Bacon Caramel: Boozy Dessert Style

Boy oh boy.

While I may have been more lax and lazy last week with cooking, I think I more than made up for it over the weekend with baking.

The weekend, for those of you who didn't know, Sunday was National Pie Day which coupled oh-so-nicely with Baker and Spice bakery's sixth anniversary (And I apologize for not actually informing everyone before hand; in retrospect, telling you after the fact seems a bit cruel considering you've got to wait 364 more days until the next National Pie Day). They held a pie baking contest which, after I casually dropped that factoid during trivia, Jason immediately averred that I should enter it.

Which I so totally did.

Apple Pie with Oat Streusel and
Bourbon Bacon Caramel Drizzle

I recreated Thanksgiving's apple pie: Apple Pie with Oat Streusel (Thanks Bon Appetit) but topped it off with lavish drizzle of bourbon bacon caramel.

The pie looked...oh, fantastic. And smelled like comfort food heaven, sweet with cinnamon sugar warmth that played harmoniously with the melody of apples which...oh baby, oh baby mingled with the smoky kick of the bourbon and bacon grease. Poor Jason. (Well I say 'poor' but don't really mean it -- let's remember that entering the pie contest WAS HIS idea after all)  I've never seen a grown man so unbelievably distraught while maintaining such iron-willed resistance than Jason, holding the still-warm, unbelievably aromatic apple pie for the entire 18 minute drive up to Hillsdale.

Without eating it.

Sure, his nose was never less than half an inch away from its crumbly, caramely top and, if I recall correctly, he verbalized no fewer than five scenarios that inadvertently put that pie into his mouth, without requiring him to take blame.

Unfortunately, my little pie didn't win. However, I do get to pick up a Thanks-for-playing $10 gift card to Sweet Wares (Which I think I'm going to drop on a pastry cutter I keep always wishing I had). And, while I didn't have crust to make a second pie, I did make a crumble-crust, using flour, sugar, brown sugar, oats, cinnamon and...of course, bacon grease in lieu of butter, for a crumbly, crispy apple pie that really, regardless of what the professionals think, is a winner in my book.

Butter. Nice, fatty cold creamy butter.

And for your viewing pleasure: I also made (For my friend Meghann who FREAKISHLY, at least in my eyes, doesn't like pork) a dark chocolate caramel, SANS bacon grease, which apparently made one the best caramel latte/mochas ever.

Yes Megs, it's officially in the mail and on its way to you.

Dark Chocolate Caramel Sauce

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Hump Day

Today has been a rough day. For no real reason in particular I haven't been sleeping all that well and today was definitely a result of the four hours of sleep I've managed to wink in over the past two days. It's not a case of the Mondays but rather, as the rest of the working world calls it, a case of the Humpdays.

No. I'm not talking about anything pornographic or icky (I hate the word hump with as much passion as I do the word horny. They both just sound so gross).

Allow me to pull some definitions:

Ala Urban Dictionary:
1. The middle of the work week; used in context of climbing a proverbial hill to get through a tough week.
2. Wednesday, the middle of the week, implying you have to 'get over the hump' before you can anticipate the weekend.
3. The middle of the week or the beginning of the weekend, depending on your level of addiction to alcohol.

Ala Dictionary.com:
1. The middle of the work week, usually Wednesday.

Sadly, since I no loner have access to the Oxford English Dictionary since I graduated UP 13 months ago, I can't dive into the serious etymology of Hump Day.

So I Googled instead (Yes, I know...I am indeed a giant dork).

Apparently Wednesday is just a mediocre middle day in most worlds...real and fictional.

There's AE Bray's nursery rhyme, "Monday's Child," that decries Wednesday's child as full of woe (IF...yes, big IF, I ever have kids, I'm sure my mom will hope I have a Wednesday child since, as she and my father have told me numerous times, if I were the first child, I would have been the only.). Solomon Grundy was married on a Wednesday, fell ill on a Thursday and was buried by Sunday (I DO plan on getting married someday but definitely NOT on a Wednesday).

In Winnie the Pooh, the cruddy nature of the "Blustery Day" is attributed to it being "Windsday" (a play off of Wednesday, just in case you didn't catch that). And in Richard Brautigan's "In Watermelon Sugar," Wednesday is the only day the sun shines gray (Considering his troubled life and eventual suicide, it's probably best he was a Montana boy who didn't know that in Portland, the sun shines gray every day).

But it's not even in literature and poetry where Wednesday is a crappy day (PS as I write this the once-sunny day is vanishing under a sheet of heavy, heavy rain). In astrology, the planet Mercury represents Wednesday. Mercury, a/k/a Apollo, is simply the messenger (Maybe there's a reason for that adage, "Don't shoot the messenger" because it sucks to be the proverbial bearer of bad news.), noted for his swiftness and speed...a flat out lie considering the length of the modern day Wednesday. I think that the first century poet Manilius probably had it right when he called Mercury inconstant and vivacious.

If we shoot over to the Bible, we get Ash Wednesday (Caveat: This is all coming from a non-religious individual who attended a private Catholic university so take the commentary with a grain of salt). Yes, of course, it's a wonderfully spiritual day on the whole but it comes with the confessing, fasting and the promise to not eat meat for FORTY WHOLE DAYS. Plus as it was at my college, most people are hungover from going nuts the night before on Fat Tuesday.

So, as one can see, Wednesdays are blah all around. For me, Wednesday's few saving graces are all modern-day guilty pleasures like the Willamette Week (Of which I only read the Dish section. I pick up the free weekly paper solely because it means I get a THIRD crossword puzzle to work on), America's Next Top Model (WGN is rerunning the Petite Model season, fyi) and no boyfriend until later at night to make fun of me for indulging in either (Quarter Orange duty calls). On my cross country team in college Wednesdays were always an easy training day; no practice and either a light run, cross training or a total day off.

Considering my lack of sleep and the fact that my body feels more zombie-like and less humanoid, I'm going to pay homage to my cross country team training schedule and take the day off from running (I've gone a solid 12 days in a row!), kick back with an IPA and watch ANTM while doing the crossword puzzle.

Of course, that's after I finish this ginormous internal project that's due...oh...today.

Hump Day indeed.

Writing Fitness

I already know I’m not in running shape. The 20 and 30 minute walk jogs of huffing and puff lace my Nikes up for every other day for are pretty substantial evidential proof of that.

I’m surprised to find out that I’m out of writing shape…mainly because I didn’t think that was possible.

Yet, here I am, sitting at home with a bag of Trader Joe’s frozen petite peas nestled on my right wrist and forearm (I have to save the ice for cocktails with the world’s worst vodka, after all), nursing what I’m certain is developing tendonitis.

A quick medical lesson for those of you aren’t familiar with tendonitis: As my oh-so-scientific-looking picture shows (And no, I didn’t draw it), tendonitis occurs when a tendon is inflamed from overuse. For the wrist, that means the thin, little muscles and tendons that move these texting, typing, dishwashing hands of mine up, down, left and right are probably throwing little temper tantrums from repetitive keyboard typing and mouse usage.

At first I was a bit afraid I was developing carpal tunnel syndrome after just eight days at my new job but realized, after a bit of Google searching, that since I’m not experiencing any numbness or tingling in my palm, thumb or index finger, that I can luckily rule that secretarial injury out the window.

But then I realized I could be developing tendonitis since my wrist and outer forearm are aching like a beeeeeeeyotch. I first noticed the pain during the final hour of my day at the office (Goodness, how American and adult and suburbanly mature do I sound saying that?!) on Monday but it subsided by the time I was drinking a beer and watching ‘Secretary.’ On Tuesday I noticed that the pain began a little bit earlier in the day and didn’t subside; it was so annoying that I couldn’t bring myself even to Facebook after getting home and carrying the basket at the grocery store was a wee bit more than my tiny wrist and skeletor forearm preferred to carry. Then yesterday the pain began around noon and didn’t go away – probably because my ‘office’ is actually a room equipped with a 24/7 cooling vent that won’t shut off which means it’s freeeeeeeeezing (Yes Mom, I’m imitating you), making me cold to the bones – and working at PB, even for the short time I did, made it worse. Cooking dinner? A nightmare. Changing the radio station while driving my car? Yowch. And don’t get me started on the anguish I had while texting.

It throbbed as I went to bed, even after washing down ibuprofen with the last dregs of my Bridgeport Hop Czar.

It throbbed as I woke up this morning, still zombified. It hurt in the shower while washing my hair, in the car while banging my steering wheel with curses at traffic.

And it hurts now, after sitting for the Channel 13’s hour of The Office with frozen peas on arm.

Hmm. Maybe I should go to the doctor (Or suck it up and stop being a wimp?).

And, from the looks of my condensation-laden bag sweating on my arm, to the grocery store to pick up some non-mushy pods.

Comeback comeback

So this is the second “I’m blogging again” post that I’ve written since starting my blog way back in late November.

Whatever.

A lot of people have tried the comeback comeback and, considering I’m pretty awesome, I figure that I can re-earn the love and trust and loyalty of the few people who actually read my blog just like others.

I mean just look at Robert Downey Junior: He started his acting career at the age of five and grew up on screen and in the tube throughout the ‘90s (I write like I actually witnessed this but, considering that he was born 21 years my senior, it’s obvious to assume I’m pontificating over celebrity nonsense) before going totally off the drug-induced deep end for a solid five years. He tried to comeback with a role in Alley McBeal in 2000 but didn’t hit life-changing rock bottom until he was on the Oprah Show in 2004 (What is it about that woman?) when he realized he couldn’t actually continue a life of jail and drugs.

Now he’s a super awesome bad ass who runs around in iron suits, beating up bad guys and trying to get into The Avengers. His role as Iron Man is laden with such irony (IRONy?) too that it’s submissively comical: An ex-drug addict superstar cleans up and plays an ex-alcoholic superhero. Classic.

Comeback Specimen Number Two: Britney Spears.

In a one sentence summary of her life; she tumbled down from her throne as a Mouseketeer turned teen idol turned adult-man idol turned cracked out Las Vegas-eloping (to a Wangster, none the less!), Madge-kissing, baby-having, head-shaving nut job. Now she’s all back and hot, making music that makes the white boys at Pottery Barn shake it in the early morning like they’re Beyonce (You know who you are and I miss being all OCD about the store with you terribly).

You might say she only had one comeback attempt but she had two; remember when she tried to be all clean and sober after her second son? As we all saw on Family Guy, which obviously didn’t pan out too well for her.

And the third comeback comeback of the blog post would have to be Brett Favre.

Wait. No…he never successfully came back, did he (Insert an, ‘Oooooh, Sick Burn’ tease here)?

At any rate, what I mean to say through my random celebrity knowledge (Which I did actually have to wiki because, let’s face it, I don’t care enough about celebrity life to have these factoids readily available within my brain), is that I am making my comeback comeback into the blogosphere.  I’ve had enough people tell me that I need to/should blog again (Ahem, Clara) and, to appease and hopefully entertain them, I’ve gone ahead and succumbed to peer pressure.

I should probably work on that slight flaw in my character. If I keep doing everything my friends and family suggest to me I might become a full-on, 24/7 carnivore (Ahem, Walker), dye my hair hot pink or red (Ahem, Mom, Sean) and become really fat, just because I can (Ahem, Diane).

Luckily I don’t have an agent telling me I should get back into the game.

Because Lord knows, the last thing I want to be is a comeback comeback comeback like Brett Favre. Sometimes enough is enough.

Pho or, The reason why I don't mind being hungover

I've been in a bit of a pho fix as of late. I'm not sure exactly what brought on my less-than-a-weekly need for the gelatinous, fresh, salty, savory, spicy, heavenly rejuvinating meat and vermicelli noodle Vietnamese soup, but it's making me feel like my dorky 12-year-old self when I first kissed a boy -- I think about indulging daily and wonder if I'm a bit obsessed each time I give in and order a large bowl of steaming deliciousness.

My obsession for the noodle soup has become so intense and, perhaps unhealthy, that I look forward to waking up after a night of considerable drinking because I know that pho is going to be the best hangover cure. I came to this realization of pho as a cure-all while I had shingles; Walker and I went to Toast and Pho (my first but definitely not last time there) the day after a really bad nerve pain episode for lunch and, after a large bowl of pho gai (chicken soup) I felt freakishly better and stronger, like I was Popeye after popping a can of spinach (Parenthetical sidebar: Does anyone else ever wonder if Popeye's spinach wasn't laced with something stronger like steroids? I, perhaps more than most people, know that spinach is a GREAT iron source but know from experience that it's iron-possessing power's aren't all fantastic enough to grant anyone immediate strength.).Pho is -- dare I say it -- better than coffee, better than a Nalgene of water and much better than any meaty sandwich that usually makes me feel better (Yes, I'm talking Podnah's pulled pork sandwich here).

So I went back to Toast and Pho, two days later, feeling sluggish from nearly three weeks of hard core pain medication, ordering pho gai to go. Three days later Walker and I went to Pho An on Sandy for New Years Eve. And when I started my new job at the clinic, I found myself calling Toast and Pho, making orders for pick up.

"Large pho gai," I'll say illegally as I drive through the Teriwiliger curves after an 11-hour day.

"Ohhhhh you say very well," the lady who works the counter and phones at Toast and Pho tells me.

"Thanks," I respond, feeling a bit of pride at my Vietnamese-speaking ability.

"You must order pho gai a lot. No one know how to say properly," the cute Vietnamese lady says in broken English grammar (That I actually don't even think about correcting for she is my link to a meal of greatness), all at once thanking me for my patronage while mocking my Americanized white-girl pride.

"Yes, yes I order often," I reply half sheepishly, half excited to become a regular because, let's face it, I love being a regular. And who doesn't? Being a regular typically comes with perks (Free pho? Only in my wildest of dreams).

And why shouldn't I? Since I've been raking in more money, thus enabling myself to be less of a frugalista (Jason, please kick me next time we work together) and more of a, dare I say it?, spender, I've celebrated my hard labor with a couple of drinks of the weekend. A mixed drink here, a shot there, a couple of beers way over there; I drink just enough to know that I'll feel slightly hungover but not completely life-hating debilitated the next day solely (or so it seems) so I have a legitimate reason to get pho at 9 in the morning.

I don't know why I try to hide it for  I really have no shame. The cute Vietnamese lady at Toast and Pho must know by now: What white girl with last night's makeup still smeared across her eyes, dressed in a striped ear flap beanie cap hiding her heavily cowlicked hair, donning a baggy gray sweatshirt to hide the fact that she's too lazy to strap on a bra, jeans and beyond-retirement old man slippers comes into a Vietnamese restaurant on a Sunday morning carrying a newspaper (that remains unwrapped throughout the course of noodle and broth slurping) a mere half hour after opening who isn't hungover?

It paints a pretty shameful picture, I know.

But it just tastes so good.

Cosmo Karma

I'm not drinking for a week. At least. Two hangovers in one week is more than enough for me -- or really anyone, for that matter -- to handle. Thursday's PBR hangover wasn't too bad since all I had to do was work a princess shift at Pottery Barn (princess shift = four hours, according to one of my six managers). Today's hangover...oh dear...is

so

much

worse.

The nausea and constant on-a-boat (Not in the good, Andy Samberg way, unfortunately) sensation I'm experiencing today (yes, still at 1:15 pm) is all in thanks to a much-anticipated Pottery Barn Christmas party at a manager's killer Northwest Portland pad that overlooks the entire city. I think I can blame the fuzzies in my head to the fact that, prior to cosmo number one, all I had eaten was a carrot raisin oat bran muffin (which is my near-daily indulgence that I get from Zupans and am quite certain that I'm fairly addicted to them), two cups of coffee and a small handful of breast cancer-friendly peanut M&Ms. I can also place blame on the fact that the cosmo was, hands down, the stiffest drink possibly imaginable to man. It was more vodka than juice, packing more of a punch than punch should pack.

By the time cosmo two rolled around, I had taken a few girlfriend bites of a pulled pork sandwich and had snacked on some deliciously salty tortilla chips and home made guacamole (Passing up on anything avocado is heresy in my book). My stomach, that poor, neglected organ of mine, attacked those nibbles of food like Northwest Portlanders attacked the shelves of bottled water during last week's e-coli scare, pushing and shoving to get it all, all, all. Unfortunately (at least for me today), my stomach sucked up vodka at a less-than-desirable rate as well.

I was wasted. Embarrassingly so. I still can't recall what time we left the party last night nor do I remember much of the ride home (Thanks again, Clara). I somehow managed to hang my keys on the light switch, which hangs about six inches to the left of where my key hook actually is. I was also able to lock my door although I do recall fumbling with it for a solid 45 seconds (Which, in drunk-recall time, could actually have been minutes or hours). Negating these so-called feats of mine is the fact that I dropped my new phone, cracking open the back case (No Mom, it's not broken) and had a great conversation -- that I can't really recall fully -- before passing out in my wool tights and flannel dress (That's a terrible description of what is actually one of my favorite outfits).

The worst part about today's hangover is that I am carrying it around with me all day through the, not one, but TWO job interviews I have today. I was able to keep it buried during my first one (I'll attribute that to adrenaline) but now, while waiting for my second one, I'm feeling a bit nauseated again. I've eaten more today than I have in the past two days (Eggle Bagle sandwich for breakfast, pho for lunch and enough coffee to fuel a medium-sized office) and have been popping advil like crazy. I know I should be more excited for this next interview but all I can think about is how wonderfully inviting a pair of big sweatpants, my old man slippers and a baggy t-shirt sound. Add in some bad TV, my favorite fleece blanket and perhaps a few slices of vegan pizza and I'll be golden.

If I can just make it through the next three hours, I'll be golden. Three more hours and I can recoup. Three more hours and I can take off my give-me-a-job boots (Not to be confused with fuck-me boots or fuck-me pumps) and give my hangover the proper attention it deserves. I did work hard for it, after all.

Some might say my priorities aren't straight but hey, at least I have goals in life. Right?

The Best Things in Life Return

Yesterday, sweet sweet yesterday, was another day of freebies. Nothing free fell haphazardly onto my lap or smacked me in the face like some free things do but instead, had simply piled up like a stack of rainy day coupons. After the week from beyond the depths of hell that I had, I figured I was more than due for a little rainy day loving. The arrival of my new cell phone, the Samsung Intensity (in Flamingo Red, might I add) marked the first freebie of the day. As I was telling a friend today, having a new phone makes me feel somewhat richer, less ghetto (which, according to a coworker is synonymous for 'missing a part' or 'lacks the ability.' Indeed?) and all around happier. So much for trying to not be a materialistic person (Cue Madonna here...).

Riding on my new phone high, I decided, after a mere 90 minute shift at work during which I donned the most atrocious hair style (Beyond JBF hair that can almost be branded as scandalously cute, my hair was simply tweaking out as bad as the meth heads who roam Chinatown), I was going to cash in a free hair cut card at a new salon in Northwest Portland.

The salon is called Cupcake salon, located at 2328 NW Westover, just behind NW Everett and NW 23rd, in that weird little area across from Ben & Jerry's (Another key freebie location during the early summer), Phil's Meat Market (Hooray for $5 bento), Pharmaca (Hooray for vegetarian iron supplements) and the liquor store (Hooray for nearby booze!). The salon shares a building with a pet store called Hip Hound on the second floor. Walking in, I was instantly greeted with heat (It might not have been rainy yesterday but it was damn cold!) and Christmas music. My stylist was Kai (There are at least two other stylists), a newbie to Portland from San Diego. I thoroughly enjoyed talking with her about Portland --- the food culture, club culture, drink culture and of course, the life of NW Portlanders. Talking with her was a nice change from the "fuck the man" attitude that I usually come across at Bishop's where I usually get my hair done.

The cut is super cute, albeit really hella short...which is fine, considering that I am totally fine with letting a stylist have some creativity with my hair. I liked the fact that she suggested multiple ideas and options for my hair, such as keeping part of it in the back longer (No, NOT like a mullet) so I could don a better faux mohawk. She also styled in three different ways so I could know my options and how to pull them off.

I felt bad that she gave such great service for free so I tipped her and thanked her for the hour she spent on my hair. It was such a great experience that I'll probably go back -- when I have money of course -- for my next cut.

A free phone, free hair cut and life yesterday was very, very good.

PS -- Cupcake Salon doesn't have a website yet but the salon's number is 503.295.7700. I highly, highly recommend it!

Debbie Downer? Try (uhhh) Ursula Upper!

First things first:

Major kudos and a big chocolate cookie goes out to anyone who can think of a better female name than Ursula. I'm rather embarrassed to have kept such an atrocious blog title but come on, I had to continue the polar opposite theme of blog posts I've been maintaining for the past few days.

Preface over. And so it begins.

It actually begins, probably ironically and deservedly so, with me waking up rather groggily and hungover this morning (Last night, in contrast to the past few nights, was happy drinking with friends at a birthday celebration at Chopsticks II, a questionable Chinese restaurant/karaoke dive bar on East Burnside. Even I -- beer and food snob extraordinaire -- won't say no to free PBR). It, of course, is my newly re-re-restored (Yes, I've had a lot of mentality and emotional restorations in the past few months. Deal with it...I have) optimistic spirit that was hiding cowardly either behind empty beer bottles and shots of whatever or underneath the heap of blankets I keep on my bed. It came back because, for the first time in the last ten or so days, I have hope again.

That's right; hope....that little flutter of nervous butterflies that gets you all excited and tingly and grade-school giddy for the happening of something absolutely wonderful...has caught up with me again. And let me tell you, it's a fantastic feeling, mainly because I worked hard to make it happen. I mean, sure I did my fair share of bitching, moaning, drinking and crying about how unfair life is, how poor I am, how frustrating everything is (Yes, you can insert the teacher's voice from Charlie Brown here and I won't be even remotely offended) but I've also been working my tushy off to gain some hope (Turn Charlie Brown teacher voice off here).

After having spent all of Monday applying to jobs (26 in all), I was able to go to sleep last night with one interview in the bag and will be able to curl up in bed (Hopefully not shivering in my 55 degree studio) tonight with a second interview on deck for this coming Monday. To sweeten the deal a bit more, I received a new writing assignment from one of my editors due in ten days (Which means, regardless of whether I land either potential job, I'll be in Portland through at least January. Woot woot!).

I also got my new phone (Hooray for free upgrades, right?), cleaned my apartment and am waiting to embark on a reunion with a good friend over cheap pizza.

Hope: Much nicer than a hangover.

I wonder if I could be a slogan writer...I mean heck, I could have made thousands working on Obama's campaign with my wit and ability to write to the "Average Joe."

...But seriously, I need help with that name.

Sobriety

I'm pretty sure that my Irish roots took hold of me over the past weekend (And by weekend I mean the entire last week) because I wasn't just living in an Irish drama, complete with the bread-winning sop (who of course wastes all hard-earned funds on a pint), female drama and cold, lonely nights; I was starring in one. My role? The bread-winning sop. My English professors must be so proud (I didn't learn nothing from college after all).

Whenever I read Irish dramas or novels or watched films about Irish life, I could never really sympathize with the male household figure because, in most films and novels, the Man of the House was the bad guy. He was the guy who had a dead-end job and starved his kids and cheated on his wife and sang sad war songs because he spent all of his money on what was promised to be just one (but often turned into four and five) pint.

But now, in light of recent events of me being nearly broke and on a three week countdown until I possible move back home to Spokane with my parents, I'm starting to sympathize with the Irish novel's antagonist. True, I don't have kids to feed (Thank goodness!) but I do have myself to feed and, as of late, I've been choosing wine and beer over fruit and vegetables. My reasoning, which I like to assume is the same rationalizion process that my Irish male ancestors engaged in, is that I am still getting enough calories to be alive (Beer isn't calorie-friendly, people...my butt and hips can tell you so) and kicking and that the buzz of enough booze makes me oblivious to the fact that I'm broke, frustrated and struggling.

Drinking is a weird form of escapism. It's cheap and makes me feel cheap the next morning when I wake up and recall the empty bottles (usually three at most...I'm still a lightweight) with my groggy eyes and groggier head. The shame is more evident when I wake up alone since that infers that I was drinking alone and can't even recall good times from the night before.

I'd almost prefer my angry Irish wife and empty-bellied Irish lot to wake me up and ask me where breakfast is. But I don't have that. Instead, I have myself and I'm far scarier than even the scariest, shrillest and angriest Irish wife (Fictional or real, it doesn't matter).

The Next David Sedaris?

I did a really, really, really bad thing yesterday.

Well, perhaps bad isn't the correct word. Shameful or pitiful might be more accurate describers of the act that I pulled off after walking home after a seven hour shift at Pottery Barn last night. You see, during my lunch break, I checked my email at my favorite local coffee shop, Fat Straw, only to find out that the great personal assistant job that I landed just three weeks ago had been taken away from me, thanks to an MBA-wielding smarty pants who can apparently do his and my job with ease. Needless to say, I wasn't feeling all that great about myself after my break and spent the final three hours of my shift indulging in major self-loathing and moping (Not even my manager's attempts at playing cupid were helping lift my spirits). The self-loathing continued as I passed by the Plaid Pantry, picked up a six pack of Full Sail IPA ($5.98 for a six pack = the city's cheapest prices), a box of Mike and Ikes and headed home to peruse Craigslist, yet again.

And this is when the really, really, really bad/shameful thing happened. Even though I have a degree and have a lot to offer the world outside of retail, I still found myself scrolling down the pages of open retail positions. One caught my eye in an almost ironically sardonic fashion:

Macy's Santaland in Downtown Portland is hiring!

Full and Part Time Seasonal positions available immediately!

Greeter, Photographer, Cashier and PC Computer Operator positions for seasonal Christmas employment. Santaland work hours begin during the week of Nov 16 thru Dec 24. Must have a neat appearance, pleasant personality and enjoy working with the public. No prior experience necessary...we will train all staff. However, being handy on a PC computer is extremely handy!

We offer flexible scheduling, full and part time hours and a wage/bonus of $9.50 DOE. Must be able to pass a background test and drug test prior to employment.

Please reply with the email above or at MacysSantaland.com Please list the position of interest, resume/prior experience, and availability during the season.

We have lots of fun!

While downing the last ounces of my IPA, the nasally voice of David Sedaris, one of my favorite authors, entered my head. The author became famous after writing and reading on This American Life, Santaland Diaries, essays about his experience as a Macy's Christmas elf. Maybe I could do the same?

Cracking open my second beer and washing away almost all self-respect, I totally applied. For nearly 500 words I gushed about how much I adore little kids, how much I love the holiday season and how I am more than capable -- excellent, actually -- at keeping my cool during crazy and hectic situations (Can you figure out the one truth in that list?). I've been promised to be contacted in two business days. Expect an update soon.