms tossed in for flair.
Where the grill magic happens.
Where the mouth magic happens.The tables inside the bus were covered with random yearbook photos, so while we waited for our grub we played the amusing game of deciding who we wished we were. I chose her:
And finally, it was time. Here it is, my friends-- the sandwich you've been salivating over for days, complete with fun blurring effects to make it look as heavenly as it tastes:
And finally, it was time. Here it is, my friends-- the sandwich you've been salivating over for days, complete with fun blurring effects to make it look as heavenly as it tastes:
This sandwich came with a Worther's Original. As if you needed more convincing to gobble it up.In conclusion, why the heck haven't you come out to visit me yet??
I'll leave you with a piece of prose written by a luminary of our time named Jasmine (of Ms. Lewton's class):
Grilled cheese
creamy crunchy
oh I like it oh, yes, yes.
I do I do, yummy
sweet I love it oh
yes, I do. How do
you feel? cues I
feel good.
I'll leave you with a piece of prose written by a luminary of our time named Jasmine (of Ms. Lewton's class):
Grilled cheese
creamy crunchy
oh I like it oh, yes, yes.
I do I do, yummy
sweet I love it oh
yes, I do. How do
you feel? cues I
feel good.
April 19, 2009
The day I ate my weight in incremental, sample-sized portions
Portland has pockets of parking lots where food nirvana drives up and plunks down to delight all who happen to wander by. These food carts represent a United Nations of ethnicity. The food they make is so f'ing good because they make it in tiny huts and you start to gorge yourself while still outside. Food just tastes better outside, especially if you're miraculously not suffering from the hay fever that has plagued you since middle school and you can admire the flowering trees and not eye them warily. That's just the way it is and always will be, forever and ever amen.
Yesterday the local alt weekly hosted a Food Cart Festival, where you paid a nominal $5 to have access to a cornucopia of food cart flavor in the form of bite-sized samples. I was physically unable to photograph this event as I was at all times clutching at least three tiny vessels of food. The best I can do for you is a picture I took a few weeks ago of the food cart pod near my office. I made it sepia and blurry because I was playing with my photo editor and it seemed like it was the right thing to do.
Perhaps owing to the fact that this was the unofficial kickoff to the summer festival season, where beer and food jamborees occur on a nearly weekly basis, and perhaps because it was actually not drizzling with a passion for the first time in what felt like years, every hipster in the tri-county, often with their infant Baby-Bjorned to their chest, was in attendance.* Therefore, my compatriots and I had to endure epic lines at every cart after enduring the ultra-epic, 45-minute line just to enter the hallowed grounds.
I must say that despite this, and despite the protest my poor tummy made afterward, complete with punny signs and bullhorns (foreshadowing!), it was worth it. Please spare me some bandwidth so I can tell you about what I ate.
1. Clam Chowder from Soup Cycle, which isn't really a cart because they DELIVER FOOD TO YOU ON THEIR BICYCLES. That is the Portlandiest thing possibly ever.
2. A Mexican creation that I know not the name of, but I want to say was a sopapilla, from Nueva Mexico.
3. Chicken paprikash accompanied by a slice of baguette from Tabor, a Czech cart.
4. Banana-lime smoothie and a walnut chocolate piece of heaven from Moxie Rx.
5. A chocolate shake and a green, grassy shake from Sip.
I need to pause here and tell you a little something about myself. When I was a child the only thing I would eat at restaurants was grilled cheese sandwiches. This drove Ma nuts, because, seriously, why would you spend money on something you can make so easily and cheaply at home? The answer, Ma, is that no sane person who values his or her arteries would willingly put the amount of butter on a grilled cheese sandwich that a restaurant does. That's why it tastes so ridiculously manna from heaven in a restaurant and so not whilst at home. But no restaurant grilled cheese came close to preparing me for what I sampled next.
6. Three grilled cheese variations from The Grilled Cheese Grill. The first was colby on sourdough. Pretty basic, pretty delicious. The second was swiss on rye. Interesting tang; you're onto something there.
The third needs its own paragraph. OK. Please sit down. Imagine a world where there exists two slices of cinnamon bread. Now imagine marscopone, grilled bananas and Nutella filling those two slices. Now imagine that entering your mouth. That was me at approximately 6:43 p.m. on April 18, 2009.
7. A ball of goo at Garden State. Remember how blissed out I was just a paragraph ago? This experience was the exact opposite of that. My friends and I exited the indoor portion of the fest, stumbling with rapture over what we had just tasted, and stood in the line that seemed the shortest. The guy in front of us was gushing about this cart, about how he lives near it and eats from it nearly every day, and the fact that he was still standing in line to sample from it was a testament to its awesome awesomeness. After about 10 minutes we realized the line wasn't moving. After about 20 minutes I sauntered to the front of the line to take a peek at what was going on. Evidently they had run out of food and were in the process of cooking more. After about 30 minutes we finally reached the front of the line and were given wax paper bags containing a fried ball of goo. I don't know how to identify it other than it was yellow and there was a mushy pea in the middle. Eck. I'm not even going to link to them because they were such a total letdown.
Moving on, because I clearly had not gorged myself to bursting point yet.
8. Smoked salmon ice cream from Junior Ambassadors.
9. Rosemary shortbread from Lulu's Confections, also a bike delivery establishment (see above).
10. Mint tea from Cafe Velo.
11. Another banana-lime smoothie from Moxie Rx.
12. Another grassy smoothie from Sip (I was still trying to cleanse my palate from the goo ball).
After I had reached a point where my jeans were sufficiently uncomfortable, I decided to get gone. I was pretty close to requesting that somebody roll me out of the premises. Approximately four hours later, the gurgles and pops emanating from my core alerted me to the fact that I had just partaken in some dang good eatin'.
* God bless run-on sentences you are my friend I love you OK bye.
Yesterday the local alt weekly hosted a Food Cart Festival, where you paid a nominal $5 to have access to a cornucopia of food cart flavor in the form of bite-sized samples. I was physically unable to photograph this event as I was at all times clutching at least three tiny vessels of food. The best I can do for you is a picture I took a few weeks ago of the food cart pod near my office. I made it sepia and blurry because I was playing with my photo editor and it seemed like it was the right thing to do.
Perhaps owing to the fact that this was the unofficial kickoff to the summer festival season, where beer and food jamborees occur on a nearly weekly basis, and perhaps because it was actually not drizzling with a passion for the first time in what felt like years, every hipster in the tri-county, often with their infant Baby-Bjorned to their chest, was in attendance.* Therefore, my compatriots and I had to endure epic lines at every cart after enduring the ultra-epic, 45-minute line just to enter the hallowed grounds.
I must say that despite this, and despite the protest my poor tummy made afterward, complete with punny signs and bullhorns (foreshadowing!), it was worth it. Please spare me some bandwidth so I can tell you about what I ate.
1. Clam Chowder from Soup Cycle, which isn't really a cart because they DELIVER FOOD TO YOU ON THEIR BICYCLES. That is the Portlandiest thing possibly ever.
2. A Mexican creation that I know not the name of, but I want to say was a sopapilla, from Nueva Mexico.
3. Chicken paprikash accompanied by a slice of baguette from Tabor, a Czech cart.
4. Banana-lime smoothie and a walnut chocolate piece of heaven from Moxie Rx.
5. A chocolate shake and a green, grassy shake from Sip.
I need to pause here and tell you a little something about myself. When I was a child the only thing I would eat at restaurants was grilled cheese sandwiches. This drove Ma nuts, because, seriously, why would you spend money on something you can make so easily and cheaply at home? The answer, Ma, is that no sane person who values his or her arteries would willingly put the amount of butter on a grilled cheese sandwich that a restaurant does. That's why it tastes so ridiculously manna from heaven in a restaurant and so not whilst at home. But no restaurant grilled cheese came close to preparing me for what I sampled next.
6. Three grilled cheese variations from The Grilled Cheese Grill. The first was colby on sourdough. Pretty basic, pretty delicious. The second was swiss on rye. Interesting tang; you're onto something there.
The third needs its own paragraph. OK. Please sit down. Imagine a world where there exists two slices of cinnamon bread. Now imagine marscopone, grilled bananas and Nutella filling those two slices. Now imagine that entering your mouth. That was me at approximately 6:43 p.m. on April 18, 2009.
7. A ball of goo at Garden State. Remember how blissed out I was just a paragraph ago? This experience was the exact opposite of that. My friends and I exited the indoor portion of the fest, stumbling with rapture over what we had just tasted, and stood in the line that seemed the shortest. The guy in front of us was gushing about this cart, about how he lives near it and eats from it nearly every day, and the fact that he was still standing in line to sample from it was a testament to its awesome awesomeness. After about 10 minutes we realized the line wasn't moving. After about 20 minutes I sauntered to the front of the line to take a peek at what was going on. Evidently they had run out of food and were in the process of cooking more. After about 30 minutes we finally reached the front of the line and were given wax paper bags containing a fried ball of goo. I don't know how to identify it other than it was yellow and there was a mushy pea in the middle. Eck. I'm not even going to link to them because they were such a total letdown.
Moving on, because I clearly had not gorged myself to bursting point yet.
8. Smoked salmon ice cream from Junior Ambassadors.
9. Rosemary shortbread from Lulu's Confections, also a bike delivery establishment (see above).
10. Mint tea from Cafe Velo.
11. Another banana-lime smoothie from Moxie Rx.
12. Another grassy smoothie from Sip (I was still trying to cleanse my palate from the goo ball).
After I had reached a point where my jeans were sufficiently uncomfortable, I decided to get gone. I was pretty close to requesting that somebody roll me out of the premises. Approximately four hours later, the gurgles and pops emanating from my core alerted me to the fact that I had just partaken in some dang good eatin'.
* God bless run-on sentences you are my friend I love you OK bye.
April 16, 2009
Pa waxes poetic as Passover wanes
My dear old dad sent me this poem today and I loved it so much I just had to share it. Enjoy.
Goodbye Matzah For Another Year
Goodbye matzah for another year.
Goodbye to your frail, cracking, and yeastless skin.
For eight days, we tried to smother your barren being with butter, honey, smoked oysters or fried with eggs and covered with maple syrup.
And yet, beneath each bite, the sandy desert of our hurried escape.
Goodbye matzah for another year.
You're a frisbie that wouldn't fly, a kite with no string, a flag of our impoverished disposition.
You remind me of my father's pale legs, a widow's blank face, the empty pages of a bank book.
Goodbye matzah for another year.
We find your crumbs everywhere, in shirt pockets, in woven carpet, underneath tables.
You're an embarassment like dandruff.
Go away matzah, good riddance, for another year.
I can't bear to eat or see you.
Stay away.
I'll miss you until I see you again.
--Jim Perlman, (c) 2009
April 13, 2009
I am so down with God right now
This week has been the religious equivalent of (insert non-offensive metaphor equating grandiosity here... I rejected inappropriate ones related to guns and sports). What with the Egyptians finally freeing the Jews from hundreds of years of oppression and Jesus rising from his tomb, there was a whole lot of God going on.
Passover commenced on Wednesday at sundown, and the manf and I found ourselves in the home of a random family for seder. How we got there is kind of a long story; suffice it to say I'm on a listserv for tribelings and the lady who runs it hooked me up. It was a perfectly lovely evening, albeit a bit on the long side. Get this-- they actually continued the seder post-feast. That is unheard of in all my years of seder-ing. In my family we usually rush through the first part so we can stuff our gobs full of lamb and matzah ball soup. Then we collapse on the couch, unable to move from fullness, and joke about continuing the service. We then promptly eat another maccaroon or two and forget all about it.
But these people were hardcore. We got there at around seven and didn't leave till midnight. I was so redeemed I felt like a coupon.
Two nights later I was somewhere I rarely am on Friday nights: temple. I went by my all by myself. I don't really have anything else to say about it; I just thought it should be documented.
To pay the manf back for sitting through five hours of kvetching that's been passed down generation to generation, I agreed to go to an Easter service with him. Make that an Easter mass. At the cathedral downtown. I'd gone to but a handful of church services in my lifetime so I was very nervous about doing something wrong, but I had the perfect Easter dress so I figured it'd be OK.
We got there a bit late and ended up having to stand along the wall, which ended up being a blessing because I didn't have to worry about about kneeling/standing/sitting at the wrong times, nor did I have to be awkward when everyone else got up to take communion. There was quite lovely music and some adorable tots to captivate me. One of them liked thrusting her index fingers in the air and shouting, "HA-le-lu-YAH!"
Amen.
Passover commenced on Wednesday at sundown, and the manf and I found ourselves in the home of a random family for seder. How we got there is kind of a long story; suffice it to say I'm on a listserv for tribelings and the lady who runs it hooked me up. It was a perfectly lovely evening, albeit a bit on the long side. Get this-- they actually continued the seder post-feast. That is unheard of in all my years of seder-ing. In my family we usually rush through the first part so we can stuff our gobs full of lamb and matzah ball soup. Then we collapse on the couch, unable to move from fullness, and joke about continuing the service. We then promptly eat another maccaroon or two and forget all about it.
But these people were hardcore. We got there at around seven and didn't leave till midnight. I was so redeemed I felt like a coupon.
Two nights later I was somewhere I rarely am on Friday nights: temple. I went by my all by myself. I don't really have anything else to say about it; I just thought it should be documented.
To pay the manf back for sitting through five hours of kvetching that's been passed down generation to generation, I agreed to go to an Easter service with him. Make that an Easter mass. At the cathedral downtown. I'd gone to but a handful of church services in my lifetime so I was very nervous about doing something wrong, but I had the perfect Easter dress so I figured it'd be OK.
We got there a bit late and ended up having to stand along the wall, which ended up being a blessing because I didn't have to worry about about kneeling/standing/sitting at the wrong times, nor did I have to be awkward when everyone else got up to take communion. There was quite lovely music and some adorable tots to captivate me. One of them liked thrusting her index fingers in the air and shouting, "HA-le-lu-YAH!"
Amen.
April 7, 2009
Trying to remain home-ful
The manf and I moved into a shoebox last July when we arrived in Portland. I had been searching for pads months ahead of time in a method that had become a habit for me: all of my previous apartments nationwide save the first had been selected sight unseen via that vile man Craig and his list. And it worked out for me every time. Not.
This one isn't so bad, to be completely honest. It's totally furnished down to the colander, it's by a major highway and lots of big transit stops and it's within walking distance of two grocery stores and Mt. Hood. It's just wee. And kind of on the pricey side for its wee-ness. We only planned to be here for a month, two tops, but when the job market only graced the two of us with one 20-hour-a-week gig we kind of got stuck. See, when we move we'll have to go out and buy everything down to the colander, and that's a whole lot of things 20 hours a week ain't gonna buy you.
A couple of weeks ago, though, the universe suddenly aligned. I got bumped up to 36 hours a week. My angelic coworker offered to sell me a whole slew of furniture, including a bed and a lovely pink pullout couch, for $150. The manf got a part-time gig slanging books and he was also accepted by a temp agency. I immediately rolled out Operation: Find and Secure Chez Neenuh (and Manf) 2.0.
After crawling back to Craig and enduring one misfire (the apartment was great but it was in a neighboorhood where all the storefronts had 80s signage that had faded to that depressing blue color), I found it: The Apartment of Dreams. Large, lots of kitchen counterspace, a soaking tub, steps away from my favorite SE Portland haunts... sigh, it was beyond. We told the landlord we were in lurve and put our current landlord on notice. Two days later, we got the devastating news that the apartment had gone to some tricksy hobbit who had arrived but 10 minutes before we had.
Since then, even after securing another month of lead time from the landlord, I've been a bit overwhelmed. The Apartment of Dreams set the bar so high that I fear I may not ever be apartmentally satisfied. A dear friend named Katherine-Kat turned me on to one tool that is helping me get through this mo' betta' than I would have otherwise. It's called Pad Mapper (www.padmapper.com) and it uses Google Maps to plot out where Craigslist apartments are located. Since we want to move to a very specific 'hood this has been a godsend.
So here's hoping for an apartment that is more like a palace, with an abundance of amenities and without a price to match.
This one isn't so bad, to be completely honest. It's totally furnished down to the colander, it's by a major highway and lots of big transit stops and it's within walking distance of two grocery stores and Mt. Hood. It's just wee. And kind of on the pricey side for its wee-ness. We only planned to be here for a month, two tops, but when the job market only graced the two of us with one 20-hour-a-week gig we kind of got stuck. See, when we move we'll have to go out and buy everything down to the colander, and that's a whole lot of things 20 hours a week ain't gonna buy you.
A couple of weeks ago, though, the universe suddenly aligned. I got bumped up to 36 hours a week. My angelic coworker offered to sell me a whole slew of furniture, including a bed and a lovely pink pullout couch, for $150. The manf got a part-time gig slanging books and he was also accepted by a temp agency. I immediately rolled out Operation: Find and Secure Chez Neenuh (and Manf) 2.0.
After crawling back to Craig and enduring one misfire (the apartment was great but it was in a neighboorhood where all the storefronts had 80s signage that had faded to that depressing blue color), I found it: The Apartment of Dreams. Large, lots of kitchen counterspace, a soaking tub, steps away from my favorite SE Portland haunts... sigh, it was beyond. We told the landlord we were in lurve and put our current landlord on notice. Two days later, we got the devastating news that the apartment had gone to some tricksy hobbit who had arrived but 10 minutes before we had.
Since then, even after securing another month of lead time from the landlord, I've been a bit overwhelmed. The Apartment of Dreams set the bar so high that I fear I may not ever be apartmentally satisfied. A dear friend named Katherine-Kat turned me on to one tool that is helping me get through this mo' betta' than I would have otherwise. It's called Pad Mapper (www.padmapper.com) and it uses Google Maps to plot out where Craigslist apartments are located. Since we want to move to a very specific 'hood this has been a godsend.
So here's hoping for an apartment that is more like a palace, with an abundance of amenities and without a price to match.
March 27, 2009
How to wear your nightshirt to work
1. Have the teacher of a week-long software training you're attending tell you that Friday's going to be a lot more casual and invite you to even wear pajamas if you want.
2. Joke with your coworker that it'd be hilarious if you came wearing a nightshirt.
3. Make the coworker triple dog dare you to actually wear one the next day because you can't refuse a dare (and no one can refuse a triple dog dare (obviously)).
4. Settle upon this number:
(In case you can't see, the nightshirt is festooned with kitties, poodles, Eiffel Towers and the phrase "Oh, Mon Amour!)
5. On Friday morning, reconsider following through.
6. Remember you've been triple dog dared.
7. Add a belt, sweater, tights, boots and any other accessories that may lead passers-by to believe that the nightshirt is actually a dress.
8. Leave the house looking like this:
9. Wear your sunglasses on the train in case anyone stares at you so you don't have to meet eyes.
10. Wonder why no one's staring at you.
11. Remember that it's Portland.
12. Go to training session.
13. At the end of the session, inform the teacher that you took her up on her pajama offer. Become amused that she had thought it was just a really cute dress. Mission accomplished.
2. Joke with your coworker that it'd be hilarious if you came wearing a nightshirt.
3. Make the coworker triple dog dare you to actually wear one the next day because you can't refuse a dare (and no one can refuse a triple dog dare (obviously)).
4. Settle upon this number:
(In case you can't see, the nightshirt is festooned with kitties, poodles, Eiffel Towers and the phrase "Oh, Mon Amour!)5. On Friday morning, reconsider following through.
6. Remember you've been triple dog dared.
7. Add a belt, sweater, tights, boots and any other accessories that may lead passers-by to believe that the nightshirt is actually a dress.
8. Leave the house looking like this:
9. Wear your sunglasses on the train in case anyone stares at you so you don't have to meet eyes.
10. Wonder why no one's staring at you.
11. Remember that it's Portland.
12. Go to training session.
13. At the end of the session, inform the teacher that you took her up on her pajama offer. Become amused that she had thought it was just a really cute dress. Mission accomplished.
March 26, 2009
A peek into my nightttime brain
I had such a weird series of dreams last night. I would usually post those to my dream blog, but in recognition of my TP blog delinquency I'm going to post them here.
1.
My mom revealed to me that I had been adopted. I was shocked to learn this, as all four of us kids had been told repeatedly that we were accidents. My mom informed me that, in fact, my older brother and younger brother and sister had definitely not been planned, but after Big Brother's birth they had decided they wanted a little girl to complete their nuclear family. So they adopted me. I was furious; how could she have let me lie on all my medical family history forms I had filled out? How could she have let me believe that I was at risk for developing the cancer my brother had suffered?
I asked my mom if she had contact information for my birth mother and if she'd want to hear from me. She gave me Birth Mom's email address and showed me some pictures of her. She looked suspiciously like a woman in my real-life software training class that I'm going to all this week. I shot Birth Mom an email asking if she wanted to meet up and she responded emphatically that she would love to.
I met her at a VFW church, I believe. She was heavily made-up and wearing a ridiculous hat festooned with feathers. When I got there she was embracing Sarah Palin and telling her how much she loved and admired her. My mom was a neocon?? She didn't have time to talk to me-- the church service was about to start-- but introduced me to my birth father. He looked like an overweight frat boy with graying hair. I tried to interview him about my new family, but he was extremely hostile to me, perhaps because I told him I had been raised Jewish. His own father showed up and I tearfully told him that I was his granddaughter.
2.
I had a new poem that I wanted to read at a Portland open mic. I wandered into one I go to every Thursday, but it was a Wednesday and the crowd was sparse. A group of people beckoned me by name. I asked them how they knew who I was and they said they were huge fans of my boyfriend's. They inquired if he was coming that night because they wanted to give him $500. I said he was elsewhere.
I spotted a former coworker at a newspaper I used to work at. She told me that we had been two of five women who had ever worked there. She had just been laid off and she suspected it was due to her gender. We had left on not-so-great terms, so I tried to assure her that I really did like her.
1.
My mom revealed to me that I had been adopted. I was shocked to learn this, as all four of us kids had been told repeatedly that we were accidents. My mom informed me that, in fact, my older brother and younger brother and sister had definitely not been planned, but after Big Brother's birth they had decided they wanted a little girl to complete their nuclear family. So they adopted me. I was furious; how could she have let me lie on all my medical family history forms I had filled out? How could she have let me believe that I was at risk for developing the cancer my brother had suffered?
I asked my mom if she had contact information for my birth mother and if she'd want to hear from me. She gave me Birth Mom's email address and showed me some pictures of her. She looked suspiciously like a woman in my real-life software training class that I'm going to all this week. I shot Birth Mom an email asking if she wanted to meet up and she responded emphatically that she would love to.
I met her at a VFW church, I believe. She was heavily made-up and wearing a ridiculous hat festooned with feathers. When I got there she was embracing Sarah Palin and telling her how much she loved and admired her. My mom was a neocon?? She didn't have time to talk to me-- the church service was about to start-- but introduced me to my birth father. He looked like an overweight frat boy with graying hair. I tried to interview him about my new family, but he was extremely hostile to me, perhaps because I told him I had been raised Jewish. His own father showed up and I tearfully told him that I was his granddaughter.
2.
I had a new poem that I wanted to read at a Portland open mic. I wandered into one I go to every Thursday, but it was a Wednesday and the crowd was sparse. A group of people beckoned me by name. I asked them how they knew who I was and they said they were huge fans of my boyfriend's. They inquired if he was coming that night because they wanted to give him $500. I said he was elsewhere.
I spotted a former coworker at a newspaper I used to work at. She told me that we had been two of five women who had ever worked there. She had just been laid off and she suspected it was due to her gender. We had left on not-so-great terms, so I tried to assure her that I really did like her.
March 8, 2009
Disaster Cake
I decided to make my first cake today. It was to be an orange (the flavor, not the color), two-layer masterpiece with a meringue topping and strawberry whipped cream frosting.
Things started to go wrong pretty early on when I attempted to separate eggs for the meringue and the yolk kept breaking. I had a mini meltdown when I couldn't find my beaters. We've started watching Deadwood, so you better believe I was cussing up a storm Old West-style and calling my missing tools all sorts of unsavory similes for sex acts. Once found, they proved incapable of beating the meringue into the "stiff, white peaks" the recipe called for. More swearing ensued. After nearly going deaf from the blender noise I decided the gooey glops they were making would have to do.
Then I decided to put my oven racks one rung away from each other. Halfway into the baking process, this started to happen:
The meringue expanded so much that it stuck to both the rack and the cake pan above it. I tried to gently unstick it and to jiggle the rack loose, and the only thing both efforts got me was multiple burns.
After much maneuvering, I managed to flop my pathetic excuses for gateau onto a cooling rack. This is what they looked like:
Mind you, I was also planning on making a turkey for tonight's meal. The pressure to get everything ship-shape before I had to babysit/baste the bird for the next four hours made me swear like a sailor.
I figured I could hide the ugly under a layer of the whipped cream, and stack the less-offensive layer on top, like so:
Not so bad, right? Next I just needed to cover the exterior in frosting to make it all pretty-like. I channeled Duff from the Food Network's Ace of Cakes, and all my frosting efforts gained me was this:
It appears as if I just took fistfuls of whipped cream and lobbed them in the cake's general direction, but I was actually using a spatula to carefully transfer the frosting from the bowl to my masterpiece. This picture proves why I'm a better at thinking than at doing anything that requires motor skills.
But fret not my pets. I wasn't done with the little guy quite yet.
Behold: this is how I saved my boyfriend's birthday:
STRAWBERRIES! EVERYBODY DANCE!
Things started to go wrong pretty early on when I attempted to separate eggs for the meringue and the yolk kept breaking. I had a mini meltdown when I couldn't find my beaters. We've started watching Deadwood, so you better believe I was cussing up a storm Old West-style and calling my missing tools all sorts of unsavory similes for sex acts. Once found, they proved incapable of beating the meringue into the "stiff, white peaks" the recipe called for. More swearing ensued. After nearly going deaf from the blender noise I decided the gooey glops they were making would have to do.
Then I decided to put my oven racks one rung away from each other. Halfway into the baking process, this started to happen:
The meringue expanded so much that it stuck to both the rack and the cake pan above it. I tried to gently unstick it and to jiggle the rack loose, and the only thing both efforts got me was multiple burns.
After much maneuvering, I managed to flop my pathetic excuses for gateau onto a cooling rack. This is what they looked like:
Mind you, I was also planning on making a turkey for tonight's meal. The pressure to get everything ship-shape before I had to babysit/baste the bird for the next four hours made me swear like a sailor.
I figured I could hide the ugly under a layer of the whipped cream, and stack the less-offensive layer on top, like so:
Not so bad, right? Next I just needed to cover the exterior in frosting to make it all pretty-like. I channeled Duff from the Food Network's Ace of Cakes, and all my frosting efforts gained me was this:
It appears as if I just took fistfuls of whipped cream and lobbed them in the cake's general direction, but I was actually using a spatula to carefully transfer the frosting from the bowl to my masterpiece. This picture proves why I'm a better at thinking than at doing anything that requires motor skills.
But fret not my pets. I wasn't done with the little guy quite yet.
Behold: this is how I saved my boyfriend's birthday:
STRAWBERRIES! EVERYBODY DANCE!
February 20, 2009
The Chronic(what?)cles of Yarnia
So how many times have you walked into a yarn shop and been all, "Dude... if this orange alpaca had a shot of silvery thread through it it would be the BOMB"? All the time, right? Well today I discovered a veritable haven for fiber-philes that solves this very problem: Yarnia.
The walls of this smallish shop are lined with cone upon cone of single strands of cotton, alpaca, wool, acrylic, silk and blend yarns in every color you can imagine. The idea is that you combine multiple strands to achieve your desired color and thickness. The proprietor takes your chosen cones and hooks them individually into her windy machine, like so:
The machine combines all your threads together and winds them onto a new cone to create your custom yarn. To be 100 percent honest, the yarn I made is probably the best that shop has seen. The owner even told me I was "good at color." I always knew I should have gotten my degree in Color Studies...
I promise to post more pictures of the yarn and the finished product after it's presented to its intended owner (who will no doubt faint with delight).
By the way, the only other known shop of this kind is in Montreal. I'm not going to say it's another reason to come to Portland to visit me, but you know it is.
The walls of this smallish shop are lined with cone upon cone of single strands of cotton, alpaca, wool, acrylic, silk and blend yarns in every color you can imagine. The idea is that you combine multiple strands to achieve your desired color and thickness. The proprietor takes your chosen cones and hooks them individually into her windy machine, like so:
The machine combines all your threads together and winds them onto a new cone to create your custom yarn. To be 100 percent honest, the yarn I made is probably the best that shop has seen. The owner even told me I was "good at color." I always knew I should have gotten my degree in Color Studies...
I promise to post more pictures of the yarn and the finished product after it's presented to its intended owner (who will no doubt faint with delight).
By the way, the only other known shop of this kind is in Montreal. I'm not going to say it's another reason to come to Portland to visit me, but you know it is.
February 16, 2009
Is this ironic yet?
The outrageous popularity of the "25 Things" note on Facebook has made participating so very tempting for this lemming, but I've heretofore resisted. Now that it's dying off (and being replaced with much more obnoxious chain questionnaires for couples and new mommies), can I get away with posting mine on this blog without seeming like a total dweeb? I guess I leave the answer up to you, dear readers.
1. As a child I liked to sit in the crab apple tree in my backyard with a bucket of crab apples and a book, thinking I was teaching myself to survive in the wilderness.
2. I also used to practice going up and down our creaky stairs without making a sound-- a skill I was convinced would save me if kidnappers ever entered the house.
3. When I went to China as a 10-year-old for a world conference on women, I repeatedly referred to presenter Betty Friedan as Betty Crocker. After reading The Feminine Mystique I now realize just how hilarious that was.
4. In fifth grade, after watching Clueless for the first time during spring break, I thought I would be able to negotiate my C+ in Life Science to a B when I returned to school.
5. In sixth grade, when glitter make-up was popular, I used one of the roll-on applicators (meant for lips and eyelids) to coat my entire face. My teacher, who had me go up to the projector to work a math problem, told me I was blinding her.
6. The same teacher gave me one of the sole disciplinary marks I ever received for using a bobby pin to pinch my nose shut.
7. In high school I often walked around with what I thought was a sorrowful look on my face so people would think I was experiencing depths of emotion they could never plumb. I later found out this scowl made people who didn't know me think I was a bitch.
8. I tried out for cheerleading as a freshman. It started off as a joke but then I really wanted to join. I still remember the routine they taught us. "East fans/In the stands/We wanna hear you yell!" Unfortunately, this white girl can't jump.
9. My brother and I had newspaper class together when I was a junior, and we liked to aggravate our adviser by playing with her creepy rabbit fur-covered kitten things. Once we hanged one from the projector screen pull. Another time we left it in a precarious dance with the paper cutter. Yet another time we kidnapped one and made a ransom note asking for cookies. I believe he still has one of them in his room at home.
10. The same brother and I spent most of our lives not getting along until midway through high school. Then we started singing songs like, "He is my brother and my brother is my friend/ she is my sister and my sister is my friend/ friend friend friend friend friend friend friend."
11. When I lived in the dorms I felt guilty every time I took the elevator from the dining hall in the basement to my room on the third floor. One time I got in and thought I would be able to take my clandestine ride up in solitude, but a guy squeezed in and pressed the "6." Feeling like a lazy jerk, when I departed the elevator I dragged my left leg behind me so he would think I was injured and unable to use the stairs.
12. I was so convinced that the landlords in my Minneapolis apartment were creepy enough to broadcast images from hidden cameras to a lewd website for monetary gain that one night I enlisted my roommates' help in removing all our vents so we could peer inside. The fact that we found nothing doesn't change my conviction.
13. I found out I had mono a week after smooching a guy I was sweet on. Trying to be a responsible citizen, I called to tell him and added that I knew he didn't have health insurance and would help him pay for the doctor bills if he did in fact have the disease. Some time later, he called me back and left the longest, most awkward, most epic message ever to explain that he wasn't sick. I rue the day I accidentally deleted it from my phone.
14. The best work days of my life were when a coworker brought a tent to the office and we edited from within it.
15. One of my boyf's favorite things to do is to startle me, which is a pretty easy feat and is usually rewarded with a scream. This summer I tried to scare him back by climbing in through the open bedroom window. All I got out of it was a pulled muscle.
16. It is impossible for me to exit my boss' office without bodyslamming into the door frame.
17. My mom has cheated at Scrabble since before we were old enough to know any better. I beat her for the first time this winter and don't feel the need to ever play her again. It was my greatest triumph.
18. I'm obsessed with checking the Google Analytics for this blog. The search terms people use to end up on the site are so random. This month, for example, people have landed on TP by searching "Teenuh M. Foster," "at least I know I'm alive," "campus + 'relieving herself'" and "stuttering dude can't escape from his girlfriends moms."
19. Since starting my current job, I think I've used more exclamation marks and smiley faces in emails than in all of my previous years of existence combined. Maybe this means I'm getting nicer.
20. I profess to like cooking, but I tend to swear up a storm and injure myself whilst in the process. I can't cut things uniformly and I rarely stray from the recipe. Maybe a better statement would be "I like eating."
21. I wake boyf up before I go to work every morning and won't leave until he tells me that I look pretty.
22. I used to tell people I decided to become a reporter because my middle name rhymes with "truth." That is a lie.
23. I get immense pleasure from mocking TV newscasters' voices.
24. I never want to live anywhere again that doesn't have a good mass transit system.
25. I'm sorely tempted to defriend dozens of people on Facebook, but the last time I defriended someone they confronted me and I had to pretend the site had malfunctioned. Someday I'll have the courage... the courage to only be friends with my friends. Sigh.
1. As a child I liked to sit in the crab apple tree in my backyard with a bucket of crab apples and a book, thinking I was teaching myself to survive in the wilderness.
2. I also used to practice going up and down our creaky stairs without making a sound-- a skill I was convinced would save me if kidnappers ever entered the house.
3. When I went to China as a 10-year-old for a world conference on women, I repeatedly referred to presenter Betty Friedan as Betty Crocker. After reading The Feminine Mystique I now realize just how hilarious that was.
4. In fifth grade, after watching Clueless for the first time during spring break, I thought I would be able to negotiate my C+ in Life Science to a B when I returned to school.
5. In sixth grade, when glitter make-up was popular, I used one of the roll-on applicators (meant for lips and eyelids) to coat my entire face. My teacher, who had me go up to the projector to work a math problem, told me I was blinding her.
6. The same teacher gave me one of the sole disciplinary marks I ever received for using a bobby pin to pinch my nose shut.
7. In high school I often walked around with what I thought was a sorrowful look on my face so people would think I was experiencing depths of emotion they could never plumb. I later found out this scowl made people who didn't know me think I was a bitch.
8. I tried out for cheerleading as a freshman. It started off as a joke but then I really wanted to join. I still remember the routine they taught us. "East fans/In the stands/We wanna hear you yell!" Unfortunately, this white girl can't jump.
9. My brother and I had newspaper class together when I was a junior, and we liked to aggravate our adviser by playing with her creepy rabbit fur-covered kitten things. Once we hanged one from the projector screen pull. Another time we left it in a precarious dance with the paper cutter. Yet another time we kidnapped one and made a ransom note asking for cookies. I believe he still has one of them in his room at home.
10. The same brother and I spent most of our lives not getting along until midway through high school. Then we started singing songs like, "He is my brother and my brother is my friend/ she is my sister and my sister is my friend/ friend friend friend friend friend friend friend."
11. When I lived in the dorms I felt guilty every time I took the elevator from the dining hall in the basement to my room on the third floor. One time I got in and thought I would be able to take my clandestine ride up in solitude, but a guy squeezed in and pressed the "6." Feeling like a lazy jerk, when I departed the elevator I dragged my left leg behind me so he would think I was injured and unable to use the stairs.
12. I was so convinced that the landlords in my Minneapolis apartment were creepy enough to broadcast images from hidden cameras to a lewd website for monetary gain that one night I enlisted my roommates' help in removing all our vents so we could peer inside. The fact that we found nothing doesn't change my conviction.
13. I found out I had mono a week after smooching a guy I was sweet on. Trying to be a responsible citizen, I called to tell him and added that I knew he didn't have health insurance and would help him pay for the doctor bills if he did in fact have the disease. Some time later, he called me back and left the longest, most awkward, most epic message ever to explain that he wasn't sick. I rue the day I accidentally deleted it from my phone.
14. The best work days of my life were when a coworker brought a tent to the office and we edited from within it.
15. One of my boyf's favorite things to do is to startle me, which is a pretty easy feat and is usually rewarded with a scream. This summer I tried to scare him back by climbing in through the open bedroom window. All I got out of it was a pulled muscle.
16. It is impossible for me to exit my boss' office without bodyslamming into the door frame.
17. My mom has cheated at Scrabble since before we were old enough to know any better. I beat her for the first time this winter and don't feel the need to ever play her again. It was my greatest triumph.
18. I'm obsessed with checking the Google Analytics for this blog. The search terms people use to end up on the site are so random. This month, for example, people have landed on TP by searching "Teenuh M. Foster," "at least I know I'm alive," "campus + 'relieving herself'" and "stuttering dude can't escape from his girlfriends moms."
19. Since starting my current job, I think I've used more exclamation marks and smiley faces in emails than in all of my previous years of existence combined. Maybe this means I'm getting nicer.
20. I profess to like cooking, but I tend to swear up a storm and injure myself whilst in the process. I can't cut things uniformly and I rarely stray from the recipe. Maybe a better statement would be "I like eating."
21. I wake boyf up before I go to work every morning and won't leave until he tells me that I look pretty.
22. I used to tell people I decided to become a reporter because my middle name rhymes with "truth." That is a lie.
23. I get immense pleasure from mocking TV newscasters' voices.
24. I never want to live anywhere again that doesn't have a good mass transit system.
25. I'm sorely tempted to defriend dozens of people on Facebook, but the last time I defriended someone they confronted me and I had to pretend the site had malfunctioned. Someday I'll have the courage... the courage to only be friends with my friends. Sigh.
February 14, 2009
Love is so delicious
Would you behold that beauty? This is what the boyf gave me from Pix Patisserie (my favorite place in Portland, hands down) this afternoon. It is a heart-shaped puff pastry shell topped with something more delicious than whipped cream, fresh raspberries, rose-flavored macarons and a rose petal. It was filled with raspberry mousse with chunks of chocolate-covered pop rocks here and there. That's right-- one bite and my mouth literally exploded. Oh, and my camera failed to capture it, but this confection was also sprinkled with pink glitter.
Wuv. Twoo Wuv.
Wuv. Twoo Wuv.
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