Okay, maybe that was a little overdramatic.
I have a confession. I have been a bad vegan. I haven't been eating enough veggies. I've been turning to pasta, pancakes, and french toast for sustenance lately. It's horrible, I know. I turn to carbs for comfort. Money troubles? Have some pancakes. Not dating? Pass the french toast. Life got ya down? Here's a loaf of sourdough bread. :D It makes me happy, but I don't feel nourished. At all. *lol* Bad vegan!
Last night, there was a show called The Veg Edge on the Cooking channel. It showcased vegetarian food around the country. Austin, NYC, Seattle, LA, and Portland. Portland made a great showing, I was so proud. It was so inspiring to see all the amazing dishes. It reminded me of how much I loved cooking, and of how wonderful vegetables are. I'm sure they'll re-air it throughout the month, I highly recommend everyone check it out. Here's a snippet:
Luckily, we already have a good amount of dried beans, pastas, russet potatoes, oats, rice, the basics on hand. I had $20 to spend on groceries today, most of which I spent on fresh vegetables. I got purple kale, mustard greens, carrots, onions, garlic, herbs, a turnip, a parsnip, scallions, radishes, and some small red potatoes. I'm going to make a bean & potato salad today, Mom is going to make a hearty soup this weekend, it's going to be glorious. It's a shame that it took a financial squeeze and a TV show to bring me back to healthier eating again, but in this case I think it's the end that matters, not the means. It's not expensive to eat healthily, you just have to put in a little time in the kitchen.
I even worked out last night. Finally.
I can't wait to get in the kitchen later today. :)
Friday, December 10, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
The universe is a literalist
I've come to realize that the infamous "Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it," advice doesn't go nearly far enough. You need to be careful with day to day thoughts at all times. If you drop your guard, the powers that be will snatch the ideas that you thought were private and will proceed to wreak havoc in the cosmos with them. How do I know this? Because I broke Ben Roethlisberger's nose on Sunday.
I shall explain.
My reason for not blogging lately is I've been distracted by a family crisis. A series of bad decisions by one individual is making life impressively shitty for all of us, and the last thing anyone needs is for me to whine about it online. This past weekend was very tense and I was angry. So angry, in fact, that when I sat down to watch Sunday Night Football, Steelers vs. Ravens, I thought to myself, "I want to see someone get hurt tonight."
Please believe me when I say I don't watch football for the violence, I swear. I watch it for the skill and determination of the teams, the highlight-worthy plays, and the mental chess match going on between the coaches. And... I... er... I have a great appreciation of the male form when it is in peak condition and operating at maximum capacity. *ahem*
But I was pissed that night, and I wanted to see someone get effed up. Evidently someone heard me because less than five minutes into the first quarter Haloti Ngata plowed into Big Ben, got an arm in, and broke his nose. Ta da! Blood was pouring out of his face, a face that definitely did not look right, seriously. Now, I hate the Steelers, and I certainly have no love for Mr. Sexual Assault, so please don't think less of me for not feeling any regret at the misfortune my evil mind brought him. To my own credit, at least I didn't smile. That counts for something, right? Anyway, the Ravens lost that game and I punched the floor a few times in misery, but it is what it is. So yeah, we broke Ben's nose. Haloti Ngata and I together.
Last night I was feeling lazy, as I have been for the last 3 months or so. While perusing the DVR for something to watch, I decided to delete the workout I had saved because surely there was no way I was going to get off my ass this week to move any more than was absolutely necessary. Just no way. I went to bed and forgot all about it. Today I had a huge burst of energy which rode in on the heels of a bad mood, and after tidying up the kitchen I decided the best way to use this energy would be in a workout. I changed into a t-shirt and shorts, got some cans to use as weights, and hopped in front of the TV.
Only to remember that I deleted my workout. Crap! No worries, I went into the On-Demand menu and selected a workout. All right, let's do this! An apology then flashed on the screen, letting me know that my selection couldn't be processed at this time, and that I should try again later or call the number given for assistance. What?! I don't call anyone for anything, ever. I'd even have a hard time calling 9-1-1 if someone shot me, so you know I didn't call the cable company. My impatience finally overflowed and I just took a shower instead. But see, my self-fulfilling prophecy strikes again!
It only seems to work with negative ideas. I highly doubt I can wish myself to an awesome book deal or a really great boyfriend.
If only.
I shall explain.
My reason for not blogging lately is I've been distracted by a family crisis. A series of bad decisions by one individual is making life impressively shitty for all of us, and the last thing anyone needs is for me to whine about it online. This past weekend was very tense and I was angry. So angry, in fact, that when I sat down to watch Sunday Night Football, Steelers vs. Ravens, I thought to myself, "I want to see someone get hurt tonight."
Please believe me when I say I don't watch football for the violence, I swear. I watch it for the skill and determination of the teams, the highlight-worthy plays, and the mental chess match going on between the coaches. And... I... er... I have a great appreciation of the male form when it is in peak condition and operating at maximum capacity. *ahem*
But I was pissed that night, and I wanted to see someone get effed up. Evidently someone heard me because less than five minutes into the first quarter Haloti Ngata plowed into Big Ben, got an arm in, and broke his nose. Ta da! Blood was pouring out of his face, a face that definitely did not look right, seriously. Now, I hate the Steelers, and I certainly have no love for Mr. Sexual Assault, so please don't think less of me for not feeling any regret at the misfortune my evil mind brought him. To my own credit, at least I didn't smile. That counts for something, right? Anyway, the Ravens lost that game and I punched the floor a few times in misery, but it is what it is. So yeah, we broke Ben's nose. Haloti Ngata and I together.
Last night I was feeling lazy, as I have been for the last 3 months or so. While perusing the DVR for something to watch, I decided to delete the workout I had saved because surely there was no way I was going to get off my ass this week to move any more than was absolutely necessary. Just no way. I went to bed and forgot all about it. Today I had a huge burst of energy which rode in on the heels of a bad mood, and after tidying up the kitchen I decided the best way to use this energy would be in a workout. I changed into a t-shirt and shorts, got some cans to use as weights, and hopped in front of the TV.
Only to remember that I deleted my workout. Crap! No worries, I went into the On-Demand menu and selected a workout. All right, let's do this! An apology then flashed on the screen, letting me know that my selection couldn't be processed at this time, and that I should try again later or call the number given for assistance. What?! I don't call anyone for anything, ever. I'd even have a hard time calling 9-1-1 if someone shot me, so you know I didn't call the cable company. My impatience finally overflowed and I just took a shower instead. But see, my self-fulfilling prophecy strikes again!
It only seems to work with negative ideas. I highly doubt I can wish myself to an awesome book deal or a really great boyfriend.
If only.
Friday, November 26, 2010
The agony and the ecstasy - a Thanksgiving recap
What was to be a hassle-free, easy, laid back holiday ended up being a stressful, hectic, emotionally draining experience. There was yelling, there was crying, there were silent treatments and cold shoulders abound, and that was just from me. In a made-for-TV evening, though, everything turned out fine. That's the holidays for you.
It all started on Wednesday. I made extra vegetable stock, then created the most wonderful cranberry sauce I've ever had. I was pretty proud of myself as I started working on the pumpkin pie. Long story short, the crust never cooked properly, and what was to be a pumpkin pie ended up being baked pumpkin pudding. I felt like a failure. Later in the day I decided to make a spice cake to serve in addition to the pudding, and went to bed feeling slightly better.
On Thursday I woke up in a fantastic mood. I floated downstairs, made myself some pancakes and coffee, made the spice cake, and settled in to watch the Macy's parade on TV. Now that I no longer work for the company I can enjoy it along with everyone else. Unfortunately for me, someone decided that this was the perfect time to vacuum, and while the Rockettes were doling out high kicks, all I heard was a loud roar. Between the confirmed unwanted company I was dreading, the pie fail, the ruined parade, the dogs raiding the trash, and stressing over whether my neighbor was going to be alone and if I should take her a plate, I hit my limit. I was so pissed I started crying and swearing, then refused to acknowledge any and all attempts at apologies. My beautiful Thanksgiving was ruined and I'd be damned if I let anyone try to fix it.
But then it was time to start the Tofurky. That little ball of wheat gluten and tofu always makes me happy. I made this convoluted marinade consisting of, but not limited to: soy sauce, EVOO, canola oil, poultry seasoning, maple syrup, liquid smoke, brown sugar, salt, white pepper, ground ginger, and onion powder. There is no science to it, I just kept playing with it until it reached the smoky sweet taste I was going for. And it was perfect.
The rest was not smooth sailing, and dinner was half an hour late, but we finally finished and set up a buffet on the counter. I did take pictures with the digital camera, but I don't have the camera software on my laptop and I don't feel like waiting until the desktop is available, so here's a cell phone picture of some leftovers I had today:
That's the Tofurky at the top, followed by green beans, cranberry sauce (my crowning achievement), Mom's sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes & gravy, and a sweet gherkin in the center. There were also dinner rolls (I just didn't throw one on my plate for the pic), assorted olives, stuffing (*gag*), and our guest brought soda bread. Everything was sooooooo delicious. Both of the omnivores loved the all-vegan meal, which pleased me to no end. Then came dessert!
That's the spice cake with a "buttercream" frosting and nutmeg sprinkled on top, and then the pumpkin "pudding" with Soyatoo! soy whip. Sorry for the lousy photo quality, my phone did the best it could. Anyway, both desserts were super yummy. Quick note about that soy whip... OMG that stuff is amazing. I didn't notice any difference between that and dairy whipped cream. I had some with my coffee this morning too. Bliss!
So everything turned out fine. Neighbor ended up not being alone, I saw her boyfriend come home in the afternoon. And having a guest wasn't really that bad, and she would've been alone otherwise. I'm not that much of a Scrooge, jeez. Ti, our gargantuan tuxedo cat, loved all the attention that was showered upon him, plus the tuna I gave him as a treat. He may very well have had the best Thanksgiving of all.
With all the chaos, I didn't have time to make a Thanksgiving meal for the dogs, so I did it today. I boiled some organic peas and carrots, served with a tiny dollop of mashed potatoes, and used Earth's Best vegetable turkey dinner as gravy. Yeah, I gave them organic baby food because I didn't want them having a lot of sodium and fat. I didn't take a picture because it didn't look very good when it was all mixed together. I'm assuming it was at least somewhat tasty because all three of them devoured it. So now everyone has been covered.
I could happily eat these leftovers for a week straight, but we've all been systematically pecking at it, so I give it another day or two, tops. I've been enjoying seeing what other people had for dinner, and now my sights are set on Christmas dinner. >:)
I'm not turning this into a food blog, I promise. It's just that I love to cook (and eat!), so it'll make its way in from time to time. Anyway, I ended up having a nice Thanksgiving after all, and hope everyone else did, too. :)
It all started on Wednesday. I made extra vegetable stock, then created the most wonderful cranberry sauce I've ever had. I was pretty proud of myself as I started working on the pumpkin pie. Long story short, the crust never cooked properly, and what was to be a pumpkin pie ended up being baked pumpkin pudding. I felt like a failure. Later in the day I decided to make a spice cake to serve in addition to the pudding, and went to bed feeling slightly better.
On Thursday I woke up in a fantastic mood. I floated downstairs, made myself some pancakes and coffee, made the spice cake, and settled in to watch the Macy's parade on TV. Now that I no longer work for the company I can enjoy it along with everyone else. Unfortunately for me, someone decided that this was the perfect time to vacuum, and while the Rockettes were doling out high kicks, all I heard was a loud roar. Between the confirmed unwanted company I was dreading, the pie fail, the ruined parade, the dogs raiding the trash, and stressing over whether my neighbor was going to be alone and if I should take her a plate, I hit my limit. I was so pissed I started crying and swearing, then refused to acknowledge any and all attempts at apologies. My beautiful Thanksgiving was ruined and I'd be damned if I let anyone try to fix it.
But then it was time to start the Tofurky. That little ball of wheat gluten and tofu always makes me happy. I made this convoluted marinade consisting of, but not limited to: soy sauce, EVOO, canola oil, poultry seasoning, maple syrup, liquid smoke, brown sugar, salt, white pepper, ground ginger, and onion powder. There is no science to it, I just kept playing with it until it reached the smoky sweet taste I was going for. And it was perfect.
The rest was not smooth sailing, and dinner was half an hour late, but we finally finished and set up a buffet on the counter. I did take pictures with the digital camera, but I don't have the camera software on my laptop and I don't feel like waiting until the desktop is available, so here's a cell phone picture of some leftovers I had today:
That's the Tofurky at the top, followed by green beans, cranberry sauce (my crowning achievement), Mom's sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes & gravy, and a sweet gherkin in the center. There were also dinner rolls (I just didn't throw one on my plate for the pic), assorted olives, stuffing (*gag*), and our guest brought soda bread. Everything was sooooooo delicious. Both of the omnivores loved the all-vegan meal, which pleased me to no end. Then came dessert!
That's the spice cake with a "buttercream" frosting and nutmeg sprinkled on top, and then the pumpkin "pudding" with Soyatoo! soy whip. Sorry for the lousy photo quality, my phone did the best it could. Anyway, both desserts were super yummy. Quick note about that soy whip... OMG that stuff is amazing. I didn't notice any difference between that and dairy whipped cream. I had some with my coffee this morning too. Bliss!
So everything turned out fine. Neighbor ended up not being alone, I saw her boyfriend come home in the afternoon. And having a guest wasn't really that bad, and she would've been alone otherwise. I'm not that much of a Scrooge, jeez. Ti, our gargantuan tuxedo cat, loved all the attention that was showered upon him, plus the tuna I gave him as a treat. He may very well have had the best Thanksgiving of all.
With all the chaos, I didn't have time to make a Thanksgiving meal for the dogs, so I did it today. I boiled some organic peas and carrots, served with a tiny dollop of mashed potatoes, and used Earth's Best vegetable turkey dinner as gravy. Yeah, I gave them organic baby food because I didn't want them having a lot of sodium and fat. I didn't take a picture because it didn't look very good when it was all mixed together. I'm assuming it was at least somewhat tasty because all three of them devoured it. So now everyone has been covered.
I could happily eat these leftovers for a week straight, but we've all been systematically pecking at it, so I give it another day or two, tops. I've been enjoying seeing what other people had for dinner, and now my sights are set on Christmas dinner. >:)
I'm not turning this into a food blog, I promise. It's just that I love to cook (and eat!), so it'll make its way in from time to time. Anyway, I ended up having a nice Thanksgiving after all, and hope everyone else did, too. :)
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
That's gratitude for you.
That financial ruin I alluded to recently is getting closer. We'll be fine for December, but come January we really don't know if we'll be able to make rent. Someone mentioned maybe we should look into local animal rescues in case we have to surrender our pets. After hearing that, I just shut down, both physically and mentally. A sad amount of wallowing took place yesterday. An equally sad amount of pancakes were consumed in the pursuit of comfort. I was too angry and miserable to get any writing done, which doesn't help things at all. Yesterday was just... bad. And while I'd like to say it's nobody's fault, that would be a lie. But whatever, I'm not here to point fingers.
Yes, I am. *points upstairs*
Anyway, it snowed last night. Keep in mind that I've spent almost my entire life in Florida, so this was a big deal to me. It wasn't a lot of snow, but enough that it lifted my spirits a bit. It's cold enough that most of the snow was still around this morning. I needed some flour, as I wasn't feeling all that confident about the whole wheat pie crust I made. I needed all purpose flour for a new one. So I pulled on my boots, slipped into my jacket, and set off on foot for the nearest grocery store.
Who needs alcohol when you have snow? Trudging through the slush, I forgot all of our problems. The world was a beautiful, wonderful place. I was almost in tears, I was that happy. The only thing that could have made things better would've been... more snow! I slipped once or twice on small patches of ice, I couldn't feel my ears, and my jacket made me a little too warm in the trunk, but it was perfect. I got my flour, then decided to take the long way home. I saw all kinds of birds, there was a lady at a park with her kids and dogs, people were flocking to Starbucks, there wasn't much traffic, everyone seemed to be in a good mood. *sigh*
I don't think I can convey how happy snow makes me. The first time I saw any was when we were driving through Wyoming during our move to Oregon back in May. The hills were covered with it, and evergreen trees dotted the landscape. It was like a Christmas card, it was so lovely. I did cry then. *lol*
The photo doesn't do it justice.
Truth be told, if I were rich I would buy a tiny cabin in Montana, surrounded by hundreds of acres of wilderness. I'd have tea parties with bears and square dances with wolves and book clubs with elk. Alas, I am not rich. And I like where I am anyway. But still, you get the idea.
When I came home the dogs were thrilled to see me. That always feels good. I made some coffee and looked at the paper. I even did the crossword. I took the Tofurky out of the freezer and moved it to the fridge so it'll thaw completely by Thursday. I finally get to start cooking tomorrow, which is killing me because I want to do it NOW. I'm milking this chilly high for all it's worth. Some of the heaviness of our circumstances has seeped back in, but I'm trying to stay positive. If nothing else, I will enjoy this Thanksgiving.
My point is, not a day goes by that I am not grateful for living in Oregon, but today it was that much more profound. No matter what the future brings, I have today. And it's sappy as hell, but I am thankful.
Don't worry, sarcasm and pessimism will return after Thursday. ;D
Yes, I am. *points upstairs*
Anyway, it snowed last night. Keep in mind that I've spent almost my entire life in Florida, so this was a big deal to me. It wasn't a lot of snow, but enough that it lifted my spirits a bit. It's cold enough that most of the snow was still around this morning. I needed some flour, as I wasn't feeling all that confident about the whole wheat pie crust I made. I needed all purpose flour for a new one. So I pulled on my boots, slipped into my jacket, and set off on foot for the nearest grocery store.
Who needs alcohol when you have snow? Trudging through the slush, I forgot all of our problems. The world was a beautiful, wonderful place. I was almost in tears, I was that happy. The only thing that could have made things better would've been... more snow! I slipped once or twice on small patches of ice, I couldn't feel my ears, and my jacket made me a little too warm in the trunk, but it was perfect. I got my flour, then decided to take the long way home. I saw all kinds of birds, there was a lady at a park with her kids and dogs, people were flocking to Starbucks, there wasn't much traffic, everyone seemed to be in a good mood. *sigh*
I don't think I can convey how happy snow makes me. The first time I saw any was when we were driving through Wyoming during our move to Oregon back in May. The hills were covered with it, and evergreen trees dotted the landscape. It was like a Christmas card, it was so lovely. I did cry then. *lol*
The photo doesn't do it justice.
Truth be told, if I were rich I would buy a tiny cabin in Montana, surrounded by hundreds of acres of wilderness. I'd have tea parties with bears and square dances with wolves and book clubs with elk. Alas, I am not rich. And I like where I am anyway. But still, you get the idea.
When I came home the dogs were thrilled to see me. That always feels good. I made some coffee and looked at the paper. I even did the crossword. I took the Tofurky out of the freezer and moved it to the fridge so it'll thaw completely by Thursday. I finally get to start cooking tomorrow, which is killing me because I want to do it NOW. I'm milking this chilly high for all it's worth. Some of the heaviness of our circumstances has seeped back in, but I'm trying to stay positive. If nothing else, I will enjoy this Thanksgiving.
My point is, not a day goes by that I am not grateful for living in Oregon, but today it was that much more profound. No matter what the future brings, I have today. And it's sappy as hell, but I am thankful.
Don't worry, sarcasm and pessimism will return after Thursday. ;D
Friday, November 19, 2010
Let's try this again, shall we?
Once upon a time, yours truly wanted to be a blogging star. And then I didn't, so I stopped writing here. I did, however, continue to post on my Myspace blog. I'm vain enough to enjoy seeing how many blog views I get everyday. Recently, Myspace has made a lot of changes, all of which I absolutely hate. Hate! So from now on I'm going to post here. Let's all take a minute to say thanks to my laziness, as I meant to delete this blog, I just never got around to it. So... yay!
So what am I doing now? I'm taking a stab at being a romance writer! :D And it's horrible! D: On October 25th I started writing what was to become a 90,000 word novel. I then decided to scale it way down to a 15,000 word novella. It is now November 19th and I'm STILL not done with it. Almost, but not quite. What's the holdup? Pure, unbridled, raw, extensive terror, that's what. What if my writing isn't good enough? What if no one wants to buy my manuscripts? Maybe I should get a "real" job? I don't know. I'm inching along toward the finale of this story, though, and I will see it through. I will. I have ideas for other stories as well, it's not like I'm banking my entire future on 15,000 measly words. Still... rejection hurts. So does poverty. I should probably be working on that instead of writing this. Oh well!
Who cares about real life when Thanksgiving is right around the corner?! Not me!!!! Thanksgiving is my absolute favorite day of the year. It's better than Christmas. It's better than Superbowl Sunday. It's better than just about anything you could come up with. Think about it, it's so perfect. You wake up, have breakfast, and watch a parade! Then you either watch a dog show, football, or you get your ass in the kitchen and start cooking. Regardless of what choice you made, at some point you'll end up in the kitchen anyway, it's only a matter of time. And then... you eat the greatest meal ever. EVER. Then you have pie. Then you lie around in a gluttonous stupor, wondering both how and why you ate so much. Maybe you watch a movie after that, maybe you just pass out on the couch. And you'd better get to bed early, for the Christmas season is going to tackle you the moment you open your sleep-crusted eyes in the morning. Those strands of lights aren't gonna put themselves up, ya know!
Heaven, all in a 24 hour period.
I've been hardcore stressing over this year's dinner. Money is suffocatingly tight (I'm losing cell phone service next Wednesday, it's that bad), I didn't know how we'd manage it. Today I took all the money we had for groceries for this week and spent it all on the dinner. Yeah, I didn't buy anything to eat between now and next Thursday. Genius, I know. Other housemate will have to pick up a few things so we don't starve between now and then. All together, the cost of the meal is a little under $50. That's not bad for 3 people. I'm hoping it'll only be 3, but we might have a 4th person. I'd rather not have company, but whatever. Yes, I'm being ugly, but come on, we're gonna need those leftovers!
This year I'm making the pumpkin pie and cranberry sauce from scratch. No cans involved! I've already made the pumpkin puree, and I'll make both dishes the day before. I didn't bring my potato masher when we moved to Oregon, so I had to get a box of mashed potato flakes. The shame. But but but, we're making the sweet potatoes from scratch! That has to count for something. For the 3rd year in a row, the star of our meal will be a Tofurky roast. For some reason, many vegetarians are very anti-Tofurky, but I love it. LOVE. So we'll have the roast, mashed potatoes, gravy (I make my own), sweet potatoes, green beans, rolls, cranberry sauce, stuffing (*gag*), a relish assortment (olives & gerkins, basically), and... a homemade pumpkin pie. I even got soy whipped cream. Yummmmmmm.
Did I mention I'm a vegan? One vegan, one ovo vegetarian, and one omnivore. That's our household. If our possible guest brings some turkey I will be unfailingly kind and not scream at her. I promise. *crosses fingers behind back*
I'm happy today. Despite probable economic ruin, I am happy. While running errands this morning, the music on the radio was superb. It's a gray day, my favorite kind. I am going to have the Thanksgiving I want, and it MIGHT snow this weekend. And I'm blogging again. And I'm almost done with my story. Somehow things will be okay.
Somehow.
So what am I doing now? I'm taking a stab at being a romance writer! :D And it's horrible! D: On October 25th I started writing what was to become a 90,000 word novel. I then decided to scale it way down to a 15,000 word novella. It is now November 19th and I'm STILL not done with it. Almost, but not quite. What's the holdup? Pure, unbridled, raw, extensive terror, that's what. What if my writing isn't good enough? What if no one wants to buy my manuscripts? Maybe I should get a "real" job? I don't know. I'm inching along toward the finale of this story, though, and I will see it through. I will. I have ideas for other stories as well, it's not like I'm banking my entire future on 15,000 measly words. Still... rejection hurts. So does poverty. I should probably be working on that instead of writing this. Oh well!
Who cares about real life when Thanksgiving is right around the corner?! Not me!!!! Thanksgiving is my absolute favorite day of the year. It's better than Christmas. It's better than Superbowl Sunday. It's better than just about anything you could come up with. Think about it, it's so perfect. You wake up, have breakfast, and watch a parade! Then you either watch a dog show, football, or you get your ass in the kitchen and start cooking. Regardless of what choice you made, at some point you'll end up in the kitchen anyway, it's only a matter of time. And then... you eat the greatest meal ever. EVER. Then you have pie. Then you lie around in a gluttonous stupor, wondering both how and why you ate so much. Maybe you watch a movie after that, maybe you just pass out on the couch. And you'd better get to bed early, for the Christmas season is going to tackle you the moment you open your sleep-crusted eyes in the morning. Those strands of lights aren't gonna put themselves up, ya know!
Heaven, all in a 24 hour period.
I've been hardcore stressing over this year's dinner. Money is suffocatingly tight (I'm losing cell phone service next Wednesday, it's that bad), I didn't know how we'd manage it. Today I took all the money we had for groceries for this week and spent it all on the dinner. Yeah, I didn't buy anything to eat between now and next Thursday. Genius, I know. Other housemate will have to pick up a few things so we don't starve between now and then. All together, the cost of the meal is a little under $50. That's not bad for 3 people. I'm hoping it'll only be 3, but we might have a 4th person. I'd rather not have company, but whatever. Yes, I'm being ugly, but come on, we're gonna need those leftovers!
This year I'm making the pumpkin pie and cranberry sauce from scratch. No cans involved! I've already made the pumpkin puree, and I'll make both dishes the day before. I didn't bring my potato masher when we moved to Oregon, so I had to get a box of mashed potato flakes. The shame. But but but, we're making the sweet potatoes from scratch! That has to count for something. For the 3rd year in a row, the star of our meal will be a Tofurky roast. For some reason, many vegetarians are very anti-Tofurky, but I love it. LOVE. So we'll have the roast, mashed potatoes, gravy (I make my own), sweet potatoes, green beans, rolls, cranberry sauce, stuffing (*gag*), a relish assortment (olives & gerkins, basically), and... a homemade pumpkin pie. I even got soy whipped cream. Yummmmmmm.
Did I mention I'm a vegan? One vegan, one ovo vegetarian, and one omnivore. That's our household. If our possible guest brings some turkey I will be unfailingly kind and not scream at her. I promise. *crosses fingers behind back*
I'm happy today. Despite probable economic ruin, I am happy. While running errands this morning, the music on the radio was superb. It's a gray day, my favorite kind. I am going to have the Thanksgiving I want, and it MIGHT snow this weekend. And I'm blogging again. And I'm almost done with my story. Somehow things will be okay.
Somehow.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Food Sensitivities
Food allergies seem to be running rampant these days. I was blissfully ignorant of many people’s plights until I heard about children who would die if they found themselves anywhere near a lowly peanut. Strawberries, onions, wheat gluten, soy, any food item has the potential to kill somebody somewhere, it’s amazing. What’s annoying is the general populous avoiding these items like it’s fashionable. Take the gluten-free fad going on right now. You simply cannot convince me that so many are cursed with Celiac disease. You just can’t, I refuse to believe it. This isn’t a new diet craze, such avoidances are necessary for a person’s very existence! Trust me, I speak from experience.
Traumatizing childhoods are also pretty common (popular), and lucky me, I get to combine it with my food “sensitivity.” Two birds with one stone, if you will. I was a picky eater with a roller-coaster appetite. Each morning my mother would ask me if this was an eating day or not. Eating days were days during which I would gorge myself on only one type of food, rotating favorites were macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and the usual kid fare. On non-eating days I wouldn’t touch a crumb. At first this concerned her, but my pediatrician assured her that as long as I was getting everything I needed over the course of a week, I’d be fine. Consumption schedules aside, there were a few items that I would refuse even on the most voracious of eating days. Okay, more than “a few,” but that’s beside the point. The absolute worst was the dreaded, breaded, would-much-rather-be-beheaded… stuffing. Stuffing, dressing, whatever you call it, you know what I mean. Stovetop, if you want to get specific. That shit doesn’t deserve to grace the table on any day other than Thanksgiving, but sometimes we had it as a side dish at random times throughout the year. My mother has always loved stuffing, and sometimes I truly don’t understand her.
In addition to my finicky ways, I was impressively stubborn. My spirit animal must be a mule because once I’d decided not to do something God himself would not have been able to sway me otherwise. Unfortunately for me, my father was the type who believed you had to finish everything on your plate. When I was five years old, the three of us were sitting down to dinner, and there was stuffing on my plate. Maybe he’d had a really bad day at work, maybe he just felt like being an ass, either way Dad was extremely bothered by the pokes and prods at my dinner and the noticeable lack of any real eating going on. His urgings for me to eat grew in intensity, fueled by my refusal to comply, and kept building until everything came to a head, forever changing the course of my culinary life.
With lightning quick speed and amazing efficiency he grabbed my fork with his right hand, with his left he gripped the back of my head, and without any hesitation or regard for my safety he began forcing huge forkfuls of what was now lukewarm stuffing into my mouth. Repulsion and panic overcame me and I promptly vomited everything back onto my plate. Steeling himself to my misery, he continued eating his own meal. When the force of my glare became too much to handle, he growled at me, “Don’t look at me, look at your food,” and my eyes dropped to my plate. When he had cleared his own plate he told me that I wasn’t going anywhere until I finished my food. My mother went along with this because she was trying to be the dutiful wife back then, and so they both left me there, at the table, by myself.
Two hours later crickets chirped loudly outside, and fireflies glowed beautifully in the dark. The air was cool and smelled sweet. Or so I assume. I don’t actually know because I was still sitting at that damned table staring at the regurgitated remains of what was once supposedly considered food. I was finally told to go to my room, which I did happily. Being sent to my room was never really a punishment, as I enjoyed drawing or quietly playing by myself in there for hours at a time. Within the hour I was even awarded dessert out of pity and guilt, and subconsciously my father’s will bowed down before my own to acknowledge its superior strength. That’s what I like to tell myself, anyway. At the end of a long, bloody battle the losing side should always present the victors with ice cream, it just makes sense to me. As I savored the cool, creamy taste of success, I knew I had won. I’ve never had food shoveled into my face again. The damage, however, had already been done.
To this day even the smell of stuffing causes the saliva to build in my mouth, forcing me to swallow rapidly and tamp down the nausea that overcomes me. I can’t walk past it in the grocery store without cringing. I have never made peace with the stuff. Alright, so it doesn’t really pose any threat to my health like a legitimate food allergy, but it killed a part of my soul. I no longer stay in touch with my dad, for other reasons, and stuffing is only allowed near me on Thanksgiving. I just make sure it’s at the far end of the table, even better if it hides behind one of the other dishes. We all have our hang-ups. If a stuffing-free fad ever sweeps the nation, I will whole-heartedly support it. Sorry, Stovetop.
Not really.
Traumatizing childhoods are also pretty common (popular), and lucky me, I get to combine it with my food “sensitivity.” Two birds with one stone, if you will. I was a picky eater with a roller-coaster appetite. Each morning my mother would ask me if this was an eating day or not. Eating days were days during which I would gorge myself on only one type of food, rotating favorites were macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and the usual kid fare. On non-eating days I wouldn’t touch a crumb. At first this concerned her, but my pediatrician assured her that as long as I was getting everything I needed over the course of a week, I’d be fine. Consumption schedules aside, there were a few items that I would refuse even on the most voracious of eating days. Okay, more than “a few,” but that’s beside the point. The absolute worst was the dreaded, breaded, would-much-rather-be-beheaded… stuffing. Stuffing, dressing, whatever you call it, you know what I mean. Stovetop, if you want to get specific. That shit doesn’t deserve to grace the table on any day other than Thanksgiving, but sometimes we had it as a side dish at random times throughout the year. My mother has always loved stuffing, and sometimes I truly don’t understand her.
In addition to my finicky ways, I was impressively stubborn. My spirit animal must be a mule because once I’d decided not to do something God himself would not have been able to sway me otherwise. Unfortunately for me, my father was the type who believed you had to finish everything on your plate. When I was five years old, the three of us were sitting down to dinner, and there was stuffing on my plate. Maybe he’d had a really bad day at work, maybe he just felt like being an ass, either way Dad was extremely bothered by the pokes and prods at my dinner and the noticeable lack of any real eating going on. His urgings for me to eat grew in intensity, fueled by my refusal to comply, and kept building until everything came to a head, forever changing the course of my culinary life.
With lightning quick speed and amazing efficiency he grabbed my fork with his right hand, with his left he gripped the back of my head, and without any hesitation or regard for my safety he began forcing huge forkfuls of what was now lukewarm stuffing into my mouth. Repulsion and panic overcame me and I promptly vomited everything back onto my plate. Steeling himself to my misery, he continued eating his own meal. When the force of my glare became too much to handle, he growled at me, “Don’t look at me, look at your food,” and my eyes dropped to my plate. When he had cleared his own plate he told me that I wasn’t going anywhere until I finished my food. My mother went along with this because she was trying to be the dutiful wife back then, and so they both left me there, at the table, by myself.
Two hours later crickets chirped loudly outside, and fireflies glowed beautifully in the dark. The air was cool and smelled sweet. Or so I assume. I don’t actually know because I was still sitting at that damned table staring at the regurgitated remains of what was once supposedly considered food. I was finally told to go to my room, which I did happily. Being sent to my room was never really a punishment, as I enjoyed drawing or quietly playing by myself in there for hours at a time. Within the hour I was even awarded dessert out of pity and guilt, and subconsciously my father’s will bowed down before my own to acknowledge its superior strength. That’s what I like to tell myself, anyway. At the end of a long, bloody battle the losing side should always present the victors with ice cream, it just makes sense to me. As I savored the cool, creamy taste of success, I knew I had won. I’ve never had food shoveled into my face again. The damage, however, had already been done.
To this day even the smell of stuffing causes the saliva to build in my mouth, forcing me to swallow rapidly and tamp down the nausea that overcomes me. I can’t walk past it in the grocery store without cringing. I have never made peace with the stuff. Alright, so it doesn’t really pose any threat to my health like a legitimate food allergy, but it killed a part of my soul. I no longer stay in touch with my dad, for other reasons, and stuffing is only allowed near me on Thanksgiving. I just make sure it’s at the far end of the table, even better if it hides behind one of the other dishes. We all have our hang-ups. If a stuffing-free fad ever sweeps the nation, I will whole-heartedly support it. Sorry, Stovetop.
Not really.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
The Reluctant Spaniard
When you look at me, within 3.2 seconds you will figure out that I’m Spanish. It’s quite obvious, it’s in my facial structure, my hair, my skin tone, and my ass. It is not, however, in my ankles, my hands, or my teeth. What you will not see is that I’m actually half Spanish, half German. No one ever stops me to ask if I’m German. That’s okay, I can’t see it either, but it’s there. Apparently, what kind of Spanish you are matters, especially to other people of Hispanic origin. Cuban, Puerto Rican, Mexican, Peruvian, Colombian, Spain Spanish. This is important, and it seems to aggravate people when they can’t identify me. This is later eclipsed by the rage that floods their faces when they find out that I do not speak a word of Spanish. “But you should! Is good language!” Yes, I am a disgrace to my (half) people. There’s a good chance that there would be riots in front of my home if these same individuals learned of the lengths I once went to in trying to hide that very heritage. I mean, really.
There is a girl that I used to be extremely afraid of. You’ve seen her a thousand times, I know it. Her dark hair is plastered to her head, one curl cemented to each of her temples; enormous hoop earrings dangle from her ears; black eyeliner doubles as lip liner, serving as a dark barrier that barely contains the blood red lipstick staining her mouth; tight clothing tries its darnedest to cover her curves, but ultimately fails because it’s two sizes too small; her feet are either squeezed into cheap platform shoes or are resting comfortably in overpriced sneakers. You’ve seen her at places like the mall, but you’re probably most familiar with her arguing with her boyfriend in a parking lot with her posse of clones surrounding her, bobbling their heads and adding in clever quips that would make an English teacher cringe.
In my teens and early twenties, I did everything in my power not to be this girl. My efforts often went unnoticed by the kind of boys who usually go for such creatures. I was perpetually invisible to the blond-haired, blue-eyed dreamboats I fantasized about while dodging advances from guys who wholeheartedly believed that rap stars were gods and found the sight of two (or more) girls fighting over them to be quite amusing, possibly even a turn-on. I stopped wearing hoop earrings of all sizes, I shunned lipstick, I straightened my naturally curly hair daily, I avoided the sun like a vampire, I listened to heavy rock music, and in high school I made sure that I took French to fill my foreign language requirement. I exhibited an amazing sense of control when I did NOT slap a guy when he called me J-Lo. He saw it as a compliment, I saw it as an insult.
I may or may not have even secretly envied Michael Jackson’s lightened skin. I won’t confirm or deny it, I’m just sayin’.
Image is extremely important to you when you’re young. Either I don’t have the energy to sustain that degree of indignation and paranoia, or I’ve simply grown up. Spanish women are beautiful, fiery creatures that many men adore, even some of those blond ones I was pining for ten years ago (I prefer brunettes now anyway). I’ve made peace with my hair and let it curl all it wants. I’ll wear any earrings I like. I’m even considering reinstating the accent mark I removed from my last name when I “Americanized” it so long ago. Self-acceptance is supposed to be healthy, or something.
I’ll be damned if I ever learn that language, though!
There is a girl that I used to be extremely afraid of. You’ve seen her a thousand times, I know it. Her dark hair is plastered to her head, one curl cemented to each of her temples; enormous hoop earrings dangle from her ears; black eyeliner doubles as lip liner, serving as a dark barrier that barely contains the blood red lipstick staining her mouth; tight clothing tries its darnedest to cover her curves, but ultimately fails because it’s two sizes too small; her feet are either squeezed into cheap platform shoes or are resting comfortably in overpriced sneakers. You’ve seen her at places like the mall, but you’re probably most familiar with her arguing with her boyfriend in a parking lot with her posse of clones surrounding her, bobbling their heads and adding in clever quips that would make an English teacher cringe.
In my teens and early twenties, I did everything in my power not to be this girl. My efforts often went unnoticed by the kind of boys who usually go for such creatures. I was perpetually invisible to the blond-haired, blue-eyed dreamboats I fantasized about while dodging advances from guys who wholeheartedly believed that rap stars were gods and found the sight of two (or more) girls fighting over them to be quite amusing, possibly even a turn-on. I stopped wearing hoop earrings of all sizes, I shunned lipstick, I straightened my naturally curly hair daily, I avoided the sun like a vampire, I listened to heavy rock music, and in high school I made sure that I took French to fill my foreign language requirement. I exhibited an amazing sense of control when I did NOT slap a guy when he called me J-Lo. He saw it as a compliment, I saw it as an insult.
I may or may not have even secretly envied Michael Jackson’s lightened skin. I won’t confirm or deny it, I’m just sayin’.
Image is extremely important to you when you’re young. Either I don’t have the energy to sustain that degree of indignation and paranoia, or I’ve simply grown up. Spanish women are beautiful, fiery creatures that many men adore, even some of those blond ones I was pining for ten years ago (I prefer brunettes now anyway). I’ve made peace with my hair and let it curl all it wants. I’ll wear any earrings I like. I’m even considering reinstating the accent mark I removed from my last name when I “Americanized” it so long ago. Self-acceptance is supposed to be healthy, or something.
I’ll be damned if I ever learn that language, though!
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Stealth operations
For the whole of my life I have preferred to accomplish tasks in secret. I’m not really sure why this is, though I suspect it has something to do with the element of surprise. The funny thing is I’m not talking about monumental feats of strength or cunning, but simple things like assembling bookcases and washing dishes. Having someone see me in the process of doing something ruins the impact of the final result, cheapening my efforts. I guess I also feel a greater sense of accomplishment if I can keep it all under wraps until I finish, at which point I can say, “Surprise! Look what I did!” to which my audience will respond with, “Wow, Diana, that’s amazing! We had no idea you were even doing that!” I take whatever measures necessary to make myself appear that much more awesome. There’s a good chance that I do this to avoid the pressure of others’ expectations of me, but whatever. We all do what we have to in life.
The rush of sudden success is quickly followed by a sense of emptiness and a “what should I do now?” moment. The finest example is from my childhood. When we moved to Brandon, FL we got an apartment with a really great layout. When you entered you found yourself in the middle of a long hallway. To the left was a bathroom and my bedroom. To the right you found the kitchen, and further toward the back of the building was the living room, and just beyond that was my parents’ bedroom. Having your own wing is great at any age, especially for an introverted child who enjoyed spending time by herself just drawing and playing in peace. One night, when I was supposed to be blissfully asleep, I decided it would be fun to sneak into my parents’ room. I have no idea why this appealed to me, but I fully dedicated myself to the mission anyway. I silently crept down the hall, crawled through the living room, and scooted along on my stomach through their door and ended up in their walk-in closet. Maybe this was my tribute to ‘Nam, or maybe I was pretending to be a world-class jewel thief. Either way, I was supremely proud of myself, but somewhat unsure of what to do next. I wanted my deeds to be noticed, so I decided to spend the rest of the night there so that I’d be found in the morning and one of my parents would exclaim, “Oh my goodness! What a surprise!”
I should take this opportunity to tell you that I have always treasured the element of surprise. As a toddler, my mom would prop me up in the grocery cart and little old women would approach me with intentions of pinching my cheeks and pawing all over me. When they got close enough I would let out a huge roar, as I fancied myself a lion back then, and the horrified old biddies would scurry away. So I settled in among the shoes and eventually nodded off. Children sleep like wild monkeys, though, and at some point one of my feet shot out and kicked the closet door with amazing force, scaring my parents half to death. Upon discovering me they asked why I was there, and I had no answer, and was sent back to bed. Mission somewhat accomplished, but not how I had hoped. They weren’t impressed at all!
Not long after my exit from the working world in my early twenties, I found myself in an insane cleaning phase. I call it insane because this wasn’t just a little dusting, I was breaking down old furniture and scrubbing entire rooms at an alarming rate. This is weird for anyone, but even more so for me because I’m actually a really messy person. I can’t explain it, it just happened. Back then the ‘rents would go out every Sunday evening for their pseudo date nights, though really this was a gift from my mother to myself in the form of keeping my step-dad out of my hair for a couple of hours. The things parents do for their children. Anyway, I would calmly sit on the couch, staring at the TV with a sense of boredom and lethargy while they got ready. Once they would leave I’d launch into action, and they would later return to an immaculate kitchen, a totally vacuumed house, and one year I even put up all of the Christmas decorations by myself. These things truly drew gasps of awe and amazement, finally rewarding me with the respect and adoration I’d always craved. Sadly, this phase only lasted for a couple of months, and I have never been able to regain that kind of work ethic. The best I can manage is doing a load of dishes, but even that is taxing.
I find it difficult to write out in the open. I’m currently in the living room, where absolutely anyone can see me, and it’s freaking me out. I’ve tried telling everyone that I was writing in order to get some peace and quiet, but then everyone KNOWS I’m writing and it’s too much pressure and I can’t get any work done. My solution today has been to don a pair of headphones and blast some Adam Lambert through my eardrums, and when someone makes an attempt at conversation I simply ignore them. This makes me seem like a huge bitch, but at least I’m retaining a small sense of secrecy. I considered wearing a pair of sunglasses, but this seemed like overkill. Who knows, I may end up typing in the closet, but so far so good.
I don’t even plan on telling anyone about this blog until I have a few posts under my belt, which is stupid because I want readers, and keeping secrets from you is counterproductive, but that’s how I roll. I won’t even tell you when to expect another update. It’ll be a surprise!!!!
The rush of sudden success is quickly followed by a sense of emptiness and a “what should I do now?” moment. The finest example is from my childhood. When we moved to Brandon, FL we got an apartment with a really great layout. When you entered you found yourself in the middle of a long hallway. To the left was a bathroom and my bedroom. To the right you found the kitchen, and further toward the back of the building was the living room, and just beyond that was my parents’ bedroom. Having your own wing is great at any age, especially for an introverted child who enjoyed spending time by herself just drawing and playing in peace. One night, when I was supposed to be blissfully asleep, I decided it would be fun to sneak into my parents’ room. I have no idea why this appealed to me, but I fully dedicated myself to the mission anyway. I silently crept down the hall, crawled through the living room, and scooted along on my stomach through their door and ended up in their walk-in closet. Maybe this was my tribute to ‘Nam, or maybe I was pretending to be a world-class jewel thief. Either way, I was supremely proud of myself, but somewhat unsure of what to do next. I wanted my deeds to be noticed, so I decided to spend the rest of the night there so that I’d be found in the morning and one of my parents would exclaim, “Oh my goodness! What a surprise!”
I should take this opportunity to tell you that I have always treasured the element of surprise. As a toddler, my mom would prop me up in the grocery cart and little old women would approach me with intentions of pinching my cheeks and pawing all over me. When they got close enough I would let out a huge roar, as I fancied myself a lion back then, and the horrified old biddies would scurry away. So I settled in among the shoes and eventually nodded off. Children sleep like wild monkeys, though, and at some point one of my feet shot out and kicked the closet door with amazing force, scaring my parents half to death. Upon discovering me they asked why I was there, and I had no answer, and was sent back to bed. Mission somewhat accomplished, but not how I had hoped. They weren’t impressed at all!
Not long after my exit from the working world in my early twenties, I found myself in an insane cleaning phase. I call it insane because this wasn’t just a little dusting, I was breaking down old furniture and scrubbing entire rooms at an alarming rate. This is weird for anyone, but even more so for me because I’m actually a really messy person. I can’t explain it, it just happened. Back then the ‘rents would go out every Sunday evening for their pseudo date nights, though really this was a gift from my mother to myself in the form of keeping my step-dad out of my hair for a couple of hours. The things parents do for their children. Anyway, I would calmly sit on the couch, staring at the TV with a sense of boredom and lethargy while they got ready. Once they would leave I’d launch into action, and they would later return to an immaculate kitchen, a totally vacuumed house, and one year I even put up all of the Christmas decorations by myself. These things truly drew gasps of awe and amazement, finally rewarding me with the respect and adoration I’d always craved. Sadly, this phase only lasted for a couple of months, and I have never been able to regain that kind of work ethic. The best I can manage is doing a load of dishes, but even that is taxing.
I find it difficult to write out in the open. I’m currently in the living room, where absolutely anyone can see me, and it’s freaking me out. I’ve tried telling everyone that I was writing in order to get some peace and quiet, but then everyone KNOWS I’m writing and it’s too much pressure and I can’t get any work done. My solution today has been to don a pair of headphones and blast some Adam Lambert through my eardrums, and when someone makes an attempt at conversation I simply ignore them. This makes me seem like a huge bitch, but at least I’m retaining a small sense of secrecy. I considered wearing a pair of sunglasses, but this seemed like overkill. Who knows, I may end up typing in the closet, but so far so good.
I don’t even plan on telling anyone about this blog until I have a few posts under my belt, which is stupid because I want readers, and keeping secrets from you is counterproductive, but that’s how I roll. I won’t even tell you when to expect another update. It’ll be a surprise!!!!
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