Walking Dead: seriously, zombies? okay. I know, mildly ridiculous. But the show is captivating.
Bitchin' Kitchen: so bizarre and entertaining and absurd. Watch it. You won't be able to stop.
The IT Crowd: British and oh so, oh so funny.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
2 thoughts about 2 items on the radio
This evening, I drove Pearl down to Selinsgrove to meet up with my mom and spend her Thanksgiving break with her grandma, learning all about consumerism.
I used to listen to Jagged Little Pill over and over and over. I did not remember many of the lyrics to "All I really want," but the song took me back to being 15 and angry and the way I sympathized with the smart-assed moments of rhyme and allusion. I found out, too, that Lady Alanis is just making a throaty-alt-rock-girl noise when I always thought she was refraining, "A hiiiiiigher ground." Anyway. I was kind of impressed by the cleverness of the lyrics. They're tightly written and not boring. And sure, Estella is not an obscure literary figure, but whatever--at least it's something.
AND THEN, on Fresh Air, one of my favorite programs, Dave Davies interviewed this British veterinarian. Of course, pronouns are fascinating in every case but especially in this one. I'm getting ahead of myself. The program was about end-of-life for pets. When it's time to put them down, what owners should be reasonably expected to overlook/deal with, etc. But I thought it was really odd that regardless of the sex of the animal, the pronoun both Davies and the British vet used was "it." So here's my question: animal rights. Sure, on its own it's a question, but accepting that animals do or should have rights, and that there are some defined, legally accepted ones. So my question is, why is the academically sanctioned way to refer to animals with the pronoun it?
What's the deal? Euthanizing animals is totally cool (by which I mean socially and culturally accepted). We do it all the time, and for population reasons/lack-of-human-interest reasons (I think it's kind of effed up). Also, there are people who have bumper stickers that say "animals are people in fur coats," and "My boxer is smarter than your honor student." So clearly, there are folks, even folks I know, who would be incensed by the notion that animals are all its.
I used to listen to Jagged Little Pill over and over and over. I did not remember many of the lyrics to "All I really want," but the song took me back to being 15 and angry and the way I sympathized with the smart-assed moments of rhyme and allusion. I found out, too, that Lady Alanis is just making a throaty-alt-rock-girl noise when I always thought she was refraining, "A hiiiiiigher ground." Anyway. I was kind of impressed by the cleverness of the lyrics. They're tightly written and not boring. And sure, Estella is not an obscure literary figure, but whatever--at least it's something.
AND THEN, on Fresh Air, one of my favorite programs, Dave Davies interviewed this British veterinarian. Of course, pronouns are fascinating in every case but especially in this one. I'm getting ahead of myself. The program was about end-of-life for pets. When it's time to put them down, what owners should be reasonably expected to overlook/deal with, etc. But I thought it was really odd that regardless of the sex of the animal, the pronoun both Davies and the British vet used was "it." So here's my question: animal rights. Sure, on its own it's a question, but accepting that animals do or should have rights, and that there are some defined, legally accepted ones. So my question is, why is the academically sanctioned way to refer to animals with the pronoun it?
What's the deal? Euthanizing animals is totally cool (by which I mean socially and culturally accepted). We do it all the time, and for population reasons/lack-of-human-interest reasons (I think it's kind of effed up). Also, there are people who have bumper stickers that say "animals are people in fur coats," and "My boxer is smarter than your honor student." So clearly, there are folks, even folks I know, who would be incensed by the notion that animals are all its.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
good news, and do blogs need themes?
Good news: I get paid 3 days early.
Pearl is a healthy weight/height per the pediatrician.
Thursday is Thanksgiving
Do blogs need to have themes? All the blogs I see are about a specific thing. Nobody, who is successful at blogging, has a blog as schizophrenic as mine. I should get a theme. I know it! But I do not have theme for my life. I do and think about lots of things. I am a master of nothing.
Pearl is a healthy weight/height per the pediatrician.
Thursday is Thanksgiving
Do blogs need to have themes? All the blogs I see are about a specific thing. Nobody, who is successful at blogging, has a blog as schizophrenic as mine. I should get a theme. I know it! But I do not have theme for my life. I do and think about lots of things. I am a master of nothing.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Cochran School Nurse II
The war wages on.
Pearl had a potty accident today. So the Cochran School Nurse called me and requested a change of clothes.
Yesterday, Pearl had the balance of her immunizations and her physical check up. Dr. O'Hara, her pediatrician (who is simply lovely), said that her school nurse is also a beastly, naggy person. I wondered out loud why someone who likes neither children, nor even people, should want to be a school nurse. We all laughed.
After Pearl's appointment, I dropped her and a copy of the physician's report (complete with immunization record) at school.
So today, after I helped Pearl change into her fresh clothes, the school nurse, who now has a name (Mrs. Miller--Pearl asked her), said, "Pearl showed me where she had all her shots. Can you give me a record of those?"
I explained, with a chill in my heart and a sneer on my face, that I turned them in with the office. She said, "Oh. Mrs. Thompson must have them."
Why are these elementary school professionals such poor communicators?
This side note is interesting to me as a feminist: When she called Brad, she called him Mr. Miller. When she called me, she called me April. I mean, I generally dislike being called Ms. or Mrs. Line (I get Mrs. a lot now that I have a kid. It's a bit creepy since I'm not a missus), but for the Cochran School Nurse, I would make an exception, and I am curious about the higher level of respect she shows to Brad. Hmmmm.
Pearl had a potty accident today. So the Cochran School Nurse called me and requested a change of clothes.
Yesterday, Pearl had the balance of her immunizations and her physical check up. Dr. O'Hara, her pediatrician (who is simply lovely), said that her school nurse is also a beastly, naggy person. I wondered out loud why someone who likes neither children, nor even people, should want to be a school nurse. We all laughed.
After Pearl's appointment, I dropped her and a copy of the physician's report (complete with immunization record) at school.
So today, after I helped Pearl change into her fresh clothes, the school nurse, who now has a name (Mrs. Miller--Pearl asked her), said, "Pearl showed me where she had all her shots. Can you give me a record of those?"
I explained, with a chill in my heart and a sneer on my face, that I turned them in with the office. She said, "Oh. Mrs. Thompson must have them."
Why are these elementary school professionals such poor communicators?
This side note is interesting to me as a feminist: When she called Brad, she called him Mr. Miller. When she called me, she called me April. I mean, I generally dislike being called Ms. or Mrs. Line (I get Mrs. a lot now that I have a kid. It's a bit creepy since I'm not a missus), but for the Cochran School Nurse, I would make an exception, and I am curious about the higher level of respect she shows to Brad. Hmmmm.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Robot Brain
I had a conversation with little Pearl this morning that went like this:
"Mommy, do you remember when I went with you to buy this fix it tape?" she asked me, waving my white-out tape dispenser in the air.
"No, Pearl, I do not."
"That's because you don't have a robot brain like me, mommy."
*****************************************************
Last night, she was dismissed from dinner because she was not eating. Stomping up the stairs to her room, she looked at me with daggers in her little eyes and said, "Don't look at me!"
"Mommy, do you remember when I went with you to buy this fix it tape?" she asked me, waving my white-out tape dispenser in the air.
"No, Pearl, I do not."
"That's because you don't have a robot brain like me, mommy."
*****************************************************
Last night, she was dismissed from dinner because she was not eating. Stomping up the stairs to her room, she looked at me with daggers in her little eyes and said, "Don't look at me!"
Friday, November 12, 2010
pumpkin spiced pumpkin beer bread
Here's a recipe I made up today. If I want to make it again, I will not remember. This is multi-purpose writing-it-down/sharing with you, so here it is. If you try it, let me know what you think.
Grease loaf pan, a full-sized one, or several smaller ones. Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.
2 c. all purpose flour
1/2 c. sugar
1/2 t. each ground cinnamon, ginger, clove, nutmeg (some extra cinnamon would probably be good)
salt to taste
2 1/2 t. baking powder
pinch chili powder
1 T cocoa powder
2 T olive oil (or other vegetable oil)
1 egg
12 oz. pumpkin beer
1/2 t. almond extract
large handful walnuts or pecans
2 large handfuls raisins
1. mix together dry ingredients
2. add wet ingredients one by one
3. mix until batter is smooth. There may be a few lumps. It will be runny--thicker than pancake batter, but not at all sticky. No need to strive for total smoothness. You don't want to beat up the beer. :-)
4. stir in raisins and nuts.
5. pour batter into prepared loaf pan
6. bake for about an hour (50 minutes minimum) until a toothpick inserted in the center pulls out clean.
I served it with pumpkin cream cheese that I thinned down with milk drizzled over. But you should do what you want. The love man says it's yummy plain.
Grease loaf pan, a full-sized one, or several smaller ones. Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.
2 c. all purpose flour
1/2 c. sugar
1/2 t. each ground cinnamon, ginger, clove, nutmeg (some extra cinnamon would probably be good)
salt to taste
2 1/2 t. baking powder
pinch chili powder
1 T cocoa powder
2 T olive oil (or other vegetable oil)
1 egg
12 oz. pumpkin beer
1/2 t. almond extract
large handful walnuts or pecans
2 large handfuls raisins
1. mix together dry ingredients
2. add wet ingredients one by one
3. mix until batter is smooth. There may be a few lumps. It will be runny--thicker than pancake batter, but not at all sticky. No need to strive for total smoothness. You don't want to beat up the beer. :-)
4. stir in raisins and nuts.
5. pour batter into prepared loaf pan
6. bake for about an hour (50 minutes minimum) until a toothpick inserted in the center pulls out clean.
I served it with pumpkin cream cheese that I thinned down with milk drizzled over. But you should do what you want. The love man says it's yummy plain.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
This is a day full of thinking and doing
Today is the day I consult the physician about having myself sterilized.
Write a story.
Have my first parent-teacher conference.
My mom is coming to visit.
Send a sympathy card and maybe an inspirational book to dear, dear people who have lost someone.
Do laundry and clean our house.
Purchase 10 grocery items and replace our probe thermometer for meat cooking.
Possibly clean myself.
Definitely clean my child.
Play Monopoly Junior.
Write a story.
Have my first parent-teacher conference.
My mom is coming to visit.
Send a sympathy card and maybe an inspirational book to dear, dear people who have lost someone.
Do laundry and clean our house.
Purchase 10 grocery items and replace our probe thermometer for meat cooking.
Possibly clean myself.
Definitely clean my child.
Play Monopoly Junior.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Mr Bubble T-shirt Offer
So I'm in the shower thinking about how my multi vitamin is working because I'm losing less of my hair now (ah, 30). Pearl's new bottle of bubble bath catches my eye. It is Mr. Bubble. I practically forced her to get it, because like Dum-dum wrappers, the Mr. Bubble T-shirt offer always fascinated me as a child. I Wanted that T-shirt. I thought maybe I'd get it for Pearl. And one for me, too.
So I'm reading the offer, and I get to the part about, "while supplies last," and I think, Who are they kidding? Supplies have lasted since at last the late 70s, I'm sure.
I do some web research. Go here. Vaguely creepy, but some vintage commercials indicating that the T-shirt offer supplies may have been lasting since the 1960s!
The Village Company? Too evocative of The Village People to ignore. If it wouldn't be inexcusably tacky, I'd make a label called "things that make me go hmmm."
So I'm reading the offer, and I get to the part about, "while supplies last," and I think, Who are they kidding? Supplies have lasted since at last the late 70s, I'm sure.
I do some web research. Go here. Vaguely creepy, but some vintage commercials indicating that the T-shirt offer supplies may have been lasting since the 1960s!
The Village Company? Too evocative of The Village People to ignore. If it wouldn't be inexcusably tacky, I'd make a label called "things that make me go hmmm."
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Dear The Olive Garden
I came to your blessed haven of overpriced, fatty, glorified fast food for the first time in many months. I slid my lardy bottom across your glorious, vinyl booth seat and thanked the fates that I still fit. I did this because I have quit smoking and I wanted to eat something bad for me instead. I opened your menu and felt my sense of release and splendor disappear as my eyes scanned your offerings only to find that you have provided calorie counts on every single item.
I am a menu reader. I love menus. I love to revel in the mystery of the caloric content of the excesses. I love to tell myself lies about how much protein must be in the deep fried meat items, to imagine that a fudgy cake has some hidden nutritive value beyond increasing my serotonin levels. I love to order a whole appetizer and think it is reasonable as a meal, since--though designed for two or more persons--it is not a massive amount of food.
You have destroyed my suspension of disbelief, Olive Garden. You have soiled the joy I once experienced in the annals of your vast, rich pasta offerings. You have told the truth, and in so doing you have inverted the order of my skewed food logic.
I'm sure you have patrons who are grateful for this menu theater. I'm sure you have patrons who would not change their decisions about what to order based on these arbitrary numbers listed, in italic font, below the faux Italian titles of the dishes.
You have exacerbated the war I wage between myself and my desire to eat healthfully, except for when I do not desire to do so, which is when I come to you, Olive Garden. You have ruined the lone redemptive quality of your absurdist "Italian" cuisine: the mystery of the nutrition.
More, I feel strongly that you are inhibiting my freedom of choice. If I wanted to know, I would visit your website. You are reminding me of the guilt and shame associated with the remarkable overeating your bottomless salads and soups and bread sticks encourage. You have made a strong, ugly stand that you haven't a libertarian molecule in your Darden soul, and you have ruined what minor desire I had to visit your jolly, rotund universe of phony Americanized Italian dishes swimming in sauce and cheese and oily cuts of meat.
You are like the California McDonalds that have been ordered not to include happy meal toys in fatty meals to remind parents that they are shoddy moms and dads because they order deep fried slivers of "chicken" and "potato" for the developing bodies they have sired. You refuse to acknowledge my ability to make decisions for myself, or the possibility that I enjoy the fantasy that calories do not exist inside your plaster walls.
I may never return, for the fun, the joy, the lust is gone.
Sincerely,
April
I am a menu reader. I love menus. I love to revel in the mystery of the caloric content of the excesses. I love to tell myself lies about how much protein must be in the deep fried meat items, to imagine that a fudgy cake has some hidden nutritive value beyond increasing my serotonin levels. I love to order a whole appetizer and think it is reasonable as a meal, since--though designed for two or more persons--it is not a massive amount of food.
You have destroyed my suspension of disbelief, Olive Garden. You have soiled the joy I once experienced in the annals of your vast, rich pasta offerings. You have told the truth, and in so doing you have inverted the order of my skewed food logic.
I'm sure you have patrons who are grateful for this menu theater. I'm sure you have patrons who would not change their decisions about what to order based on these arbitrary numbers listed, in italic font, below the faux Italian titles of the dishes.
You have exacerbated the war I wage between myself and my desire to eat healthfully, except for when I do not desire to do so, which is when I come to you, Olive Garden. You have ruined the lone redemptive quality of your absurdist "Italian" cuisine: the mystery of the nutrition.
More, I feel strongly that you are inhibiting my freedom of choice. If I wanted to know, I would visit your website. You are reminding me of the guilt and shame associated with the remarkable overeating your bottomless salads and soups and bread sticks encourage. You have made a strong, ugly stand that you haven't a libertarian molecule in your Darden soul, and you have ruined what minor desire I had to visit your jolly, rotund universe of phony Americanized Italian dishes swimming in sauce and cheese and oily cuts of meat.
You are like the California McDonalds that have been ordered not to include happy meal toys in fatty meals to remind parents that they are shoddy moms and dads because they order deep fried slivers of "chicken" and "potato" for the developing bodies they have sired. You refuse to acknowledge my ability to make decisions for myself, or the possibility that I enjoy the fantasy that calories do not exist inside your plaster walls.
I may never return, for the fun, the joy, the lust is gone.
Sincerely,
April
Friday, November 5, 2010
PSPA Conference
The good news: my presentation was neither too long nor too short for the time allotted.
They gave me a Starbucks Gift Card for showing up.
The bad news: only three students came to my presentation.
More good news: one of the three students talked about how I am her new favorite thing/person. There is something really sweet and inspiring about being the object of a teenager's fleeting affection. Especially when it's the hero/admiration kind.
They gave me a Starbucks Gift Card for showing up.
The bad news: only three students came to my presentation.
More good news: one of the three students talked about how I am her new favorite thing/person. There is something really sweet and inspiring about being the object of a teenager's fleeting affection. Especially when it's the hero/admiration kind.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
I like Bones
The TV series Bones is my favorite. I think season 6 is on now. Season 5 just came out on DVD. I'm a bit behind. But if you haven't watched season 5 to its conclusion, be aware that a spolier is below.
On twitter, my friend Jim (you can follow him on twitter if you want. His posts are amusing. @jamesforeman) said, "I just watched 15 minutes of Bones, really America?" that post was preceded by some musing about the "portentous" theme music on shows like CSI and Law & Order.
Jim hates Bones. But he loves House. I used to love House.
I'm currently watching through the fifth season of Bones. I'm on the last episode, actually, as I write this. I own all the seasons to this point. I got the fifth for my birthday.
I also have been known to watch Law & Order, NCIS, CSI, etc. The thing about those shows is that there's really never much follow up. Sure, on Law & Order: Criminal Intent, there were those episodes between Gorin and that kooky Englishwoman Nicole.
Through the fifth season of Bones, a lot of open ends get closed. The Grave Digger gets hers, Angela and Hodgins get married, Booth and Brennan admit their affection for one another, and there's an odd montage-ish flashback sequence wherein Booth and Bones describe their first case together, and that connect the current characters (who weren't really in the first season) to the narrative of the series. Also, there was a kind of horrifying plug for Avatar. One of the interns played I-forget-who on that, erm, film?
I commend them for realizing that sustaining the sexual tension between Bones and Booth wasn't going to work for a sixth season, and they did a really beautiful and light-handed job of letting that attraction out into the open without obliterating the tension and intrigue it causes.
I'm afraid, however, that the shark has been jumped. The last episode has Bones leaving to go Indonesia, Booth leaving for Afghanistan, and Hodgins and Angela leaving for France.
Of course, I'm intrigued, and I'll certainly get the 6th season, too, but I'm afraid that it's going to start over in a way that will be disappointing or gauche or just too over-the-top to believe. Or worse, the next season will begin with one episode showing the characters all wrapping up their work and lives in the far-off places, and then bringing them back to the lab to work through murders with a more-contrived set of tensions and conflicts.
Maybe this is the last season ever. Maybe the show is over. If that's so, kudos to the writers for not jumping the shark. If not, hmmmmmm.
On twitter, my friend Jim (you can follow him on twitter if you want. His posts are amusing. @jamesforeman) said, "I just watched 15 minutes of Bones, really America?" that post was preceded by some musing about the "portentous" theme music on shows like CSI and Law & Order.
Jim hates Bones. But he loves House. I used to love House.
I'm currently watching through the fifth season of Bones. I'm on the last episode, actually, as I write this. I own all the seasons to this point. I got the fifth for my birthday.
I also have been known to watch Law & Order, NCIS, CSI, etc. The thing about those shows is that there's really never much follow up. Sure, on Law & Order: Criminal Intent, there were those episodes between Gorin and that kooky Englishwoman Nicole.
Through the fifth season of Bones, a lot of open ends get closed. The Grave Digger gets hers, Angela and Hodgins get married, Booth and Brennan admit their affection for one another, and there's an odd montage-ish flashback sequence wherein Booth and Bones describe their first case together, and that connect the current characters (who weren't really in the first season) to the narrative of the series. Also, there was a kind of horrifying plug for Avatar. One of the interns played I-forget-who on that, erm, film?
I commend them for realizing that sustaining the sexual tension between Bones and Booth wasn't going to work for a sixth season, and they did a really beautiful and light-handed job of letting that attraction out into the open without obliterating the tension and intrigue it causes.
I'm afraid, however, that the shark has been jumped. The last episode has Bones leaving to go Indonesia, Booth leaving for Afghanistan, and Hodgins and Angela leaving for France.
Of course, I'm intrigued, and I'll certainly get the 6th season, too, but I'm afraid that it's going to start over in a way that will be disappointing or gauche or just too over-the-top to believe. Or worse, the next season will begin with one episode showing the characters all wrapping up their work and lives in the far-off places, and then bringing them back to the lab to work through murders with a more-contrived set of tensions and conflicts.
Maybe this is the last season ever. Maybe the show is over. If that's so, kudos to the writers for not jumping the shark. If not, hmmmmmm.
more on the NaNoWriMo debate
So if you didn't already, please go read Carolyn Kellogg's column responding to Laura Miller's piece that you can read by going here.
My last blog post is a link to Carolyn's piece.
I have never participated in NaNoWriMo, but Kellogg's piece made me want to. And the haters, particularly the commenter who called Kellogg non-logical and juvenile (with his very own style of non-logical and juvenile hating), and the idea that there is any universe in which writers exist in absurd proportion to readers (I do not know a single writer who is not also an avid reader--reading, and lots of it, is essential to developing the craft), made my writerly little soul twitch with annoyance and frustration.
So I don't know if we can join in late, but if we can, let's do NaNoWriMo!
My last blog post is a link to Carolyn's piece.
I have never participated in NaNoWriMo, but Kellogg's piece made me want to. And the haters, particularly the commenter who called Kellogg non-logical and juvenile (with his very own style of non-logical and juvenile hating), and the idea that there is any universe in which writers exist in absurd proportion to readers (I do not know a single writer who is not also an avid reader--reading, and lots of it, is essential to developing the craft), made my writerly little soul twitch with annoyance and frustration.
So I don't know if we can join in late, but if we can, let's do NaNoWriMo!
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Seinfeld Trivia
My girlfriends and I went to quizzo last night. There was a question about Seinfeld. It was a fill-in-the-blank sort of situation.
Finish this quotation: The sea was angry that day my friends. Like an old man trying to what?
so I guessed, defecate. But after so saying, I said, "it's either that of something about a deli."
The answer is actually, "...like an old man trying to return soup at a deli."
Oh my. We laughed.
Finish this quotation: The sea was angry that day my friends. Like an old man trying to what?
so I guessed, defecate. But after so saying, I said, "it's either that of something about a deli."
The answer is actually, "...like an old man trying to return soup at a deli."
Oh my. We laughed.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Staples Copy Center
I can't stand Staples Copy Center. It's like they find the surliest human beings on purpose. They give horrible customer service, can't work with digital files (even though they claim they can), are always backed up, and do shoddy work.
This dissatisfaction is not limited to the Staples in the Loyal Plaza, no. It extends to the one in Carlisle, too. And probably the one in Hamden, CT, also--though in Connecticut, I used Tyco.
Here's the thing. The mom-and-pop print shops rule. In Carlisle, I stand beind Rowe's Print Shop. Here in Williamsport, I'm a new fan of The Print Shoppe on Washington Boulevard.
I think I should start a movement: save the local print shop! T-shirts, bumper stickers. Yesssss.
This dissatisfaction is not limited to the Staples in the Loyal Plaza, no. It extends to the one in Carlisle, too. And probably the one in Hamden, CT, also--though in Connecticut, I used Tyco.
Here's the thing. The mom-and-pop print shops rule. In Carlisle, I stand beind Rowe's Print Shop. Here in Williamsport, I'm a new fan of The Print Shoppe on Washington Boulevard.
I think I should start a movement: save the local print shop! T-shirts, bumper stickers. Yesssss.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Cochran School Nurse
Pearl brings home at least a ream of paper each day.
Nothing in this ream of paper delights me quite as much as the condescending notes from the Cochran School Nurse. She does not have a name, apparently. When I met her, once, she struck me as particularly humorless, and the worst sort of medical professional: the sort who does not believe that laypeople can possibly possess a critical muscle.
The school nurse also sends home a blessed highlighted note each time a child has an accident in school. We received the second one today, only this time, instead of only highlighting the bits that she thinks are particularly important, she also circled them.
The school nurse either does not sign, or signs "Cochran School Nurse" on her vastly condescending notices to the general parenting public. She writes in the note that comes home with kindergartners who've had potty accidents, "kindergartners can be uncomfortable using the bathroom in this new setting." Really? I have got to tell you, that never occurred to me.
She also requests that a pair of underwear and pants be sent in the child's backpack. Here's the thing: Pearl had underwear in her backpack. The underwear was not utilized. So I think the Cochran School Nurse gets a big kick out of being condescending, or she genuinely believes that all of us parents are dimwits. One way or the other. I find it to be annoying.
Today, I composed a note to the Cochran School Nurse.
I copy it here for your amusement. I also highlighted and circled some parts.
Nothing in this ream of paper delights me quite as much as the condescending notes from the Cochran School Nurse. She does not have a name, apparently. When I met her, once, she struck me as particularly humorless, and the worst sort of medical professional: the sort who does not believe that laypeople can possibly possess a critical muscle.
The school nurse also sends home a blessed highlighted note each time a child has an accident in school. We received the second one today, only this time, instead of only highlighting the bits that she thinks are particularly important, she also circled them.
The school nurse either does not sign, or signs "Cochran School Nurse" on her vastly condescending notices to the general parenting public. She writes in the note that comes home with kindergartners who've had potty accidents, "kindergartners can be uncomfortable using the bathroom in this new setting." Really? I have got to tell you, that never occurred to me.
She also requests that a pair of underwear and pants be sent in the child's backpack. Here's the thing: Pearl had underwear in her backpack. The underwear was not utilized. So I think the Cochran School Nurse gets a big kick out of being condescending, or she genuinely believes that all of us parents are dimwits. One way or the other. I find it to be annoying.
Today, I composed a note to the Cochran School Nurse.
I copy it here for your amusement. I also highlighted and circled some parts.
November 2, 2010
Dear Cochran School Nurse,
Please find enclosed the sweatpants you graciously lent us.
Please also understand that the first time my kindergartner had an accident at school, the clothing that was in her backpack was not utilized.
It is important to me to let you know how helpful I find your notes to be—especially the highlighted bits.
I hope we can continue this back-and-forth with as much paper as possible. It’s just marvelous that I’ve received three notes alerting me that there’s no evidence that my kindergartner has had a particular vaccination booster, especially since I have alerted your office, twice, that my kindergartner has an appointment to receive her missing five-year shots and boosters this month!
Sincerely,
Cochran Kindergarten Parent
The saddest thing
The saddest thing about my vacation has been watching little Pearl get swallowed every morning by her school. Her school is a pretty, brick building in a residential neighborhood. She loves it. But there is this thing that comes over her as we approach the building; this thing that scares me. She is willful and independent and sassy and she marches herself right into the school.
She has even started using the main entrance. There is a side entrance, designated for kindergarteners. Kindergarten parents are supposed to take their little five-year-olds there promptly at 8:45 a.m. The kindergarten teachers appear and shuttle their little lines of students one at a time.
At the main entrance, children wait mainly without their parents, and the principal and morning hall duty teachers call out the grades one at a time. Formerly, even when we arrived after 8:45 but before 9:00 a.m. (which is the window during which the students are permitted to arrive without being considered tardy), Pearl and I would go over to the kindergarten entrance.
But these last few weeks, little Pearl is eager to go in through the front door. She holds her back up straight and she gets this little look of fearless excitement and self-possession. There is an emotional war inside me: I am proud and sad and excited and gratified and demoralized and astonished and the vortex of all of this is a sense of loss. The baby is gone. The toddler, too. My girl is a girl. She's half way to puberty.
She has even started using the main entrance. There is a side entrance, designated for kindergarteners. Kindergarten parents are supposed to take their little five-year-olds there promptly at 8:45 a.m. The kindergarten teachers appear and shuttle their little lines of students one at a time.
At the main entrance, children wait mainly without their parents, and the principal and morning hall duty teachers call out the grades one at a time. Formerly, even when we arrived after 8:45 but before 9:00 a.m. (which is the window during which the students are permitted to arrive without being considered tardy), Pearl and I would go over to the kindergarten entrance.
But these last few weeks, little Pearl is eager to go in through the front door. She holds her back up straight and she gets this little look of fearless excitement and self-possession. There is an emotional war inside me: I am proud and sad and excited and gratified and demoralized and astonished and the vortex of all of this is a sense of loss. The baby is gone. The toddler, too. My girl is a girl. She's half way to puberty.
30th year and Blog Makeover
Yesterday was my birthday. Now I am 30. I gave my blog a makeover. I'm going to be a better blogger.
working on a poetry workshop
I am working on a poetry workshop that I'm giving on Friday at the PASPA (which I think stands for Pennsylvania School Press Association) conference in Harrisburg.
I want to talk about memory. How memory is the root of all writing, poetic and not.
I want to do an exercise about memory. I am going to use handouts.
I am trying now to decide whether I should make a little biographical note on the handout packet.
I want to talk about memory. How memory is the root of all writing, poetic and not.
I want to do an exercise about memory. I am going to use handouts.
I am trying now to decide whether I should make a little biographical note on the handout packet.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Novel Research
No, not hey hey it's novel to do research (which it kind of is).
More like, researching to write a novel. These are the things I need to know about: Pig Farming in the late 40s and early 50s. Women in the military in WWII, what they would have been doing in France. Women's health and birthing politics in France in the early 50s. The rest of it I know about: bad romantic choices, guilt, and too much working.
Here are the characters so far:
Ella
Albert
There have to be children and other lovers.
This story will honor my grandma, my dad's mom. She was a before-her-time kind of feminist, but would never have called herself one. She was proud and smart. She was someone to admire.
More like, researching to write a novel. These are the things I need to know about: Pig Farming in the late 40s and early 50s. Women in the military in WWII, what they would have been doing in France. Women's health and birthing politics in France in the early 50s. The rest of it I know about: bad romantic choices, guilt, and too much working.
Here are the characters so far:
Ella
Albert
There have to be children and other lovers.
This story will honor my grandma, my dad's mom. She was a before-her-time kind of feminist, but would never have called herself one. She was proud and smart. She was someone to admire.
The Pig's Ear Pub
The Pig’s Ear is a study in contradictions. It is over on Westminster Drive near Sheetz, the Econo Lodge, and The Loyal Plaza. It is a down-home style place with all the good feelings of a small, locally owned restaurant—complete with black and white, historic Williamsport photo prints on the walls—that sits in one of the most homogenized areas in our town. I assumed it was an English Style pub, but it is not. The best notion I have of the food is that it is Cajun Influenced. Soul Food meets Bar Snacks.
When my girlfriends invited me to Jon Mackey’s Quizzo at the Pig’s Ear on a Thursday night, I expected a less bar-like atmosphere. With the requisite neon Beer ads adorning the walls, a gauche hanging Miller Light bottle, Yuengling clock, and a pool table; the elegantly designed menu that is chock full of lovely eats was surprising. The offerings range in price from $4-$15.
Spanning two visits, I sampled a variety of sandwiches and appetizers. My dinner companions all gave me a bite. I’ll start with the highlights. Top three: Pig’s fries, Wedge Salad, and Crab Dip. These are pretty common things on a pub menu, but Pig’s Ear spins them right.
The Pig Fries were white potatoes and sweet potatoes mixed up, all dressed up in Cajun Seasoning and served with a little dipping cup of their Horseradish Aioli. The Aioli is perfect in its ratio of horseradish to mayo, and it stands up, too. So there’s got to be a little boost in there—maybe some sour cream? Anyway, they came out piping hot (and did both times), and the Cajun spice with the sweet potatoes and cool zest of the Aioli sent me on this joy ride of flavors. I was delighted.
In restaurant salads, temperature is all. Do not ask me for $9 and then bring me some wilting lettuce with spare toppings swimming in oil. The Wedge salad was ice cold veggies with room temperature dressing and bacon. A massive wedge of iceberg with an exact proportion of tomatoes, bleu cheese dressing, bacon and red onions arrived on a UFO of a square, white plate. Every bite had every ingredient, and the Blue Cheese Dressing was divine: a mild, creamy base with generous, large chunks of blue cheese. Best part was the price, $6.
The Crab Dip is uncanny, and also priced surprisingly at $9. An unbelievable portion of real lump crab, sweet and buttery, baked in a shallow casserole with cheeses and seasonings that, while I am unable to discern which they were, were a brilliant combination. The crab dip did not lack where others do—relying on the crab and cream cheese to carry them—it was rich and flavorful and comforting, scooped up with salty tortilla chips, and the chips did not war with the dip, threatening to overcome its decadence: it was a union. The minor disappointment in our first portion of this delight was that the tortilla chips appeared to be store-bought. Our second foray into crab divinity came with house made chips.
In other excellently rendered items, the slow-cooked meat sandwiches were incredible. The pork sandwich comes drizzled with this herbed aioli, the Chicago style beef with au jus is not too peppery, and not too dry.
The flash fried shrimp were tender and sweet and butterflyed, an accomplishment when deep frying.
The Italian deli sandwich has a pile of meat in it that is, again, just right. But I was not fond of the roll. With the slow cooked meats, the juices settle into the bread and the heftier, drier bread is perfection. With the cold cuts, I wanted a moister roll. Still, I do not condemn the sandwich.
Everyone at The Pig’s Ear is friendly, but our service was not the best. Of course, the servers appeared to be a bit busier than they expected to be, and even though they were harried, they were friendly and gracious and adequate.
The dining area is kind of awkwardly arranged around the billiards, but it works for the Pig’s Ear: it keeps with what seems to be their charming tradition of identity crisis. The sandwiches and fries are served in these vaguely modern black baskets with handles that double as the perfect rest for the soufflé cup of sauce or dip that comes with almost everything. The plates are big, modern, clean-edged circles and squares. The tables are clothed in white, there are white napkins, and white, paper placemats. The furniture is painted black wood, and the booths have black vinyl. The walls are a rustic shade of red.
So to the Pig’s Ear, I award five capers for simply excellent, well priced food, four capers for atmosphere that, while incongruous, is welcoming, and 3 capers for service. Overall, a four caper place. I’ll look for you there.
When my girlfriends invited me to Jon Mackey’s Quizzo at the Pig’s Ear on a Thursday night, I expected a less bar-like atmosphere. With the requisite neon Beer ads adorning the walls, a gauche hanging Miller Light bottle, Yuengling clock, and a pool table; the elegantly designed menu that is chock full of lovely eats was surprising. The offerings range in price from $4-$15.
Spanning two visits, I sampled a variety of sandwiches and appetizers. My dinner companions all gave me a bite. I’ll start with the highlights. Top three: Pig’s fries, Wedge Salad, and Crab Dip. These are pretty common things on a pub menu, but Pig’s Ear spins them right.
The Pig Fries were white potatoes and sweet potatoes mixed up, all dressed up in Cajun Seasoning and served with a little dipping cup of their Horseradish Aioli. The Aioli is perfect in its ratio of horseradish to mayo, and it stands up, too. So there’s got to be a little boost in there—maybe some sour cream? Anyway, they came out piping hot (and did both times), and the Cajun spice with the sweet potatoes and cool zest of the Aioli sent me on this joy ride of flavors. I was delighted.
In restaurant salads, temperature is all. Do not ask me for $9 and then bring me some wilting lettuce with spare toppings swimming in oil. The Wedge salad was ice cold veggies with room temperature dressing and bacon. A massive wedge of iceberg with an exact proportion of tomatoes, bleu cheese dressing, bacon and red onions arrived on a UFO of a square, white plate. Every bite had every ingredient, and the Blue Cheese Dressing was divine: a mild, creamy base with generous, large chunks of blue cheese. Best part was the price, $6.
The Crab Dip is uncanny, and also priced surprisingly at $9. An unbelievable portion of real lump crab, sweet and buttery, baked in a shallow casserole with cheeses and seasonings that, while I am unable to discern which they were, were a brilliant combination. The crab dip did not lack where others do—relying on the crab and cream cheese to carry them—it was rich and flavorful and comforting, scooped up with salty tortilla chips, and the chips did not war with the dip, threatening to overcome its decadence: it was a union. The minor disappointment in our first portion of this delight was that the tortilla chips appeared to be store-bought. Our second foray into crab divinity came with house made chips.
In other excellently rendered items, the slow-cooked meat sandwiches were incredible. The pork sandwich comes drizzled with this herbed aioli, the Chicago style beef with au jus is not too peppery, and not too dry.
The flash fried shrimp were tender and sweet and butterflyed, an accomplishment when deep frying.
The Italian deli sandwich has a pile of meat in it that is, again, just right. But I was not fond of the roll. With the slow cooked meats, the juices settle into the bread and the heftier, drier bread is perfection. With the cold cuts, I wanted a moister roll. Still, I do not condemn the sandwich.
Everyone at The Pig’s Ear is friendly, but our service was not the best. Of course, the servers appeared to be a bit busier than they expected to be, and even though they were harried, they were friendly and gracious and adequate.
The dining area is kind of awkwardly arranged around the billiards, but it works for the Pig’s Ear: it keeps with what seems to be their charming tradition of identity crisis. The sandwiches and fries are served in these vaguely modern black baskets with handles that double as the perfect rest for the soufflé cup of sauce or dip that comes with almost everything. The plates are big, modern, clean-edged circles and squares. The tables are clothed in white, there are white napkins, and white, paper placemats. The furniture is painted black wood, and the booths have black vinyl. The walls are a rustic shade of red.
So to the Pig’s Ear, I award five capers for simply excellent, well priced food, four capers for atmosphere that, while incongruous, is welcoming, and 3 capers for service. Overall, a four caper place. I’ll look for you there.
Franco's Lounge
Before Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Community Arts Center, our cadre that had dwindled to a pair appeared for our reservation at Franco’s Lounge downtown on West Fourth. It was my first time. I was pumped. I'd heard such great things, especially about the duck tenders.
I am fond of appetizers, and generally would prefer to make a meal of them. Smaller portions, bigger flavors. My like-minded companion and I ordered a spread of appetizers, deciding on four. Of course, the duck tenders with raspberry sauce were the first selection. Then after much sighing and discussion that we would prefer to order all, we chose the fried pickles, the Tamari grilled shrimp and the Tomato and Pesto Bruschetta.
The fried pickles were astonishing, the Tamari Shrimp was deliciously smoky, perfectly done. And since Franco’s is legendary, and since most folks I’ve talked to have only fine things to say, it is with reservation and a bit of sadness that I report my first experience with Franco’s was more than a notch below expectation.
The Bruschetta was what they call peasant bread thickly sliced and topped with sauce and cheese and it was served warm. To me, this is bread pizza or cheese bread. Bruschetta is generally thinner toast served with cold meats, tapenades, and/or veggies. The much praised sauce that came with the “bruschetta” was nice, but didn’t blow back my hair the way I wanted it to. Also, there was not enough pesto involved in the dish to merit pesto as part of its name.
The duck tenders, however, were true stinkers. Dry and spongy and, to my mouth, inexcusably flavorless, especially when we were presented with about eight small, slender tenders that cost $9. The portion of raspberry sauce was generous and flavorful—a nice fusion of sweet and spicy—but could not excuse the general unpleasantness.
Having made my living in restaurants for two thirds of my working years this far, I am often loath to complain about anything. The duck merited a mention to our server. Instead of whisking away the platter and replacing it with a better prepared one, our server explained to us that “that’s how the tenders are supposed to be,” and asked us if we didn’t like the raspberry sauce.
She said she would “talk to [someone]” about it, but when she unceremoniously cleared our table and presented our check, there was no evidence that that had been any talking.
Here are the things that are excellent: Franco’s tap beers, the atmosphere, and half of the food
we ate. The draught selection is diverse and exciting, spanning IPAs to Wheats to Lambic. The place is tiny and intimate and simply lovely. Our server was friendly enough, but did not handle our dissatisfaction with any sort of grace; nor was she especially attentive.
So to Franco’s, I give 2.5 capers for food, 2 capers for service and 5 capers for atmosphere. That makes Franco’s a 3.17 caper stop. I will try again, but probably not soon.
I am fond of appetizers, and generally would prefer to make a meal of them. Smaller portions, bigger flavors. My like-minded companion and I ordered a spread of appetizers, deciding on four. Of course, the duck tenders with raspberry sauce were the first selection. Then after much sighing and discussion that we would prefer to order all, we chose the fried pickles, the Tamari grilled shrimp and the Tomato and Pesto Bruschetta.
The fried pickles were astonishing, the Tamari Shrimp was deliciously smoky, perfectly done. And since Franco’s is legendary, and since most folks I’ve talked to have only fine things to say, it is with reservation and a bit of sadness that I report my first experience with Franco’s was more than a notch below expectation.
The Bruschetta was what they call peasant bread thickly sliced and topped with sauce and cheese and it was served warm. To me, this is bread pizza or cheese bread. Bruschetta is generally thinner toast served with cold meats, tapenades, and/or veggies. The much praised sauce that came with the “bruschetta” was nice, but didn’t blow back my hair the way I wanted it to. Also, there was not enough pesto involved in the dish to merit pesto as part of its name.
The duck tenders, however, were true stinkers. Dry and spongy and, to my mouth, inexcusably flavorless, especially when we were presented with about eight small, slender tenders that cost $9. The portion of raspberry sauce was generous and flavorful—a nice fusion of sweet and spicy—but could not excuse the general unpleasantness.
Having made my living in restaurants for two thirds of my working years this far, I am often loath to complain about anything. The duck merited a mention to our server. Instead of whisking away the platter and replacing it with a better prepared one, our server explained to us that “that’s how the tenders are supposed to be,” and asked us if we didn’t like the raspberry sauce.
She said she would “talk to [someone]” about it, but when she unceremoniously cleared our table and presented our check, there was no evidence that that had been any talking.
Here are the things that are excellent: Franco’s tap beers, the atmosphere, and half of the food
we ate. The draught selection is diverse and exciting, spanning IPAs to Wheats to Lambic. The place is tiny and intimate and simply lovely. Our server was friendly enough, but did not handle our dissatisfaction with any sort of grace; nor was she especially attentive.
So to Franco’s, I give 2.5 capers for food, 2 capers for service and 5 capers for atmosphere. That makes Franco’s a 3.17 caper stop. I will try again, but probably not soon.
The James Food Review
The way The James hides in a cozy concrete corner downtown epitomizes the enveloping homeyness I associate with Williamsport. The Pine Street facade is unassuming, and any
evidence that The James is inside the Holiday Inn is delightfully subtle.
The atmosphere is lovely—low amber lighting and sturdy, cherry-stained tables are arranged in an open space in the main area of the restaurant. Even so, the feeling is intimate.
The menu comes in two pieces. The main page has soup, small plates, toasts, pasta, large plates. The smaller page has sushi: cut rolls, hand rolls, sashimi, and salad. Perhaps providing two separate menus is meant to explain the lack of continuity in the menu since, aside from three of the large plates (Asian Lacquered Ahi, Miso and Mirin Glazed Salmon, Pancetta Wrapped Hamachi) that invoke Japanese flavors, the sushi feels out of place.
The offerings are a mix-up of Japanese fusion; Italian fusion with a preponderance of tomato, mozzarella, and pasta; and some American superstars like a Bacon Cheeseburger, Cowboy Steak, and Cobb Salad. The small plates include Roasted Crab Dip, Panzanella, and Jumbo Hot Wings.
After our server took the order, we were presented with a plate of bread and seasoned oil. The oil itself was nice, but heavy with dried oregano, sage, crushed red pepper, and basil. It was odd to me that the herbs were just plopped into the oil as opposed to being infused by heating, then strained and garnished. The bread was not extraordinary. It was a tad stale around the edges and lacked salt. Our bread course foreshadowed the rest of our meal, which fell a notch below expectation.
I ordered the Chicken Agnolotti from the pasta section. The description read, “caper and Limoncello cream sauce”. What arrived were four large agnolotti swimming in cream sauce with capers, oddly sans garnish. The capers were briny and sharp in just the right way, but the sauce lacked its purported Limoncello component. The agnolotti were filled with plain, shredded chicken which was not seasoned. The pasta was made in-house but lacked the fresh and tender lightness I expected. The dish, taken as a whole, was boring.
My date ordered the Chipped Tenderloin Toast, which consisted of sautéed beef chunks nestled in a long French roll and a sauce that invoked gravy via cheese. The beef had a nutty, browned flavor, but the cheese-gravy was uninspired. The roll was nice: the crust crisp and the dough chewy, but the real treat of this plate was the eggplant fries. These were strips of eggplant, battered and deep-fried and served with ketchup, which I found to be unnecessary. The delicate tang of the eggplant was not overcome by the batter or by old frying oil. They were perfectly crisp. I liked them so much I opted not to finish my dinner and had a side order of the fries (which were surprisingly inexpensive at $1.50).
While the fare was moderately priced, in the $9 to $24 range with a side salad costing $3, I found the website’s claim of “fine dining in a casual atmosphere” to be a bit off. The food we sampled was satisfactory but not exemplary, certainly not on par with other fine dining. One does not have to dress or make reservations.
Fortunately, there is more to a dining experience than the food. Our server was pleasant and quick and our food was served extra-hot. We both ordered the Brown Ale, which was lovely. The restaurant was comfortable and pretty; the luminaries and hanging lights were shaded with natural pulp paper. The dinnerware, though incongruous with some of the atmospheric elements, were these beautiful, heavy, white, elongated rectangular vessels. The flatware had a nice heft and squared edges that matched nicely with the plates.
While some restaurant reviewers award stars, I will use capers. Out of a five-caper system, I will use the average from three categories. For Service, I give 4 capers for the superb speed and food temperature. For atmosphere, I give 3.5 capers, owing to the paradoxical elements but general comfort and prettiness. For the food, there can only be 2.5 capers. Overall, then, I award The James 3-1/3 capers.
evidence that The James is inside the Holiday Inn is delightfully subtle.
The atmosphere is lovely—low amber lighting and sturdy, cherry-stained tables are arranged in an open space in the main area of the restaurant. Even so, the feeling is intimate.
The menu comes in two pieces. The main page has soup, small plates, toasts, pasta, large plates. The smaller page has sushi: cut rolls, hand rolls, sashimi, and salad. Perhaps providing two separate menus is meant to explain the lack of continuity in the menu since, aside from three of the large plates (Asian Lacquered Ahi, Miso and Mirin Glazed Salmon, Pancetta Wrapped Hamachi) that invoke Japanese flavors, the sushi feels out of place.
The offerings are a mix-up of Japanese fusion; Italian fusion with a preponderance of tomato, mozzarella, and pasta; and some American superstars like a Bacon Cheeseburger, Cowboy Steak, and Cobb Salad. The small plates include Roasted Crab Dip, Panzanella, and Jumbo Hot Wings.
After our server took the order, we were presented with a plate of bread and seasoned oil. The oil itself was nice, but heavy with dried oregano, sage, crushed red pepper, and basil. It was odd to me that the herbs were just plopped into the oil as opposed to being infused by heating, then strained and garnished. The bread was not extraordinary. It was a tad stale around the edges and lacked salt. Our bread course foreshadowed the rest of our meal, which fell a notch below expectation.
I ordered the Chicken Agnolotti from the pasta section. The description read, “caper and Limoncello cream sauce”. What arrived were four large agnolotti swimming in cream sauce with capers, oddly sans garnish. The capers were briny and sharp in just the right way, but the sauce lacked its purported Limoncello component. The agnolotti were filled with plain, shredded chicken which was not seasoned. The pasta was made in-house but lacked the fresh and tender lightness I expected. The dish, taken as a whole, was boring.
My date ordered the Chipped Tenderloin Toast, which consisted of sautéed beef chunks nestled in a long French roll and a sauce that invoked gravy via cheese. The beef had a nutty, browned flavor, but the cheese-gravy was uninspired. The roll was nice: the crust crisp and the dough chewy, but the real treat of this plate was the eggplant fries. These were strips of eggplant, battered and deep-fried and served with ketchup, which I found to be unnecessary. The delicate tang of the eggplant was not overcome by the batter or by old frying oil. They were perfectly crisp. I liked them so much I opted not to finish my dinner and had a side order of the fries (which were surprisingly inexpensive at $1.50).
While the fare was moderately priced, in the $9 to $24 range with a side salad costing $3, I found the website’s claim of “fine dining in a casual atmosphere” to be a bit off. The food we sampled was satisfactory but not exemplary, certainly not on par with other fine dining. One does not have to dress or make reservations.
Fortunately, there is more to a dining experience than the food. Our server was pleasant and quick and our food was served extra-hot. We both ordered the Brown Ale, which was lovely. The restaurant was comfortable and pretty; the luminaries and hanging lights were shaded with natural pulp paper. The dinnerware, though incongruous with some of the atmospheric elements, were these beautiful, heavy, white, elongated rectangular vessels. The flatware had a nice heft and squared edges that matched nicely with the plates.
While some restaurant reviewers award stars, I will use capers. Out of a five-caper system, I will use the average from three categories. For Service, I give 4 capers for the superb speed and food temperature. For atmosphere, I give 3.5 capers, owing to the paradoxical elements but general comfort and prettiness. For the food, there can only be 2.5 capers. Overall, then, I award The James 3-1/3 capers.
Monday, February 8, 2010
I love food and I'm on a diet
Hi.
For 2010, I decided that this chubby girl needs be chubby no more! That was 4 weeks ago, about.
I ate so much ridiculous and delicious food around the holidays, but each year, starting in November and ending after New Year's, eating gravy and overcooked meat and carbohydrate and fat laden holiday food is exceedingly delicious, but every year, I find myself eating nothing but grapefruit and dry tuna for about a week in January in order to feel detoxed. This year, I just decided to carry the torch and diversify.
I recently joined dailyburn.com. My boyfriend's on it, too. We're each other's motivators, which is good since we're both really into food. You could maybe call us foodies.
Anyway, for somebody who's totally into cooking and eating, when my daily menu looks like this
1 c raw baby carrots
1/4 c mixed salted nuts
2 string cheese
pita with hummus
grape tomatoes
other miscellaneous veggies
grapefruit
banana
other miscellaneous fruit
1 c. organic fruit yogurt from Wegman's
for days and days, well, I get bored.
So i finally got a moment to cook something and I made this turkey breast. I marinated it in lemon juice, garlic, olive oil. Then I baked it (a scoche too long, it's a bit dry), and i threw together some fake tzatziki sauce (lowfat plain yogurt, onions, cucumbers & a touch of black pepper and garlic powder), and I warmed up a pocket-less pita, and I added some grape tomatoes and feta cheese and cucumbers and baby spinach, and folded it over, and ate it up like a sandwich. YUM.
So today, I think I am making a huge, giant delicious spinach salad with the rest of the turkey and other veggie deliciousness for dinner. The point is that my little pick-around approach for the first several weeks was good because it got me in the habit of thinking about calories and nutrition and health and things.
Though I just had this kind of brilliant idea for a delicious tuna pita melt that would be kind of junk food satisfactory, but not unhealthy. At least, not as much as the pizza I've been craving.
For 2010, I decided that this chubby girl needs be chubby no more! That was 4 weeks ago, about.
I ate so much ridiculous and delicious food around the holidays, but each year, starting in November and ending after New Year's, eating gravy and overcooked meat and carbohydrate and fat laden holiday food is exceedingly delicious, but every year, I find myself eating nothing but grapefruit and dry tuna for about a week in January in order to feel detoxed. This year, I just decided to carry the torch and diversify.
I recently joined dailyburn.com. My boyfriend's on it, too. We're each other's motivators, which is good since we're both really into food. You could maybe call us foodies.
Anyway, for somebody who's totally into cooking and eating, when my daily menu looks like this
1 c raw baby carrots
1/4 c mixed salted nuts
2 string cheese
pita with hummus
grape tomatoes
other miscellaneous veggies
grapefruit
banana
other miscellaneous fruit
1 c. organic fruit yogurt from Wegman's
for days and days, well, I get bored.
So i finally got a moment to cook something and I made this turkey breast. I marinated it in lemon juice, garlic, olive oil. Then I baked it (a scoche too long, it's a bit dry), and i threw together some fake tzatziki sauce (lowfat plain yogurt, onions, cucumbers & a touch of black pepper and garlic powder), and I warmed up a pocket-less pita, and I added some grape tomatoes and feta cheese and cucumbers and baby spinach, and folded it over, and ate it up like a sandwich. YUM.
So today, I think I am making a huge, giant delicious spinach salad with the rest of the turkey and other veggie deliciousness for dinner. The point is that my little pick-around approach for the first several weeks was good because it got me in the habit of thinking about calories and nutrition and health and things.
Though I just had this kind of brilliant idea for a delicious tuna pita melt that would be kind of junk food satisfactory, but not unhealthy. At least, not as much as the pizza I've been craving.
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