This sounds like a fun job. You eat, you write about it. Yes, you have to use romantic flourishes to turn it into soft-core food porn, but that's the business you're in. Making people want it. Making people need it.
Mmmm, steaming lasagna arrives promptly at your table and suddenly you are transported to the Italian countryside, the fields bursting with wild thyme as you enter an Italian grandmother's back garden and see the tomatoes fresh and bursting on the vine, the basil fondled by the breeze, it's scent gently wafting toward you and away again, beckoning you to come closer.
A steaming bite of lasagna travels from plate to fork trailing rich strands of the finest mozarella and, could it be? Yes, a hint of parmagiana reggiano. The scent is so divine that tasting seems almost secondary. But you must; you do. Your taste buds will have it no other way.
The texture is divine. Nothing so lovely and comforting as perfectly cooked pasta, sauce and cheese, fresh herbs and perfectly cooked spinach, beautifully married, utterly delicious.
So there's my quick attempt at food porn. Five minutes. I could actually edit the thing in future and make it better. I failed to mention anything about the dairy cows and their early morning bursting teats, and I made the lasagna vegetarian so as not to have to go into details of grain-fed beef cattle and their slaughter. (It can be no other way but grain fed, in my world.) And I could be talking about actual food rather than a memory of mama's lasagna! Eh!
If anyone knows of a fab restaurant in Austin that hasn't been reviewed, particularly one that's into that whole local grain-fed thing, let me know. I have my fork and my pen at the ready.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Friday, September 12, 2008
Giving a cat liquid meds
Speak soothingly while smooshing cat between stomach and surface of table. Use thumb and forefinger to force jaws open. Place end of dropper as far back as possible in cat’s throat without actually touching any surface that might make cat gag. Quickly squirt out cold, bubble-gum flavored antibiotic liquid (first dose of 2). When cat’s gag reflex kicks in and forces dropper out, squirt half of liquid down cat’s chin and onto table and knock over remaining antibiotic whose convenient dropper-cap suddenly seems less convenient. Quickly force cat’s jaws shut to hold in what remains. Stroke cat’s throat when not busy removing clinging pointy claws from arm flesh or righting bottle of antibiotic. Attempt to gently stroke back in pink drool bubbles that have begun to emerge from cat’s mouth. Inadvertently cover cat with pink drool when cat begins to struggle and hands must double as forcible restraint devices. Smear cat’s front paws through spilled liquid. Curse…in a soothing tone.
Repeat. Try to temporarily ignore pink drool streams emerging from cat’s mouth. Take calculated look at sink and roll of paper towels halfway across room. Make a lunge for it. Notice pink stains on freshly pressed (and ever so hairy) white shirt as cat leaps from table and runs to safety under bed, shaking head all the while and scattering drooly pink antibiotic across furniture, walls, floors, fireplaces and other items you foolishly failed to cover in plastic sheeting. Spend several minutes attempting to lure cat out from under bed. Notice the time and give up. Clean up quickly and race to workplace. Use full roll of scotch tape to remove most hair from shirt. Slump in chair and/or carry around notepad to mask pink stains. Return home and discover pink panther paw-prints leading from bedroom to computer. Notice paw-prints on keyboard and mouse. Wonder what cat was using the computer for. Try not to think about the fact that “hit men” came up in recent saved searches just before “tuna delivery.”
Repeat.
Foolishly believe you’ll have your revenge later when you bathe the cat.
Repeat. Try to temporarily ignore pink drool streams emerging from cat’s mouth. Take calculated look at sink and roll of paper towels halfway across room. Make a lunge for it. Notice pink stains on freshly pressed (and ever so hairy) white shirt as cat leaps from table and runs to safety under bed, shaking head all the while and scattering drooly pink antibiotic across furniture, walls, floors, fireplaces and other items you foolishly failed to cover in plastic sheeting. Spend several minutes attempting to lure cat out from under bed. Notice the time and give up. Clean up quickly and race to workplace. Use full roll of scotch tape to remove most hair from shirt. Slump in chair and/or carry around notepad to mask pink stains. Return home and discover pink panther paw-prints leading from bedroom to computer. Notice paw-prints on keyboard and mouse. Wonder what cat was using the computer for. Try not to think about the fact that “hit men” came up in recent saved searches just before “tuna delivery.”
Repeat.
Foolishly believe you’ll have your revenge later when you bathe the cat.
Monday, February 11, 2008
How to traumatize small children with a piñata
I went to my niece's 6th birthday party on Saturday. My brother and his wife are big fans of the party piñata, and it's a fun tradition. Little kids heaving a stick (ever-so-lightly) against bamboo shelled papier mache candy-holding goodness. Julia's party had a puppy theme this year, so they ended up w/ a Blue's Clues piñata or something vaguely resembling that.
I was talking to one of the guests' moms as my brother was stringing up ol' Blue. She was Irish, not sure how many years in this country, but fresh enough to still have a strong brogue and an outsider's viewpoint. We were talking about the more disturbing aspects of the piñata tradition. For her, small children pounding away at a star or something like that was no biggie; small children pounding away at a favorite cartoon character, screaming "Kill it, kill it!" on the other hand...okay, yeah, maybe a little twisted. Of course, she had a sense of humor about it, just also the slightest, um, discomfort.
So we'd only just begun to psychoanalyze and deconstruct the finer points of the white hegemony co-opting Mexican tradition and the history of southern aggression (i.e. I was about to say: "Well, we stole it from Mexico, so I guess you have to blame them, but, um, that sounds bad, er-uh. Did you know studies show southerners anger more quickly than northerners and have a greater aggressive streak? Maybe it's because we grow up smacking piñatas. Heh, heh. Well, in Texas we do anyway. Um, hey, so is your daughter in Julia's class at school? She's cute! Wow. I think I need to get an M&M." [Dana slinks off into the shadows] ).
Luckily, I didn't have a chance to open my mouth, so everything went just fine. The pinata was strung and ready to go, the kids were gathered and herded outside into a line, little kids first, bigger kids last. Everyone under the age of 9 or so gets to have a smack.
Ol' Blue proved a worthy adversary. Whoever built him made him well. Finally, after much swinging and cries of "Stop! Little toddler Susie's wandered up right behind you!" and all the assorted drama that go with piñata-destroying, a 7-year-old got a good enough smack in to bust the gut a bit. I few pieces of candy dropped. One or two more thwacks and Blue was good to go. My brother did that thing that piñata-handlers do and began to yank the rope to shake out the candy--a gesture usually followed by showers of sweetness, greedy scrambling and squeals of delight.
But this day, it was not to be.
Whoever made Blue's body did a great job. Whoever made his neck...eh, little bit of a slacker. After just a shake or two, Blue's head popped off his body and shot up as the body descended, finally tangling in the rope about 4 feet above the body and lolling there helplessly.
Okay, this didn't actually traumatize anyone. Mostly people were just trying not to pee themselves from laughter. My brother in-law in-law (?My sister-in-law's brother) did threaten to send my brother the therapy bills for his son. I was happy to see the Irish woman also doubled over with tears coming out of her eyes (in a good way).
And all was captured on camera. Ah, it's good to have some home movies that you can really look forward to.
I was talking to one of the guests' moms as my brother was stringing up ol' Blue. She was Irish, not sure how many years in this country, but fresh enough to still have a strong brogue and an outsider's viewpoint. We were talking about the more disturbing aspects of the piñata tradition. For her, small children pounding away at a star or something like that was no biggie; small children pounding away at a favorite cartoon character, screaming "Kill it, kill it!" on the other hand...okay, yeah, maybe a little twisted. Of course, she had a sense of humor about it, just also the slightest, um, discomfort.
So we'd only just begun to psychoanalyze and deconstruct the finer points of the white hegemony co-opting Mexican tradition and the history of southern aggression (i.e. I was about to say: "Well, we stole it from Mexico, so I guess you have to blame them, but, um, that sounds bad, er-uh. Did you know studies show southerners anger more quickly than northerners and have a greater aggressive streak? Maybe it's because we grow up smacking piñatas. Heh, heh. Well, in Texas we do anyway. Um, hey, so is your daughter in Julia's class at school? She's cute! Wow. I think I need to get an M&M." [Dana slinks off into the shadows] ).
Luckily, I didn't have a chance to open my mouth, so everything went just fine. The pinata was strung and ready to go, the kids were gathered and herded outside into a line, little kids first, bigger kids last. Everyone under the age of 9 or so gets to have a smack.
Ol' Blue proved a worthy adversary. Whoever built him made him well. Finally, after much swinging and cries of "Stop! Little toddler Susie's wandered up right behind you!" and all the assorted drama that go with piñata-destroying, a 7-year-old got a good enough smack in to bust the gut a bit. I few pieces of candy dropped. One or two more thwacks and Blue was good to go. My brother did that thing that piñata-handlers do and began to yank the rope to shake out the candy--a gesture usually followed by showers of sweetness, greedy scrambling and squeals of delight.
But this day, it was not to be.
Whoever made Blue's body did a great job. Whoever made his neck...eh, little bit of a slacker. After just a shake or two, Blue's head popped off his body and shot up as the body descended, finally tangling in the rope about 4 feet above the body and lolling there helplessly.
Okay, this didn't actually traumatize anyone. Mostly people were just trying not to pee themselves from laughter. My brother in-law in-law (?My sister-in-law's brother) did threaten to send my brother the therapy bills for his son. I was happy to see the Irish woman also doubled over with tears coming out of her eyes (in a good way).
And all was captured on camera. Ah, it's good to have some home movies that you can really look forward to.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
How to get 19 meals out of a $4 chicken
So, money is tight. Not a shocker, being a single home-owner in Austin who works for the university and has student loans to pay off. Lots of them. It's the financial kiss of death.
So I bought this lovely fat chicken from the HEB the other day, on sale, and out of some mix of boredom and culinary curiosity, decided to see how far I could take it while still having tasty, more or less healthy meals. Warning: I'm a little bit of a food snob. Not bad, less picky than some people I know, but almost incapable of eating anything that comes out of a can, and utterly in love w/ cooking from scratch.
Day 1: Roast chicken with rosemary and lemon, stuffed with potatoes spiked with the same plus capers:
Verdict: Seriously yum.
Day 3 (weekend): Some people would advise you to bung the whole lot by now. I'm saying, I've still got 1 to 2 days before things get into anything like a danger zone, so.... Chicken salad with celery and sweet onion and just a touch of smoked paprika.
Verdict: Yum.
Day 3 continued: Through the entire mostly de-meated carcass of the bird (bones, but not the skin) into a pot of water and cook it out until you have a nice broth. Get what little bitty bits of the meat that you can off the bones. Chuck the bones, let the remaining lot chill in the fridge and skim the fat off the top. Reheat, add veggies (a potato, a carrot, some onion, a few green beans, happened to have some ginger, so let's see how that works w/ the flavors already baked into the bird) and finish up the cooking.
Verdict: Not bad and sort of comforting in the way home-made chicken soup would be. Skip the ginger next time. A decent experiment, but not a good fit.
I have to say my verdicts are increasingly dropping in gusto, but I'm still in the survivable mode here. Better than my college days living off of jar-sauce pasta and black beans and rice.
Meanwhile, my moneyed friends bought a deep fryer and made carrot chips dusted with salt and just a touch of smoked paprika, which ranks right up there among the tastiest fried things I've ever eaten. We decided it's the best vegan bacon substitute there could ever be, you know, if you like that kind of thing. Smoked paprika is a gift from the gods. Deep fryers, a gift from the devil. I love the political perks of the corporeal life. Always someone trying to win you over.
So I bought this lovely fat chicken from the HEB the other day, on sale, and out of some mix of boredom and culinary curiosity, decided to see how far I could take it while still having tasty, more or less healthy meals. Warning: I'm a little bit of a food snob. Not bad, less picky than some people I know, but almost incapable of eating anything that comes out of a can, and utterly in love w/ cooking from scratch.
Day 1: Roast chicken with rosemary and lemon, stuffed with potatoes spiked with the same plus capers:
Verdict: Seriously yum.
Day 3 (weekend): Some people would advise you to bung the whole lot by now. I'm saying, I've still got 1 to 2 days before things get into anything like a danger zone, so.... Chicken salad with celery and sweet onion and just a touch of smoked paprika.
Verdict: Yum.
Day 3 continued: Through the entire mostly de-meated carcass of the bird (bones, but not the skin) into a pot of water and cook it out until you have a nice broth. Get what little bitty bits of the meat that you can off the bones. Chuck the bones, let the remaining lot chill in the fridge and skim the fat off the top. Reheat, add veggies (a potato, a carrot, some onion, a few green beans, happened to have some ginger, so let's see how that works w/ the flavors already baked into the bird) and finish up the cooking.
Verdict: Not bad and sort of comforting in the way home-made chicken soup would be. Skip the ginger next time. A decent experiment, but not a good fit.
I have to say my verdicts are increasingly dropping in gusto, but I'm still in the survivable mode here. Better than my college days living off of jar-sauce pasta and black beans and rice.
Meanwhile, my moneyed friends bought a deep fryer and made carrot chips dusted with salt and just a touch of smoked paprika, which ranks right up there among the tastiest fried things I've ever eaten. We decided it's the best vegan bacon substitute there could ever be, you know, if you like that kind of thing. Smoked paprika is a gift from the gods. Deep fryers, a gift from the devil. I love the political perks of the corporeal life. Always someone trying to win you over.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
why am I not writing?
Subtitle "Why am I whining instead of doing something?"
So I've had these bits and pieces of stories that I think are A story waiting to come together and I can't seem to get re-started. Prior to "the bad spring/summer" when work ate every aspect of my life for several months, I had started in on something and was feeling pretty good about it. It was a shitty first draft, but a shitty first draft is the first step on the road to...successively less shitty drafts. If you're a good girl and very patient and keep drafting and eat all your vegetables, you might even end up with something readable in the end. It can happen.
Anyway, it was going to be a challenge. All I had was an image, and that always means the story is going to progress a bit more slowly until the characters start to show their personalities and motivations and situations. Something about a woman who missed her ghost. She'd only just realized it was gone, that she'd neglected it, that she couldn't seem to find it. (Okay, there are obvious psychoanalytic connections here w/ me and my muse or whatever. Nonetheless, something about it feels good and right and I swear by all that is good and holy not to write directly about my own life. Far too boring...).
I started to get the character before work came in with its gaping maw, but haven't been able to go back to the story since. Then a couple of weeks ago, I just got the sense that this story was about betrayal. Self-betrayal? Betrayal of others? Usually the two go hand in hand. So now that's simmering in the back of my head. Goes w/ the ghost image I had. There's an obvious betrayal there. (Stop squirming, you psychoanalysts in the audience. I see it. I do.)
So I think I'm ready to start writing again now. It's funny, and perhaps reasonable, that 5 to 6 months of having to work serious overtime might burn you out and turn you into a couch potato--more like a slightly burned, bitter-tasting hash brown, really--for a few months. Maybe I'm being too hard on myself on that front. Anyway, I think it's time. My loyalty to work has been, um, challenged lately, and it's time to be loyal to myself again. I've been serving a fickle master for too long. So instead I'll follow my own interests a bit more aggressively for a little while.
Much less fickle. Mmm.
So I've had these bits and pieces of stories that I think are A story waiting to come together and I can't seem to get re-started. Prior to "the bad spring/summer" when work ate every aspect of my life for several months, I had started in on something and was feeling pretty good about it. It was a shitty first draft, but a shitty first draft is the first step on the road to...successively less shitty drafts. If you're a good girl and very patient and keep drafting and eat all your vegetables, you might even end up with something readable in the end. It can happen.
Anyway, it was going to be a challenge. All I had was an image, and that always means the story is going to progress a bit more slowly until the characters start to show their personalities and motivations and situations. Something about a woman who missed her ghost. She'd only just realized it was gone, that she'd neglected it, that she couldn't seem to find it. (Okay, there are obvious psychoanalytic connections here w/ me and my muse or whatever. Nonetheless, something about it feels good and right and I swear by all that is good and holy not to write directly about my own life. Far too boring...).
I started to get the character before work came in with its gaping maw, but haven't been able to go back to the story since. Then a couple of weeks ago, I just got the sense that this story was about betrayal. Self-betrayal? Betrayal of others? Usually the two go hand in hand. So now that's simmering in the back of my head. Goes w/ the ghost image I had. There's an obvious betrayal there. (Stop squirming, you psychoanalysts in the audience. I see it. I do.)
So I think I'm ready to start writing again now. It's funny, and perhaps reasonable, that 5 to 6 months of having to work serious overtime might burn you out and turn you into a couch potato--more like a slightly burned, bitter-tasting hash brown, really--for a few months. Maybe I'm being too hard on myself on that front. Anyway, I think it's time. My loyalty to work has been, um, challenged lately, and it's time to be loyal to myself again. I've been serving a fickle master for too long. So instead I'll follow my own interests a bit more aggressively for a little while.
Much less fickle. Mmm.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Could there be Xanax?
So holiday time is upon us again. Last year (a mere 5 or 6 posts ago, how sad), a peeing cat rescued me from Christmas. This year, I go forward, into the family hearth as it were.
My brother, his wife and 3 little ones are staying in Austin to do the family Christmas rather than engaging in the madness of cramming 13 people clown-car style into a house built for 5. This is a house, I should note, w/ seriously fucked up plumbing. You have to use a bucket to flush the toilet 4 out of 5 times, running the washing machine causes sewage to back up into the bathtub and the cold water taps ricochet from "off" back to "on" requiring attention, concentration, multiple twists back to the off position and serious under-the-breath cursing so as not to scare the children or have them piously imply that you have that certain je ne sais quoi that suggests a sinner racing headlong into the fiery pits of hell.
Luckily, you are staying in "The Freezing Back Bedroom of Death" again, where any extra warmth (save your sister's body sleeping next to you) is welcome. Hellfire can be appealing, little ones. Yes, sometimes it can.
Ah well, at least there will be Christmas morning. Mother's cat will vomit half chewed ribbon under the warmly lit Christmas tree. Then he'll run about the house in a panic, chased by a turd that magically grew around the end of a piece of tinsel that now flies out taut behind him, only half-excreted from his sweet fuzzly-wuzzly little bunghole.
God bless the fuzzly-wuzzly ones. I am, and ever shall be, thankful for the joy and laughter they bring.
My brother, his wife and 3 little ones are staying in Austin to do the family Christmas rather than engaging in the madness of cramming 13 people clown-car style into a house built for 5. This is a house, I should note, w/ seriously fucked up plumbing. You have to use a bucket to flush the toilet 4 out of 5 times, running the washing machine causes sewage to back up into the bathtub and the cold water taps ricochet from "off" back to "on" requiring attention, concentration, multiple twists back to the off position and serious under-the-breath cursing so as not to scare the children or have them piously imply that you have that certain je ne sais quoi that suggests a sinner racing headlong into the fiery pits of hell.
Luckily, you are staying in "The Freezing Back Bedroom of Death" again, where any extra warmth (save your sister's body sleeping next to you) is welcome. Hellfire can be appealing, little ones. Yes, sometimes it can.
Ah well, at least there will be Christmas morning. Mother's cat will vomit half chewed ribbon under the warmly lit Christmas tree. Then he'll run about the house in a panic, chased by a turd that magically grew around the end of a piece of tinsel that now flies out taut behind him, only half-excreted from his sweet fuzzly-wuzzly little bunghole.
God bless the fuzzly-wuzzly ones. I am, and ever shall be, thankful for the joy and laughter they bring.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Why am I here?
Ugh. Just got through working what I hope is the next to the last 50 plus hour super-stressful week of my heinous and unbearable summer. This is supposed to be a state job. It's not supposed to blow like this. It's supposed to blow, mind you, just not like this.
I just tried to find a picture of the old site in the Way Back machine, but alas, no. Let me just say, it was not crunk. The new site still completely sucks under the hood, but we're working on it. Come on people now, apply to some damn Texas college and look at the beautiful lipstick on this wheezing pig:
https:/www.applytexas.org/adappc/gen/c_start.WBX
I always promised myself that when I started blogging about work, I would quit. Actually, that's a bald-faced lie. I had little clue I would be blogging about work or anything else when I was 6, but I'm cranky, so I'll say whatever I damn well please in defense of the quitting position.
I guess I should try to burn off the 100+ hours of comp time first, though. Hm....what sort of comp time burning activity should I take up? Cast your votes now:
Come on people, help me out! My brain is too fried to decide. Some of these are more long term than others, so you can pick more than one. I know I will.
I just tried to find a picture of the old site in the Way Back machine, but alas, no. Let me just say, it was not crunk. The new site still completely sucks under the hood, but we're working on it. Come on people now, apply to some damn Texas college and look at the beautiful lipstick on this wheezing pig:
https:/www.applytexas.org/adappc/gen/c_start.WBX
I always promised myself that when I started blogging about work, I would quit. Actually, that's a bald-faced lie. I had little clue I would be blogging about work or anything else when I was 6, but I'm cranky, so I'll say whatever I damn well please in defense of the quitting position.
I guess I should try to burn off the 100+ hours of comp time first, though. Hm....what sort of comp time burning activity should I take up? Cast your votes now:
- Apply to law school
- Apply to neuropsychology school
- Apply to writing school (yeah, right)
- Daily binge drinking
- Re-invigorate attempt to write The Mediocre American Novel
- Invest in every movie channel available on cable and watch every movie that's playing until there's actually nothing new to see (only takes about 2 days, actually)
- Finally finish painting my bedroom
- Rebuild the wall of my house now that the carpenter ants are dead
- Consult with psychics to determine what terrible thing I did in my 36th summer in some past life and how I can make amends and get rid of this stinky karma
- Plan my inspirational speaking tour
- Enact my frequently promised move to Europe. Find a low-paying, low-effort job and blow off my student loans entirely
- "Befriend" a very old, very rich man
- "Befriend" a very old, very rich woman (why not double my chances?)
- Write a few amazing and completely sham resumes and see how far I can get with them
- Blog about, and then sell the movie rights for the above experience. Find the loophole that will allow me to declare bankruptcy to avoid having to pay off any potential lawsuits.
- Begin and end my life in politics after a zealous one-day campaign for media attention.
Come on people, help me out! My brain is too fried to decide. Some of these are more long term than others, so you can pick more than one. I know I will.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
