So The Boy and I are reading Laurie Notaro.
She makes me happy. Not just for her admission of leaving lipstick on teeth during a date, but also because self-deprecating humor is ALWAYS good for me...if I can relate. And she does her very best, which turns into her best at disclosure. I'm pretty sure I could confide in her pubic sideburns, and she would not just accept, but go a step further and admit the things I was in NO WISE going to admit to...except she said it.
And it's true.
She makes the hunt for panties on a bedroom floor at least realistic, if not commonplace, and warns those huns who don't think 1:00 a.m. an acceptable time to, bleary-eyed, toast the chef.
A bleary-eyed chef accolade happened to me less than a week ago.
Eff, yeah.
Doesn't matter what they are preparing and serving; a chef knows what is going on, and where he/she stands in the world. A chef is not afraid of letting someone else make suggestions.
The Boy and I are reading 'The Soul of a Chef." I confess. All I am focusing on is the ways in which I can let him down; despite a tremendously auspicious beginning, I can't do it.
I really can't.
Nope. Not kidding.
I mean it really, seriously, means I can't do it.
jh
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Reasons That, Well, Make Me Cackle.
I'm still not sure what it was.
"There's soup?" K. asked, incredulous. "He never told ME."
Three people peered into the murky depths of the warmer.
"What IS it?" I finally asked, again.
Nobody knew.
It takes a special kind of culinary gift to create a dish devoid of any defining characteristics. It had several kinds of, well, I am going to say macaroni rather than pasta. There were red flecks. They were not red pepper flakes, they were not tomatoes. Were they pimento? Were they...my imagination was woefully inadequate to the task.
The loser of 'One, two, three, NOT IT!" sampled the witches brew (also, he was not there for the inaugural peek; that may have contributed to his willingness to submit to ptomaine treachery).
He still couldn't say what it was.
"What's your soup of the day?"
"I'm not sure. Kitchen Sink Stew, possibly; I just know I can't recommend what I haven't tried."
"I'm feeling brave. I'll try it."
The Majesty's Taster was procured a small sample and spoon. Later, I casually drifted back and posed the real query:
"And how was it?"
"Not...bad."
"And...WHAT was it?"
"If it had hamburger, I would say it was gazpacho."
I had to hear it again, sure I had misheard or misinterpreted.
"I'm sorry, it was like what?"
"Gazpacho."
"Hamburger...in...gazpacho?" I said, sure that maybe if I said the word the woman with whom I was speaking would realize she was saying the wrong thing, kind of like when my mother talked for a good ten minutes with a college professor on how someone was attending a scientific suppository (instead of symposium).
"Yes," she said.
I left her to her side salad.
I freely admit I am a Food Snob. It requires capitals solely because Food Snobs insist upon it.
And yet, I get nowhere near the glamour of that title.
When called upon, I will eat absolutely nothing at any place The Boy reveres; even if the dish seems safe enough, they add some level of yuck (to me and my pedestrian tastes). A basic search will turn up the fact that, owing to my pickiness about eating seafood (if it came from the water, I'm not interested) very few appetizers remain. Even entrees result in a dish including your basic corn-fed cow turning into "I'm not eating beef cheeks. The word 'cheeks' is disgusting. Your industry should find a better way to market to hick consumers like myself."
I kinda suck when it comes to refined palates and, well, anything he's really exceptional at.
Not just kinda.
I wish I liked more things. Believe me, in a world that I fully believe is designed fully for visceral experiences, and a world that contains white and black, I guess I'm not fully prepared for either.
All I can say is, The Boy...is a force to be reckoned with.
"There's soup?" K. asked, incredulous. "He never told ME."
Three people peered into the murky depths of the warmer.
"What IS it?" I finally asked, again.
Nobody knew.
It takes a special kind of culinary gift to create a dish devoid of any defining characteristics. It had several kinds of, well, I am going to say macaroni rather than pasta. There were red flecks. They were not red pepper flakes, they were not tomatoes. Were they pimento? Were they...my imagination was woefully inadequate to the task.
The loser of 'One, two, three, NOT IT!" sampled the witches brew (also, he was not there for the inaugural peek; that may have contributed to his willingness to submit to ptomaine treachery).
He still couldn't say what it was.
"What's your soup of the day?"
"I'm not sure. Kitchen Sink Stew, possibly; I just know I can't recommend what I haven't tried."
"I'm feeling brave. I'll try it."
The Majesty's Taster was procured a small sample and spoon. Later, I casually drifted back and posed the real query:
"And how was it?"
"Not...bad."
"And...WHAT was it?"
"If it had hamburger, I would say it was gazpacho."
I had to hear it again, sure I had misheard or misinterpreted.
"I'm sorry, it was like what?"
"Gazpacho."
"Hamburger...in...gazpacho?" I said, sure that maybe if I said the word the woman with whom I was speaking would realize she was saying the wrong thing, kind of like when my mother talked for a good ten minutes with a college professor on how someone was attending a scientific suppository (instead of symposium).
"Yes," she said.
I left her to her side salad.
I freely admit I am a Food Snob. It requires capitals solely because Food Snobs insist upon it.
And yet, I get nowhere near the glamour of that title.
When called upon, I will eat absolutely nothing at any place The Boy reveres; even if the dish seems safe enough, they add some level of yuck (to me and my pedestrian tastes). A basic search will turn up the fact that, owing to my pickiness about eating seafood (if it came from the water, I'm not interested) very few appetizers remain. Even entrees result in a dish including your basic corn-fed cow turning into "I'm not eating beef cheeks. The word 'cheeks' is disgusting. Your industry should find a better way to market to hick consumers like myself."
I kinda suck when it comes to refined palates and, well, anything he's really exceptional at.
Not just kinda.
I wish I liked more things. Believe me, in a world that I fully believe is designed fully for visceral experiences, and a world that contains white and black, I guess I'm not fully prepared for either.
All I can say is, The Boy...is a force to be reckoned with.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Life, and Why It's Weird.
Frankly, that's a use of hubris. I have NO idea why life is as weird as it is. If I knew, would I have even gotten into the career track? Because really, Yeats' poem The Isle of Innisfree speaks to me on every level. Do I want a career? I mean, a career like the Real World dictates, a Career?
Not so much.
There are very few authors who can boast that they make a living doing so. John Grisham is one. Stephen King is another (an how awesome are we that we are a ph, rather than a v?). Robin McKinley is far and away one of my favorites.
And she is a loon.
Complete, total, utter, loon.
I'm pretty sure she's living the life I would if I could be her. Her blog most recently discusses bats. Knitting. Bell-ringing. Roses. Her husband (also a major and fantastic author in his own right). She puts up with silly crushes from fans. She wears Converse (sparkly, no less). She has no qualms about being August Majesty to Chaos and Darkness, also in some worlds known as gorgeous, beautiful, perfect doggies.
I'm probably, based on the royalty checks thus far, never gonna make it as a writer.
Just so you know, it took me 32 years to say that.
Only because I couldn't write cursive until first grade...
But I'm not going to stop. I love the world. I love the written word. I love the way the world looks when created by someone who actually loves language. I spent my entire life enthralled by the world as it OUGHT to be, based on descriptions, instead of the way it was. The mundane, prosaic, prozac world can be enough for some.
It's not for me.
Not so much.
There are very few authors who can boast that they make a living doing so. John Grisham is one. Stephen King is another (an how awesome are we that we are a ph, rather than a v?). Robin McKinley is far and away one of my favorites.
And she is a loon.
Complete, total, utter, loon.
I'm pretty sure she's living the life I would if I could be her. Her blog most recently discusses bats. Knitting. Bell-ringing. Roses. Her husband (also a major and fantastic author in his own right). She puts up with silly crushes from fans. She wears Converse (sparkly, no less). She has no qualms about being August Majesty to Chaos and Darkness, also in some worlds known as gorgeous, beautiful, perfect doggies.
I'm probably, based on the royalty checks thus far, never gonna make it as a writer.
Just so you know, it took me 32 years to say that.
Only because I couldn't write cursive until first grade...
But I'm not going to stop. I love the world. I love the written word. I love the way the world looks when created by someone who actually loves language. I spent my entire life enthralled by the world as it OUGHT to be, based on descriptions, instead of the way it was. The mundane, prosaic, prozac world can be enough for some.
It's not for me.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Ah, I Understand.
It's not the first time.
No, I've actually spent my whole life doing everything I could to undermine the whole V-day thing.
It isn't just V-Day, you know.
Parts of the world, at one point upon a time, spent their time flogging nubile maidens prior to their subsequent entertainments.
It was de rigeur, in the day.
Me, not so much.
While I don't subscribe to anything legitimate to the Pink Holiday (as it was known to the more Delicately Ascribed members of my coterie), I have a few things to say about its moments that make the rest of us look like dilholes (accuracy left to what you SHOULD have said):
"You are the Best! Thing! Ever!"
"Holy &^%*! Oh please, please, let me *%^&*(!!!!!!"
"Oh, hey, mind if I spend the whole rest of my life doing everything I possibly can to make you realize how wonderful you are, how desireable you are, and how much I wish I could spend every second with you?"
No, I've actually spent my whole life doing everything I could to undermine the whole V-day thing.
It isn't just V-Day, you know.
Parts of the world, at one point upon a time, spent their time flogging nubile maidens prior to their subsequent entertainments.
It was de rigeur, in the day.
Me, not so much.
While I don't subscribe to anything legitimate to the Pink Holiday (as it was known to the more Delicately Ascribed members of my coterie), I have a few things to say about its moments that make the rest of us look like dilholes (accuracy left to what you SHOULD have said):
"You are the Best! Thing! Ever!"
"Holy &^%*! Oh please, please, let me *%^&*(!!!!!!"
"Oh, hey, mind if I spend the whole rest of my life doing everything I possibly can to make you realize how wonderful you are, how desireable you are, and how much I wish I could spend every second with you?"
Monday, January 10, 2011
The Light of Elendiel Ain't Gonna Save Us Now, Precious
"THERE WAS A WHACKING GREAT SPIDER IN MY ROOM THAT JUST TRIED TO KILL ME."
"Yikes! Did you destroy it?"
"It is currently trapped under a bowl and a puddle of Raid," I informed The Boy shortly thereafter via Skype.
"I am sorry. I wish I were there. I would kill it for you." He proffered.
Look, I know.
I know in this day and age I am supposed to pick up a copy of Euell Gibbson's Stalking The Wild Asparagus and squash the fellow with little more than a sniff and flexed bicep; or that I should broil him in a sumptuous array of port wine, strawberries, and cucumber. Or array myself in appropriate hunting attire and refuse to let the little rapscallions get the better of me. Stiff upper lip, being British, and all.
Then I remember that I am NOT British and there is not a single reason petitioning to which I should be. Which is as British as you can get for saying I AM AN EFFING AMERICAN MUTT, EIGHTCRAWLERS, AND I AM TERRIFIED OF YOU.
The true American response would be to find several compulsively-loaded guns, wait around corners, and go out blazing only to inexplicably win through because Truth, Justice, and the American Way always prevail. Barring that, I could fall in a hail of ineffable justice-free wrong-person-running-the-show-and-that'll-show-them hail. Since really it's me versus Shelob in there, I have come to realize that I am a crappy American and a worse Bearer of the Ring. Either of those require sense of self, a willingness to persevere. Me? I may have given myself some sort of heavy poisoning from leaving that eight legged predator in half an inch of poison.
I want to have the stiff upper British lip. Believe me. You sound so much more erudite quoting Chaucer in Middle English with a Modern British accent. Frankly, you sound more erudite yelling at the milkman about his current delivery in a British accent than you do American; it moves from vulgar to sublime.
But I have yet to meet an arachnid of Charlotte's composition, who no doubt would have embraced the bicoastal thrills of international interaction, but probably also would not have died by drowning in half an inch of Raid.
Either way, I am so not taking to my bed tonight. You win, arachnid. The field is yours.
"Yikes! Did you destroy it?"
"It is currently trapped under a bowl and a puddle of Raid," I informed The Boy shortly thereafter via Skype.
"I am sorry. I wish I were there. I would kill it for you." He proffered.
Look, I know.
I know in this day and age I am supposed to pick up a copy of Euell Gibbson's Stalking The Wild Asparagus and squash the fellow with little more than a sniff and flexed bicep; or that I should broil him in a sumptuous array of port wine, strawberries, and cucumber. Or array myself in appropriate hunting attire and refuse to let the little rapscallions get the better of me. Stiff upper lip, being British, and all.
Then I remember that I am NOT British and there is not a single reason petitioning to which I should be. Which is as British as you can get for saying I AM AN EFFING AMERICAN MUTT, EIGHTCRAWLERS, AND I AM TERRIFIED OF YOU.
The true American response would be to find several compulsively-loaded guns, wait around corners, and go out blazing only to inexplicably win through because Truth, Justice, and the American Way always prevail. Barring that, I could fall in a hail of ineffable justice-free wrong-person-running-the-show-and-that'll-show-them hail. Since really it's me versus Shelob in there, I have come to realize that I am a crappy American and a worse Bearer of the Ring. Either of those require sense of self, a willingness to persevere. Me? I may have given myself some sort of heavy poisoning from leaving that eight legged predator in half an inch of poison.
I want to have the stiff upper British lip. Believe me. You sound so much more erudite quoting Chaucer in Middle English with a Modern British accent. Frankly, you sound more erudite yelling at the milkman about his current delivery in a British accent than you do American; it moves from vulgar to sublime.
But I have yet to meet an arachnid of Charlotte's composition, who no doubt would have embraced the bicoastal thrills of international interaction, but probably also would not have died by drowning in half an inch of Raid.
Either way, I am so not taking to my bed tonight. You win, arachnid. The field is yours.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
A Heist For Help
Christmas was...well, the Best! Christmas! Ever!
I had to first reassure my dad that the Best Christmas Ever was now officially different than the one his kids reference, sadly the one where he was too sick to emerge from the bedroom. No. Really. Best! Christmas! Ever!
I guess I had never got to share a Christmas officially with the Boy I Love, so naturally we were as disgusting as expected. We were, apparently, not as disgusting as my mother wished, since she expressed a thwarted desire to shoot us with the kitchen hose while shrieking "PDA! PDA" (which rumor has it she does at high school lunches, rumor being truth held from her mouth).
The Boy I Love has officially announced his intentions toward me, which despite common belief do not include him strangling me and trying to hide the body, so all is well.
I decided not to send pictures until my sister, who does AMAZING photography, sent us photos of us. We took them, but I may have behaved badly. Oh. There is a shock.
Speaking of The Sister, her current pet project, Project Elevate, is looking for sponsors or fundraising ideas. If anybody has any great ideas or sugnificent dying relatives or anything, wouldja letme know? This is an incredible resource. Please visit their website for additional thoughts.
I had to first reassure my dad that the Best Christmas Ever was now officially different than the one his kids reference, sadly the one where he was too sick to emerge from the bedroom. No. Really. Best! Christmas! Ever!
I guess I had never got to share a Christmas officially with the Boy I Love, so naturally we were as disgusting as expected. We were, apparently, not as disgusting as my mother wished, since she expressed a thwarted desire to shoot us with the kitchen hose while shrieking "PDA! PDA" (which rumor has it she does at high school lunches, rumor being truth held from her mouth).
The Boy I Love has officially announced his intentions toward me, which despite common belief do not include him strangling me and trying to hide the body, so all is well.
I decided not to send pictures until my sister, who does AMAZING photography, sent us photos of us. We took them, but I may have behaved badly. Oh. There is a shock.
Speaking of The Sister, her current pet project, Project Elevate, is looking for sponsors or fundraising ideas. If anybody has any great ideas or sugnificent dying relatives or anything, wouldja letme know? This is an incredible resource. Please visit their website for additional thoughts.
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