There's No Accounting for Some People's Taste.

Two years ago, feeling very oh, what the hell, I wore a tutu to a somewhat casual New Year's Eve party.

It was my first time meeting the fiancé of a friend, and apparently this was the wrong way to get on the right foot with her. She turned her back on me in mid-introduction, and spent the rest of the evening alternately glaring at me and giving me the rear shoulder. We could chalk this up to my egocentric imagination, except that two other people noticed it and remarked about it to me later. Huh. Does my style offend? 

Now, I could go into detail about how her single, center french braid was so tightly woven that it tugged at her skull from widow's peak to nape of the neck, forcing a slight upturn of her lips, surely making it more difficult to pull off that scowl. I could address her severe misunderstanding of how black eyeliner should be applied. I could comment on her own gutsy choice of attire: snug Wrangler jeans, threadbare t-shirt, and filthy sneakers.

But that wouldn't be nice, would it?

PS: She won't be there this year. Shame.

Nothing says Hello 2013 like a pair of yeti boots!

Tandoori 2.oh.

There's a restaurant near us that used to have the most amazing British-Indian fusion menu. But they've faltered over the past months, and I can only guess it's their new chef who has been slowly adding water to the formula. With memories of what once was, we gave them one last try the other night, but left with our taste buds feeling a sensation akin to blue balls.

One item that surprised us was a dish of french fries that we anticipated would be seasoned with tandoori  spice and served with a side of curry aioli (which we know is just a fancy name for mayonnaise, and since we also know how I feel about eggs, I was pleased to see it relegated to a secondary status). Instead, it came as a plate of fries thoroughly saturated in what must have been a tandoori chili and then topped artfully with the aioli. OK...

It wasn't half bad, despite being not what was expected, but I usually require my meals to have at least above a 50% approval rating.

I decided to try to remake the tandoori chili/stew at home, and while I am making it with fava beans (and will give you instructions for what to do with them) I strongly suggest you use a nice lima bean instead. For preparation reasons only, not for flavor.

Here's what you need for: 

Favalous Tandoori Stew
 
1½ cups of dried fava beans or lima beans
1 medium onion, chopped
3 cloves of garlic, minced
3 tablespoons of tandoori spice
2 cups of vegetable broth
3 cups of water + 2 cups of water
1 can of petitie diced tomatoes
2 tablespoons of red wine vinegar
juice of half a lemon
1 teaspoon of Aleppo pepper
1 large russet potato, peeled and cubed
olive oil
sea salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

Here's what to do:

No matter which dried bean you use, you will need to soak them overnight. So, plan ahead for that. If you use limas, you can just rinse and drain them after they've been soaked overnight, then skip to the next paragraph. For fava beans, after you've soaked them in a medium pot for at least 12 hours, rinse them and add fresh water to the pot. Bring to a boil for about 20 minutes, then cool. Rinse with cold water. Fava beans have a bitter outer skin that you need to remove. I found some instructions that said I could squeeze them out, but I discovered that a paring knife down the spine was needed to not make a huge mushy mess. This took a while.

So here you are with a nice dish of beans that you'll set aside for a moment. In a large saucepot, add onions and garlic with a drizzle of olive oil. Cook until soft, then stir in tandoori spice and cook for one minute longer. Add beans, tomatoes, broth, and three cups of water to the pot and cook on medium for about an hour and a half. You may need to add extra water during this time.

When beans are almost soft, mix in vinegar, lemon juice, remaining water, Aleppo pepper, and potato. Cook until potatoes are soft, but still intact. Cool and serve.

Needs more beans, methinks. Otherwise, yum!

Bark at the Moon.

My dad grew up in a remote Iowa town not far from John Wayne's birthplace. We visited my grandparents there every summer, and while it wasn't like visiting my mom's mom who lived in glamorous Riverview, Florida, it had its allure.

Up the road from the modest house built by my grandfather, a carpenter, was the town's main street. There was a hotel with an ice cream shop on its lower level, a restaurant that served memorably-tasty onion rings, a beauty salon, a post office, and a general store called Criss'.

We spent our days staining our fingers and feet trying to pick mulberries, snapping green beans from my grandma's harvest, and dragging my grandpa's saw horses from his workshop to play cowboys. We delighted in the remnants they held on to from earlier years: a wringer washer that my grandma still used for laundry and a hand-operated water pump in the front yard that we patiently filled wash basins with, then soaked in for hours to offset the dry mid-western heat.

When we tired of these antiquated activities, we marched up the street to Criss' to buy bags of penny candy, which actually was no less antiquated, but, nevertheless, seems not to go out of style.

When we returned for the last time, in May of 2008 for my grandma's funeral, it was nothing like we remembered. The old house was still there:

But Criss's had been deserted for many years and the building's deterioration was startling to us:

Why tell this story? Well, I found out this morning that the floor above Criss' was where the Lorimor Masons held their meetings. And my grandpa was a Mason—a fact I'd forgotten, but that makes perfect sense considering his trade. What I did remember is that my grandma was a member of The Order of the Eastern Star (I'm sure the mystical name is what sealed it in my memory), and I asked my dad about it yesterday.

He was able to recall a few details: that they held joint meetings (the Masons and The Order) at this location, that my grandma wore a formal white dress to some of the gatherings, and that they they had a process called "installment" when new members were accepted. In his message, he wrote that there wasn't much else to tell, "as they tended to be somewhat secretive." Yes, I'm starting to get that!

That's all I have, except this really old pic taken in the winter of 1972 in Des Moines with my grandpa, the mysterious and dour Mason:

Oh, and that my dad also said that when my grandpa was leaving for the Masonic meetings, he would say, "This is my night to howl!"

Danse Occulte.

The studio where I take belly dancing classes is in our City’s Masonic Temple. Aside from the large G at the south end of our current room (which we have re-assigned to symbolize Goddess instead of Geometry), I haven’t taken much interest in the Masons. That is until the day we moved to this temporary location within the building:

The folding chair does detract a bit from the majesty, huh?

Is that goat's blood I smell?

Wall-to-wall red carpeting, red upholstered benches and chairs, massive thrones centered at each of the four walls, and a curious altar in the middle of the room. Yeah, now I’m piqued.

Finding information to satisfy that interest is another story. It might be that I am afflicted with TLDR Syndrome, but, really, there isn’t much telling to be told out there. I mean, this article is nice and long, but where are the chewy details? What happens on that altar? Why the grandiose décor?

There does seem to be a mysterious shadow that obscures the specific happenings within the lodge, which I suppose is exactly what a secret society, or a “society with secrets” is wont to cast.

The aura of esoteric rituals must be seeping from the lain brick walls, though. Because, I have to say, I have done some of my most inspired performances in that room.

So, yeah, that's OK. I don't need to know.

Oh, Whatever.

Well, that didn't work did it? Can't say I'm surprised. If I don't know what my own self is saying, how can I possibly expect others to decipher my gibberish?

I tried to look back on that date to see if there was anything in particular blocking my way, but didn't find any clues. Was it a mental roadblock? What would a physical one have been? I live a fairly unobstructed life either way.

What did I mean by ideological? Most likely I was using the word to describe personal opinions and doctrines, knowing that I don't relate or subscribe to religious beliefs or morality-based arguments. Good and bad are meaningless assignments, yes? (Yes, she said aloud.)

So I objected to the only way I knew to bypass an obstacle. And, so, what happened? Did I stew in my own problem? Did I take the disagreeable route to freedom? Did it resolve itself without consequence?

Hell, I don't know. It must not have been a big deal if I can't remember it.

What Do You Think?

I wrote down an idea for a post back on November 5 that I just discovered today, saved in my iPhone's email drafts. It said: "A roadblock in which the way out is ideologically objectionable."

It was long enough ago that I don't recall the context. And while I have a notion about what I was trying to say, I can't put enough pieces together to assemble a coherent answer.

So, I thought this could be interesting: any one (or more) of my readers want to take a stab at it? I'd love to see what you have to say. Please leave me a comment!

Get Back.

Tonight we heard an extended snippet of the Beatles' Come Together. It sparked a brief conversation about the lyrics, specifically the main chorus: Come together, right now, over me. It seems a fitting suggestion on this day when so many are supposed to be coming together to celebrate Jesus, but are, instead, celebrating domination of the passing lane, worship of the dinner plate, glorification of the dollar, and devotion to the self.

Just so you know, I haven't found Jesus underneath a big pile of wrapping paper and bows, but I can appreciate what he was trying to say. It's too bad it is lost on so many that claim to do what he would do.

Anyway...

As it turns out, Come Together, has some different analyses, interestingly explained here.

Hearing the song made me yearn for possibly the biggest guilty pleasure known to man: the Bee Gees' version of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. This ranks (for me) in kind with the Sound of Music and the Wizard of Oz as films I will watch over and over, despite the questionability of the former.

But consider:

I do prefer the Beatles' version, but...

A little help from my friends: always a good thing...

Jesus, I love it! 

Fright Before Christmas!

They sensed I was the weakest of the pack and descended on me quickly. They had me surrounded in seconds, and began tearing at me with their tiny crumb and sugar-coated hands.

One savagely chewed on my fingers while another riddled my lap with a barrage of flatulence. The third attacked from behind, clawing at my hair and howling with terrifying ferocity.

I had no hope for survival. The toddlers had taken me down.

They will tire soon, right?

Whew, Is it Hot in Here?

Sartre's statement that hell is other people was surely prophesy, as he could not have experienced it incarnate: Forever 21 on the day before the day before Christmas.

It's true, I have no one to blame but myself for my sins of procrastination. Maybe next year I will remember the tortured shrieks of awkward adolescents, the unbearable heat emanating from my fellow delinquents, the howling cantillations of talentless pop singers. Yes, I must mend my ways! 

Oh, woe is the tormented soul who has waited until the last minute to cast away her hard-earned money to secure a teenager's eternal gratitude. And, yet, I have escaped the wretched, glittery, bottomless pit!

Behold, young innocent: I present to you... a gift card!

Ho Ho Holy Crap I'm Tired!

Aside from a farting pillow that I bought a couple of weeks ago...hmmm, I'm thinking you want to see it in action... yes, of course you do...

pretty impressive, right?

And this nifty Chevrolet seat belt made into a belt that I ordered from Pure Detroit:

(both bought for my Dad), I had no Christmas shopping done until today.

I just got home from what can only be described as turbo shopping, and vroom vroom, I'm now almost done!

I would have been the tiniest bit further ahead had I not completely fabricated a memory of my sister telling me she wanted leg warmers, gone out earlier in the week and bought her a really classy pair (because that's the only kind of leg warmer I can imagine my sister wearing) and then, feeling suspicious about it all, rechecked her wish list and found nothing of the sort. So that was a setback, not to mention incredibly strange. 

Now I am exhausted and have a hoard of unwrapped gifts cluttering up my dining room table. Which means the only option for dinner tonight is to go out.

Cheers!

Oh, Please.

A couple of days ago, I was out and about running errands on my lunch and listening to Terry Gross interview David Chase and Steven Van Zandt about their upcoming film called “Not Fade Away.” They were talking about the Rascals’ song "I Ain't Gonna Eat Out My Heart Anymore."

Steven Van Zandt said, “I was trying to have sex with my girlfriend when it came on the radio, and I realized that the song was sexier than the sex I was having.”

Wow, that was by far the best bit of speculation I’d heard all day!

I don't recall if he said he was in high school at the time, but it did make me think about how shitty high school sex was. Sloppy, brief, and if one or both had braces, potentially painful. College sex wasn’t much better with roommates and excessive intoxicants being major obstructions to getting anything explosive to happen.

Of course, I’m talking about sex for women. Heterosexual women, anyway. Because, for men, I've noticed that it’s pretty hard for them not to have a good time no matter how quick and fumbly it is.

We ladies need to meet someone who is into us enough to care about making it good or is into himself enough to want to have a reputation for making it good.

Last night, I tried to think about when that was. Or, I guess I mean who that was...

Oh, I'm not going to write about it or anything; I’ve already shared way too much personal information here, so let’s just forget about that. Instead, how about a better than (or at least as good as) sex song? There are many out there. This one rings my bell:

Worn.

I’ve decided it’s time to take a departure from heavy and self-absorbed posts. I'm still feeling a great deal of Weltschmerz, but I’m done talking about it for now.

I really wanted to write about sex tonight, but that seems a bit abrupt. So I’m going to build a bridge with some shoes that, several weeks ago, I left at the store because they seemed, oh, what’s the word? Absurd?

Well, apparently the rest of my fellow shoppers felt the same way about them, because they were still there a couple of days ago and conveniently marked down on clearance. I am definitely not one to ignore such an obvious sign, so here they are. On my feet. Foot. There's one on the other just out of the frame.

What, Me Worry?

I have two things going on tonight. The first is that it has been weighing on my mind, pretty much since the day after I wrote it, that I put up a post back in October about disliking children. It was meant to be tongue-in-cheek, but without even one gasp from my readers, I've become more and more insecure that someone will get a skewed idea about me. And actually believe I'm a terrible person. It's silly, probably. And it's definitely that Spotlight Effect shining on me once again.

Well...except that someone keeps reading it (or several ones, I don't know). I see it come up in my stats about once a week. And every time it does, I'm reminded that I wrote these words that might be taken the wrong way.

Writers that give advice say that I should write provocatively. That it's OK to say things that are unpopular or push people. That it makes me more interesting. I don't think that most of the time I come close to being controversial (or, sigh, all that interesting), and yet, I am hung up on this. I thought seriously about editing that post tonight.

But I'm not going to.

Taking a thoughtful recommendation, I've decided it's time to "nut up or shut up." I've chosen the former. 

And, seriously, I need to stop worrying all the time. What a silly waste of energy.

I Will Never Know.

This morning, as my mind hovered in the space between sleep and consciousness, I began to process the weight and the reality of the recent horrific events. It might seem strange that it’s just hitting me now. It's not that it didn’t earlier, it’s just that it's sinking in more as time passes and, I suppose, as more faces and personalities are put to the victims.

I don't think this makes me an insensitive person. In fact, I am unsuccessfully fighting back tears as I write. But, as a non-parent, these types of events strike me on a different level. I can’t relate in the same way as someone who has children, especially children that are close in age to those lost. I feel shock and sadness and despair, but I can’t begin to comprehend the terror that has overtaken parents who now are forced to imagine suffering a similar loss. And those who actually have suffered it. It is unthinkable. Unimaginable. Unknowable.  

I will lose people I love in my lifetime. Unexpectedly. I already have. But I will never lose a child. And as strange as it sounds, I am grateful. Does it mean that instead I am being robbed of what parents tell me is an incomparable experience? One that changes you, softens you, and completely rewires your psyche? One that can be the most rewarding life event there is? Yes, it does mean that. But I'm OK with that—for so many reasons.

P.S. I know sometimes I get too personal here. I say things that I should keep to myself. But this is real. I am real. I am not mysterious and I'm OK with that, too. (Though I am never OK with offending anyone, and while I believe that those who know me, know what I'm trying to say, just know that I have only benign intentions in sharing my thoughts.)

Goodnight.   

Write On.

Today marks six months in to my year of daily blog writing. When I made this commitment, I didn’t know then that I would become stricken with a mysterious condition, or that this condition would result in months of anxiously believing I was terminally ill. (Looking back on it, it seems like such silly drama, but that's because I know now what I know now.)

I didn’t know then that I would discover an Arabic academy right here in Grand Rapids and decide to take classes. Or that I would postpone my trip to Dubai and take a weekend to New York City instead. Or that two kittens would show up on our back porch and that a small act of humanity would follow with an extra fuzzy tail in our house. Or that during that short period of time, more than one heinous act of violence would occur in our world.

All of these events, and more, affected what I wrote—sometimes hindering my ability, sometimes unexpectedly giving me a topic for the day. I failed a lot, especially during those extended weeks when I was surely dying. But I managed to put something out there each day, even when I had nothing.  

I just finished looking back on the past 182 days, poring over the pages to find a post in each month that stood out to me. Wow, there was a lot of B.S. in there! My schedule fell apart, I resorted to poetry, and, during my weakest moments, I just posted a link.There were a few highlights, and while I"m not sure these are they, here they are...anyway:

June started off strong. July, I had my moments. August was a low point. Traveling in September helped out a lot. And did again in October. There was some nonsense in November. And, well, December isn't over yet.

Thanks to those who've been supporting me. We have unknown adventures ahead!

Notes from the Edge of Slumber.

You might recall that, over the summer, I was afflicted with a tenacious rash. I finally saw a specialist who was able to correctly diagnose me, but was unable to offer a cure. Because there isn't one. The hives that are a bodily response to my thyroid disease can only be controlled, not be rid of. So, nightly, I take a medication that does control them quite well, but also makes me sleepy. Once they kick in, I am asleep just like that. Often in mid thought.

The inconvenience of this is that I often do my best thinking in the moments before I enter the land of nod. It used to be that I could wake and recall those important thoughts, but now I don't just forget what they are, I forget that there is even something I was supposed to remember. That aside, I am getting the best sleep of my life and discovered that I can be surprisingly charming when so well rested.

But back to the matter of losing track of ideas. If I'm alone in bed, I'll use Evernote to record what's on my mind. If I'm not, I've taken to emailing myself. In either form, in a Christmas morning kind of way, I get to open those surprises and see what sort of genius was brewing. I hope for genius, anyway. Sometimes it's nonsense. Sometimes it’s sense, except I’m not sure where I was going with it. Consider the following recordings from the past year:

• “Workplace as an ecosystem.”
• “I want the world, not a little corner like a tomb.” (It’s actually a line from the brilliant movie Indochine, and I know why I registered it.)
• “The genus nerd: geek, dork, dweeb…”

Last night I emailed myself, and I must have had a great force of will because it was fairly long. Here’s what it said (I love how I painstakingly punctuated. Even when I am tired and expect to be the only reader.):

“Prevention. A post about how arguing one side against another is pointless and powerless, but prevention is powerful."

"We never had guns in our home. As an adult, I have never wanted them in mine. In part because my past did not create a space in my present for them, and, in part, because my present mind, built these days more on nature vs. nurture wholly feels no need or desire. This is all of no matter. Guns exist and they exist in homes of people I know, love, and respect. We must prevent, not react.”

We all know what this is about. I don’t see a need to elaborate. I can only say what many have already said, and not necessarily as well as those far more educated on the subject than I am.

I will just add that today, on social media, was a day of more arguing and more vitriol and less understanding, dialogue, and sensitivity. It seems to me that we, the people, are the problem. :sigh:

PS: I did find this to be an interesting perspective.

It's Going to Be Gradual.

There's an expression: shit or get off the pot, that if you don't stop to visualize, is actually a pretty thoughtful prompt to action. I'm thinking that for all of the sitting (yes, minus the h) I've been doing for 10-plus years, wow, I could have read thousands of issues of National Geographic.

I remembered the other day that in 2001, when I started working for the software company, I had gone into it stating (and believing) that I would soon be pursuing my Masters. Did I end up even lifting an eyelid in the direction of a university? Nope. I wasn't being dishonest, I was just being, in part, my usual big-dreaming, big-scheming self.

I also wasn't expecting to land a writing position with that company, or any company, without further education. But I did, and so the advanced degree seemed unnecessary. A few years later when I took several semesters of community college classes toward an electronic publishing certificate, I did so because those seemed more productive than any graduate courses I could take. And they were.

Now here I am. Again. On the commode of change and growth, constipated with indecision.

As I get older, I realize that, long-range, I can't continue in my career with what I'm doing, where I'm doing it. Whether I make that choice or it is made for me, it seems smart to be thinking about it sooner rather than later. The corporate world is made for young people, I'm learning. And there are many reasons that that's true. I need to find a way to remain professionally relevant; not easily replaceable by a recent college graduate.

I'm pretty sure I know how to do this, but before I start investing in it, I need to be really sure. Or at least more confident than I am. As I do that, I plan to try out a few free classes on Coursera. Songwriting at Berklee College of Music? Introduction to Philosophy at University of Edinburgh? Know Thyself at University of Virginia? Hmmm...

    

Love Sweet Love.

Last night, I wondered what would motivate a man to harass a stranger who was innocently sharing the road with him. I questioned why people behave the way they do. But what a small act of petulance from him, compared to today’s events in Connecticut.

And events happening all around the world as well. For every act of violence that we are touched by, there are many more that never reach us, but are oh too close to our other fellow humans. Every day, let us look on those we love with the same temporariness that we feel today, and then express ourselves in kind. And look on those who we don't love or don't know and open our hearts for them. A little more love never hurt anyone. I'm pretty sure about that.

Goodnight, friends. 

Sad, But True.

Yesterday, a fellow driver in an unnecessarily over-sized pickup bullied me as I was driving home from my workout. I hadn’t done anything to provoke him, but he persisted anyway and nearly caused an accident. Though I’m not at all timid on the road, I knew that this wasn’t a time to lash back, so I just tried to get away from him.

I did, but when I got home I was shaken and smoldering. Even more so than the situation, it infuriated me that this stranger could change my mood, invade my mindspace, and create an imagined scenario of retribution. I went from sane to unbalanced in moments, and it was summoned entirely by an outside force.

Once I was calmed, I felt sad and confused. About how humans behave sometimes. I kept asking, “Why would he do that?"

I'm still wondering what was motivating him. I suppose this man’s level of power is so low that this is all he has to control. And that is sad. And also sad that he needs this power and needs to control anything at all.  

Goodnight, you pitiful man. I am sorry that this is your life. 

 

C is for Cranky.

On the subject of words, and specifically invented words, here's a new one that made me say, "Whew!" when I learned it, if not just to know that this kind of crazy has a name. And that by being given one, it likely afflicts more than just one of us in the world. The word is hangry.

As as grazer, I eat lightly, but frequently. This serves my metabolism well, and satisfies my savage needs most of the time. Unless I become distracted and forget to feed the beast. Rage erupts swiftly, violence often follows, and the next thing you know, I'm swiping at passing airplanes and being gently talked down from my perch atop the Empire State Building.

Hanger happens. But I am not alone. This site that I love has addressed the condition and offered some intriguing remedies. Which prompted me to seek out a breakfast cookie recipe with fewer ingredients and less fat than the one they featured. I found this one and made it for an early morning potluck tomorrow. Meltdown averted, I hope.

  

The House that Sleep Built.

I don’t recall any event in the past 19 years of apartment and home dwelling that would have permanently damaged my or Ben’s psyche. Yet, we both have recurring dreams about buying or renting the ideal place, only to find it has some non-negotiable flaw. A single-family unit that reveals itself to be a duplex with no wall dividing us from our neighbors (we’ve both had this one). A basement where beyond a concrete wall there’s a dank, flooded dumping-ground of decay. A serene, wooded setting that turns out to have a band of savages living in it (this one is new and brought to you by the irrational subconscious of Mr. B. I get points for being very resourceful in that dream, I’m told.)

A more optimistic variation of this dream is that there is simply way more to the house than originally realized: an attic with room after room of treasures and oddities, or an additional wing with spacious closets, indulgent bathrooms, and delightful alcoves.  

Huh. So what does this mean? Or, in the context of dream interpretation, what does it really mean?

I did some research today, and there seems to be a consensus that a house is a manifestation of the self. Dreams of defective homes are revelations of threatening and/or troubling behaviors, characteristics, influences, or events concerning ourselves. And those houses that have more to them? They’re just that: disclosures of unrealized or newly uncovered potential.

With this explanation, these dreams are not so strange or surprising. I'm guessing many of us have them. Anxiety, reflection, exploration, and discovery are all part of not only our mental sorting, but also of our actualization.

What do you think? Tell me you've had these dreams, too...    

Spotted in Detroit, not in my imagination.

More, More, More. (How do you like it...?)

This morning, I posted as my status a question that’s been in my head for quite a while now: what’s next?

Before filing this one under W for “well, what did you expect?” I received lots of suggestions from my ever-helpful friends, ranging from a rubber chicken to Tuesday to motherhood. All answers, yes, but also indications that only I can really tackle this one.

It seems almost every day I am introduced to proof that there is much more out there. Which makes me hunger to do, have, know, or be more than is happening right now. Despite how soft, warm, and mushy now feels.

Of course, wrestling out of this gooey net of delicious complacency means more work, more challenges, and more commitments. And more risk. And more decisions about what this more might be.

During my Monday a.m. ritual of coffee sipping and weekend email sorting, I was just getting around to the read-worthy content when I had an a-ha! prompted, in part, by this Michigan Radio segment.
 

Here's a picture of a snowy ravine.

Oh, did you think was going to tell you what that revelation is?

Bean There. Done That.

It seems ill-advised to make another pot of bean soup considering that I've passed enough gas in the last two weeks to fill (and ignite) the Hindenburg. But...I've been seeing results from this lunch regimen, so I'm going to continue on and just excuse myself in advance.

I do need a change in flavors and fibers, though. So this week I'm crossing the border into black bean territory. Here's what you need for:

Chipotle Black Bean Soup

1 medium onion, chopped
One medium jalapeño, chopped
1 small red bell pepper, chopped
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1 stalk of celery, chopped
2 medium chipotle chiles, seeded, stemmed, broken into small pieces, and reconstituted in 1/2 cup of boiling water. (This will create pepper gas in your kitchen. Best to evacuate for a couple of minutes or open a window.)
1 teaspoon of Aleppo pepper
Olive oil
2 cans of black beans, rinsed; half of one can saved aside and mashed with a potato masher
1 vegetable bouillon cube
2 cups of water
1 can of petite diced tomatoes 
Smoked sea salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
Juice of half a lime

Drizzle a little olive oil in the bottom of a medium pot, then toss in first seven ingredients. Sauté until vegetable are soft, then stir in beans (including mashed beans), bouillon, water, and tomatoes. Add smoked salt and pepper, as needed.

Cook on medium heat for about 45 minutes or until liquid is cooked down, then stir in lime juice. Cook for an additional 15 minutes, then remove from heat and serve.*

*My taste tester has informed me that it is delicious, but maybe just a little too spicy. I agree. I'm going to sweat through it (among other things). But, if you make it, you might want to cut back on either the jalapeño or chipotle pepper.

Me, Me, Meeee...

Damnit. I really hate being wrong. But I hate even more being right, but being perceived as wrong through miscommunication.

When this happens, I can't help but try to rectify it. Even when I am pretty sure no one is agonizing over my error (at least not more than me) or even paying that much attention or has even recognized that a mistake was made to begin with. I end up going to a lot of trouble, when if I'd just ignored it and moved on, it would be forgotten by everyone much more speedily.

As you might guess, I'm not going to follow my own revelation here, I'm going to try to explain what happened. So we can all stop worrying about why I am so stupid and realize that I am not, I am just misunderstood.

Last night, in my efforts to be subtle, I leapt too quickly from my love of words to my attraction to intelligent people. What I was trying to say is that my passion for words has brought to my attention that there exists a name for the curious fact that I think smart people are sexy as hell.

There. I am now free to go about my day.

Oh, and guess what? There's a name for this as well. It's called the Spotlight Effect.

Talk Wordy to Me.

I'm a word nerd. I like words that alliterate, discombobulate, and obfuscate. I like to trip over them. And glide over them. And invent them. And I like it when others do, too.

Thus, one of my many related joys is the word of the day (though it's not daily) that I receive in my inbox from a site called wordspy.

Today's word of the day is sapiosexual. It puts me on top of the world to know that this predilection has been properly named.

Now, what shall I wear with my newly-termed label?

It Gets Better.

In college, there was this guy who was part of our group of friends. He was super-cute, he owned the cut-off jean shorts look like no one I’ve ever known, and he was one hell of a player. In the summer of 1991, he pursued me incessantly and was undiscouraged, despite my indifference. And, then, finally, he caught me. We had a fling that lasted a few weeks at most, and then he declared that he wanted to reunite with his ex-girlfriend. Suddenly, I was no longer the catch of the day. I remember it hurt me at the time, but it was a surprisingly short-lived pain: the logical answer to a mathematical equation that divides the level of emotion by the span of the encounter.

Thus, we remained friends then and still are today.

Which brings me to my point. When we become adults, we enjoy the ability (or at least the opportunity) to remove any weighty baggage from our feelings. And express ourselves as we sense it. Knowing that, especially with good friends, we can say what’s in our hearts and not feel the least bit inhibited.

Back in 1991, I wouldn’t have dreamed of telling Mr. randy-pants, denim-clad womanizer that I loved him. Or imagined that any time in the future I would say anything like that. But, today, with certain people, these words fall out of me almost as often as: the, and, and but. I treasure so much those times, and those friendships that I truly do love and care deeply for those whom I’ve chosen to still be connected with. 

Which actually brings me to my real point. It is hard sometimes in the moment to know that everything will be OK. Years later, we can look back and laugh (or whatever), knowing what we know today. Sometimes, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could know today what we will know tomorrow? But I guess that’s not how things work.

Far More.

Dave Brubeck, an icon from my childhood, died today. I wrote about him a few months ago and the influence he eventually had on my musical choices. But there is more.

Sometime around 2002 I heard a story on him on WGVU that delved into his experimentation with time signatures and examined the work that followed his ubiquitous Time Out: an album called Time Further Out. I thought I'd found that story in this piece: Dave Brubeck On Piano Jazz. It's lovely, but it's not it. It seems all the stories reporting on his ultimate retirement are flooding my search results. Which is actually wonderful, that there are some many.

That feature introduced me to the larger body of work that Dave Brubeck, and the quartet as a whole, had created. And made clear there was so much more than the single Take Five. They had gone further out...

Good night, friends.

I'm Warming Up to It.

Last winter, I obsessed over a fluffy white jacket that I had no business buying, but couldn't get off my mind. I haunted it for more than a month, stopping by weekly to stroke it and gently peek at the price tag for evidence of a markdown. When the red line finally appeared, I snatched it from the rack, rushed it to the register, and, combined with one of Macy’s famous coupons, shamelessly justified the expenditure.

Though there was still plenty of chill left in the season, I never wore it. Because every time I put it on, I felt like a tramp. Maybe it was the fuzzy fibers that caressed my skin in a way that seemed a little too intimate. Or that whenever I looked in the mirror, I would see in its place those pieced rabbit fur jackets of my youth that were only worn by those girls.

As the weather promises to turn frigid any day, I am faced again with the dichotomy of my desire to wear the coat and the reality of how I think it makes me look.

Good thing I learned a new word last night while watching trashy fashion TV: Slassy. That is, the sweet, esoteric spot in between slutty and classy. Voilà!

Hot (but not too hot) or not?

Peace, Man.

I've learned to play a couple of instruments and how to read music, but I was never inclined to compose any pieces of my own. It didn't even once enter my realm of possibility. Not because I didn't think I could do it, but because I didn't think about it at all.

I often feel awed by others' ability to write music and wonder about those who create sounds, beats, and rhythms that have never existed, but somehow know just what they are and what they want to do with them. Interesting.

We all have movements in our heads, they just take on a different tune, depending on our abilities, our tendencies, and our passions.

I've often wondered if, as a person who is predisposed to write words, I might be capable of writing lyrics. I've never tired this either, but my recent fixation on Leonard Cohen has led me to wonder. Because if I could write like him, I believe that I could find the answer to world peace. Or just personal peace, which, some days, would be a pretty major coup.

See what I mean?

Love the lovely backup singers...

No video, no matter.

And this one, because we've all felt this at one time in our lives or another.

Lent'll You Have?

The curried lentil soup I made last week and ate for lunch four days straight seems to have righted my path of wayward consumption. Still high on that success, I've decided to make another soup for the coming days. 

My challenge for this new pot is to it keep it vegetarian and full of fiber, protein, and flavor. But preferably tasting nothing like curried lentil soup. It was delicious, but my palate does have limits.

I've decided to go Moroccan and make Garam Masala the hero of this dish. And the sultry sultana its juicy sidekick. (I have no idea why this has turned into a dynamic duo episode. Let's just drop that and move on.)

Here's what you need for:

Hello Yellow Stew

1/2 cup of dried chickpeas, quick prepped*
1/2 cup of yellow lentils
1 large white onion, chopped
2 cloves of garlic, minced
2 tablespoons of Garam Masala
1/2 teaspoon of cumin seeds, ground in a spice mill
1/2 teaspoon of coriander seeds, ground in a spice mill
1 teaspoon of Aleppo pepper
1/4 teaspoon of cayenne pepper
The juice of one fresh lemon
1 can of petite diced tomatoes
1/2 cup of sultanas/yellow raisins
1/8 cup of cooking sherry
About four cups of water
Olive oil
Freshly ground sea salt and black pepper to taste 

Here's what to do:

Add lentils and prepped chickpeas to a large pot and cover with water. Cook for one hour, or until they are tender. Add water as needed to keep them covered and prevent them from sticking to the pot.

Drain the chickpeas and lentils and set aside in a separate dish. In the same large pot, drizzle a little olive oil in the bottom and stir in onions and garlic. Sauté until translucent, then stir in the Garam Masala, cumin, coriander, Aleppo pepper, and cayenne pepper. Cook for 1-2 minutes, then stir in lemon juice, tomatoes, chickpeas & lentils, raisins, sherry, and water.   

Cook on medium heat about 1 hour or until water is cooked down. Add salt and pepper, as needed. Cool. (Best served the next day after all the ingredients have gotten intimate with one another.)

No longer yellow in color, but yellow in spirit. Whatever that means.

  *To quick prep: rinse chickpeas in a colander and discard any discolored ones. In a large pot, combine the chickpeas with enough cold water to cover them by two inches. Boil for two minutes, remove from heat, and let the stand, covered, for one hour. Drain. 

Art is Fart.

This morning, I dropped in early at the UICA's Holiday Artists' Market to shop for those most difficult on my list. I hoped to find at least something for my Dad: a man who needs nothing and wishes, hopelessly, for less.

I felt quite lucky when I found just it. I made my purchase, hopped a few blocks over to my dance studio for Saturday class, and, directly after, rushed home to get quickly changed to drive to Jackson for a family gathering.

But first, I had to demonstrate to Ben my fabulous find. I set it on my office chair, sat on it, and...nothing.

Shit, I don't have time for this, I thought. Regardless, I dug out the business card from inside the bag and made a call:

Ryan: Hello?

Me: Um, yes, hi. Is this Ryan?

Ryan: Yes, yes it is. 

Me: OK, good. Um, hi, I was at the market earlier today, and I bought a pillow from you. And, well, the thing is, it doesn't fart. 

Ryan: Oh, well that's not good. Did you use the straw to blow it up?

Me: I didn't get a straw. 

Ryan: Hmm, what color is your pillow?

Me: It's blue.

Ryan: Ah, I see. Well, it seems you bought the standard version. Only the deluxe versions are fitted with a whoopie cushion.

Me: Oh. OK. I'll be right over. Can you make an exchange?

Because a pillow with a farting butt on it is just a pillow if it doesn't fart, right?