Since I want to write more than just once or twice a week, I'm going to begin blogging three times a week during this year-long cooking project of mine:
1. To introduce next week's ingredient (You know, for educational purposes)
2. To share the recipe (Also for educational and sharing purposes)
3. To lay out the play-by-play of cooking, with photos taken by Jason (For sharing and narrative purposes)
So next week's ingredient, as long as I'm able to find it at the farmer's market this weekend, is going to be black radishes.
Allow me to geek out:
Part of the brassicaceae or cruciferae family -- which takes its name from the New Latin word Cruciferae which, as my UP alumnus might have guessed, means cross-bearing for their criss-crossing leaves -- black radishes typically come in two varieties; the Black Spanish Long and the Noir Gros de Paris. Go figure I'm using a root plant native to Spain and France. They grow best in winter, after sowing during June through September, because their white, firm and compact flesh will keep fresh most of the winter without entering a state of vegetation (Ha -- vegetables vegetating; seems like some kind of Buddhist practice, huh?) or becoming hollow.
I mean, who really likes a hollow radish, right?
Exactly.
The black radish is rich in vitamin c, which is why they're fantastic for winter time consumption, especially when you're living in the Pacific Northwest where the common head cold is just lurking around the corner of your favorite non-Starbucks coffee shop, waiting to latch onto you. They're also high in vitamin B and sulfur, which is the culprit for it's strong flavor. Furthermore, black radishes carry a serious punch of fiber and water which aids in digestion (Which, after three weeks of Vicodin and OTC cold head meds, could be of use).
To eat them, you have to peel the skin because that's the most pungent part of it all; I'm assuming the strength of the sulfur would be akin to eating the skin of ginger root...not the same flavor profile but packing the same, "WOAH MAN!" reaction.
Not that I've eaten ginger root peel out of sheer curiosity or anything.
Okay fine. I'll give you a full Amie-palate review of black radish skin (By the way if that doesn't sound like a solid emo band name, I don't know what does.)
That said, let's hope Sunday's venture finds me buying black radish from the farmer's market.
Wish me luck in the Portland January rain! (Caveat: Even if my black radish pursuit IS a total wash, at least I get to A) Drag the boyfriend along with me after a two day hiatus and B) Savor my favorite treat at my favorite Portland bakery: The garden bread at Baker and Spice. As my mother would say, yum-a-dum-dum.)
PS -- On a side note, I never really thought I'd get to tag a blog with 'Vicodin' more than once. Shows how much I know.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Week One: The Story
Yesterday at work...well, it sucked. A nice little training exercise with my three superiors found me in the mode of scaredy-cat anxiety girl who can't handle the pressure of real time, on-the-fly criticism on how I conduct myself.
In other words, I totally broke down into panic tears three minutes into the training exercise.
Damn it.
There wasn't much to do or much that would really make me feel one hundred percent better except escaping into the kitchen where things, no matter how crazy my world is, always make sense.
Last night, in my kitchen --- okay, in Co's kitchen --- things made sense. Glorious, delicious sense. I'll admit, I love his kitchen; it's hard not to, with steel counter tops, a gas stove, sharp knives that elicit that cool, metallic ting when you release them from their magnetic home, and space...lots of glorious space for me to shimmy and shake as I dice and saute and, on occasion, fall into the boy's arms for an impromptu dance session. And with a kitchen I love that much well, again, it's not hard for things to make sense.
That's one of the aspects of cooking I love the most --- that I can completely erase the stress of a day and fall into a rhythm of consistency where I have total control: peeling, washing, dicing, seasoning, stirring...
The whole works, really (And no, I'm not a control freak, I swear). It's my place, one of a few sanctuaries I have to be my creative, nerdy, awkward self.
Okay, I've digressed.
I was quite pleased with how dinner turned out last night. While I couldn't find many maitake mushrooms, I supplemented with luscious chanterelles, sauteeing them with garlic, white onion, a splash of soy sauce a squeeze of fresh lemon juice before adding in quinoa and chicken broth.
While that finished cooking, I opted for the broiler to cook the halibut -- which was creamy white, flaky and cased in a beautifully silver and blue skin that just begs to be fried (Yes I'm stoked there's still about 1/2 a pound leftover. The man who sold us the fish must be into big portions, considering he suggested a 1/2 a pound per person). After cutting four lovely white pieces of fillet and dousing them with a light coating of vegetable oil, salt and pepper, I broiled those babies on high for four minutes on each side.
I'll admit, here's where my teeny tiny snafu occurred: For a meal that I timed out near perfectly for plating -- spinach finished a minute before the fish was done -- something went amiss: The quinoa, though it had been soaking for over twenty minutes, was still far too al dente to be enjoyable. Five minutes after turning the heat up, nothing.
And that's when I realized....the downfall of the gas stove...the fire was out. Nothing was cooking. So, unfortunately, the spinach may have been a bit cooler than it should have been and the fish, a bit drier than I would have liked.
Nevertheless, the meal paired nicely with the pinot gris Jason picked up for dinner and luckily for me, neither he nor Co had any complaints (Save for the cast-iron-pan-in-the-dishwasher disaster that we just barely avoided).
I'm still debating on next week's ingredient. I'm hoping to find inspiration at the farmer's market on Sunday.
Any suggestions?
In other words, I totally broke down into panic tears three minutes into the training exercise.
Damn it.
There wasn't much to do or much that would really make me feel one hundred percent better except escaping into the kitchen where things, no matter how crazy my world is, always make sense.
Last night, in my kitchen --- okay, in Co's kitchen --- things made sense. Glorious, delicious sense. I'll admit, I love his kitchen; it's hard not to, with steel counter tops, a gas stove, sharp knives that elicit that cool, metallic ting when you release them from their magnetic home, and space...lots of glorious space for me to shimmy and shake as I dice and saute and, on occasion, fall into the boy's arms for an impromptu dance session. And with a kitchen I love that much well, again, it's not hard for things to make sense.
That's one of the aspects of cooking I love the most --- that I can completely erase the stress of a day and fall into a rhythm of consistency where I have total control: peeling, washing, dicing, seasoning, stirring...
The whole works, really (And no, I'm not a control freak, I swear). It's my place, one of a few sanctuaries I have to be my creative, nerdy, awkward self.
Okay, I've digressed.I was quite pleased with how dinner turned out last night. While I couldn't find many maitake mushrooms, I supplemented with luscious chanterelles, sauteeing them with garlic, white onion, a splash of soy sauce a squeeze of fresh lemon juice before adding in quinoa and chicken broth.
While that finished cooking, I opted for the broiler to cook the halibut -- which was creamy white, flaky and cased in a beautifully silver and blue skin that just begs to be fried (Yes I'm stoked there's still about 1/2 a pound leftover. The man who sold us the fish must be into big portions, considering he suggested a 1/2 a pound per person). After cutting four lovely white pieces of fillet and dousing them with a light coating of vegetable oil, salt and pepper, I broiled those babies on high for four minutes on each side.
I'll admit, here's where my teeny tiny snafu occurred: For a meal that I timed out near perfectly for plating -- spinach finished a minute before the fish was done -- something went amiss: The quinoa, though it had been soaking for over twenty minutes, was still far too al dente to be enjoyable. Five minutes after turning the heat up, nothing.
And that's when I realized....the downfall of the gas stove...the fire was out. Nothing was cooking. So, unfortunately, the spinach may have been a bit cooler than it should have been and the fish, a bit drier than I would have liked.Nevertheless, the meal paired nicely with the pinot gris Jason picked up for dinner and luckily for me, neither he nor Co had any complaints (Save for the cast-iron-pan-in-the-dishwasher disaster that we just barely avoided).
I'm still debating on next week's ingredient. I'm hoping to find inspiration at the farmer's market on Sunday.Any suggestions?
Culinary Concoctions Week One: Grilled Halibut with Spinach and Thai Chiles over Maitake Mushroom Quinoa
1 1/2 pounds of fresh, Alaskan halibut. What else to do but grill it with a Japanese twist?
Recipe:
Ingredients
5 TBSP sugar
5 TBSP fish sauce
1/4 cup water
3 TBSP fresh lime juice
2 TBSP minced peeled ginger
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 Thai bird chiles or 1/2 large jalapeño, diced
1 small carrot, peeled and matchsticked
1 1/2 pound halibut filleted, quartered
3 TBSP vegetable oil, divided
1 shallot, thinly sliced
3/4 pound fresh spinach (About 12 cups packed)
1 cup quinoa
2 cups vegetable stock
3 TSPN soy sauce
1/2 white onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
Juice from 1/2 lemon
1/3 pound maitake mushroom
Directions
Mix first 7 ingredients in medium glass bowl. Season sauce to taste with salt and pepper (It can be made 2 days ahead; just cover and refrigerate).
Mix quinoa and vegetable stock in medium sauce pan over high heat. Bring to boil, reduce heat and simmer, covered until all liquid is absorbed; about 20 minutes.
In medium skillet, heat 2 TBSP vegetable oil. Add onion, garlic. Saute until translucent and fragrant; about 6 minutes. Add soy sauce, lemon juice and diced maitake mushrooms. Saute until mushrooms are soft, but still with some buoyancy and tooth; about 8 minutes. Add to quinoa, with 'juice' when done.
Prepare barbecue (or broiler) on medium high heat.
Place carrot in medium bowl, cover with ice water. Let stand 15 minutes, then drain well.
Brush fish on all sides with 2 TBSP oil. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Grill until opaque in the center; about 4 minutes per side.
Meanwhile, heat 1 TBSP oil in large nonstick skillet over medium heat (You really do want a large one because, even though the spinach will wilt, it'll take up a lot of room at the beginning). Add shallot. Stir 1 minute. Add spinach. Sprinkle with salt. Toss until wilted but still bright green; about 2 minutes.
Plating
Divide spinach onto four plates. Mold 1/4 cup mushroom quinoa into loose patty and place on top of spinach bed. Carefully place fish on top of the spinach. Sprinkle each fillet with carrot and drizzle with 2 TBSP sauce and a swirl onto the plate. Serve with a rich and fruity wine, like a dry rose or Gewurztraminer. If, like me, you prefer something less fruity and sweet, a clean, crisp beer -- like Sapporo, to stick with the theme -- will go nicely, too.
Pictures and the story to follow...
Recipe:
Ingredients
5 TBSP sugar
5 TBSP fish sauce
1/4 cup water
3 TBSP fresh lime juice
2 TBSP minced peeled ginger
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 Thai bird chiles or 1/2 large jalapeño, diced
1 small carrot, peeled and matchsticked
1 1/2 pound halibut filleted, quartered
3 TBSP vegetable oil, divided
1 shallot, thinly sliced
3/4 pound fresh spinach (About 12 cups packed)
1 cup quinoa
2 cups vegetable stock
3 TSPN soy sauce
1/2 white onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
Juice from 1/2 lemon
1/3 pound maitake mushroom
Directions
Mix first 7 ingredients in medium glass bowl. Season sauce to taste with salt and pepper (It can be made 2 days ahead; just cover and refrigerate).
Mix quinoa and vegetable stock in medium sauce pan over high heat. Bring to boil, reduce heat and simmer, covered until all liquid is absorbed; about 20 minutes.
In medium skillet, heat 2 TBSP vegetable oil. Add onion, garlic. Saute until translucent and fragrant; about 6 minutes. Add soy sauce, lemon juice and diced maitake mushrooms. Saute until mushrooms are soft, but still with some buoyancy and tooth; about 8 minutes. Add to quinoa, with 'juice' when done.
Prepare barbecue (or broiler) on medium high heat.
Place carrot in medium bowl, cover with ice water. Let stand 15 minutes, then drain well.
Brush fish on all sides with 2 TBSP oil. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Grill until opaque in the center; about 4 minutes per side.
Meanwhile, heat 1 TBSP oil in large nonstick skillet over medium heat (You really do want a large one because, even though the spinach will wilt, it'll take up a lot of room at the beginning). Add shallot. Stir 1 minute. Add spinach. Sprinkle with salt. Toss until wilted but still bright green; about 2 minutes.
Plating
Divide spinach onto four plates. Mold 1/4 cup mushroom quinoa into loose patty and place on top of spinach bed. Carefully place fish on top of the spinach. Sprinkle each fillet with carrot and drizzle with 2 TBSP sauce and a swirl onto the plate. Serve with a rich and fruity wine, like a dry rose or Gewurztraminer. If, like me, you prefer something less fruity and sweet, a clean, crisp beer -- like Sapporo, to stick with the theme -- will go nicely, too.
Pictures and the story to follow...
Sunday, January 2, 2011
New Year's (Non) Resolution
Back in mid November I came across a contest in The Oregonian's FOODday section that hooked my eye. Basically, you write down a cooking resolution for 2011 with the chance to win tickets to see Michael Pollan speak at my alma mater, the University of Portland.
Shoot yeah I was game.
So I entered a quick blurb:
"As a cook stretching my culinary prowess and local-food knowledge, I pledge to make a new meal each week using a local, seasonal ingredient that I've never used before."
I forgot all about it until Grant Butler, an editor at FOODday emailed me asking my location within the city.
I forgot all about it yet again until a friend sent me a photo of my resolution in the newspaper (So much for being an avid newspaper reader, eh?)
And so now, here I am, on the second of January, and I feel, well...a bit more than obligated to follow through on this resolution.
Obligated...yet excited.
So, with each new meal, expect a new blog post.
Today's was just...the primer; the appetizer if you will to inform you that January's ingredients will be:
Rutabaga
Black Radish
Fenugreek
Mushrooms (Lion's mane, oyster or enoki; depends what I can find at the Hillsdale Farmer's Market next Sunday).
I'm not sure what'll be first; I'm thinking that, since I've got a 1 1/2 pound fillet of fresh halibut resting nicely in my fridge, that it'll be something that'll accompany the subtle, meaty flavor of the fish.
Week one recipe, photos and review to follow...
Shoot yeah I was game.
So I entered a quick blurb:
"As a cook stretching my culinary prowess and local-food knowledge, I pledge to make a new meal each week using a local, seasonal ingredient that I've never used before."
I forgot all about it until Grant Butler, an editor at FOODday emailed me asking my location within the city.
I forgot all about it yet again until a friend sent me a photo of my resolution in the newspaper (So much for being an avid newspaper reader, eh?)
And so now, here I am, on the second of January, and I feel, well...a bit more than obligated to follow through on this resolution.
Obligated...yet excited.
So, with each new meal, expect a new blog post.
Today's was just...the primer; the appetizer if you will to inform you that January's ingredients will be:
Rutabaga
Black Radish
Fenugreek
Mushrooms (Lion's mane, oyster or enoki; depends what I can find at the Hillsdale Farmer's Market next Sunday).
I'm not sure what'll be first; I'm thinking that, since I've got a 1 1/2 pound fillet of fresh halibut resting nicely in my fridge, that it'll be something that'll accompany the subtle, meaty flavor of the fish.
Week one recipe, photos and review to follow...
Friday, September 24, 2010
The Fart Impact Movie
Today I wrote a script about farts.
Well, sorta.
Today at work I wrote a script about a pair of panties that stifles the stench of those smelly SBDs.
Okay, fine. It wasn't for a real client. Rather, it was for our monthly lunch time competitions that commences amongst the sales, production and operations teams (As a scriptwriter/soon-to-be-messaging-director, I'm part of the production team). I guess you could call it a company-building exercise, not to mention a reason to begin Friday drinking two hours earlier.
Here's the e-mail we got from our president:
"Hey All,
Ok...Here we go. Today's department competition will require agility, speed, focus and luck. Here are your instructions:
1. Please take a quick look at this website. http://www.gasbgon.com
2. Pay attention ONLY to the "Undergarments" product. Imagine that this is all the company sells.
Your group assignment is as follows:
1. You will need to come up with a new name for the "undergarments product/company"
2. You will need to come up with a quick "tag line" or "slogan"
3. You will need to come up with a 30 second RADIO commercial
4. You can have a solo narrator for the commercial or have several narrators.
12:00 pm -- Lunch starts
1:15 pm -- You will be presenting your new name, slogan and 30 second radio commercial to the rest of the groups.
Points will be award for making us laugh and for coming up with a name, slogan and commercial that sells.
The trophy will be award to the winning department.
Good luck, work as a team and...may the right department win!
And don't forget this fact...the average person passes gas 14 times per day. That stinks!"
Well, here's what the production team came up with:
Under-Wraps 30 Second Spot
[Male Narrator] Excuses. They're like farts. Everyone has them...and they all STINK. But when you're around others, there's NO EXCUSE for making a stink.
[Whoopee Cushion Noise]
[Female] Ewwwwwww!
[Male] It must have been the ferret!
[Whoopee Cushion Noise]
[Male] Duuuuuuuude.
[Male] Barking spider, man.
[Whooppee Cushion Noise]
[Female] Honey! Not under the sheets!
[Male] You wanted Mexican food!
[Male Narrator] Introducing Under-Wraps: Made with carbon-filtered, odor-masking technology that filters AND eliminates that UNSAVORY STENCH.
Stop making excuses. Keep [Whoopee Cushion Noise] under wraps.
To avoid those boomers in your bloomers look for Under-Wraps at fine retail stores everywhere.
Obviously, my team won. And rightfully so; I mean, we ARE the sensitive artists after all.
Well, sorta.
Today at work I wrote a script about a pair of panties that stifles the stench of those smelly SBDs.
Okay, fine. It wasn't for a real client. Rather, it was for our monthly lunch time competitions that commences amongst the sales, production and operations teams (As a scriptwriter/soon-to-be-messaging-director, I'm part of the production team). I guess you could call it a company-building exercise, not to mention a reason to begin Friday drinking two hours earlier.
Here's the e-mail we got from our president:
"Hey All,
Ok...Here we go. Today's department competition will require agility, speed, focus and luck. Here are your instructions:
1. Please take a quick look at this website. http://www.gasbgon.com
2. Pay attention ONLY to the "Undergarments" product. Imagine that this is all the company sells.
Your group assignment is as follows:
1. You will need to come up with a new name for the "undergarments product/company"
2. You will need to come up with a quick "tag line" or "slogan"
3. You will need to come up with a 30 second RADIO commercial
4. You can have a solo narrator for the commercial or have several narrators.
12:00 pm -- Lunch starts
1:15 pm -- You will be presenting your new name, slogan and 30 second radio commercial to the rest of the groups.
Points will be award for making us laugh and for coming up with a name, slogan and commercial that sells.
The trophy will be award to the winning department.
Good luck, work as a team and...may the right department win!
And don't forget this fact...the average person passes gas 14 times per day. That stinks!"
Well, here's what the production team came up with:
Under-Wraps 30 Second Spot
[Male Narrator] Excuses. They're like farts. Everyone has them...and they all STINK. But when you're around others, there's NO EXCUSE for making a stink.
[Whoopee Cushion Noise]
[Female] Ewwwwwww!
[Male] It must have been the ferret!
[Whoopee Cushion Noise]
[Male] Duuuuuuuude.
[Male] Barking spider, man.
[Whooppee Cushion Noise]
[Female] Honey! Not under the sheets!
[Male] You wanted Mexican food!
[Male Narrator] Introducing Under-Wraps: Made with carbon-filtered, odor-masking technology that filters AND eliminates that UNSAVORY STENCH.
Stop making excuses. Keep [Whoopee Cushion Noise] under wraps.
To avoid those boomers in your bloomers look for Under-Wraps at fine retail stores everywhere.
Obviously, my team won. And rightfully so; I mean, we ARE the sensitive artists after all.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Confession of a One-time Smoker
I've got a really major confession to make. I mean, it's a big one. You could easily call it a doozy.
I smoked a cigarette.
Okay, that's a lie. I smoked a pack of cigarettes.
I know, I know. I deserve more than just a simple, "Shame on you."
Allow me to explain.
It went down like this. I've been dealing with a slew of stressful and emotional issues of late -- break ups, pending surgeries, insanely demanding job to name a few -- when, there I was, cleaning out my car during what became the most inane of torrential downpours -- according to Portland meteorological records, it was the most rain Portland, the city infamous for gloomy rain, had ever gotten in one time -- when I reached deep underneath my passenger's seat and felt a box like I had never felt before.
Pulling it out, I learned that it was a pack of Marlboro's that belonged to my boyfriend's -- ugh, my ex's -- best friend. I was ready to put the box into my trash bag already teeming with coffee cups and empty Jelly Bellies boxes when I noticed there was still one solitary cigarette hiding beneath the gold foil.
I threw the bag away and kept that solitary cigarette.
I dried off, soaked after half-standing in the rain for 30 minutes (What can I say? My car was messy!), and stared at the cigarette, sitting on my table, beckoning me like I was Alice. I could see the words written on its white, half-crumpled body: "Smoke me," like it was my key through the door to Wonderland.
And so, I did. I grabbed a pack of matches from my closet, ran outside to my apartment's fire escape and lit up.
Trust me, as a runner...yes, now a runner who chain-smoked a pack of cigarettes...I know how awful smoking is for the body. I cherish my lungs, my heart and my body -- they've all been with me and have held their own relatively well so, to completely destroy all three with the puff of one cigarette is seemingly nonsensical. I mean, studies show that smoking just one single cigarette increases the stiffness of the arteries in people my age, 18 to 30, by a whopping 25 percent. That's not good for the body.
Yet, despite these stats, an alarmingly large percentage -- 17.9 of adults in Oregon -- of the US population still smokes. It's really no wonder why the CDC named cigarette smoking as the leading preventable cause of death in our nation.
Most scientific research shows that the compulsion to smoke again after that first cigarette can lie dormant for three years. My compulsion lay low for a whopping 48 hours. As disgusting as it felt afterwards -- the smell of nicotine and smoke lingered in my nostrils while the taste of raw, burning chemicals and tobacco pierced my every taste bud -- I got the point of such pitiful and disgraceful agony and depression that I needed to turn to something.
And that's when my mouth started to get dry. And when my fingers started to itch. And when my new-found arrhythmia began to explode in my chest.
I knew I wanted -- needed -- a cigarette. So, with unsteady footsteps, I walked to the corner store and nonchalantly bought a pack. And then I went to town; huffing and puffing on one right after another until, much to my surprise, I had none left.
And that's when it hit me: Nicotine is, as every healthcare advocate and worker will tell you, the most addictive drug. It's smarmy, making you feel cool...like those ultra hip yet laid-back 20-somethings who read and write in the park. It's comforting, releasing you from experiencing the stress of real life. It's intoxicatingly indulgent...like allowing yourself to have a thick slice of sinfully rich cake.
Unlike that cake's moment on your lips that stays on your hips, the damage caused by a moment with a cigarette isn't possible to eradicate and it's much harder to say, "No thanks," to another cigarette than it is to another slice of cake. Why? As any smoker will probably tell you -- it's the withdrawal that makes the body scream for a kid like ice cream, "YES, PLEASE! I want ANOTHER!"
And so, it's a mind game: At first I'm dealing with the taste in my mouth and the stench in my nose that doesn't seem nearly as bad when there's a cigarette at reach. And the physical effects -- my shaky hands, awkward heart beat, the feeling that my tongue is growing larger and larger. Then there's the dizziness, unbalanced by that awful sense of vertigo like I'm swaying on a boat that has no exit.
It's enough hell to make me wonder, "Why'd I ever do this in the first place?"
I smoked a cigarette.
Okay, that's a lie. I smoked a pack of cigarettes.
I know, I know. I deserve more than just a simple, "Shame on you."
Allow me to explain.
It went down like this. I've been dealing with a slew of stressful and emotional issues of late -- break ups, pending surgeries, insanely demanding job to name a few -- when, there I was, cleaning out my car during what became the most inane of torrential downpours -- according to Portland meteorological records, it was the most rain Portland, the city infamous for gloomy rain, had ever gotten in one time -- when I reached deep underneath my passenger's seat and felt a box like I had never felt before.
Pulling it out, I learned that it was a pack of Marlboro's that belonged to my boyfriend's -- ugh, my ex's -- best friend. I was ready to put the box into my trash bag already teeming with coffee cups and empty Jelly Bellies boxes when I noticed there was still one solitary cigarette hiding beneath the gold foil.
I threw the bag away and kept that solitary cigarette.
I dried off, soaked after half-standing in the rain for 30 minutes (What can I say? My car was messy!), and stared at the cigarette, sitting on my table, beckoning me like I was Alice. I could see the words written on its white, half-crumpled body: "Smoke me," like it was my key through the door to Wonderland.
And so, I did. I grabbed a pack of matches from my closet, ran outside to my apartment's fire escape and lit up.
Trust me, as a runner...yes, now a runner who chain-smoked a pack of cigarettes...I know how awful smoking is for the body. I cherish my lungs, my heart and my body -- they've all been with me and have held their own relatively well so, to completely destroy all three with the puff of one cigarette is seemingly nonsensical. I mean, studies show that smoking just one single cigarette increases the stiffness of the arteries in people my age, 18 to 30, by a whopping 25 percent. That's not good for the body.
Yet, despite these stats, an alarmingly large percentage -- 17.9 of adults in Oregon -- of the US population still smokes. It's really no wonder why the CDC named cigarette smoking as the leading preventable cause of death in our nation.
Most scientific research shows that the compulsion to smoke again after that first cigarette can lie dormant for three years. My compulsion lay low for a whopping 48 hours. As disgusting as it felt afterwards -- the smell of nicotine and smoke lingered in my nostrils while the taste of raw, burning chemicals and tobacco pierced my every taste bud -- I got the point of such pitiful and disgraceful agony and depression that I needed to turn to something.
And that's when my mouth started to get dry. And when my fingers started to itch. And when my new-found arrhythmia began to explode in my chest.
I knew I wanted -- needed -- a cigarette. So, with unsteady footsteps, I walked to the corner store and nonchalantly bought a pack. And then I went to town; huffing and puffing on one right after another until, much to my surprise, I had none left.
And that's when it hit me: Nicotine is, as every healthcare advocate and worker will tell you, the most addictive drug. It's smarmy, making you feel cool...like those ultra hip yet laid-back 20-somethings who read and write in the park. It's comforting, releasing you from experiencing the stress of real life. It's intoxicatingly indulgent...like allowing yourself to have a thick slice of sinfully rich cake.
Unlike that cake's moment on your lips that stays on your hips, the damage caused by a moment with a cigarette isn't possible to eradicate and it's much harder to say, "No thanks," to another cigarette than it is to another slice of cake. Why? As any smoker will probably tell you -- it's the withdrawal that makes the body scream for a kid like ice cream, "YES, PLEASE! I want ANOTHER!"
And so, it's a mind game: At first I'm dealing with the taste in my mouth and the stench in my nose that doesn't seem nearly as bad when there's a cigarette at reach. And the physical effects -- my shaky hands, awkward heart beat, the feeling that my tongue is growing larger and larger. Then there's the dizziness, unbalanced by that awful sense of vertigo like I'm swaying on a boat that has no exit.
It's enough hell to make me wonder, "Why'd I ever do this in the first place?"
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Perfect Playlist
For a bit of shameless self promotion...
Wait...isn't that what a blog is anyway? Whatever.
How about...for a bit of extended shameless self promotion.
I have YET to share that I was on the radio last week with my friend Tony who I work with at AngelVision for 94.7's Widmer's Perfect Playlist.
For those of you NOT from Portland, let me explain: Every weekday at 5 p.m. -- quitting time if you work anywhere else OTHER than AngelVision (Okay I can't complain too much, I typically do leave at 5 every day...but I've always got my laptop bag draping over my shoulder next to my hippie bag which, might I add, I am soooo in the need for a new one) -- Gustav from 94.7 hosts a five song playlist made up by, well, anyone. All you have to do is submit a playlist along with an explanation for your songs and, of course, information about yourself to Gustav via email and hope and pray that your list is awesome enough to get chosen.
Here's what Tony and I submitted earlier this month:
Tony and Amie's Widmer's Perfect Playlist
Theme: A Day at AngelVision
Tony and I work together at a marketing company in Tigard called AngelVision Technologies. AT AV we make impact movies -- 3 to 3 1/2 minute movies that serve as marketing tools for companies to use in 20 different way (We've got to put the company plug in somewhere, right?). My role at AV is as a scriptwriter while Tony is a flash developer. Basically, I write the script for the movie while Tony puts my words and cues and directions into action (But making them way cooler than I could ever imagine). In essence, it's a relationship built to last; I tell Tony what to do and he complies, ten-fold (Isn't that what any girl wants?). I kid, of course...though our two minds have been known to create some of the craftiest, though easily most twisted plots and ideas.
It's a good thing they rarely ever come to fruition (Though our band 80s Montage Limbo would, by far, be the best obscure band...maybe ever).
What really brought Tony and I together, aside from our shared love for sushi, zombies and creating obscure band names, is indeed, music. While Tony's more hardcore than I am on his Pandora (The guy eats through his free 40 hours before the fifth of the month) and despite our shared differences in favorite artists (His = Radiohead, Mine = Jack Johnson), we share enough common bonds to interrupt each other enough during the day over instant messenger to gush about whatever song is streaming through our ear buds (Or, if you're like Tony, giant headphones).
Our perfect playlist is a recreation of our typical day at AngelVision -- starting out dead tired in the morning after a long day AND night of writing and flash development, only to trudge on with more work so we can feel totally gangsta after FINALLY finishing a project...before being stuck in traffic after day's end to finally make it home.
Here's our list of glory:
1. Sleepyhead, Passion Pit (Need we say more? Love the band and the song is perfect to kick the day off with...heck, it's my ringtone and alarm)
2. Work, Hockey (This song hits a couple of points: During our first conversation, Tony asked if I liked hockey, based off a Windows Live status I had up that said, "Wake up with Hockey." Of course, I responded, gushing about the Portland band Hockey...only to find out that he was, in fact, talking ice and pads and sticks and pucks. We also have a special place in our hearts for Canada.)
3. Paper Planes, MIA (There's nothing like celebrating the completion of a project, especially ones for difficult clients, than playing Paper Planes and letting our suburban white kid exterior disappear as we thug around like...well, you know..thugs)
4. No Cars Go, Arcade Fire (Tony's REAL favorite band is Arcade Fire which I, too, am totally down with. They're just...so...good)
5. Home, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros (Every time one of use hears this song on Pandora we ping each other with new lyrics...sort of like a bragging right. Of course, sometimes I cheat and pull it up on YouTube just so I can hear it. It's funky and folky and Jade's voice and the whistling are simply to die for).
And our alternative: Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, The Flaming Lips (This song, of course, is a great alternate to Paper Planes because something, throughout the workday, we have to battle crazy clients who well, try to eat us...and stuff).
At any rate, we received an email back a little over a week after submitting our Perfect Playlist and, within five days were ON THE RADIO.
I don't think I had ever been so nervous in my whole entire life. Okay, that's obviously hyperbolic but I was surprised by how awkward sweaty I got over being on the radio. It was like the feeling you get when going on a first date...multiplied by 10, and on crack. Like really good freak out crack (Of course, not that I would actually know).
The experience actually turned out to be a blast...not that I had an any inkling that my radio debut would turn out otherwise. But still, I'm a nervous wreck prior to any kind of recording where I know SOMEONE is going to be hearing my voice. Nevertheless, despite some shakiness at the beginning (I stuttered a bit when explaining how I got into Hockey) on my part, Tony and I managed to pull off a smooth and seamless radio show. We even had a guy call in half way through Edward Sharpe and demand...okay fine, suggest...that Tony and I get an hour to run music every day because we were, indeed, "Just that awesome."
While we were hoping for some birthday luck on pocketing Arcade Fire concert tickets (It was Tony's birthday the day we went on the air), we ended up with, like everyone else that week, tickets to see Sublime in November. On a Tuesday. Without their real lead singer. We've already vowed to make complete asses of ourselves, demanding old school, REAL Sublime songs.
Go big or go home, right?
Wait...isn't that what a blog is anyway? Whatever.
How about...for a bit of extended shameless self promotion.
I have YET to share that I was on the radio last week with my friend Tony who I work with at AngelVision for 94.7's Widmer's Perfect Playlist.
For those of you NOT from Portland, let me explain: Every weekday at 5 p.m. -- quitting time if you work anywhere else OTHER than AngelVision (Okay I can't complain too much, I typically do leave at 5 every day...but I've always got my laptop bag draping over my shoulder next to my hippie bag which, might I add, I am soooo in the need for a new one) -- Gustav from 94.7 hosts a five song playlist made up by, well, anyone. All you have to do is submit a playlist along with an explanation for your songs and, of course, information about yourself to Gustav via email and hope and pray that your list is awesome enough to get chosen.
Here's what Tony and I submitted earlier this month:
Tony and Amie's Widmer's Perfect Playlist
Theme: A Day at AngelVision
Tony and I work together at a marketing company in Tigard called AngelVision Technologies. AT AV we make impact movies -- 3 to 3 1/2 minute movies that serve as marketing tools for companies to use in 20 different way (We've got to put the company plug in somewhere, right?). My role at AV is as a scriptwriter while Tony is a flash developer. Basically, I write the script for the movie while Tony puts my words and cues and directions into action (But making them way cooler than I could ever imagine). In essence, it's a relationship built to last; I tell Tony what to do and he complies, ten-fold (Isn't that what any girl wants?). I kid, of course...though our two minds have been known to create some of the craftiest, though easily most twisted plots and ideas.
It's a good thing they rarely ever come to fruition (Though our band 80s Montage Limbo would, by far, be the best obscure band...maybe ever).
What really brought Tony and I together, aside from our shared love for sushi, zombies and creating obscure band names, is indeed, music. While Tony's more hardcore than I am on his Pandora (The guy eats through his free 40 hours before the fifth of the month) and despite our shared differences in favorite artists (His = Radiohead, Mine = Jack Johnson), we share enough common bonds to interrupt each other enough during the day over instant messenger to gush about whatever song is streaming through our ear buds (Or, if you're like Tony, giant headphones).
Our perfect playlist is a recreation of our typical day at AngelVision -- starting out dead tired in the morning after a long day AND night of writing and flash development, only to trudge on with more work so we can feel totally gangsta after FINALLY finishing a project...before being stuck in traffic after day's end to finally make it home.
Here's our list of glory:
1. Sleepyhead, Passion Pit (Need we say more? Love the band and the song is perfect to kick the day off with...heck, it's my ringtone and alarm)
2. Work, Hockey (This song hits a couple of points: During our first conversation, Tony asked if I liked hockey, based off a Windows Live status I had up that said, "Wake up with Hockey." Of course, I responded, gushing about the Portland band Hockey...only to find out that he was, in fact, talking ice and pads and sticks and pucks. We also have a special place in our hearts for Canada.)
3. Paper Planes, MIA (There's nothing like celebrating the completion of a project, especially ones for difficult clients, than playing Paper Planes and letting our suburban white kid exterior disappear as we thug around like...well, you know..thugs)
4. No Cars Go, Arcade Fire (Tony's REAL favorite band is Arcade Fire which I, too, am totally down with. They're just...so...good)
5. Home, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros (Every time one of use hears this song on Pandora we ping each other with new lyrics...sort of like a bragging right. Of course, sometimes I cheat and pull it up on YouTube just so I can hear it. It's funky and folky and Jade's voice and the whistling are simply to die for).
And our alternative: Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, The Flaming Lips (This song, of course, is a great alternate to Paper Planes because something, throughout the workday, we have to battle crazy clients who well, try to eat us...and stuff).
At any rate, we received an email back a little over a week after submitting our Perfect Playlist and, within five days were ON THE RADIO.
I don't think I had ever been so nervous in my whole entire life. Okay, that's obviously hyperbolic but I was surprised by how awkward sweaty I got over being on the radio. It was like the feeling you get when going on a first date...multiplied by 10, and on crack. Like really good freak out crack (Of course, not that I would actually know).
The experience actually turned out to be a blast...not that I had an any inkling that my radio debut would turn out otherwise. But still, I'm a nervous wreck prior to any kind of recording where I know SOMEONE is going to be hearing my voice. Nevertheless, despite some shakiness at the beginning (I stuttered a bit when explaining how I got into Hockey) on my part, Tony and I managed to pull off a smooth and seamless radio show. We even had a guy call in half way through Edward Sharpe and demand...okay fine, suggest...that Tony and I get an hour to run music every day because we were, indeed, "Just that awesome."
While we were hoping for some birthday luck on pocketing Arcade Fire concert tickets (It was Tony's birthday the day we went on the air), we ended up with, like everyone else that week, tickets to see Sublime in November. On a Tuesday. Without their real lead singer. We've already vowed to make complete asses of ourselves, demanding old school, REAL Sublime songs.
Go big or go home, right?
Monday, September 20, 2010
More creativity
I've got a lot of extra time these days...okay...that's a lie; my 70-hour work weeks are not giving me a lot of free time these days (A little distraction goes a long ways)...but nevertheless, I'm finding that I'm gravitating toward more creative writing. I'm not sure where it's coming from or why, now, all of a sudden I think that I might, maybe, perchance be a creative but for some reason, my mind is thinking more lyrically these days.
That said, here's something I wrote over the weekend.
Yes. Judge away.
Berry Kiss
A taste like Once...
Never...before. I came across a
Perfectly Sweet kiss.
Ripe with life. I popped it in my mouth --
Beautiful, Juicy,
And then -- Tart and
Almost Puckery --
With a pop, Like a berry,
It stained my Ripe
Red lips. With passion.
So yes. There it is. Gah.
That said, here's something I wrote over the weekend.
Yes. Judge away.
Berry Kiss
A taste like Once...
Never...before. I came across a
Perfectly Sweet kiss.
Ripe with life. I popped it in my mouth --
Beautiful, Juicy,
And then -- Tart and
Almost Puckery --
With a pop, Like a berry,
It stained my Ripe
Red lips. With passion.
So yes. There it is. Gah.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Aunthood
So holy cow I'm an Aunt. That's right; my brother and his wife Amber gave birth --
Wait.
Scratch that. Try again.
My sister-in-law Amber gave birth on Tuesday to a nine pound eleven ounce beautiful baby girl who she -- and now my brother can come back into play -- and my brother named Kairi Nicole.
That makes ME an aunt -- and of course, this new life in my family is all about how me. Aunt Amie.
Cue girly squeal. I finally got to head up to Tacoma for a quick day trip to see her and the new parents and man oh man oh man.
As I was telling my friend Matty, there's absolutely nothing like a teeny tiny little hand wrapping itself around your finger...and not having even cover a fourth of the length of your finger. It gives you a feeling that totally just eradicates everything sucky that's going on in the world because you've got this adorably innocent and gorgeous little person who's just content to do nothing but rest in your arms, wrapped in a fuzzy pink swaddle and just hold onto your finger.
It was at that moment when Matty sounded that it seemed like I was ready for my own.
Dear god no. I might already love this teeny baby with more gusto than I ever thought I could have for kids but I am by no means up for having any of my own. I'm totally down with being the cool Aunt Amie, the psuedo-hippie (To my family's standards anyway) who has a psuedo-shaved head, wears sandals in the rain, walks and bikes everywhere (Yeah...getting my bike fixed. Woot woot) and prefers acupuncture over western medicine. I'll be the family member she can escape to. I'll buy her lots of cool stuff and teach her the ways of Portland: Good coffee, good beer and good food.
See...the fact that I want to teach my five day old niece about coffee and beer CLEARLY shows that I am so NOT ready for motherhood. Aunthood should suit me well.
Congrats again to my brother and Amber.
Wait.
Scratch that. Try again.
My sister-in-law Amber gave birth on Tuesday to a nine pound eleven ounce beautiful baby girl who she -- and now my brother can come back into play -- and my brother named Kairi Nicole.
That makes ME an aunt -- and of course, this new life in my family is all about how me. Aunt Amie.
Cue girly squeal. I finally got to head up to Tacoma for a quick day trip to see her and the new parents and man oh man oh man.
As I was telling my friend Matty, there's absolutely nothing like a teeny tiny little hand wrapping itself around your finger...and not having even cover a fourth of the length of your finger. It gives you a feeling that totally just eradicates everything sucky that's going on in the world because you've got this adorably innocent and gorgeous little person who's just content to do nothing but rest in your arms, wrapped in a fuzzy pink swaddle and just hold onto your finger.
It was at that moment when Matty sounded that it seemed like I was ready for my own.
Dear god no. I might already love this teeny baby with more gusto than I ever thought I could have for kids but I am by no means up for having any of my own. I'm totally down with being the cool Aunt Amie, the psuedo-hippie (To my family's standards anyway) who has a psuedo-shaved head, wears sandals in the rain, walks and bikes everywhere (Yeah...getting my bike fixed. Woot woot) and prefers acupuncture over western medicine. I'll be the family member she can escape to. I'll buy her lots of cool stuff and teach her the ways of Portland: Good coffee, good beer and good food.
See...the fact that I want to teach my five day old niece about coffee and beer CLEARLY shows that I am so NOT ready for motherhood. Aunthood should suit me well.
Congrats again to my brother and Amber.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Creativity
Remember last week when I was all...hey...look I'm way too much of a pansy to really prove how creative I am?
Well I'm taking a leap today. I'm going to share part of my real work. The writing I keep totally hidden from outside eyes, away from the world that can criticize, rip apart and comment on how totally sucky and utterly worthless of a writer I am.
Fuck all that. Here it goes:
The Beat
And now for my solo.
Left right, left right.
I march to that beat of the different drum.
Left right or right left?
I don't even know anymore.
For here I walk in measured steps
One foot in front of another foot.
A measure in time, a measure of mine
That I cannot take back.
Tick tock, a tocking tick--
The clock on the wall commands my life
Recalls the days of the duet
That shook this home alive.
Silence.
Cue spotlight.
Our measured steps are stopped.
But my solo still walks on.
Please take me with
Don't leave me behind
In rhyme without reason
All cast aside.
I need you, need me
To still be alive.
Not us. But me. No longer we.
For we's but a wisp
Of a measure in time.
Short. Staccato. Bravado. Encore.
Rinse and repeat
I've done it before.
Once more here I go
This time alone
Left right, Right left
I think that I know.
I can do this --
Can live
In a world all alone,
In a measured out world
With mermaids and muses who will sing to me.
The coffee, it's measured.
Just like my life
In spoons with reflections
Of upside down strife.
Right left? No it isn't.
Left right?
Yes I am.
Go ahead. Judge away. [Cringes].
PS...that Go ahead, Judge away thing...not part of "The Beat." Just wanted to clear that up. I mean, who in their right mind (Ha, I first wrote write mind...witty? perhaps...error in typing...for sure) actually puts brackets in their creative pieces?
Fin.
Well I'm taking a leap today. I'm going to share part of my real work. The writing I keep totally hidden from outside eyes, away from the world that can criticize, rip apart and comment on how totally sucky and utterly worthless of a writer I am.
Fuck all that. Here it goes:
The Beat
And now for my solo.
Left right, left right.
I march to that beat of the different drum.
Left right or right left?
I don't even know anymore.
For here I walk in measured steps
One foot in front of another foot.
A measure in time, a measure of mine
That I cannot take back.
Tick tock, a tocking tick--
The clock on the wall commands my life
Recalls the days of the duet
That shook this home alive.
Silence.
Cue spotlight.
Our measured steps are stopped.
But my solo still walks on.
Please take me with
Don't leave me behind
In rhyme without reason
All cast aside.
I need you, need me
To still be alive.
Not us. But me. No longer we.
For we's but a wisp
Of a measure in time.
Short. Staccato. Bravado. Encore.
Rinse and repeat
I've done it before.
Once more here I go
This time alone
Left right, Right left
I think that I know.
I can do this --
Can live
In a world all alone,
In a measured out world
With mermaids and muses who will sing to me.
The coffee, it's measured.
Just like my life
In spoons with reflections
Of upside down strife.
Right left? No it isn't.
Left right?
Yes I am.
Go ahead. Judge away. [Cringes].
PS...that Go ahead, Judge away thing...not part of "The Beat." Just wanted to clear that up. I mean, who in their right mind (Ha, I first wrote write mind...witty? perhaps...error in typing...for sure) actually puts brackets in their creative pieces?
Fin.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
(Non) Creativity?
In the office I share with the other writer at my job I face a haphazardly hung white board. We use the white board for...well...whatever writers and other creatives use white boards for: jokes, drawings and quotations. In the upper right corner is one of a dozen or so condoms that were left in my desk drawer when we moved offices four weeks ago. The wrapper is a girly bubble gum pink and, with enough tape, stuck nicely to the board. Underneath, in matching girly bubble gum pink white board marker, I've written (in girly bubble gum-ish) cursive, "For inspiration."
But this post isn't about the condom or the whiteboard.
I brought it up in the first place because it holds another quotation from last week. During an initial interview, one of our clients told our messaging director that he's counting on him for creativity because -- and I directly-ish quote the client -- "You could say that [he's] mentally handicapped when it comes to creativity."
We couldn't help but laugh because the man was just so frank about it and, by our profession we're labeled as creatives, the other writer and I posted in on our board, lapping up its irony.
I'm not lapping anymore because apparently, according to a survey we got back from a client today, I totally and completely lack creativity. That's a paraphrase of course. The real comments included winning phrases like, "not very creative," "not slick or cool," "lacking uniqueness," and -- my personal favorite -- "clearly not what we wanted."
You see, after a client gives us the "Heck ya! Okay!" on a script, we -- the writers and messaging director -- don't have to deal with it anymore (Which is usually worth celebrating), enabling the client to fill out a survey about the writing/scripting process. Pretty much we ask how they felt their initial interview went (Which...sidebar...I get to host my first one tomorrow!!!), how we can improve our process and what, if any, concerns they might have going into the development process.
This client wrote a fucking novel. Perhaps it's because I wrote them a novel...giving them 14 different drafts. Fourteen different messages, all selling the same blase product. And apparently, it wasn't until we gave them a final ultimatum that they actual decided to choose to accept the final script which, unfortunately for them, wasn't anywhere near my best work.
Creative? Sure. But only to the extent of "I guess this will have to do and I've been working on this for four months and lose the ability to care just a little bit everyday."
I shouldn't complain, really.
But come on...I KNOW I'm creative. I don't flaunt it necessarily (Come on, like any sensitive artist I'm far too much of a pansy to let everyone read everything. This blog works well enough for now...it's an outlet where I don't really have to put my REAL work in front of whoever you all reading this may be), but I know I've got it: Whenever I hear music I'm either directing its music video or choreographing a dance to it in my head. Whenever I watch a thrilling, suspenseful or scary movie I'm always expecting THAT MOMENT (You know...the one that makes you pee your pants just a little...not too much...just enough that you can blame it on the condensation of your $4.25 soda) to be WAAAAY WORSE than it ever turns out to be (One exception is The Departed. Sure I thought that Leo might get shot point blank but come on Scorcese...could he have AT LEAST stepped out of the elevator first? Damn. So good. [Which makes Shutter Island such a shame...]. But I digress...). I imagine different scenarios in my life which I know everyone does...that's just called hope and futuristic wishful thinking but do you think about leaving everything to start an 80's tribute band called 80s Limbo Montage?
Save for Tony, I didn't think so.
I'm trying not to take the survey remarks seriously or to heart but it's a bit of a struggle. I want to do a good job. Fuck, I want to do a DAMN GOOD SUPER AWESOME job.
Shoo (Hey Kurtis...that one was for you)...I KNOW I do.
Damn Canucks. They should know that too.
But this post isn't about the condom or the whiteboard.
I brought it up in the first place because it holds another quotation from last week. During an initial interview, one of our clients told our messaging director that he's counting on him for creativity because -- and I directly-ish quote the client -- "You could say that [he's] mentally handicapped when it comes to creativity."
We couldn't help but laugh because the man was just so frank about it and, by our profession we're labeled as creatives, the other writer and I posted in on our board, lapping up its irony.
I'm not lapping anymore because apparently, according to a survey we got back from a client today, I totally and completely lack creativity. That's a paraphrase of course. The real comments included winning phrases like, "not very creative," "not slick or cool," "lacking uniqueness," and -- my personal favorite -- "clearly not what we wanted."
You see, after a client gives us the "Heck ya! Okay!" on a script, we -- the writers and messaging director -- don't have to deal with it anymore (Which is usually worth celebrating), enabling the client to fill out a survey about the writing/scripting process. Pretty much we ask how they felt their initial interview went (Which...sidebar...I get to host my first one tomorrow!!!), how we can improve our process and what, if any, concerns they might have going into the development process.
This client wrote a fucking novel. Perhaps it's because I wrote them a novel...giving them 14 different drafts. Fourteen different messages, all selling the same blase product. And apparently, it wasn't until we gave them a final ultimatum that they actual decided to choose to accept the final script which, unfortunately for them, wasn't anywhere near my best work.
Creative? Sure. But only to the extent of "I guess this will have to do and I've been working on this for four months and lose the ability to care just a little bit everyday."
I shouldn't complain, really.
But come on...I KNOW I'm creative. I don't flaunt it necessarily (Come on, like any sensitive artist I'm far too much of a pansy to let everyone read everything. This blog works well enough for now...it's an outlet where I don't really have to put my REAL work in front of whoever you all reading this may be), but I know I've got it: Whenever I hear music I'm either directing its music video or choreographing a dance to it in my head. Whenever I watch a thrilling, suspenseful or scary movie I'm always expecting THAT MOMENT (You know...the one that makes you pee your pants just a little...not too much...just enough that you can blame it on the condensation of your $4.25 soda) to be WAAAAY WORSE than it ever turns out to be (One exception is The Departed. Sure I thought that Leo might get shot point blank but come on Scorcese...could he have AT LEAST stepped out of the elevator first? Damn. So good. [Which makes Shutter Island such a shame...]. But I digress...). I imagine different scenarios in my life which I know everyone does...that's just called hope and futuristic wishful thinking but do you think about leaving everything to start an 80's tribute band called 80s Limbo Montage?
Save for Tony, I didn't think so.
I'm trying not to take the survey remarks seriously or to heart but it's a bit of a struggle. I want to do a good job. Fuck, I want to do a DAMN GOOD SUPER AWESOME job.
Shoo (Hey Kurtis...that one was for you)...I KNOW I do.
Damn Canucks. They should know that too.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
The Web
No. I'm not talking about the internet.
So...if you're a tech-savvy super nerd (Ahem, Walker), feel free to stop reading now because my story of the web probably isn't going to interest you.
That said...
I'm talking about a different type of web...the spider web.
It's everywhere. Or rather, to be more realistically and grammatically correct, they're everywhere.
August and September mark one of my favorite times of the year to be a Northwest (Okay, fine...they're all over Stumptown) Portland resident because spider webs are in absolute overabundance (Yes mom, I know you're cringing and wondering how I ever came from your loins but, come on, by now you should know that I'm a psuedo-hippie -- to Spokane standards, anyway -- creature-loving nerdy hipster. I mean, half of my hair is shorn for crying out loud). I first fell in love with them -- and noticed them, to be honest -- at the end of last summer when I was taking a lot of early morning, have-to-get-out-of-the-house-or-else-I'm-going-to-go-crazy walks. Still shining with early morning dew, the spider webs, which decorate bushes, trees, building eaves, fire escape stairwells, road signs and everything in between, simply shine in a glorified omnipresent beauty that's just radiant.
And the spiders that dabble in the middle of these five and eight and thirteen inch webs (Yes, I've measured and taken photos) just hang out, asking whoever stops in jaw-dropping awe in proud mockery, "Yeah...what have YOU done today?"
Turns out...usually when I have the chance to really admire these webs, my answer is, "Eh, not much."
That's how it was this morning, anyway. After a night of tacos and tequila with Walker and Jason, I was..admittedly...a bit slow to the start of my morning. Usually, during the work week, I'm up at 4:30, running by 5 when the spiders are rebuilding their webs after a night of human destruction.
How do I know? Because I'm the one breaking the random web strings flailing like silent assassins from the the trees. They attack my face and brush my cheek with such eerie vengeance which, regardless of how much I don't mind spiders, freaks me out. If anyone saw me karate-chopping with my arms while running up Lovejoy and Cornell at five in the morning, I'm almost certain they'd believe I was yet another neighborhood crazy.
But this morning, as mentioned before, was slower, recovering from a celebratory night with Yeyo (QO landed quite a few jobs lately...woot woot), so instead of an early morning run, I went on a regular-morning (i have to believe that 8 a.m. is 'normal' morning time) walk around the neighborhood while talking on the phone. It was nice...taking time to notice the beauty of nature that, despite living in the city, surrounds me.
Big old spiders. Big old webs, glimmering in the big old sun that danced behind big old clouds in that big old sky.
It was pretty and calming and nice to realize that, even though I'm typically a hustle-bustle, go-go-go individual, the power of nature never ceases to amaze me.
So...if you're a tech-savvy super nerd (Ahem, Walker), feel free to stop reading now because my story of the web probably isn't going to interest you.
That said...
I'm talking about a different type of web...the spider web.
It's everywhere. Or rather, to be more realistically and grammatically correct, they're everywhere.
August and September mark one of my favorite times of the year to be a Northwest (Okay, fine...they're all over Stumptown) Portland resident because spider webs are in absolute overabundance (Yes mom, I know you're cringing and wondering how I ever came from your loins but, come on, by now you should know that I'm a psuedo-hippie -- to Spokane standards, anyway -- creature-loving nerdy hipster. I mean, half of my hair is shorn for crying out loud). I first fell in love with them -- and noticed them, to be honest -- at the end of last summer when I was taking a lot of early morning, have-to-get-out-of-the-house-or-else-I'm-going-to-go-crazy walks. Still shining with early morning dew, the spider webs, which decorate bushes, trees, building eaves, fire escape stairwells, road signs and everything in between, simply shine in a glorified omnipresent beauty that's just radiant.
And the spiders that dabble in the middle of these five and eight and thirteen inch webs (Yes, I've measured and taken photos) just hang out, asking whoever stops in jaw-dropping awe in proud mockery, "Yeah...what have YOU done today?"
Turns out...usually when I have the chance to really admire these webs, my answer is, "Eh, not much."
That's how it was this morning, anyway. After a night of tacos and tequila with Walker and Jason, I was..admittedly...a bit slow to the start of my morning. Usually, during the work week, I'm up at 4:30, running by 5 when the spiders are rebuilding their webs after a night of human destruction.
How do I know? Because I'm the one breaking the random web strings flailing like silent assassins from the the trees. They attack my face and brush my cheek with such eerie vengeance which, regardless of how much I don't mind spiders, freaks me out. If anyone saw me karate-chopping with my arms while running up Lovejoy and Cornell at five in the morning, I'm almost certain they'd believe I was yet another neighborhood crazy.
But this morning, as mentioned before, was slower, recovering from a celebratory night with Yeyo (QO landed quite a few jobs lately...woot woot), so instead of an early morning run, I went on a regular-morning (i have to believe that 8 a.m. is 'normal' morning time) walk around the neighborhood while talking on the phone. It was nice...taking time to notice the beauty of nature that, despite living in the city, surrounds me.
Big old spiders. Big old webs, glimmering in the big old sun that danced behind big old clouds in that big old sky.
It was pretty and calming and nice to realize that, even though I'm typically a hustle-bustle, go-go-go individual, the power of nature never ceases to amaze me.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
'Shups
'Shups, as the apostrophe implies, is short for push ups.
And push ups, for anyone with gangly and/or weak arms like mine know, are the world's absolute worst exercise. As a 14-year runner, push ups have always been the bane of my existence. Sure, I've always needed to have some ounce of enduring strength within my arms, propelling me forward during as race as my strong, buff legs revolved in simplistic, speedy strength. But I've never actually needed them to be Arnold Schwartzenegger buff.
I mean, in all honesty, that'd just look a bit beyond ridiculous.
Though, feel free to take a moment to pause and imagine a 5'8", buck-twenty, pixie haired girl with arms the size of the Governator. I'd definitely make sure to include the slick tanned look, too.
Anyway. Back to reality...
I bring up push ups because tomorrow during work will mark the end of my eighth week of (week)daily exercise sessions that occur between 2 and 3 pm in my office (Which, coincidentally also happens to be 'cookie happy hour' at the cafe downstairs where cookies -- I prefer the lemon coconut [I know, the fact that I eat coconut in a baked good is so hypocritical, considering I liken shredded coconut to cuticles] -- though the oatmeal raisin are also quite tasty). And, as the end of the eighth week I am responsible for doing 40 push ups.
40. F-o-r-t-y. The number of winks that make up a nap. The number of days and nights Noah had to last on that bloody ark of his.
Okay it wasn't bloody...but I like to pretend I'm from England every now and then and use a British 'fucking' on occasion.
Anyway...bloody hell I can't seem to stay on track. Perhaps it's because forty push ups is a lot, especially considering that today's 39 all about rendered me useless for the rest of the afternoon. For the past two weeks, after finishing push ups with four of my coworkers who, sure--are tired and everything, pop up and get ready for sit ups, I simply collapse on my belly and lie on the floor in total agony wondering how the hell I can push myself to a ten mile run and be ready to take on the rest of the day but can't push my body 30-something times up and down without needing to crash for a solid two hours.
I mean, it makes obvious sense -- I've got years of running under my belt...err...feet...but not years of push ups. Still, it sucks.
We've got four more weeks of 'shups -- as that's when one of my coworkers hits 100 (He's a guy...which I'll fully accept as a valid excuse for doing waaaaaaay more push ups than I'd ever care, or be able, to ever do).
Four more weeks? That'll put me at 60 'shups.
Ouch...the thought of that just made my muscles cringe.
Why couldn't I have been a body builder to start out with, eh?
And push ups, for anyone with gangly and/or weak arms like mine know, are the world's absolute worst exercise. As a 14-year runner, push ups have always been the bane of my existence. Sure, I've always needed to have some ounce of enduring strength within my arms, propelling me forward during as race as my strong, buff legs revolved in simplistic, speedy strength. But I've never actually needed them to be Arnold Schwartzenegger buff.
I mean, in all honesty, that'd just look a bit beyond ridiculous.
Though, feel free to take a moment to pause and imagine a 5'8", buck-twenty, pixie haired girl with arms the size of the Governator. I'd definitely make sure to include the slick tanned look, too.
Anyway. Back to reality...
I bring up push ups because tomorrow during work will mark the end of my eighth week of (week)daily exercise sessions that occur between 2 and 3 pm in my office (Which, coincidentally also happens to be 'cookie happy hour' at the cafe downstairs where cookies -- I prefer the lemon coconut [I know, the fact that I eat coconut in a baked good is so hypocritical, considering I liken shredded coconut to cuticles] -- though the oatmeal raisin are also quite tasty). And, as the end of the eighth week I am responsible for doing 40 push ups.
40. F-o-r-t-y. The number of winks that make up a nap. The number of days and nights Noah had to last on that bloody ark of his.
Okay it wasn't bloody...but I like to pretend I'm from England every now and then and use a British 'fucking' on occasion.
Anyway...bloody hell I can't seem to stay on track. Perhaps it's because forty push ups is a lot, especially considering that today's 39 all about rendered me useless for the rest of the afternoon. For the past two weeks, after finishing push ups with four of my coworkers who, sure--are tired and everything, pop up and get ready for sit ups, I simply collapse on my belly and lie on the floor in total agony wondering how the hell I can push myself to a ten mile run and be ready to take on the rest of the day but can't push my body 30-something times up and down without needing to crash for a solid two hours.
I mean, it makes obvious sense -- I've got years of running under my belt...err...feet...but not years of push ups. Still, it sucks.
We've got four more weeks of 'shups -- as that's when one of my coworkers hits 100 (He's a guy...which I'll fully accept as a valid excuse for doing waaaaaaay more push ups than I'd ever care, or be able, to ever do).
Four more weeks? That'll put me at 60 'shups.
Ouch...the thought of that just made my muscles cringe.
Why couldn't I have been a body builder to start out with, eh?
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Mommy Wow! I'm a big kid now?
Yep. I'm a big kid. An official adult and stuff.
Why?
Because today is the day my insurance benefits really officially kick in.
That's right...I can break a leg, break my teeth, break my spirit and have it all fixed...and paid for.
While I don't have any plans on breaking any of the aforementioned, I guess today just gives me peace-of-mind (There's AngelVision speak for you) knowing that, in case something really crappy and painful does come my way -- say the lady who almost hit me during my run this morning hadn't finished applying her lipstick and actually turned into me instead of nearly into me -- I'm covered; good to go.
It's hard at this juncture to not want to go down the highway of political ranting but, considering I have a plethora of friends and loved ones who are my age, working their asses off without a safety net of health insurance, it's inevitable that my typically non-political posting is taking the on ramp at full speed.
A couple of weeks ago the New York Times T-Magazine ran an article about kids my age. The headline pretty much sums up the subject of the eleven page issue: "What Is It About 20-Somethings?" "Why," the subhead asks, "Are so many people in their 20s taking so long to grow up?" One of the reasons...healthcare. The other reason? The economy. It's awesome, really, that our president has allowed those of us no longer in college but without a job like mine to stay on our parents' health insurance plans until we're 26 but, at the same time, allowing us to keep suckling away on that parental teat just pushes us further and further away from real, live independence. It's a way of keeping us half-grown up as psuedo-adults who are almost...but not quite...there.
What pushes most of us down even further is the still-tanked and ever-tanking economy that's ripe only with un-and-underemployment. There are too many degree-bearing 20-somethings with stocks of creativity, passion, drive and talent who are working part-time, unfulfilling jobs (By the way, unfulfilling isn't actually a word. Good thing I've got an English degree and license to make up my own). And here in Portland (Okay, and Oregon in general where the unemployment level is still over 10 percent), the economy is nearly impossible.
It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair!
Wait...this post was about me being a grown up, right?
Anyway...
While I typically don't agree with Nancy Pelosi, I found a quotation from her on Friday while looking up quotations for a client.
(Sidebar for all of those in marketing...don't EVER promise a client you'll find a quotation for them. It takes for fucking ever. And yes...the F-word was indeed necessary. End Sidebar)
Pelosi said: "Think of an economy where people could be an artist or photographer or writer without worrying about keeping their day job in order to have health insurance."
Indeed...where is that economy? And where is the universal healthcare? Where? Where? Where?
Maybe we 20-somethings don't want to grow up just quite yet because there's not a whole lot of awesome to grow up to.
Hmm. I think I broke my spirit somewhere during that joyride.
And here I thought the start of September never looked so good.
Why?
Because today is the day my insurance benefits really officially kick in.
That's right...I can break a leg, break my teeth, break my spirit and have it all fixed...and paid for.
While I don't have any plans on breaking any of the aforementioned, I guess today just gives me peace-of-mind (There's AngelVision speak for you) knowing that, in case something really crappy and painful does come my way -- say the lady who almost hit me during my run this morning hadn't finished applying her lipstick and actually turned into me instead of nearly into me -- I'm covered; good to go.
It's hard at this juncture to not want to go down the highway of political ranting but, considering I have a plethora of friends and loved ones who are my age, working their asses off without a safety net of health insurance, it's inevitable that my typically non-political posting is taking the on ramp at full speed.
A couple of weeks ago the New York Times T-Magazine ran an article about kids my age. The headline pretty much sums up the subject of the eleven page issue: "What Is It About 20-Somethings?" "Why," the subhead asks, "Are so many people in their 20s taking so long to grow up?" One of the reasons...healthcare. The other reason? The economy. It's awesome, really, that our president has allowed those of us no longer in college but without a job like mine to stay on our parents' health insurance plans until we're 26 but, at the same time, allowing us to keep suckling away on that parental teat just pushes us further and further away from real, live independence. It's a way of keeping us half-grown up as psuedo-adults who are almost...but not quite...there.
What pushes most of us down even further is the still-tanked and ever-tanking economy that's ripe only with un-and-underemployment. There are too many degree-bearing 20-somethings with stocks of creativity, passion, drive and talent who are working part-time, unfulfilling jobs (By the way, unfulfilling isn't actually a word. Good thing I've got an English degree and license to make up my own). And here in Portland (Okay, and Oregon in general where the unemployment level is still over 10 percent), the economy is nearly impossible.
It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair!
Wait...this post was about me being a grown up, right?
Anyway...
While I typically don't agree with Nancy Pelosi, I found a quotation from her on Friday while looking up quotations for a client.
(Sidebar for all of those in marketing...don't EVER promise a client you'll find a quotation for them. It takes for fucking ever. And yes...the F-word was indeed necessary. End Sidebar)
Pelosi said: "Think of an economy where people could be an artist or photographer or writer without worrying about keeping their day job in order to have health insurance."
Indeed...where is that economy? And where is the universal healthcare? Where? Where? Where?
Maybe we 20-somethings don't want to grow up just quite yet because there's not a whole lot of awesome to grow up to.
Hmm. I think I broke my spirit somewhere during that joyride.
And here I thought the start of September never looked so good.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Crossword Love
Some call it love. Some call it an obsession. I call it an absolute necessity.
The crossword puzzle is an indulgence I get -- no, have -- to partake in every morning, thanks to the year long subscription to The Oregonian that my parents so lovingly got me for Christmas. Everyday I plan out at least 30 minutes of coffee and crossword time....so yes, during the week when I'm waking up at 4 and 4:30 in the morning to run before work, I'm also figuring in a solid crossword and coffee session.
I know, I know, I already hear people gawking that I wake up THAT early JUST to do the crossword.
But I can't help it.
I've tried -- like today, when I simply woke up, laced up my Nikes with my building key tucked tightly in the tongue and headed out my building door into the early morning darkness without caffeine running through my blood and crossword clues running through my head. It was a good run -- heck, it was a great one (10 miles before 6:15? Yeah, it was real good). But here I sit, with nothing to do at work (Literally nothing. It's been like this for three days now and my writing fingers are itching with idleness), feeling slightly amiss because I have yet to complete any crossword puzzles.
In fact, my little Oregonian is still wrapped in its blue plastic sheath, begging me to read it and not succumb to the diabolic lure of Internet news. I actually think I can hear it sighing, holding back weepy tears from my desk drawer...
"Read me." "Open me." "Do me." "Finish me."
Hmmm. Somehow that turned slightly pornographic.
[Insert commercial break]
My love for the crossword puzzle grew, thanks in large part to the boring classes I had during my college years at the University of Portland.
IMPORTANT CLARIFYING NOTE: Not ONCE did I EVER EVER EVER pull out a crossword puzzle during an English class.
That being said...
Had I never been forced to take Biblical Traditions from a professor who adamantly called me Annie the entire semester (But then mysteriously called me Amie a year and a half later on a random campus pass-by), I probably never would have learned to fold the newspaper just perfectly to cleverly camouflage it amidst my notebooks. Were it not for freshmen level communication studies classes I took as a fifth year, I wouldn't have learned the codes of the crossword (For example: Abbreviations in a clue means an abbreviated answer. And, not Or, adds an "S" to a name. You get the idea).
Nor would I have learned that an "aerie" is an eagle's nest, that Ella Fitzgerald is a jazz legend, that Erma Bombeck is absolutely awesome (Okay the crossword didn't teach me that but her constant appearance in the grid piqued my interest to put my Google skills to work) or that Nikola Tesla was a rival inventor of Thomas Edison.
I don't think I would have learned any of that in my theology or communication studies classes either.
I guess I like the crossword so much for the simple reason that it gives me something to do. It's a time-wasting past time that's actually productive -- I'm learning (as aforementioned factoids clearly prove evident), working my brain and, on the glorious occasion that I fully finish a puzzle, experiencing a glorious rush of accomplishment and pride.
It's dorky, I know. An obsession, of course. But few things are as satisfying as unsheathing the newspaper, flipping through to the crossword puzzle and burying myself in the black and white boxes while I wake up over a hot cup of steaming coffee.
The crossword puzzle is an indulgence I get -- no, have -- to partake in every morning, thanks to the year long subscription to The Oregonian that my parents so lovingly got me for Christmas. Everyday I plan out at least 30 minutes of coffee and crossword time....so yes, during the week when I'm waking up at 4 and 4:30 in the morning to run before work, I'm also figuring in a solid crossword and coffee session.
I know, I know, I already hear people gawking that I wake up THAT early JUST to do the crossword.
But I can't help it.
I've tried -- like today, when I simply woke up, laced up my Nikes with my building key tucked tightly in the tongue and headed out my building door into the early morning darkness without caffeine running through my blood and crossword clues running through my head. It was a good run -- heck, it was a great one (10 miles before 6:15? Yeah, it was real good). But here I sit, with nothing to do at work (Literally nothing. It's been like this for three days now and my writing fingers are itching with idleness), feeling slightly amiss because I have yet to complete any crossword puzzles.
In fact, my little Oregonian is still wrapped in its blue plastic sheath, begging me to read it and not succumb to the diabolic lure of Internet news. I actually think I can hear it sighing, holding back weepy tears from my desk drawer...
"Read me." "Open me." "Do me." "Finish me."
Hmmm. Somehow that turned slightly pornographic.
[Insert commercial break]
My love for the crossword puzzle grew, thanks in large part to the boring classes I had during my college years at the University of Portland.
IMPORTANT CLARIFYING NOTE: Not ONCE did I EVER EVER EVER pull out a crossword puzzle during an English class.
That being said...
Had I never been forced to take Biblical Traditions from a professor who adamantly called me Annie the entire semester (But then mysteriously called me Amie a year and a half later on a random campus pass-by), I probably never would have learned to fold the newspaper just perfectly to cleverly camouflage it amidst my notebooks. Were it not for freshmen level communication studies classes I took as a fifth year, I wouldn't have learned the codes of the crossword (For example: Abbreviations in a clue means an abbreviated answer. And, not Or, adds an "S" to a name. You get the idea).
Nor would I have learned that an "aerie" is an eagle's nest, that Ella Fitzgerald is a jazz legend, that Erma Bombeck is absolutely awesome (Okay the crossword didn't teach me that but her constant appearance in the grid piqued my interest to put my Google skills to work) or that Nikola Tesla was a rival inventor of Thomas Edison.
I don't think I would have learned any of that in my theology or communication studies classes either.
I guess I like the crossword so much for the simple reason that it gives me something to do. It's a time-wasting past time that's actually productive -- I'm learning (as aforementioned factoids clearly prove evident), working my brain and, on the glorious occasion that I fully finish a puzzle, experiencing a glorious rush of accomplishment and pride.
It's dorky, I know. An obsession, of course. But few things are as satisfying as unsheathing the newspaper, flipping through to the crossword puzzle and burying myself in the black and white boxes while I wake up over a hot cup of steaming coffee.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Culinary Adventures of a Saucier
Okay...it's time to humbly brag about my latest culinary adventure: Sauces.
If I were a chef, I'd be a saucier (Pronounced sauce-ee-ay). At least, that's where my cooking prowess shined through on Sunday. Even though hot July temperatures warmed up the apartment to a toasty 90 degrees, I spent the majority of my afternoon in our teeny kitchen, sweating over (but not into) steaming sauce pans making two very different yet pretty dang good sauces.
The first was just my typical tomato sauce for a farfalle (bowtie) noodle "lasagna" I made for Clara's friend. I spent a solid 45 minutes dicing onions, garlic, shallots, basil, parsley and chopping tomatoes, bell peppers an mushrooms. Next, I sauteed my aromatics (plus salt, pepper and chili flakes) until the apartment teems with an olive oily-garlic aroma before dropping in two jars of Trader Joe's plain tomato sauce and once can of diced tomatoes, turned down the heat to medium-low then letting that baby simmer for a solid three hours. When it comes to tomato sauces, the longer, the better.
The second sauce is what I'm most proud of (I sort of have the consistently delicious tomato sauce down. Sure, sometimes I make it a titch too salty or tad too runny but those occasions happen about as often as Valentine's Day...once a year, and I'm typically the only one who really rues it), mainly because I totally made it up all on my very own.
The previous Sunday I had purchased a package of bone-in pork chops from Zupan's ($4.36 for 5 ounces of high-quality, lean protein per person? How could I pass that up?) and wanted to use them for dinner for Walker and myself. We still had a ton of berries from our Saturday trek out to suburbia to the Beaverton Farmer's Market that neeeeeeeeeded to be used. So...what did I do? I made a savory sauce for the pork, of course:
Blackberry Mint Red Wine Reduction
1 1/2 pints blackberries
1/2 bottle of cabernet sauvignon
2 cups vegetable or pork stock
1/3 white onion, finely diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
Aromatics: Mint, rosemary, tarragon, finely diced
2 TBSP rendered bacon grease
Salt, pepper
Heat bacon fat in medium sized sauce pan. Once melted and giving off smoky aroma, add aromatics, garlic, onion, salt and pepper. Sautee until you get the heavenly smell of garlic, onions (which should be translucent) and mint swirling in your nostrils (Mixed with the smokiness of the beacon, these aromas are to freaking die for). Add berries. Sautee and coat the berries with aromatic bacon grease, but don't let the berries caramelize...coast them just enough to them sigh, for about two minutes. After two minutes, add wine and stock. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat, cover and let simmer until the sauce reduces to a near-syrupy consistency. The berries won't totally break down, which is good, because it gives your sauce a bit of a thickness.
I was a bit afraid that the sauce might be too sweet but, surprisingly, the smoky flavor of the beacon grease, the savory stock, the full-bodied wine and the refreshingly savory profiles of the aromatics harmonized nicely together and served as a nice sauce for the pork chops which I left very simple: Sprinkled with salt and pepper, I performed a quick sear on both sides, about two minutes each, before finishing the chops in the oven, topped with some sauce and mint sprigs. Grilling the chops would have added another smoky profile to the palate which, indeed, would have been divine.
At any rate, I'm pretty happy with this sauce because it's one of the first I've ever made without first scouring my cookbook, Epicurious or the Food Network for hours, looking for inspiration. And it turned out to be a success (Well, according to Walker anyway).
The next big culinary test is quickly approaching...cooking a once-tried (though ravely reviewed) menu, not for two, but for 15 people. Dun, dun, duuuuuuuuuun.
To be continued...
If I were a chef, I'd be a saucier (Pronounced sauce-ee-ay). At least, that's where my cooking prowess shined through on Sunday. Even though hot July temperatures warmed up the apartment to a toasty 90 degrees, I spent the majority of my afternoon in our teeny kitchen, sweating over (but not into) steaming sauce pans making two very different yet pretty dang good sauces.
The first was just my typical tomato sauce for a farfalle (bowtie) noodle "lasagna" I made for Clara's friend. I spent a solid 45 minutes dicing onions, garlic, shallots, basil, parsley and chopping tomatoes, bell peppers an mushrooms. Next, I sauteed my aromatics (plus salt, pepper and chili flakes) until the apartment teems with an olive oily-garlic aroma before dropping in two jars of Trader Joe's plain tomato sauce and once can of diced tomatoes, turned down the heat to medium-low then letting that baby simmer for a solid three hours. When it comes to tomato sauces, the longer, the better.
The second sauce is what I'm most proud of (I sort of have the consistently delicious tomato sauce down. Sure, sometimes I make it a titch too salty or tad too runny but those occasions happen about as often as Valentine's Day...once a year, and I'm typically the only one who really rues it), mainly because I totally made it up all on my very own.
The previous Sunday I had purchased a package of bone-in pork chops from Zupan's ($4.36 for 5 ounces of high-quality, lean protein per person? How could I pass that up?) and wanted to use them for dinner for Walker and myself. We still had a ton of berries from our Saturday trek out to suburbia to the Beaverton Farmer's Market that neeeeeeeeeded to be used. So...what did I do? I made a savory sauce for the pork, of course:
Blackberry Mint Red Wine Reduction
1 1/2 pints blackberries
1/2 bottle of cabernet sauvignon
2 cups vegetable or pork stock
1/3 white onion, finely diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
Aromatics: Mint, rosemary, tarragon, finely diced
2 TBSP rendered bacon grease
Salt, pepper
Heat bacon fat in medium sized sauce pan. Once melted and giving off smoky aroma, add aromatics, garlic, onion, salt and pepper. Sautee until you get the heavenly smell of garlic, onions (which should be translucent) and mint swirling in your nostrils (Mixed with the smokiness of the beacon, these aromas are to freaking die for). Add berries. Sautee and coat the berries with aromatic bacon grease, but don't let the berries caramelize...coast them just enough to them sigh, for about two minutes. After two minutes, add wine and stock. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat, cover and let simmer until the sauce reduces to a near-syrupy consistency. The berries won't totally break down, which is good, because it gives your sauce a bit of a thickness.
I was a bit afraid that the sauce might be too sweet but, surprisingly, the smoky flavor of the beacon grease, the savory stock, the full-bodied wine and the refreshingly savory profiles of the aromatics harmonized nicely together and served as a nice sauce for the pork chops which I left very simple: Sprinkled with salt and pepper, I performed a quick sear on both sides, about two minutes each, before finishing the chops in the oven, topped with some sauce and mint sprigs. Grilling the chops would have added another smoky profile to the palate which, indeed, would have been divine.
At any rate, I'm pretty happy with this sauce because it's one of the first I've ever made without first scouring my cookbook, Epicurious or the Food Network for hours, looking for inspiration. And it turned out to be a success (Well, according to Walker anyway).
The next big culinary test is quickly approaching...cooking a once-tried (though ravely reviewed) menu, not for two, but for 15 people. Dun, dun, duuuuuuuuuun.
To be continued...
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Gmail Inbox: me, Frank (2) Dear Amie
ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod.
Frank Bruni. THE Frank Bruni. The person I want to BE when I...err...grow up...e-mailed me.
Okay, he e-mailed me back. Whatever. He still wrote MY NAME...his fingers typed out A-m-i-e...and wrote me a personal response back.
Cue 12-year-old teeny bopper girl squeal combined with uncontrollable jumping up and down and waving of the hands in a spirit-fingers-on-crack manner: "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
Okay. That's out of my system ("EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"). Now for the story:
In my very sad and distraught state Thursday night I opened up Frank Bruni's website and wallowed in total gin-induced depression. The website has a couple of tabs including biographical information, reviews for "Born Round" and, lo and behold, a link to his blog, complete with an e-mail address.
For some reason, the fact that he has a gmail account made me highlight and copy the address into a new e-mail.
I wrote with fury:
Dear Mr. Frank Bruni
Frank Bruni. Frank Bruni in Portland, at my favorite bookstore. Frank Bruni, the man whose words finally made me realized that I'm actually, indeed, not a total nut job for overcoming years of tormented relationships with food and wanting to be a food critic. I cannot believe you're in Portland right now.
What's worse is that I can't believe I didn't get into Powell's for your reading and book signing.
I'm not typically a person who swoons over celebrities. I wasn't the girly-girl who had posters of the latest heart throb plastered on my bedroom walls and I rarely look up to a famous person and think, "Yes, I want to be exactly like that."
But -- and I apologize that this probably comes across as a bit stalkerish -- you're a little different. As I mentioned before, I had...a less than normal appetite for food (That's the polite wishy-washy way of putting it anyway) for a large portion of my adolescence. Being a cross country runner throughout junior, high school and college, I found myself in an environment ripe with thinness and the pressure to run well. After all, the less you have to carry, the faster you're going to run. For eight years I pushed myself to be thinner, faster and stronger through means that were detrimental to my mind, body and relationship with food. For years I never found pleasure in food.
What changed? I hate to give attribution to a boy -- especially an ex -- but as I was really finding myself, months after rigorous treatment, I was dating a chef whose passion for food fell into me. Instead of fearing food, I took on an almost Anthony Bourdain approach to eating, trying out whatever, whenever I could. Each new food I introduced into my diet assuaged my fears of enjoying food.
I learned to cook -- and cook well.
I learned to discern tastes and flavor profiles. I began to understand why some ingredients work together and why some ingredients don't.
I began to study the cultures of cuisines and the histories of food (The history of sushi is by far my favorite).
And I learned to unite my passion for food with my skill for writing.
And I learned, thanks to your book, that I'm not crazy for loving food and wanting to write about it.
So, thank you. A lot. While not seeing you tonight makes my Top Five Life Disappointments, I'm hoping that by sending you an e-mail (Though your website says you don't stay on top of the inbox very well), missing tonight will somehow be made up for.
Sincerely,
Amie Dahnke
His response:
Dear Amie,
I'm sorry you didn't make it on Thursday but thank you very for this lovely note. I'm glad the book meant something to you. And I'm touched you read and liked it.
Be well, and good luck in all you do.
Frank
PS - The pulled pork sandwich looks great. Keep up the great writing.
Cue adolescent girlyness: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Frank Bruni has read my blog.
Ahhhhhhh.
Frank Bruni. THE Frank Bruni. The person I want to BE when I...err...grow up...e-mailed me.
Okay, he e-mailed me back. Whatever. He still wrote MY NAME...his fingers typed out A-m-i-e...and wrote me a personal response back.
Cue 12-year-old teeny bopper girl squeal combined with uncontrollable jumping up and down and waving of the hands in a spirit-fingers-on-crack manner: "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
Okay. That's out of my system ("EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"). Now for the story:
In my very sad and distraught state Thursday night I opened up Frank Bruni's website and wallowed in total gin-induced depression. The website has a couple of tabs including biographical information, reviews for "Born Round" and, lo and behold, a link to his blog, complete with an e-mail address.
For some reason, the fact that he has a gmail account made me highlight and copy the address into a new e-mail.
I wrote with fury:
Dear Mr. Frank Bruni
Frank Bruni. Frank Bruni in Portland, at my favorite bookstore. Frank Bruni, the man whose words finally made me realized that I'm actually, indeed, not a total nut job for overcoming years of tormented relationships with food and wanting to be a food critic. I cannot believe you're in Portland right now.
What's worse is that I can't believe I didn't get into Powell's for your reading and book signing.
I'm not typically a person who swoons over celebrities. I wasn't the girly-girl who had posters of the latest heart throb plastered on my bedroom walls and I rarely look up to a famous person and think, "Yes, I want to be exactly like that."
But -- and I apologize that this probably comes across as a bit stalkerish -- you're a little different. As I mentioned before, I had...a less than normal appetite for food (That's the polite wishy-washy way of putting it anyway) for a large portion of my adolescence. Being a cross country runner throughout junior, high school and college, I found myself in an environment ripe with thinness and the pressure to run well. After all, the less you have to carry, the faster you're going to run. For eight years I pushed myself to be thinner, faster and stronger through means that were detrimental to my mind, body and relationship with food. For years I never found pleasure in food.
What changed? I hate to give attribution to a boy -- especially an ex -- but as I was really finding myself, months after rigorous treatment, I was dating a chef whose passion for food fell into me. Instead of fearing food, I took on an almost Anthony Bourdain approach to eating, trying out whatever, whenever I could. Each new food I introduced into my diet assuaged my fears of enjoying food.
I learned to cook -- and cook well.
I learned to discern tastes and flavor profiles. I began to understand why some ingredients work together and why some ingredients don't.
I began to study the cultures of cuisines and the histories of food (The history of sushi is by far my favorite).
And I learned to unite my passion for food with my skill for writing.
And I learned, thanks to your book, that I'm not crazy for loving food and wanting to write about it.
So, thank you. A lot. While not seeing you tonight makes my Top Five Life Disappointments, I'm hoping that by sending you an e-mail (Though your website says you don't stay on top of the inbox very well), missing tonight will somehow be made up for.
Sincerely,
Amie Dahnke
His response:
Dear Amie,
I'm sorry you didn't make it on Thursday but thank you very for this lovely note. I'm glad the book meant something to you. And I'm touched you read and liked it.
Be well, and good luck in all you do.
Frank
PS - The pulled pork sandwich looks great. Keep up the great writing.
Cue adolescent girlyness: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Frank Bruni has read my blog.
Ahhhhhhh.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Adrien Brody, I'm sorry.
It's 8 pm on Thursday night and I should be at Powell's listening in jaw-dropping awe to Frank Bruni but I'm not because Powell's was at capacity and so instead I am at home, watching 40 Year Old Virgin, drinking gin and moping in absolute misery.
So here's a blog...not about Frank Bruni as I had originally planned (I will write about why he is so important to me but right now the disappointment is too fresh so I'm going to have to wait on that one for juuuuust the moment), but instead, about a conversation I had last night:
I was tipsily Facebook chatting with my dearest friend Meghann last night (Woes over work forced both of us to the bottle) when we started talking about Adrien Brody. You see, she sent me a link via Facebook that I had yet to respond to so, in my remarkably accurate though not terribly efficient manner of randomly recalling unfinished items on my man "To Do" lists while inebriated, I told her, "Thanks."
Side Bar: Unfinished items on my To Do lists:
1. Cancel Clear Wireless
2. Tell Piper our Pulled Pork Party is postponed (Wow, what an alliterative sentence)
3. Take the giant cardboard bed frame box to Pottery Barn
4. Get my schedule from Pottery Barn for next week
5. Figure out how to successfully terrorize West Vancouver, Canada without getting caught
6. Stop boring people with my random and ridiculously mundane To Do Items
End very elongated and winded sidebar.
After thanking Megs, we sighed because, three years ago when we lived together with Caitlin in the sketchiest apartment-on-stilts (Sure it was only $825 for a 3-bedroom apartment but still, can you spell G-H-E-T-T-O?) we fell in love with the gangly New York-born-and-raised, thrice-broken-big-nosed actor. But just like the letter to Adrien Body said, he sort of just fell off the earth after The Darjeeling Limited, only to return to roles in less-than-rave-reviewed sci-fi flicks. What a shame.
But this blog isn't about Adrien Brody (Or Frank Bruni...siiiiiiigh). Almost as quickly as we reminisced (at this point more drunkenly than tipsily) over Mr. Brody and the three months of Netflix movie watching we dedicated solely to his work, I -- like a fickle seventh grade girl -- voiced that I was "soooooo over" Adrien and into a "more sophisticated, rugged and older man."
A man who isn't afraid to take on crappy roles because when he takes on the good ones, he's really ridiculously good...
An uncredited rough rumbler in The Outsiders? Check.
An ex-con who marries a cop he can't make babies with? Check.
An alcoholic Hollywood screenwriter (Is there any other kind?)? Check.
An Angel who, for some god-awful reason falls in love with Meg Ryan? Yup.
An FBI chemical expert who's the military's LAST HOPE for neutralizing an apocalyptic terrorist threat? Total check.
An ex-Army ranger soon-to-be-ex-con just trying to get home to his wife? (Cue "How Do I Live")?. Check.
A hero AND a villain...at the same time? Check?
A non-alcoholic Hollywood screenwriter (And his fictional brother)? Check.
An OCD-swindler? Check.
An eccentric historian who abides by the skills of Disney screenwriters? Check.
A weatherman who gets hit with a Frosty? Check.
An arms dealer who turns his brother into a coke-fiend? Check.
A motorcycling superhero with a flaming skull? (Unfortunately) Check.
A coked-out cop (Ooooh you thought I was going to go with ex-con, huh?) rolling around in post-Katrina New Orleans? Check.
A faux-superhero with the most seriously awesome sideburns ever? Ooooh baby yeah.
Yes, dear friends. I am currently in love with Nicolas Cage.
I don't know what it is about him...most will agree with me that he's not particularly attractive (Though when the man's wearing an expensive suit and carrying lots and lots of guns, I'm a bit turned on). Still, women find him attractive and guys want to be him. If it weren't for the fact that he's famous, he'd be just another awkward American holding a 9-5 job. With that hair and pasty complexion he could probably be some kind of computer nerd; a coder or (no offense Tony) animation developer perhaps?
But his acting....it's pretty freaking awesome. I personally like Roger Ebert's words:
"There are often lists of the great living male movie stars: De Niro, Nicholson, and Pacino usually. how often do you see the name of Nicolas Cage? He should always be up there. He's daring and fearless in his choice of roles and unafraid to crawl out on a limb, saw it off and remain suspended in the air. No one else can project inner trembling so effectively. He always seems so earnest. However improbably his character, he never winks at the audience. He is committed to the character with every atom and plays him as if he were him."
Considering I'm not a movie critic nor nearly as skilled as a reviewing wordsmith as Ebert, I'll deftly admit that I cannot say it better myself.
And that's okay...for now I'll just sit back, relax and pop up a great Nic Cage flick to cheer me up. after all, there's only so much slap stick comedy I can take.
So here's a blog...not about Frank Bruni as I had originally planned (I will write about why he is so important to me but right now the disappointment is too fresh so I'm going to have to wait on that one for juuuuust the moment), but instead, about a conversation I had last night:
I was tipsily Facebook chatting with my dearest friend Meghann last night (Woes over work forced both of us to the bottle) when we started talking about Adrien Brody. You see, she sent me a link via Facebook that I had yet to respond to so, in my remarkably accurate though not terribly efficient manner of randomly recalling unfinished items on my man "To Do" lists while inebriated, I told her, "Thanks."
Side Bar: Unfinished items on my To Do lists:
1. Cancel Clear Wireless
2. Tell Piper our Pulled Pork Party is postponed (Wow, what an alliterative sentence)
3. Take the giant cardboard bed frame box to Pottery Barn
4. Get my schedule from Pottery Barn for next week
5. Figure out how to successfully terrorize West Vancouver, Canada without getting caught
6. Stop boring people with my random and ridiculously mundane To Do Items
End very elongated and winded sidebar.
After thanking Megs, we sighed because, three years ago when we lived together with Caitlin in the sketchiest apartment-on-stilts (Sure it was only $825 for a 3-bedroom apartment but still, can you spell G-H-E-T-T-O?) we fell in love with the gangly New York-born-and-raised, thrice-broken-big-nosed actor. But just like the letter to Adrien Body said, he sort of just fell off the earth after The Darjeeling Limited, only to return to roles in less-than-rave-reviewed sci-fi flicks. What a shame.
But this blog isn't about Adrien Brody (Or Frank Bruni...siiiiiiigh). Almost as quickly as we reminisced (at this point more drunkenly than tipsily) over Mr. Brody and the three months of Netflix movie watching we dedicated solely to his work, I -- like a fickle seventh grade girl -- voiced that I was "soooooo over" Adrien and into a "more sophisticated, rugged and older man."
A man who isn't afraid to take on crappy roles because when he takes on the good ones, he's really ridiculously good...
An uncredited rough rumbler in The Outsiders? Check.
An ex-con who marries a cop he can't make babies with? Check.
An alcoholic Hollywood screenwriter (Is there any other kind?)? Check.
An Angel who, for some god-awful reason falls in love with Meg Ryan? Yup.
An FBI chemical expert who's the military's LAST HOPE for neutralizing an apocalyptic terrorist threat? Total check.
An ex-Army ranger soon-to-be-ex-con just trying to get home to his wife? (Cue "How Do I Live")?. Check.
A hero AND a villain...at the same time? Check?
A non-alcoholic Hollywood screenwriter (And his fictional brother)? Check.
An OCD-swindler? Check.
An eccentric historian who abides by the skills of Disney screenwriters? Check.
A weatherman who gets hit with a Frosty? Check.
An arms dealer who turns his brother into a coke-fiend? Check.
A motorcycling superhero with a flaming skull? (Unfortunately) Check.
A coked-out cop (Ooooh you thought I was going to go with ex-con, huh?) rolling around in post-Katrina New Orleans? Check.
A faux-superhero with the most seriously awesome sideburns ever? Ooooh baby yeah.
Yes, dear friends. I am currently in love with Nicolas Cage.
I don't know what it is about him...most will agree with me that he's not particularly attractive (Though when the man's wearing an expensive suit and carrying lots and lots of guns, I'm a bit turned on). Still, women find him attractive and guys want to be him. If it weren't for the fact that he's famous, he'd be just another awkward American holding a 9-5 job. With that hair and pasty complexion he could probably be some kind of computer nerd; a coder or (no offense Tony) animation developer perhaps?
But his acting....it's pretty freaking awesome. I personally like Roger Ebert's words:
"There are often lists of the great living male movie stars: De Niro, Nicholson, and Pacino usually. how often do you see the name of Nicolas Cage? He should always be up there. He's daring and fearless in his choice of roles and unafraid to crawl out on a limb, saw it off and remain suspended in the air. No one else can project inner trembling so effectively. He always seems so earnest. However improbably his character, he never winks at the audience. He is committed to the character with every atom and plays him as if he were him."
Considering I'm not a movie critic nor nearly as skilled as a reviewing wordsmith as Ebert, I'll deftly admit that I cannot say it better myself.
And that's okay...for now I'll just sit back, relax and pop up a great Nic Cage flick to cheer me up. after all, there's only so much slap stick comedy I can take.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Just call me The Terminator
Prologue: I wrote this during lunch today (In lieu of reading for my book club, dangn't!) so please excuse that the first sentence is now so blatantly dated and false.
In four hours from now I have to call into Pottery Barn to check if they're going to use my on-call...
...Because as I've mentioned before, I'm back at Pottery Barn.
Just call me The Terminator.
I know, if you're not someone who works there (or maybe you are and just don't get it) or who hasn't talked with me in the last three weeks, I can hear you scoffing and see you scratching your head as you shake it in disbelief at me, wondering Whyyyyyyy is GOD'S name would I go back to a job where I earn mere pennies above minimum wage just to help uppity women and love-crazy newlyweds pick out the perfect botanical arrangement.
But hear (Errr....read) me out: Thought I'm working in a retail store, I'm not actually working retail.
I'm working as a member of, what our GM (Bless Michelle for her love of Mike and Ikes and willingness to share them during late night floor set shifts) creatively calls, The Visual Five (Though not to be confused with The Jackson Five). In essence, with four other people (Including Rob and George...err...Jeff who insist on acting like Meryl Streep in "The Devil Wears Prada," calling me "Emily" in that long, drawn out would-be-creepy-if-coming-from-anyone-else voice), a couple of days a week making sure the store stays up to the standard of, what what the William-Sonoma President called last week, "Pottery Barn Heaven."
Go ahead, you can "Oooooooh" and "Aaaaaaaah." It's impressive, I know.
Mocking condescension aside, I am actually pretty excited about coming back to The Barn after a four week hiatus. Why? Because I have, in my opinion anyway, the best job an employee could hold there.
Here's why:
1. I work my own schedule and work sparingly. Sure, when floor set is due or there's a gigantic corporate visit hanging ominously over the store's head, I'm putting in an additional 15-plus hours during my 40-plus hour AngelVision work weeks. But, for the most part, I'm scheduled on-call for three hour shifts once, maybe twice a week. I always get Friday nights off and I'll never work on Saturdays ("Why yes, I'll take one more drink."). Love it.
2. I get to "dress down" for work. No, I can't wear sweatpants or flip flops (Like I can...and do...at AngelVision) but I no longer have to don wool tights underneath a sun dress in 90 degree weather (You know, when Portland actually has 90 degree weather). After all, how can anyone expect me to hang jars, haul down heavy lamps, life gigantic garden urns (Excuse me, the proper PB term is "Oversized." Indeed.) and stretch myself like Spiderman across bays of shelves while wearing heels and a dress? Exactly. Instead I get to wear khakis and, when I can get away with it, jeans, a plain t-shirt and my trendy (Four of us at PB sport the same color) Chuck Taylors.
3. I don't have to help customers. I know, this sounds bad...really bad...but after a long day of mentally-taxing work, writing scripts and plotting to best my bully, I'm pretty tired and my strained mental capacity of being nice is sometimes out of gas...
4. ...So instead, I get to put my tightly-honed OCD skills to use. Sure, if a customer comes up and asks me a question, I'll answer it but typically will push the guest to another employee (Which is best for all parties around because even though I work with the products doesn't mean I've got the best ability to sell it). But for the most part, you'll find me at 310 NW 23rd Avenue creating displays around the store, arranging flowery bouquets, stacking picture frames on tables and steadying baskets of pillows in vignettes. As my mom said, it's a good way for me to put my creative mind to use in a different way than what I'm used to.
5. I get to move around. I know, even without Pottery Barn I can easily exercise or move my hiney after eight hours of computer-faced sitting but sometimes I'm just so exhausted that I want to go from sitting to laying down (Sad and pathetic, I know). But being at PB, I am moving and shaking, lifting tables, moving sectionals into elevators, climb up ladders and busting out into the occasional awkward white girl dance.
6. And of course, there's the fact that I like everyone I work with. Sure, the place can buzz with more gossip than TMZ (Okay, okay, that's a gross overstatement but, just like 20 inch inserts, we've usually got plenty in stock), but I genuinely enjoy everyone I work with. They're nice. They're real. They make me laugh and remind me that life doesn't have to be so cut-throat serious.
So sure, from time to time I'll be putting in 14 and 15 hour days, wanting to pull my already shorn hair out from tired frustration (Though pure exhaustion would probably prevent me from doing so), but I'm glad to be back.
Especially because I still get my discount. Woot woot.
Epilogue: They did not use my on call. Even better.
In four hours from now I have to call into Pottery Barn to check if they're going to use my on-call...
...Because as I've mentioned before, I'm back at Pottery Barn.
Just call me The Terminator.
I know, if you're not someone who works there (or maybe you are and just don't get it) or who hasn't talked with me in the last three weeks, I can hear you scoffing and see you scratching your head as you shake it in disbelief at me, wondering Whyyyyyyy is GOD'S name would I go back to a job where I earn mere pennies above minimum wage just to help uppity women and love-crazy newlyweds pick out the perfect botanical arrangement.
But hear (Errr....read) me out: Thought I'm working in a retail store, I'm not actually working retail.
I'm working as a member of, what our GM (Bless Michelle for her love of Mike and Ikes and willingness to share them during late night floor set shifts) creatively calls, The Visual Five (Though not to be confused with The Jackson Five). In essence, with four other people (Including Rob and George...err...Jeff who insist on acting like Meryl Streep in "The Devil Wears Prada," calling me "Emily" in that long, drawn out would-be-creepy-if-coming-from-anyone-else voice), a couple of days a week making sure the store stays up to the standard of, what what the William-Sonoma President called last week, "Pottery Barn Heaven."
Go ahead, you can "Oooooooh" and "Aaaaaaaah." It's impressive, I know.
Mocking condescension aside, I am actually pretty excited about coming back to The Barn after a four week hiatus. Why? Because I have, in my opinion anyway, the best job an employee could hold there.
Here's why:
1. I work my own schedule and work sparingly. Sure, when floor set is due or there's a gigantic corporate visit hanging ominously over the store's head, I'm putting in an additional 15-plus hours during my 40-plus hour AngelVision work weeks. But, for the most part, I'm scheduled on-call for three hour shifts once, maybe twice a week. I always get Friday nights off and I'll never work on Saturdays ("Why yes, I'll take one more drink."). Love it.
2. I get to "dress down" for work. No, I can't wear sweatpants or flip flops (Like I can...and do...at AngelVision) but I no longer have to don wool tights underneath a sun dress in 90 degree weather (You know, when Portland actually has 90 degree weather). After all, how can anyone expect me to hang jars, haul down heavy lamps, life gigantic garden urns (Excuse me, the proper PB term is "Oversized." Indeed.) and stretch myself like Spiderman across bays of shelves while wearing heels and a dress? Exactly. Instead I get to wear khakis and, when I can get away with it, jeans, a plain t-shirt and my trendy (Four of us at PB sport the same color) Chuck Taylors.
3. I don't have to help customers. I know, this sounds bad...really bad...but after a long day of mentally-taxing work, writing scripts and plotting to best my bully, I'm pretty tired and my strained mental capacity of being nice is sometimes out of gas...
4. ...So instead, I get to put my tightly-honed OCD skills to use. Sure, if a customer comes up and asks me a question, I'll answer it but typically will push the guest to another employee (Which is best for all parties around because even though I work with the products doesn't mean I've got the best ability to sell it). But for the most part, you'll find me at 310 NW 23rd Avenue creating displays around the store, arranging flowery bouquets, stacking picture frames on tables and steadying baskets of pillows in vignettes. As my mom said, it's a good way for me to put my creative mind to use in a different way than what I'm used to.
5. I get to move around. I know, even without Pottery Barn I can easily exercise or move my hiney after eight hours of computer-faced sitting but sometimes I'm just so exhausted that I want to go from sitting to laying down (Sad and pathetic, I know). But being at PB, I am moving and shaking, lifting tables, moving sectionals into elevators, climb up ladders and busting out into the occasional awkward white girl dance.
6. And of course, there's the fact that I like everyone I work with. Sure, the place can buzz with more gossip than TMZ (Okay, okay, that's a gross overstatement but, just like 20 inch inserts, we've usually got plenty in stock), but I genuinely enjoy everyone I work with. They're nice. They're real. They make me laugh and remind me that life doesn't have to be so cut-throat serious.
So sure, from time to time I'll be putting in 14 and 15 hour days, wanting to pull my already shorn hair out from tired frustration (Though pure exhaustion would probably prevent me from doing so), but I'm glad to be back.
Especially because I still get my discount. Woot woot.
Epilogue: They did not use my on call. Even better.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
A month later...
Yikes. It's been a very long time since I've posted a blog. I was chatting with a friend today who is blogging about his gardening expeditions who (on another Google chat occasion) confessed, after having previously boasted how easy and profitable blogging is...that everyone could do it, that updating a blog regularly takes more work than he originally thought.
Duh.
Sure, it's time consuming and, if you're a perfectionist or work-a-holic like me, the need to write a well-crafted column after a 10 or 12 or, like last Wednesday, 15 hour work day, is just plain crazy. Of course, I could be like my coworker and blog during work in lieu of working on a script but I actually enjoy my job and find that working on anything else during the day is well, to be Captain Obvious, counterproductive.
(Caveat: I know I published this during work today but I already had it written so I am by no means a hypocrite....right?)
At any rate, it's been far too long since I've blogged, which is unfortunate because I have so many wonderful things to write about (Which people are of course, dying to read about...maybe...hopefully...in my dream world, anyway)...
...Like our new apartment (Hello roof top neighbors)...
...And Fourth of July weekend when Meghann visited (Hello bottle of tequila)...
...And my new obsession with brackets [Hello new aside tool]...
...And coming back to Pottery Barn (Hello floor set)...
...And figuring out how to triumph over an office bully (Hello alter ego)...
...And starting a book club at work (Hello Ayn Rand)...
...And, you know, life in general (Hello World).
So enjoy the next few posts as I try to play catch up for the past month of the virtual cold shoulder.
Duh.
Sure, it's time consuming and, if you're a perfectionist or work-a-holic like me, the need to write a well-crafted column after a 10 or 12 or, like last Wednesday, 15 hour work day, is just plain crazy. Of course, I could be like my coworker and blog during work in lieu of working on a script but I actually enjoy my job and find that working on anything else during the day is well, to be Captain Obvious, counterproductive.
(Caveat: I know I published this during work today but I already had it written so I am by no means a hypocrite....right?)
At any rate, it's been far too long since I've blogged, which is unfortunate because I have so many wonderful things to write about (Which people are of course, dying to read about...maybe...hopefully...in my dream world, anyway)...
...Like our new apartment (Hello roof top neighbors)...
...And Fourth of July weekend when Meghann visited (Hello bottle of tequila)...
...And my new obsession with brackets [Hello new aside tool]...
...And coming back to Pottery Barn (Hello floor set)...
...And figuring out how to triumph over an office bully (Hello alter ego)...
...And starting a book club at work (Hello Ayn Rand)...
...And, you know, life in general (Hello World).
So enjoy the next few posts as I try to play catch up for the past month of the virtual cold shoulder.
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