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...
Showing posts with label adulthood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adulthood. Show all posts
Sunday, January 2, 2011
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?"
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
The Nymph
I think it's time I finally write about The Nymph.
I mean, I've lived in The Plato for almost nine months now and have just casually mentioned her from time to time.
Okay, I've ranted about her more than once but I figure, since I haven't actually made "The Nymph" a tag in my blog feed that I've been fairly successful in keeping the stories to a minimum. There's part of me that just feels bad about gabbing about an innocent person without his or her knowledge.
But that part of me is gone, rubbed away by the lack of sleep I've gotten over the past four days thanks to The Nymph.
She's not keeping me up with sex (Uh, okay...that's a sentence I never imagined I would write except maybe if I were creating conversational dialogue in a book about a guy whose nymphomaniac girlfriend or wife doesn't let him sleep because she's constantly needing to feed the beast); no -- The Nymph's latest loud escapades involve moving furniture, every day, for the past four days, at four in the fucking morning.
Yes...(unlike Dane Cook), I did say fucking.
For the life of me, and for all the creative juices I have flowing through my head on any given day, I cannot think of a solitary reason -- good or bad -- whyyyyy anyone would be moving furniture for the first, let alone the second, third and fourth, time at four in the morning.
I mean, maybe she has an incredible eye for decoration and spacial arrangement and only gets bursts of inspiration right before the sun comes up. If that's the case, maybe I should get her a job at Pottery Barn doing Visuals.
Okay, maybe not....especially if I'm returning to PB to be part of the Visual Five (No....that's not a team of super heroes, sadly).
Or maybe Walker's theory of The Nymph owning a sex swing is right...and she just has to move it...constantly. But I actually haven't heard her having sex in the morning; just moving furniture.
In all honesty, I don't know what loud noise I prefer to have myself unwillingly subjected to: Her loud sex, her loud sobbing or her loud furniture banging.
No, not that kind of banging.
I mean, when she's having loud sex, I have to hear her moaning and screaming and her squeaking bed and sometimes, when it's really bad -- or I guess really good, depending on what receiving end you're on -- feel the shaking of her floor reverberate down my walls and through my own squeaky hardwood floor. It makes me feel voyeuristic and icky, like I need to take a long, long shower (Which I usually do in the hopes that, by the time I'm finished, she is too).
When she's crying, I sort of just feel bad for her and that makes me want to bring her cookies and hot chocolate and see if she's okay because her sobbing is just so intense. I've sobbed like that before...when my grandmother died and when I tore my hip flexor...that uncontrollable sobbing where you can't even breathe. Her sobbing eradicates all the frustration and anger and grossed outness I have while I hear her having sex; and that just irks me even more.
And now she's got this new fad of early morning furniture rearrangement. It's just plain awful. Sure, she's not making any verbal noise but the constant dropping and dragging of, what I can only imagine is very heavy, furniture (or maybe dead bodies?) is just nerve wracking...
...especially at four in the morning. On the first morning, Saturday, I awoke with such a startle that I clenched Walker's arm (He slept through it) in fear that the sky was falling down (Uhm helloooo! Have you seen Donnie Darko?). Sunday's rude awakening elicited an, "Are you kidding me?!" accompanied with throwing my arms up to the ceiling in disbelief. Monday's rearrangement brought death threats. Today's warranted this blog.
It's a good thing -- for her safety and my unincarcerated freedom -- that we're moving soon. Who knows what might happen otherwise.
I mean, I've lived in The Plato for almost nine months now and have just casually mentioned her from time to time.
Okay, I've ranted about her more than once but I figure, since I haven't actually made "The Nymph" a tag in my blog feed that I've been fairly successful in keeping the stories to a minimum. There's part of me that just feels bad about gabbing about an innocent person without his or her knowledge.
But that part of me is gone, rubbed away by the lack of sleep I've gotten over the past four days thanks to The Nymph.
She's not keeping me up with sex (Uh, okay...that's a sentence I never imagined I would write except maybe if I were creating conversational dialogue in a book about a guy whose nymphomaniac girlfriend or wife doesn't let him sleep because she's constantly needing to feed the beast); no -- The Nymph's latest loud escapades involve moving furniture, every day, for the past four days, at four in the fucking morning.
Yes...(unlike Dane Cook), I did say fucking.
For the life of me, and for all the creative juices I have flowing through my head on any given day, I cannot think of a solitary reason -- good or bad -- whyyyyy anyone would be moving furniture for the first, let alone the second, third and fourth, time at four in the morning.
I mean, maybe she has an incredible eye for decoration and spacial arrangement and only gets bursts of inspiration right before the sun comes up. If that's the case, maybe I should get her a job at Pottery Barn doing Visuals.
Okay, maybe not....especially if I'm returning to PB to be part of the Visual Five (No....that's not a team of super heroes, sadly).
Or maybe Walker's theory of The Nymph owning a sex swing is right...and she just has to move it...constantly. But I actually haven't heard her having sex in the morning; just moving furniture.
In all honesty, I don't know what loud noise I prefer to have myself unwillingly subjected to: Her loud sex, her loud sobbing or her loud furniture banging.
No, not that kind of banging.
I mean, when she's having loud sex, I have to hear her moaning and screaming and her squeaking bed and sometimes, when it's really bad -- or I guess really good, depending on what receiving end you're on -- feel the shaking of her floor reverberate down my walls and through my own squeaky hardwood floor. It makes me feel voyeuristic and icky, like I need to take a long, long shower (Which I usually do in the hopes that, by the time I'm finished, she is too).
When she's crying, I sort of just feel bad for her and that makes me want to bring her cookies and hot chocolate and see if she's okay because her sobbing is just so intense. I've sobbed like that before...when my grandmother died and when I tore my hip flexor...that uncontrollable sobbing where you can't even breathe. Her sobbing eradicates all the frustration and anger and grossed outness I have while I hear her having sex; and that just irks me even more.
And now she's got this new fad of early morning furniture rearrangement. It's just plain awful. Sure, she's not making any verbal noise but the constant dropping and dragging of, what I can only imagine is very heavy, furniture (or maybe dead bodies?) is just nerve wracking...
...especially at four in the morning. On the first morning, Saturday, I awoke with such a startle that I clenched Walker's arm (He slept through it) in fear that the sky was falling down (Uhm helloooo! Have you seen Donnie Darko?). Sunday's rude awakening elicited an, "Are you kidding me?!" accompanied with throwing my arms up to the ceiling in disbelief. Monday's rearrangement brought death threats. Today's warranted this blog.
It's a good thing -- for her safety and my unincarcerated freedom -- that we're moving soon. Who knows what might happen otherwise.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Culinary Adventures
After a near solid week of cooking dinner, I've decided to push my cooking to a new level. But, before I continue with the why and how, let me detail the what that led me to this decision. My menu for the previous week:
Sunday: Chicken tomato curry with bell peppers, mushrooms, onions and shrimp.
Tuesday: Fresh fettuccine with with garlic, shrimp, chicken, pancetta (Yeah, three meats). Side salad of mixed greens and the BEST Roma tomatoes and the ripest avocado I've had to date, dressed with my go-to, homemade balsamic vinaigrette (balsamic vinegar, honey, salt, pepper, shallots, dijon mustard and olive oil).
Wednesday: BLOAT sandwiches on ciabatta rolls (BLOAT, I'll admit, is a Walker/Amie co-creation: Bacon, lettuce, sauteed onion, avocado, tomato and pan-fried turkey cutlets).
Thursday: Carna asada burritos with sauteed bell peppers and onions, white rice, refried beans and homemade guacamole and salsa.
Friday: Lemon garlic pappardelle with pancetta croutons (Yes, you read that right) and broccoli. Salad of mixed greens, avocado and Roma tomatoes, served with the usual balsamic vinaigrette suspect.
Saturday: Egg scramble with onions, bell peppers and pancetta served with multigrain toast and blackberry jam (Okay so Saturday was a Walker meal; I don't do breakfast all that often).
All in all, a solid week of eating in (Which we celebrated last night with happy hour pints at Laurelwood and a tipsy sushi -- I was tipsy, not the sushi -- dinner). Even though last week was slightly stressful, between work, not sleeping and gaining more angst over our pending move, I thoroughly enjoyed coming home at night, taking off my bra, slipping on some sweat pants and hospital socks (The epitome of sex appeal, I know) and cracking open a beer to sip on while I embark on a barrage of onion mincing (Which always, always makes me cry), garlic crushing, meat tenderizing and pasta boiling. It's soothing and calming. Even when I'm worked up and irritable, an hour in the kitchen always makes the frustrations of the day melt away (Though I'm sure the beer doesn't hurt).
But I'm ready to take my cooking further. I've realized, now that I buy food for another person other than myself, that I'm constantly purchasing the same goods. My freezer is always stocked with peas, spinach and broccoli. I've always got onions, bell peppers, mushrooms and avocado in my fridge. My love for Oregon fruit aside, I'm always armed with bananas and apples, regardless of the season. While having the usuals to fall back upon isn't necessarily bad, it's a rut I'm definitely ready to break out from.
So, with my Joy of Cooking cookbook that Santa brought me from the North Pole three Christmases ago, a bit more expendable of a food budget and a boyfriend who's willing to try anything I bring home and/or make (The boy tried a fingerful of Tofutti the other morning), I've decided to make one new thing a week.
And by new I mean something I've never EVER made or eaten before. So whether that means cooking with a new ingredient or whipping up a dish that I randomly flip and point to in my cookbook, I'm going to be stretching my culinary skills and taste buds to new heights.
This week I'm working with beets. Clara and I paid homage to my old stomping grounds on Sunday by going to the Farmer's Market up in Hillsdale. We both purchased the biggest beets I've ever seen. They're Chioggia beets (Pronounced kee-OH-gee-yuh)! Although Chioggia beets are sweeter than typical beets, I'm planning a more savory meal that uses both the beets and the beet greens (I've never cooked nor eaten beet greens so it's a double whammy culinary expedition that meets both prerequisites of my weekly culinary adventure).
Here's the plan:
Shredded beets and coarsely chopped beet greens sauteed in garlic and thyme butter with mushrooms and seared steak. I'm pretty excited because it's a play off of a recipe I found on Epicurious.com (I'm doing steak instead of chicken and garlic and thyme instead of orange zest). The entire dish is cooked in one pan so it should all taste pretty freaking delicious and, if I execute it well enough, the earthiness of the mushrooms and the savory, pungent flavor profile of the thyme should combat harmoniously against the sweetness of the beets. And the garlic? Well, garlic goes with everything!
I'll try to take photos...though doing so will dramatically increase the chances of me setting off the smoke alarm here (I have a crazy affinity for making the entire studio smoky when I pan fry meat).
Although, come to think of it, this apartment doesn't actually have a smoke alarm.
So yes, pictures to come, indeed.
Sunday: Chicken tomato curry with bell peppers, mushrooms, onions and shrimp.
Tuesday: Fresh fettuccine with with garlic, shrimp, chicken, pancetta (Yeah, three meats). Side salad of mixed greens and the BEST Roma tomatoes and the ripest avocado I've had to date, dressed with my go-to, homemade balsamic vinaigrette (balsamic vinegar, honey, salt, pepper, shallots, dijon mustard and olive oil).
Wednesday: BLOAT sandwiches on ciabatta rolls (BLOAT, I'll admit, is a Walker/Amie co-creation: Bacon, lettuce, sauteed onion, avocado, tomato and pan-fried turkey cutlets).
Thursday: Carna asada burritos with sauteed bell peppers and onions, white rice, refried beans and homemade guacamole and salsa.
Friday: Lemon garlic pappardelle with pancetta croutons (Yes, you read that right) and broccoli. Salad of mixed greens, avocado and Roma tomatoes, served with the usual balsamic vinaigrette suspect.
Saturday: Egg scramble with onions, bell peppers and pancetta served with multigrain toast and blackberry jam (Okay so Saturday was a Walker meal; I don't do breakfast all that often).
All in all, a solid week of eating in (Which we celebrated last night with happy hour pints at Laurelwood and a tipsy sushi -- I was tipsy, not the sushi -- dinner). Even though last week was slightly stressful, between work, not sleeping and gaining more angst over our pending move, I thoroughly enjoyed coming home at night, taking off my bra, slipping on some sweat pants and hospital socks (The epitome of sex appeal, I know) and cracking open a beer to sip on while I embark on a barrage of onion mincing (Which always, always makes me cry), garlic crushing, meat tenderizing and pasta boiling. It's soothing and calming. Even when I'm worked up and irritable, an hour in the kitchen always makes the frustrations of the day melt away (Though I'm sure the beer doesn't hurt).
But I'm ready to take my cooking further. I've realized, now that I buy food for another person other than myself, that I'm constantly purchasing the same goods. My freezer is always stocked with peas, spinach and broccoli. I've always got onions, bell peppers, mushrooms and avocado in my fridge. My love for Oregon fruit aside, I'm always armed with bananas and apples, regardless of the season. While having the usuals to fall back upon isn't necessarily bad, it's a rut I'm definitely ready to break out from.
So, with my Joy of Cooking cookbook that Santa brought me from the North Pole three Christmases ago, a bit more expendable of a food budget and a boyfriend who's willing to try anything I bring home and/or make (The boy tried a fingerful of Tofutti the other morning), I've decided to make one new thing a week.
And by new I mean something I've never EVER made or eaten before. So whether that means cooking with a new ingredient or whipping up a dish that I randomly flip and point to in my cookbook, I'm going to be stretching my culinary skills and taste buds to new heights.
This week I'm working with beets. Clara and I paid homage to my old stomping grounds on Sunday by going to the Farmer's Market up in Hillsdale. We both purchased the biggest beets I've ever seen. They're Chioggia beets (Pronounced kee-OH-gee-yuh)! Although Chioggia beets are sweeter than typical beets, I'm planning a more savory meal that uses both the beets and the beet greens (I've never cooked nor eaten beet greens so it's a double whammy culinary expedition that meets both prerequisites of my weekly culinary adventure).
Here's the plan:
Shredded beets and coarsely chopped beet greens sauteed in garlic and thyme butter with mushrooms and seared steak. I'm pretty excited because it's a play off of a recipe I found on Epicurious.com (I'm doing steak instead of chicken and garlic and thyme instead of orange zest). The entire dish is cooked in one pan so it should all taste pretty freaking delicious and, if I execute it well enough, the earthiness of the mushrooms and the savory, pungent flavor profile of the thyme should combat harmoniously against the sweetness of the beets. And the garlic? Well, garlic goes with everything!
I'll try to take photos...though doing so will dramatically increase the chances of me setting off the smoke alarm here (I have a crazy affinity for making the entire studio smoky when I pan fry meat).
Although, come to think of it, this apartment doesn't actually have a smoke alarm.
So yes, pictures to come, indeed.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Movin' On Up!
I hate moving. The whole idea of packing up every little piece of my property, whether it's my black pub style table and corresponding wobbly stools (We're talking Target here, not Pottery Barn) or one of 12 dinner plates (This time we're talking IKEA) is just exhausting. I loathe getting boxes together and filling them in an organized fashion with trinkets and dishes and books and toiletries only to have to unpack them within the following days.
Then there's the cleaning. It's not as though I keep a dirty apartment (My mother would be so ashamed) or anything but I just have this nagging guilty conscious that forces me to perform the deepest scrub on any place I leave behind (Save for the last place I live that is, but hey--I was jipped out of my Eight Pound Oreck in that deal so I don't feel much remorse). I'll wipe down walls and scrub corners with a toothbrush until I've inhaled so many cleansing fumes that I'll start scrubbing spots that are more a figment of my intoxicated imagination (It's also at that point that I usually get distracted and think it'd be a good idea to go on some kind of Gonzo crusade).
I personally blame my three years living in UP dorms for my inane moving-out cleansing ritual. At the end of the school year, RAs would scrutinize our dorm rooms like a grandma scrutinizes fingernails, pointing out with horror and dismay the teeniest, tiniest, most minute speck of dirt. Unlike grandma though (hopefully!), UP charged a bleeping dollar for every one thing left in the dorm room. I once had to pay for a dried leaf the size of my pinkie nail.
And of course, along with the packing and cleaning, there's the whole finding a new place to live process and the accompanying stress that hides in its back pocket. I always get bullet-sweating nervous that I won't be able to find a place to live, despite the fact that Craigslist touts an average of 90 new listings at my price range in Multnomah County alone each day. Obviously I'm going to be able to find a new place to live but that still doesn't stop me from embarking on my search for a new abode weeks before its even sensible to start the application process.
Nevertheless, despite loathing the actual moving process, I can't help but be totally and completely stoked that I'm moving at the end of this month. Thanks to a 100 percent increase in my monthly budget, I'm able to afford a bigger apartment so that Walker -- bless his heart for putting up with being squished in a studio for three months -- and I can live more like adults in a real, live, well-put-together apartment and less like close-quartered college roommates.
Where we're going to live yet...well, we haven't figured that part out yet. But anywhere than where we are now will be better. It's not that The Plato is all that bad...there are worse places out there (Gresham, Tigard and Hillsboro to name a few). It's just become a bit inconvenient as of late, what with my apartment manager threatening to kick me out because Walker has a set of keys and The Nympho's Johns confusing my apartment for hers (I had a guy on Monday who, honestly -- looked 14 at best, knock on my door, push his body partially into our studio in search for her). My early mornings sometimes conflict with Walker's late night so the fact that he can legally have a set of keys would make our daily routines a bit smoother. My early morning runs and stretching routines won't bother his beauty sleep and his late night post-QO meeting drinkfests won't bother mine.
Now that I've put my (our) 30 days into the landlord, I'm starting to get antsy about finding a place, even though I'm still 9 days away from being able to make any kind of deposit. And there's the fact that we'll be headed to Spokane for Hoopfest (No, not to play 3-on-3 basketball...we're going to watch my brother and his friend play hungover) the last weekend of June, possibly leaving us with just weekdays, probably more realistically weeknights to move all of our stuff...
...which we have a lot of. Combined, we have enough place settings to throw a killer three-course meal dinner party for two dozen people -- predinner drinks and postdinner coffee included -- without washing a single dish. I have as many books (Helloooo English major!) as he does movies (Hellooooo Film major!) and the sheer quantity of appliance we have probably require more than one packed-to-the-brim car trip to our yet-to-exist new place.
We've yet to nail down where we want to live...though the lure of Northwest living is a luxury I've definitely gotten used to. Forest Park? Shopping? Close to work? Coffee every three feet? Yeah...leaving this area would definitely force me to make a change in my daily routine that I'm not quite sure I'm ready or willing to make.
I can only handle so much change at one time, after all.
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