my food network application

It is time to recount my third experiment in the kitchen. I have been trying to decide how to recount this latest adventure, because I can hardly believe it even happened. I look at the pictures that I’m about to post, and I still can’t believe it. I’ve been eating leftovers for a few days, and I still can’t believe it. Good thing I have a blog, because if there weren’t a place to document this, I might not believe it happened in like a month or two.

On my last cooking blog, there was a comment from my cousin Mary. You may remember Mary as the cousin who showed me the wonder of hot air popcorn poppers at the cousin reunion, thus illustrating yet again that when she says something about food items, you should listen; I first had this hunch about her knack for food when I went to visit her family in Charlotte when I was little, and she made me an ice cream sandwich with fresh baked cookies. It was a culinary delight unlike any I had known in my young life. In her comment, Mary gave me some words of encouragement and said she’d try to send some recipes for me to try.

While that was an extremely heartening comment, nothing could have prepared me for the wealth of information that was sent me to via email just a few days later. I got an email that included three recipes: pork tenderloin, shepherd’s pie and creamy cheesy chicken. I’m still pondering how to do this, but I’m hoping to give these dishes some fancy names, like Elvis Porkley’s Love Me Tenderloin. Although they will probably just have Mary’s name somewhere in there; just as I grew up with a dish called Anna Cay’s Potatoes in honor of the aunt who gave my mom the recipe, my children will likely grow up with something called Mary’s Pork Tenderloin or Cousin Creamy Cheesy Chicken. Anyways, like I said, I’m still working on that part.

All of the recipes looked doable, which is saying something as I have expressed before my extreme apprehension about cooking meat. I decided to try the pork tenderloin first, because Mary used the word “foolproof” in describing it, and that was a word that appealed to me immensely. And so, after having committed the recipe to heart (it is only a paragraph long, but I can recite it for you), I headed off to a new corner of the grocery store: the meat section.

Finding the meat was kind of like a scavenger hunt, because never ever have I bought a big ol’ hunk of it before. I was to find not pork loin, but pork tenderloin, a small one. Well, just like when you can’t find a fork for all the spoons, all I could see were pork loins, but thanks to the very specific instructions I had memorized, I knew that was not for me, and I persevered, finding a tenderloin that weighed in at 2.25 pounds. Do I know how much I weighed when I was born? No. But I think I shall always know how much that pork tenderloin weighed.

Then it was time for another scavenger hunt in the spice aisle, cause I needed garlic pepper. And garlic is a word that shows up on a lot of different things in the spice aisle, but yet again I persevered. Those were the only two ingredients I needed for this recipe! Then I got some bread and some beans for a side dish, but I can go ahead and tell you now; the side dish will not prove very important to this story.

At home, I preheated the oven to 500 degrees. Another reason this recipe intrigued me was because it called upon the full power of the oven, and I wanted to see what that bad boy taking up so much room in my kitchen could do. I rubbed garlic pepper all over the pork tenderloin and then cooked it for an amount of time that is an ancient family secret. It has to do with the weight of the pork tenderloin, but I can tell you no more.

While the pork tenderloin was cooking and my apartment was filled with delightful smells, I managed to make a side dish, which was green beans and tomatoes, a recipe described on the internet as Fagiolini di Sant’Anna, or Saint Anna’s Beans. I have wanted to try side dishes, since so far I have made things that are like self-contained meals that don’t require side dishes. This one was okay. As you will see below, it added some beautiful color to the plate. However, next time I make this dish, I will just make the meat and I will only eat that until my stomach explodes.

When the meat came out of the oven, I got to use my utensil that is like a big fork. Uh, I just googled and I think it is called a carving fork. But I used a regular knife. I carved that meat into medallions and I placed it on a plate that also contained the green beans, two slices of fancy cheese and some bread. I got out my fancy Biltmore Estate wine and poured a glass. And then I looked around to see if there were any magazine photographers because man oh man I have never been so pleased with myself in my life. Here is my creation:

And here is another close-up of the food, because a vision like this deserves another image.

Now, I think I would have been okay if it just looked nice. But that meat melted in my mouth like butter, and I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Like I said, next time, I’m just making the meat. It is also very good as leftovers, and today I had a pork tenderloin sandwich, with Italian bread, cheese and Dijon mustard. It was so good that it made me think I could open a deli, and the deli would only be known for pork tenderloin sandwiches, to the point that if someone orders something else, everyone else rolls their eyes and there’s an old woman in the back making pork tenderloins all day while I supervise. I’m not sure who the old woman is yet, but she’s in my daydream about this. It would be good if she spoke only Italian and wore black and was hunched over. I must have seen this woman in a movie about a deli.

But I digress. The point of this entry is to celebrate the fact that I cooked meat and to celebrate my cousin Mary who gave me this incredible recipe. Thank you very much Mary. You are the official chef of this blog until I think of a better title. The rest of you, should you feel compelled to send me “fool-proof” recipes, I regret to inform you that you have a lot to live up to.

railroad lady

Writing about the Margaret Mitchell House yesterday reminded me that I went to another historical house a few weeks ago. I haven’t written about it because instead of inspiring me to write, as the Margaret Mitchell House did, that house inspired me to sit around and wait for a gigantic railroad inheritance. Three weeks later, and that hasn’t happened. I am speaking of the Biltmore Estate, which is the largest privately owned home in maybe the universe? And was built by George Vanderbilt with his piles and piles of railroad money.

Despite its status as Asheville NC’s premiere attraction, I had only been to the Biltmore Estate twice before. Once, when I was a baby – that night, our house caught on fire and we couldn’t have Christmas there the next morning. And once on a school trip roundabouts the fifth grade. When you tell people from around the country that you’re from Asheville, they tend to ask about the Biltmore Estate, and you have to tell them that Biltmore is just too expensive for the peons that actually live its shadow to make a habit of visiting. The railroad fortune didn't trickle down to us.

Now, the long-ago night that our house caught on fire, we were all saved because my mom was pregnant with my brother George, and she had to get up in the middle of the night to pee and she smelled the smoke. Now, 25 years later, George came to the rescue again by his status as a Biltmore Estate passholder. I guess he has mad connectionz now and he was able to get my parents and me some free passes to tour the house, complete with audio guide. So off the four of us went to tour this grand estate. (Though this may get me in trouble later, I do want to note that my other brother, William, was invited to come on this outing with us. However, William fell under the sway of some lady at the piano bar the night before and didn’t make it home in time to go. I guess he has some crazy connections of his own.)

Now, the thing that might drive you crazy during a Biltmore Estate tour was that this was only the “country home.” It was not the main residence, despite the fact that it had 250 rooms outfitted with tip-top of available luxury. It was not the most encouraging tour to take during this economy, but I did gain a wealth of fun facts! (pun intended!)

One of the most interesting things that I learned from the sweet soothing voice on my audio guide player was where the name “Biltmore” came from. Living in Western North Carolina, I took that name for granted and just assumed that it was a common name that was proper for shopping malls and hotels. However, it comes from combining “Bildt,” an area in Holland from which the Vanderbilts originated, and “more” meaning rolling hills. One fact I did not learn was how much the house actually cost, and that is because that’s a secret that George Vanderbilt took with him to his premature grave.

Premature grave: good name for a band or a short story? Or too morbid? I’m torn.

Anyways, this house is gigantic and I’m getting pretty tired just thinking back on my adventure through it. The highlights for me were the banquet hall, because it just had the most amazing walls, an organ and a triple fireplace. Most of the basement, which includes a swimming pool, a bowling alley, and all the kitchen-related rooms, is pretty awesome. And of course I loved the library, which had more than 10,000 books, a secret passageway, a fireplace and a massive painting on the ceiling. The furniture may not have looked immensely comfortable, but maybe by sitting straight up, George Vanderbilt got more reading done. The audio guide man estimated that G.V. read two books a week, which made me feel supremely inferior as a reader in addition to the feelings of inferiority that were already raging within me at not being a railroad heiress.

Anyways, after going through a ton of beautiful bedrooms and sitting rooms, trying to decide which one I’d want to stay in, it was off to the gift shop, where we spent a fair amount of time around the free dips and snacks you can try. Once we had a little something in our stomach, we went to the winery. It was a rainy day in the off-season, and George said the winery was the least crowded that he’d ever seen. Plus, he said we got to sample more wines than usual. I hope he was not saying those things just to make me feel better about not having inherited enough money to build myself a castle complete with its own village yet. My favorite wine was the Cabernet Sauvignon Blanc du Noir, described in my tasting brochure this way: “Semi-sweet raspberry and citrus flavors with hints of melon round out this wine’s laid-back approach.” In addition to being extremely delicious, the man pouring wines mentioned it paired well with barbeque, and whenever I hear the word “barbeque” my ears tend to perk up and pay attention. So I got a bottle of that, in the hopes that that Vanderbilt magic would rub off and suddenly I would have some mansions and whatnot.

One final note about George (my brother, not the Vanderbilt)….in addition to saving our lives in that fire years ago and snagging us free passes to the Biltmore Estate, he’s also become quite the Biltmore tour guide, as he’s been on so many special passholder tours now that he’s chockfull of fun facts, much in the same way that Raisin Bran is full of raisins. I am really not doing all the things that I learned from him during the tour justice in this blog because I am tired. So if you have any questions about the house, you should direct them to him, or hire him to take you around the house, because all I will do is whine about how I have no railroad inheritance.

speak to me, lion

If you’re a careful reader of the blog, you might have noticed that despite my Lenten resolution to blog once a day, I – how you say? – lack the motivation to do so on some weekends. I just skip it. And I can’t say I’m proud of all the weekday entries either. We can’t crap gold all the time, I guess.

This weekend, though, I got some much-needed writing inspiration. Along with my editor and friend Katie (a faithful blog reader), I headed over to the Margaret Mitchell House, because there was a deal to get in free if you said “Southern Literary Trail.” I had been to the Margaret Mitchell House once before, with my parents, but that was before I even went to college in Atlanta, so I was ready to revisit the place in which one of my favorite books, the basis for one of my absolute favorite movies, was written.

If you want to re-live the tour I took, then you can click here: http://gwtw.org/tour.html. But here were my impressions:
You enter the home on Peachtree Street level, and you go into a room with lots of photographs. A tour guide explains who all the people are, how Margaret Mitchell knew them, and how they formed the basis for characters in “Gone With the Wind.” For example, on one side of Margaret Mitchell’s family, there really was a lady named Melanie who fell in love with her first cousin. But instead of marrying the man, she became a nun, and instead of being a pansy ass, the man went west and became Doc Holliday, a far superior outcome than that that awaited Ashley Wilkes. You see a few pictures of how the house and Atlanta used to be at the time; Katie was quite taken with the pharmacy for some reason. I guess she takes a lot of drugs.

Then you go downstairs, to the apartment where Margaret Mitchell lived with her husband John Marsh. There were 10 apartments in the home at the time, and Margaret Mitchell would have entered below the street level we came in on. The tour guide pointed out that while the furnishings we would see would not be originals, the floor we were standing on was. STANDING ON THE SAME FLOOR AS MARGARET MITCHELL DID!!! At first that was really exciting to me, and I was trying to breathe deep and get a hole of that southern writing magic. But then I remembered how many people had stood on the floor in the meantime and the feeling was a little diminished.

The tour guide said that Margaret Mitchell was very superstitious, and as she came into the tiled hallway that we were standing on right that very minute, she would rub the nose of the lion’s head that formed the bottom of the stairway, so that she would have productive writing sessions. The tour guide said we should do it, too, even though it was a reproduction. So I did, because I was trying to capture the spirit of Margaret Mitchell, and also because my editor was watching and if, God forbid, I have any trouble finishing my assignments this week, I don’t want her to say that I missed a golden opportunity by not touching that lion.

Then it was into Margaret Mitchell’s apartment. You enter her living room, which was also where she wrote the book. She kept a towel at her desk so that if she had any visitors, she could throw the towel over her typewriter; she was very self-conscious about what she was writing. As I glanced at the tiny typewriter replica, I couldn’t help but think that my apartment just doesn’t lend itself to writing the way this apartment immediately screamed “Write!” to me. It is probably because I am lazy when I am in my own apartment, and inspired when I am in an apartment that has already produced something notable, but all the same. I don’t care that the apartment was tiny, or that Margaret Mitchell called it “the dump”…Margaret Mitchell House people, please let me move in. I think if I had a week there I could write a book too. Not one as big as “Gone with the Wind,” but maybe a thin volume of quatrains or something. At least 10 good blog entries.

Then into the bedroom, which has a beautiful bedspread and a very tiny bed. Then into a tiny kitchen. They don’t let you linger too long in these rooms because you might steal all the Margaret Mitchell magic. Instead, you go into an exhibit hall where there are letters from Margaret Mitchell and her husband which prove that both had an excellent sense of humor.

Then you get to go to another exhibit hall that has movie memorabilia. The highlight for me was the painting of Scarlett that was hung in Rhett and Scarlett’s home….the one where she’s wearing a blue dress, the one that Rhett throws his drink at after Scarlett tells him she doesn’t want to have any more babies? That one was there. Apparently the painting is owned by the Atlanta School Board and has been hung in places like elementary schools but was being loaned to the museum. Can you imagine going to school and sitting in the cafeteria and getting to see that painting? I THINK I WOULD FAIL SCHOOL SO I COULD CONTINUE TO LOOK AT IT.

That’s pretty much the whole tour, and frankly my dear, I am glad I got to go for free because otherwise it’s a little overpriced. I don’t know if I would have felt quite so much Margaret Mitchell magic if I’d had to pay $12 for it. However, for the very same price that admission would have been, I got to take some of that inspiration home with me. In the gift shop was a bookend of that lion’s head that Margaret Mitchell used to touch on her staircase every day, so I got one, brought it home, and set it up next to my laptop. Now, when I don’t want to blog, I shall touch the lion’s nose and try to have a productive writing session. Then maybe one day girls will get excited when they stand on a floor where I once stood.

sorry, God.

As I wrote yesterday, God has definitively shown me that I cannot steal the Chick-fil-a cows without risking some sort of trouble with the police. So I just want to let God know that when I pulled into the parking lot of an adult entertainment place this morning at 8:30 a.m. to take a picture of the cows, it was not because I was in any way casing the joint or planning any future crimes. These pictures are just for my records.

Here are the cows that consume me. Can't you hear them calling out to me? Because I can. I hear them begging to be taken down and put in my car (or a flatbed truck, should I decide to use one for the purpose of transportation and also for the purpose of not having my actual license plates possibly photographed).

Those cows call my name. Even now, 15 minutes away and 15 stories high, I can hear their pleading moos.

But as I said, I AM DEFINITELY NOT PLANNING ON STEALING THEM. Even though they are located very low to the ground, as I have mentioned and as I captured in this photograph.

And yes, now that you mention it, it would be very easy to use the roof of that building as a staging area for my hijinks. But unfortunately, I am absolutely, most definitely, without a question, not going to steal those cows. No matter how good they would look in my apartment, I will not do it. Not even the prospect of silencing all the voices in my head that talk to me about cows would motivate me to steal anything off that billboard. If I say it enough times, I shall believe it: I WILL NOT STEAL THE CHICK-FIL-A COWS.

update on my commute

This morning, like all mornings this week, I was pondering how to steal the Chick-fil-a cows that are on a billboard near my apartment. As I wrote on Monday, this is my new obsession, and each time I drive by, I become more and more convinced that those cows could be mine. I even know where I would put them in my apartment (in the bedroom; maybe in the kitchen when I cook beef).

Then, a vehicle changed lanes, entering mine. It was a police van, and painted on the back were these words: "Stay Back - Prisoner Transport." I took this as a sign from God that I need to stop thinking about how to steal the Chick-fil-a cows.

The rest of my commute was very scary! After being ordered from God to stop thinking about cows, I was forced to think about just what kind of criminal(s) might be in the van ahead. It turns out I have an overactive imagination when it comes to awful criminals and I arrived at work very frightened and worked up. I will not think of those cows anymore, because I don't want God to have to send me any more scary signs.

But I just have to say, I wish I ran a prison of bad spellers. Then I could drive a prison transport van and arrest those cows. I'm just saying.

Book #4: The Post-Birthday World

I just finished up “The Post-Birthday World” by Lionel Shriver. This book caught my eye when Entertainment Weekly named it the #1 novel of 2007, and, as I think I have mentioned before, I tend to pay attention when Entertainment Weekly makes declarations like that. The book is about a children’s book illustrator named Irina McGovern, who’s been in a long-term relationship with a boring but stable nerd named Lawrence. They have a friend named Ramsey Acton, who’s a dashing, handsome, rich snooker player (the book takes place in London, which left me thinking “shite” in my head the whole time I was reading it). One night, alone with Ramsey, Irina realizes that for the first time in her life, she wants to kiss a man that she’s not in a relationship with.

From that moment on, the chapters in this book alternate, with one set following what happens if Irina does kiss Ramsey, and the other half following what happens if she resists the urge. It’s a very clever concept, as you see the same events (for example, a trip to Irina’s mother’s home for Christmas) from both points of view. You see both the benefits and consequences of each choice, and there are neat little echoes from one parallel life to the other. In some ways, it seems, the decision doesn’t matter, and in other ways, it makes all the difference in the world which man Irina chooses.

This is the kind of book that if you had to read it for a college lit class, it would practically hit you over the head with essay topics. For example – in each of her lives, Irina writes a children’s book. One tells two stories diverging from a single decision, and the other features an ambiguous ending—so meta! But the only thing about this book is, I didn’t read it for a college lit class. I kinda wanted to be entertained by each alternate life, and to root for one guy over the other. Based on some things I read on the internet, I thought this would be somewhat light reading, despite the fact that it’s about such a life-altering decision. And it most definitely is not. I guess that makes it more grown-up and realistic, but it was extremely depressing to cringe along as lives are ruined and as expectations are dashed. Surely I’m not giving anything away to say that both good and bad things happen in each of Irina’s parallel lives, but there are definitely times (by which I mean hundreds of pages) when it seems more bad things happen than good. In the end, I was pretty frustrated that she only had two choices. But such is life, I suppose.

Monday morning so far

There's a new billboard up on the road I take to work. It's for Chick-fil-a, and instead of just having pictures of cows painting out their horribly spelled words, it has three-dimensional cows. When I see this billboard, I am consumed by just one thought for the duration of my commute:

I WANT TO STEAL THOSE COWS.

Now, I have seen these three-dimensional cows on Chick-fil-a billboards before, but never have the cows been such low-hanging fruit. And I mean that quite literally…the billboard seems lower to the ground than other billboards, and I think that I could make those cows mine, depending of course on what kind of adhesive is used to keep them up there.

MUST HAVE COWS.

In other Monday morning news, I rode the elevator up with this lady who was on her cell phone. She said "holy manoley!" in response to something on her call, and it really irked me. She was just trying too hard. However, it gave me the idea for a new phrase that is infinitely more adorable: "holy cannoli!" Look for me to drop this gem into conversation as much as possible.

this day in stream-of-consciousness

On this day in 1933, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt signed a bill into law that legalized the sale of beer and wine. As a resident of the state of Georgia, I can’t help but note with sadness that this anniversary fell on a Sunday, a day on which no one in this state can buy beer or wine, or any alcohol for that matter.

Well, I should amend that to say that you could drive to a restaurant, have as many beers as you want, and then drive home drunk, but you couldn’t drive to the grocery store, pick up some beer, and make the return drive perfectly sober to enjoy the beer in the comfort and safety of your own home. That is just not allowed.

To mark the passing of this day, I opened up a beer right at the time I started composing this entry (8:08 p.m.). I intend to type about whatever pleases me until the beer is gone. I have nothing else to say, really, about the stupidity of the Georgia no-Sunday sales situation, except to note that I was reading an article earlier today about how Georgia has some of the worst smoking ban laws in the country. So to recap, a typical Sunday here would be driving to a bar, inhaling a lot of smoke and booze, then driving home with carcinogens in your system and alcohol in your bloodstream. I guess there’s a joke in there about how living in Georgia fosters death wishes in people, but I’m too tired to think of it.

The main thing that bothers me about the Sunday rules is that I tend to do my weekly grocery store shopping on Sundays. Or, well, I used to. Now there’s no point, because you’ll have to make a separate trip back to get the wine and beer, so you might as well just move the shopping to another day, even though that totally messes up your schedule but we wouldn’t want to offend God by buying beer on Sunday.

The beer I am drinking is a Yuengling, by the way. I feel there have been lots of references to alcohol on the blog lately, but have no fear. I am not a lush. It’s just that it’s that perfect time of year for sitting out on the patio and having chardonnay. Except for the damn bees. The bees came back today. I have a balcony, and there are some bees that love to eat the wood that makes up said balcony. The bees are dumb, and frequently they fly into the glass sliding door that leads to the balcony. I could hear them from my bedroom this morning, when I was waking up. I could hear the thwack of bee against glass, and I knew those bees were back. Soon everything will be covered with pollen, and when it rains there will be streams of yellow water making their way down the road.

I just spent some time on Wikipedia, and though Wikipedia claims that Kansas has some of the strictest alcohol laws in the country, that state has allowed Sunday sales in some locations since 2005. Even in Massachusetts, where the Puritans live, they’re okay with Sunday sales now. I really can’t find another state that has laws as strict as these….I would settle for no sales until after 12 p.m. Earlier this year, with the economy so bad, there was a bill to permit Sunday sales, with the thought that people needed as many opportunities to earn money as possible (or that people were so down in the dumps that they needed to be able to get trashed on a Sunday), but that was killed by, as I understand it, religious children coming in front of the legislature to plead God’s case. It just seems like God might have more important things to worry about.

The no sales on Sunday thing is probably the worst thing about living in Georgia. It’s even worse than being a liberal in a red state. But though I have rambled on for several hundred words about the situation, I don’t want it to seem like this problem defines my life. Sometimes it makes me sad, but I never need a drink so bad that I am saddened by the roped-off beer aisle at the grocery store. I think if this is the worst problem I have to deal with, then my state is probably okay.

But then, I might be feeling lovey-dovey since I just killed three-quarters of a beer on an empty stomach. Speaking of which, after I finish this entry I’m going to have dinner, which is some Indian food. Trader Joe’s makes theses lovely boxes of things like Punjab eggplant, and if you put it over some rice, it is just wonderful. I will probably have orange juice with dinner, though, since this was my last beer, and in case I haven’t made this clear enough, I can’t buy anymore until tomorrow. On that note, it’s 8:32 and I have finished the beer. Cheers to FDR for doing the best he could on this day in history.

an atlanta institution

This blog is about Coca-Cola. Writing this blog has been on my to-do list for awhile, because it contains the details of something that happened over a month ago -- my visit to the World of Coke museum in Atlanta, GA with a houseguest who was in town for a week. But it kept getting pushed to the side, first for all the cruise blogs, and then because writing about soda during the first few days of Lent, a time in which I had given up soda yet wanted one very very badly, seemed too hard. But now, with less than a month to go before Easter, I don't really miss soda that much anymore! So this seems like a safe topic to cover now.

Unfortunately, I don't have a ton to say on this long-awaited entry about the World of Coke museum. I think I came to the conclusion that the museum is sort of like Coke itself, in that it has a lot of bubbles at the time, but is kinda forgettable later.

When I was growing up, we all went to the Coke museum in its old location, which I remember being a lot more cool, but then I was younger and probably more easily impressionable. When I went to the museum that time, I got laughed at by some Asians who told me I was drinking the "poo-poo drink" of their country. The old museum also had these cool fountains that sprayed your Diet Coke or Sprite up into the air before depositing it in your cup.

The museum was moved though from those golden oldie days, and this was my first trip to the new location. The highlight is still getting to try different Cokes from around the world, though they got rid of the fountains that sprayed drinks in the air. From the experience, I learned that I never really want to go to Africa. Or if I do go to Africa, I don't want to drink Cokes there. None of the other continents had Coke that stood out as offensively to me as the African ones did, but then, none of them really grabbed me in their awesomeness either.

My houseguest wanted pictures taken of his reaction to every single beverage he tried, but I just wanted pictures of myself with giant objects, preferably inanimate. To wit:

I consider it a feat of strength that I wrote this entry during Lent without succumbing to the power of soda. But I shall always have a weakness for giant bears and funny statues.

some cat correspondence

Remember when I posted the absolutely adorable picture of my dad’s fourth child…I mean, my dad’s cat eating a Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich? No? Well, then you should go here and scroll to the bottom to review one of my favorite pictures of all-time: http://iwiggleitjustalittlebit.blogspot.com/2008/12/fiery-tempered-king.html

I guess Barack Obama reads my blog, and he found a Skinny Cow coupon in his Shape magazine a few weeks ago, and he mailed it to Tiki in a card that had dogs sitting in front of the White House. This is the letter he enclosed:

Dear Tiki,
You may have read in the press that I am looking for a new dog for the White House. A few options are indeed on the front of this card. However, I don't want the cats of our great country to think that I am forgetting about them. For we are not just red states or blue states, not just cat lovers or dog lovers, we are the United States and we embrace all pets. Even those that belong to men who voted for John McCain.

Tiki, perhaps you have been watching the news and have been wondering just how my economic plan will benefit you. Well, for cats like you, I have included a Skinny Cow stimulus. If you love Skinny Cows, then I am bailing you out! Enclosed please find a coupon for a delicious Skinny Cow treat. Yes we can…enjoy ice cream!

Also, Tiki, I hope you will remember in these hard times to be nice to all siblings, particularly your sister Molly. To truly move forward, we need to reach across party lines and embrace those who we may not want to embrace. It is time to put away childish things and stop scratching her so much.

Tiki, for me to continue my goal of sending Skinny Cow coupons to all cats, I'll need your help. Please consider a donation of $5 to me now. You can send it to Molly.

Love from your friend,
Barack Obama


So when I was home this past weekend, Dad showed me the reply that Tiki had been working on in the meantime. She is one smart cat, I guess:


Dear Mr. President Barack Obama,
Thank you for my stimulus Skinny Cow coupon. I appreciate your attempt at a bailout, however, I think you are definitely not thinking big enough. We need a full-fledged Skinny Cow program. We need to give each American a Skinny Cow. We also need to give each person in the world a Skinny Cow. Everyone would love them. Production and jobs would increase as would sales tax receipts.

In the world people would love them too! Your poor half brother from Kenya would love them. It would lead to third world development. They would need electricity, freezers, delivery trucks..all of which we would hope they would buy from America. This would further help our economy.

People would also be so happy – there would probably be no more wars as long as each country had an adequate supply of Skinny Cows! My plan would lead to full employment and world peace.

As to the dogs, you are not being fair to cats! What about Socks? Cats are self-sufficient. Dogs need to be walked. Do you really expect Sasha and Malia to do this? Kids won’t do it. Just check with George and William. They didn’t do squat when they had a dog. Remember: Cats are cool, dogs drool.

As to Molly – she attacks me on a regular basis. She needs to be nicer to me. But in an effort to help her work through her own aggressive problem, I am enclosing a “Cats for Obama” button your campaign sent me. I backed McCain and could not wear it. You can give it to her. I will attempt to get $5.00 from her and then I’ll see about sending some money to you. The way you are spending it, the government will need it and we poor catspayers won’t have it too much longer.

Your friend and worthy opponent,
Tiki

the madness that is march

Last year, I presented an extremely successful and accurate way to complete your March Madness bracket. I’m sure that way still works, but there’s a certain fluidity in sports that really requires figuring out new methods of bracketology each year. Whatever that means. Anyways, here is the Molly-approved method of filling out your 2009 March Madness bracket:

My methodology this year is based on how fun it is to watch people fight. A shocking statement, you say? Well, what is sports but individuals and teams meeting in a form of combat? But what if, instead of thinking of these college teams as groups of individuals worthy of their own merit, we thought of them as more interesting famous people?

Here is what I mean. I took the first letter of every team as it was written on the bracket that I downloaded from ESPN. Then, I thought of a famous male (since we’re doing men’s basketball) with a last name that began with that letter. I didn’t know what famous man I was assigning to each team. Here’s how the teams shaped up.

Louisville --> John Lennon
Morehead St. --> Karl Marx
Ohio State --> Roy Orbison
Siena --> William Shakespeare
Utah --> Bill Paxton (I couldn’t think of any last names that started with U, so I went with Paxton, because Utah=Mormons and Paxton plays a Mormon. This was one of the few exceptions in which I knew what man symbolized which team)
Arizona --> Neil Armstrong
Wake Forest --> Steve Wozniak
Cleveland --> Stephen Colbert
West Virginia --> Walt Whitman
Dayton --> Charles Darwin
Kansas --> Henry Kissinger
North Dakota State --> Richard Nixon
Boston College --> Rod Blagojevich
USC --> Socrates (I couldn’t think of any last names that started with U, so I went with the “S” instead)
Michigan St. --> Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Robert Morris --> Joseph Ratzinger
Connecticut --> Dana Carvey
Chattanooga --> Coolio
BYU --> Beethoven
Texas A&M --> John Travolta
Purdue --> Brad Pitt
Northern Iowa --> Nero
Washington --> George Washington
Mississippi St. --> Nicolo Machiavelli
Marquette --> Monet
Utah State --> Romney (See the note about Bill Paxton)
Missouri --> Mussolini
Cornell --> George Clooney
California --> Winston Churchill
Maryland --> Moses
Memphis --> Bernie Madoff
Cal State Northridge --> Bill Cosby
Pittsburgh --> Pele
East Tennessee State -->Albert Einstein
Oklahoma State --> Barack Obama
Tennessee --> Donald Trump
Florida State --> Sigmund Freud
Wisconsin --> Bruce Willis
Xavier --> Malcolm X
Portland State --> Pablo Picasso
UCLA --> Elvis Costello (U was really really hard! Went with the next letter on this one)
VCU -->Martin Van Buren
Villanova --> Vincent Van Gogh
American --> Aesop
Texas --> Harry Truman
Minnesota --> Nelson Mandela
Duke --> Charles Dickens
Binghamton --> Napoleon Bonaparte
North Carolina --> Noah
Radford --> Ronald Reagan
LSU --> David Letterman
Butler --> Bono
Illinois --> Henrik Ibsen
Western Kentucky --> Andy Warhol
Gonzaga --> Bill Gates
Akron --> Johnny Appleseed
Arizona State --> Andre Agassi
Temple --> Leo Tolstoy
Syracuse --> Bruce Springsteen
Stephen F. Austin --> Patrick Swayze
Clemson --> Jesus Christ
Michigan --> Barry Manilow
Oklahoma --> Laurence Olivier
Morgan State --> Maharishi

Now, when I assigned famous men to each letter, I kept them in the order that the teams were placed on the bracket. Then, I filled out my bracket based on what would happen if the two men fought. This was not just a matter of randomly picking names, guys. This involved laying on my floor and very clearly imagining a physical fight between the two contenders.

Here’s how Round One went.
In the Midwest division, Marx trumps Lennon cause Lennon won’t fight as a pacifist. Shakespeare trumps Orbison because while Shakespeare is a little effeminate, at least he’s not blind. Neil Armstrong easily takes Bill Paxton while Colbert defeats Wozniak in a close contest. Darwin takes Walt Whitman by beating Whitman with a turtle. In one of the strangest Round One match-ups, Nixon takes Kissinger. Socrates beats Blagojevich though it’s a very close contest, as Blago never answers a question straight and that pisses the hell out of Socrates. Last, Joseph Ratziner, the man known now as Pope Benedict, takes Mozart because Mozart is weird. You’ve seen Amadeus, right?

In the West, we have two past-their-prime stars dueling, but Coolio is able to pull it out over Dana Carvey, who is too busy doing impressions from the early 1990’s to put up an adequate fight against Coolio’s Fantastic Voyage to victory. Beethoven takes Travolta because he’s not bogged down by the “religion” that starts with the letter S that is known as being very litigious. Nero plays his fiddle around Brad Pitt for the win, while in a very close match, George Washington’s brute strength outtakes Machiavelli’s cunning. It also helps that Machiavelli only sent mercenaries to do the job. Tsk tsk. Romney beats Monet, probably the one person he can beat. Mussolini beats the dapper Clooney, who, while being against everything Mussolini stands for, can’t stand to get hit in that beautiful face. Moses takes out Winston Churchill because of the all-powerful God Factor. Bill Cosby takes out Bernie Madoff cause Madoff is in jail.

Off to some exciting match-ups in the East! Pele has a strong kick, but Einstein knows all about the physics behind the kick and is able to pull out a win. Obama tells Trump, “you’re fired.” Bruce Willis takes out Freud who barely bothered to get up off his couch for the fight, while Malcolm X defeats Picasso. Elvis Costello is just punk enough to get past Van Buren, though the Vans have a win when Van Gogh takes out Aesop. Harry Truman, the man who dropped an atomic bomb, has an easy win over Nelson Mandela, while Bonaparte’s battlefield experience easily overpowers that pansy Charles Dickens.

In the South: Noah (of ark fame) takes out Reagan due to the God Factor (take that conservative Christians!). Bono defeats Letterman just because Letterman can’t be bothered to care. In a bizarre match-up, Warhol takes Ibsen. Bill Gates defeats Johnny Appleseed just by dropping money on him, Tolstoy defeats Agassi, and Springsteen defeats Patrick Swayze because I unfortunately imagined present-day, cancer-fighting Swayze, and not in-his-prime, ass-kicking Swayze. Next year, Swayze. In the easiest match so far, Jesus Christ beats Barry Manilow. The Maharishi takes out Laurence Olivier.

The second round doesn’t really hold any surprises, but the third round is where things start shaping up. Some highlights:
--Charles Darwin faces the Pope. The Pope loses. Critics say that if the fighting pope had been John Paul II, then maybe Darwin would have lost. This pope is just not as powerful. I take that to mean that the team represented by Ratzinger (Robert Morris) was probably better in other years.
--God’s right hand men fare better elsewhere, such as in the west where Moses defeats fascism by taking out Mussolini.
--Bono faces his African aid relief partner when he faces off against Bill Gates. Bono wins, because he has the cooler glasses and the power of rock and roll.

Those highlights lay the groundwork for the Elite Eight. In which:
--Colbert finally admits defeat to Darwin.
--Washington cedes to Moses (God factor)
--Bruce Willis takes out Bonaparte in a very hard-fought match, but as it turns out, Bruce Willis really does die hard.
--Two men with Messiah complexes meet when Bono faces Christ in the South. Obviously, Christ wins, but the crowd could just not believe the symbolism.

To take a step back, Darwin, Moses, Willis and Christ are going to the final four. Those real life teams are: Dayton, Maryland, Wisconsin and Clemson. Sure, that may be a far cry from what all the statisticians are telling you….but did they consider what would happen if men with last names beginning with the same letter as the team fought in my imagination? Of course they didn’t.

In the final four, Darwin defeats Moses cause Moses is soooooooo old testament. Christ defeats Willis. That means the big game will be between Darwin and Christ. I know, my mind is blown too! I can’t even decide who wins…..evolution or the bible. So, I won’t tell you. Decide for yourself and fill out your brackets accordingly. You can thank me when either Dayton or Clemson win the whole tournament. Cause I guarantee you’ll be the only person who picked those teams.

just like martha

Last night, Monday night, was the second installment in my five part series, “Try to Cook Some Things During Lent Because This Is a Skill You Really Need to Acquire.” I selected my recipe from the “Everyday Food” cookbook, which as I understand it, is kind of like Martha Stewart for Dummies, in that Martha Stewart is in some way involved, but too embarrassed by the simplicity of the recipes to have her name front and center. The recipe I chose: Tortilla and Black Bean Pie.

I chose this recipe for several reasons. One, I love black beans. Two, the recipe called for 12 ounces of beer, which thoroughly intrigued me. While I may not need some of these spices I have to buy ever again, I can sure put the rest of that beer to good use. Lastly, it featured no meat, and as I mentioned in my last cooking entry, preparing meat scares the hell out of me. The middle ground between raw and burnt? I do not know how to get there with meat.

Anyways, Monday at 5 I left work and set out for the grocery store to procure such exotic ingredients as canola oil and scallions (known pseudonym: green onions). Well, Monday at 5 was a hellacious time to be on the roads. You stand-up comedians out there might be saying that anytime is a bad time to be on the roads in Atlanta, and to that I say, hardy-har-har. Most days, I have a fairly easy commute, but yesterday, the City of Atlanta thought it would be a good idea to get three lanes of traffic down to just one for some road work. It took me an hour-and-a-half to go five miles. Make no mistake about it, I was testy. Then it was off to the grocery store for more stress. After bumping buggies with my fellow 9-to-5ers for awhile and trying to figure out exactly what a jalapeno chile was, I was exhausted. And frustrated. It turns out no one makes 10 ounce packages of frozen corn, Martha Stewart! I can go 16 or 32 but I can’t go 10! And I don’t want any leftover corn! WHY ARE YOU MAKING THIS SO HARD ON ME?

It just occurred to me that not everyone calls shopping carts “buggies,” but that’s actually what they’re called. Don’t let any damn Yankee tell you any different.

As I loaded my groceries in the car, shooting stink-eyes at the nearby shopper who was going to leave his buggy in his parking space rather than returning it to its appointed carrel, I had to fight the urges rising in my body to abandon the plan. Just go get a nice burrito, instead, the voices whispered. You’ve had a hard day. You’ve been sitting in traffic forever. The last thing you want to do is go home and cook. But I resisted. “Oh no,” I said to myself. “We’re going to see if all those people who said cooking was relaxing are full of shit or not.”

So off to home I headed. I laid out my ingredients. Here they are:

Before I started anything, though, I watched a YouTube video on how to dice an onion because I’ve had a lot of insecurity about that act since high school, when a friend’s mom told me I chopped onions wrong. A bunch of girls were trying to make tacos for a sleepover, and apparently I was the only one who couldn’t handle my assigned task. Actually, probably a lot of my issues with cooking, as well as some issues with self-esteem, stem from those sleepovers. But I digress.

With some YouTube knowledge behind me, I began dicing and mincing and grating and whatnot. It went pretty well. One frustrating thing to me is that the instructions say 25 minutes of prep time, but that doesn’t include all the chopping and so forth. It assumes 25 minutes once everything is ready to go. But you know Martha Stewart or her minions are not allowed to buy pre-chopped onion, so I don’t know why they don’t add a little chop time in there. Maybe if I ever get a cooking show, it can be called “Prep Time,” and it will just show what happens before the recipe actually ever gets going. It will basically just be me watching videos on the internet and trying not to cut my finger off, I guess. Oh, and drinking. If the hypothesis was to see whether cooking can be relaxing, then the experiment was actually rendered null and void by the wine I consumed while working my culinary magic. Was it the wine, the cooking or the television on in the background that relaxed me? Too many uncontrolled variables.

As I drank, most of the ingredients went into the skillet for some skillet time. The beer was all boiled off or distilled or off to beer heaven I guess. Here is that very process in action!

Then it was time to layer the bean and corn mixture with the cheese and tortillas. So here was my big downfall. Whenever I read that the tortillas were supposed to be cut to fit the shape of a springboard pan, my eyes kind of glazed over. I figured a tortilla was a circle, and why should I cut off some of the tortilla just to end up with another circle? But when I started assembling the layers of the pie, I realized that the springboard pan must be some circular pan that would help my creation keep its shape. Without this so-called springboard pan, the pie ended up being a little unwieldy. But now, at least I know what a springboard pan is. It would have been nice if they just called it a circular pan. Is it that one with the thing that goes around at the bottom? I guess that's the thing that springs it from its form. Not that I had one, but still.

The uncooked pie. You can't really see all the layers here.

The pie after some baking:

One slice for dinner, served with salsa, the rest to be eaten throughout the week.

The verdict: This recipe was delicious. It is hard to go wrong with cheese, tortillas, black beans and onions. But, I do have to point out that this took almost an hour for me to make so that it was in this arrangement, and most of those things probably could have been, like, microwaved and smushed together to create the same taste, right? So was it worth it? I don’t know. All I know is that only two recipes in, I am learning countless lessons about myself and about kitchen vocabulary.

the lost weekend

So, though I vowed to blog everyday during Lent, I hit a bit of a stumble this weekend. And I have to say, once the blogging went, all of my Lenten resolutions fell off track. I had some soda. I didn’t do any stomach crunches. And then I figured that I’d done so poorly that I might as well have some chocolate as well.

What got me so badly off track? Here’s the thing. Earlier in the week I had been scanning what was happening this week in history on Wikipedia – that’s right, just because I’ve abandoned my weekly TWIH in history doesn’t mean that I don’t still check to see the week’s events. Lately they’ve been kind of boring, though, so I haven’t felt too bad about not posting a recap. Plus it seemed that no one liked that feature anyways. But I digress. In my Wikipedia research, I noticed that famed Chick-fil-a founder Truett Cathy’s birthday fell on March 14, a Saturday this year. And wouldn’t you know it, I was scheduled to eat with my family at the South Asheville Chick-fil-a on that very Saturday!

As you might imagine, the excitement was palpable. That’s why I didn’t blog on Friday. I was just too keyed up, wondering how each franchise would choose to celebrate their founder. Would we all get free chicken or ice cream? Would we all get our own dwarf, in recognition of the fact that the first Chick-fil-a was called the Dwarf House? Would there be, God help me, a Funfetti cake?

Well, there was cake alright, but it was only for a little girl who was having her birthday party at Chick-fil-a. For everyone else, there was nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nothing to honor the man that gave the world and its food courts a tasty variety of chicken products and waffle fries six days out of the week. Even those stupid cows couldn’t get it together to produce a misspelled sign along the lines of “Happi Berthdayy Truett.”

The fact that the South Asheville franchise was not honoring Truett Cathy sent me into a blind rage. I threw my box of chicken nuggets against the wall and smashed the little girl’s birthday cake. I ran into the play area, knocking little children out of my way. I climbed to the top of the playset, took some shots of honey mustard sauce and proclaimed for the whole restaurant to hear that this was Truett’s day, dammit, and we needed to bless our chicken sandwiches in his honor. At that point I think I went into an off-subject rant about how it’s nearly impossible to prove that he actually invented the chicken sandwich, as the store’s marketing claims, but then I got back on subject by singing an impromptu opera about pickles. After my song, I spread my arms and fell backwards into the ball pit.

Then, as I rested in the ball pit, a vision of Truett Cathy appeared to me. He extended an arm to me, as if he was offering me a college scholarship for my commitment to the company. He pulled me up, and we waltzed around the store. I whispered “Happy birthday” and thanked him for the dance, and he whispered, “My pleasure,” just as every employee does when they refill your drink. But his “My pleasure” was not perfunctory or accompanied by a scowl, the way some employees say it. His was heartfelt. I think I fainted in his arms.

The next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground with my family standing around me, pouring the contents of their Styrofoam cups on my face to revive me. I did not feel guilty, for I knew they could get refills. I was drenched in iced tea and sweat, but I had done my duty. I had honored Truett.

Slowly, I got to my feet and headed for the condiment station, because I wanted to fill out a comment form to let this Chick-fil-a franchise owner know what I thought of his lack of loyalty and tradition (for those very loyal blog readers out there, this was in fact the same Chick-fil-a where I filled out a comment card regarding the lack of Diet Coke. You may have thought that was silly, but there’s currently Diet Dr. Pepper and Coke Zero at that Chick-fil-a. Who’s laughing now?). Anyways, they didn’t have any comment cards available, which in and of itself is an offense that I would mention on a comment card, if one were available. I think that’s what they call a Catch-22.

Anyways, that’s why I didn’t blog, and why everything went downhill so fast. But I’m back on track now. I think we can all agree that being tempted by the devil in the desert is basically the same as your hometown Chick-fil-a not recognizing its founder. Totally and completely the same.

ER, the good ol days

Okay! I was going to figure out a blog for today after I watched my Thursday night tv of “The Office” and “30 Rock.” But do you know what I learned while watching those two shows? It’s the “ER” where all the old doctors come back, the doctors from the glory days of “ER.” All the commercials showed Eriq LaSalle doing that karate move that he used to do on the original opening credits! Hooray! So I thought I would live blog it because then I don’t have to feel bad for watching “ER” instead of doing other things. I guess you shouldn’t keep reading if you have tivo’d ER or if you care about how this episode shapes up or whatnot.

The commercials are trying to be all coy about whether George Clooney will show up, but they just had his name in the opening credits. That’s good, cause let’s be honest, if I watch an hour of ER and George Clooney doesn’t show up, I will be PISSED. That was in fact going to be whole gist of this blog…will George Clooney show up? When? At the last five minutes? And will he have his hair cut in that Caesar style that was so popular in 1995?

Let’s talk about my history with the show ER. I started watching it at the end of the first season, because do you remember how critically acclaimed it used to be? Unfortunately, I think now it’s overstayed its welcome, and people take it for granted, and even Uncle Jesse is on it now, and so people don’t remember how amazing that show was when it first started. Then I watched it through all the George Clooney seasons, and probably a little bit after he left. Actually, definitely after he left, because I remember when Julianna Marguiles left the show, and she went out to Seattle to be with him. He was in the last five minutes. He was sanding a boat. Dear God, please don’t wait til the last five minutes to show me George Clooney on ER again.

You can tell this is a special episode because other guest stars include Susan Sarandon and Ernest Borgnine. Unfortunately, I fear this doesn’t leave much time for George to do his thing. From what I can tell of the plot, Noah Wyle is deadly ill and so I guess all his old friends will have to come back to say goodbye. Or maybe for his kidney operation.

Okay, at just 10:09, we have Julianna Marguiles! A minute later we have George! Oh my god, they work at the University of Washington now! Between this hospital and the Grey’s Anatomy hospital, Seattle is full of really hot doctors. WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME THIS WHEN I LIVED IN SEATTLE???????

Man, this is going to be so super touching. J-mar and G-Clo are waiting to get organs that will go to Noah Wyle! But Susan Sarandon is the grandmother of the boy with the organs in question and she’s not ready to let go yet! ONCE THEY FIGURE OUT THESE ORGANS ARE GOING TO NOAH WYLE THERE IS GOING TO BE A SCENE THAT WINS EVERYONE A FUCKING EMMY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, now I have to kill time with these characters I don’t know. I looked up some stuff on the internet, but now we have George again. Unfortunately, and I’m not quite sure how this happened, but Juliana Marguiles said “Spokane” wrong. AWKWARD. I guess George and Julianna are still together? They talk about their kids but it’s unclear if they all live together? Now George and the Chicago people are comparing names. The fact that they don’t know any of the same people is a testament to how many frickin’ characters have been on this show. But they didn’t compare Noah Wyle’s name. OMG missed opportunity. Do you think it bothers John Stamos that he’s the poor man, the very poor man’s George Clooney on this show?

Now Eriq La Salle is back and he is having a talk with Noah Wyle. What a great coincidence that Eriq La Salle works at this very hospital where Noah Wyle is waiting for a transplant. As it turns out, they don’t have all that much to talk about. I guess too much time has passed. And they are both strong men who can’t show emotions. Imagine if you were about to have a life-saving surgery and all the co-workers from your first job showed up? I think that would be bizarre. I wouldn’t want it filmed for a television show.

This is a very touching show about organ donation. How much longer til Doug Ross discovers that he is saving John Carter’s life? AND WHEN WILL THE GHOST OF ANTHONY EDWARDS APPEAR TO THEM ALL?

Actually, I think he already did his return episode, didn’t he? I think I read about it in Entertainment Weekly. Man, I bet Anthony Edwards regrets coming on too early, though maybe he didn’t want to get too upstaged by George Clooney. Maybe he doesn’t care about what’s going in Darfur and so they have horrible on-set fights. That’s just a conjecture.

All sorts of other random things are going on. A baby was abandoned. An old lady married to Ernest Borgnine wants to die at home. The organ transplant ladies from the ER hospital lost their plane and now I guess they are hitchhiking back? Maybe I should be paying closer attention. Eriq La Salle is having another talk with Noah Wyle, and now they are bonding over…wait hold up, now the scary ER music is playing and they are taking Carter away so I guess something dramatic will happen! But George Clooney is still in Seattle and I don’t want this to happen without him! Also there is an adorable little girl whose mom will get a new heart!

Wait, is the message of this show that doctors don’t even know whose lives they save in the course of their jobs, and it just turns out that sometimes they save their friends without even knowing? That would make me sad. But there’s only 15 minutes left so I fear that such a situation might be underway. I just don’t like George Clooney being deprived of this information about Noah Wyle. Noah Wyle would be all alone if Eriq La Salle weren’t there, and even though that is somewhat poetic since they used to be such rivals, I just want the whole staff there! I’m not sure if Gloria Reuben ever died from AIDS on this show, but if she’s still kickin’ I want her to come back too! And maybe Sherry Stringfield can work in the coffee shop that they all go to for ice cream?

I just checked Wikipedia, and Gloria Reuben’s character did not die. According to Wikipedia, “she is one of the only regular characters in American television history to contract the HIV virus without eventually being killed off by the writers.” Sorry I implied as much, Gloria Reuben.

Eriq La Salle just taught all the doctors doing the transplant surgery an important lesson in preparedness, just like lessons that he used to teach Noah Wyle!

The other people’s plotlines are boring and depressing me all at the same time. But without giving too much away, Noah Wyle is okay. George Clooney and Susan Sarandon live in ignorance of the unbelievable coincidence that they were a part of today. All George and Julianna know is the kidney went to “some doctor.” But don’t worry, we got a shot of George Clooney shirtless and sleeping in bed, and those were always my favorite ER scenes anyways.

a special request blog

Tonight I was talking to my brother George. I said, “George, what am I going to blog about in the next three hours? I have no ideas.” I asked him to give me an idea. Without pausing, he said: “Go over to your cd player, and write about what’s in there. Why, of all your cd’s, is that the cd in your cd player? Where did you get it? Why do you like it? [He listed off a whole lot of other questions here but I forgot every single one]” He ended by saying, “I’m just glad that you don’t have a 5-cd changer.”

What’s kind of weird about George’s prompt was that earlier this evening, when I got home from work, I poured some wine and listened to the cd that is in my cd player twice while I experimented with colored pencils. And I remember thinking, “I wish I could figure out a way to write about this cd, and how much I like it.” Lo and behold, the time has come to do so.

The cd currently in my CD player is “Middle Cyclone” by Neko Case. It came out last week, on the same day as the new U2, as a matter of fact. I ordered both CD’s from Amazon, and while I’m not quite ready to say that I’m underwhelmed by the new U2 yet (though everyone tells me I will be), I haven’t really given it a chance because I’ve been too busy listening to Neko. The few reviews I’ve read of “Middle Cyclone” have been decidedly mixed, but I give it two enthusiastic thumbs up.

Here are some things about Neko Case, in case you’ve never heard of her. Rolling Stone’s online bio of her says she is “a teenage punk-rocker turned alt-country chanteuse” but she has said repeatedly that she dislikes the term alt-country so now I feel bad even having typed it. She sings occasionally with pop super group the New Pornographers. She loves animals. She grew up in Washington and has said that she had a hard upbringing, and she left home at 15. She creates amazing conceptual packages for her albums. She was banned from the Grand Ole Opry for taking her shirt off at a Nashville party (she says she was getting overheated). She just bought a farm in Vermont. She looks different in almost every picture I’ve seen of her. She’s on a very short list of people that I would actually like to meet and hang out with, but I don’t think that I could keep up with her.

I just wanted to mention that I do feel bad that I bought the cd on Amazon, and not from some independent record store. Amazon is so cheap, though! And the economy is so bad! But it’s sad because all the cool artsy places are going out of business and there will be no arts left soon! I guess that is a subject for another post.

Anyways, I think I started off on that rant because I’m having a hard time thinking of what I’m actually going to say about this album. The thing that most people are talking about, it seems, is that she recorded the frogs on her farm and included 30 minutes of their croaking at the end of the album. But no one talks about the 40 minutes of music that precedes that. (For the records, I love the frogs so far. Today I lay on the floor with my wine and listened to them croak. I’m not saying I’m always going to listen to them. But still.)

To address the music….most people love Neko for her voice, and I am one of them. But I guess the thing I like most of all about Neko Case music is that each song is this mini-world that is evocative in a way that very little other music is to me right now. And more than just being this little world of its own, it kind of brings me in and makes me want to create something, immediately. When I’m listening to Neko Case in my car, I tend to want to pull over and write short stories, which is an urge that strikes me at almost no other time, unfortunately. And this evening, as I said, I listened to the new cd while I played with my new crayons and colored pencils (I’m trying to be more artsy). I just kind of doodled and then wrote down words and lines that I liked from the songs. When something that I see or listen to makes me want to do something of my own….well, I don’t take that lightly.

Each listen of this cd is still revealing things to me, so I’m not quite ready to go track-by-track through it, which was one of George’s suggestions, now that I think about it. I would say, though, that if you are looking for a place to start with Neko Case music, most reviews I’ve read have said that “Middle Cyclone” is no “Fox Confessor Brings the Flood,” which was her last album, and that one is also excellent. I don’t know which one I like better yet…I will probably end up making a mix of the songs that move me most and listening to that.

I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t think I explain why I like music very well. But that’s what in my Cd player, and will probably continue to be for quite a while. Thank you for the blog idea, George. The only problem I foresee is that I'm going to see Neko Case in concert on April 2, and now I might not have anything to write about then.

If you want to hear some songs and whatnot: http://www.myspace.com/nekocase

embroider this on your pin cushions

It was either this or try to read a book really fast.

what sound does the sheep make?

This weekend I went to the Atlanta History Center, because it was the weekend where you could get into some museums free with a Bank of America card. I didn’t really know what to expect, but I was pleasantly surprised by the place. There were exhibits on the 1996 Olympics, Atlanta’s growth, folk arts in the south, Bobby Jones and golf, and a pretty awesome Civil War exhibit.

Unfortunately, my experience of the Civil War exhibit was slightly marred by a school group that was present. Apparently the kids and their adult sponsors were assigned to find one fact to share with the rest of the group. So the kids would walk around with a friend, and then they’d get to a spot and read one random thing aloud. One kid would shout, “that’s my fact!” And then the other would say, “No, I want that one!” Even the adults were pretty annoying about it.

My favorite part about the history center, though, were the historic homes and the gardens. First up, I toured Swan House, which was owned by a very rich family with many things named after them in the 1920s and 1930s. The house was absolutely beautiful inside, and the voice on the audio guide was oh so soothing. Apparently the home is one of the most photographed sites in the country:

Beside the home was this garden:

And this playhouse:

Why oh why couldn’t I have been a rich kid in Atlanta in the 1930’s? I mean, I’d be happy living in that playhouse even now.

After Swan House, it was off to a farm. When you go from 1920s opulence to an 1840s farm complete with an outhouse, smokehouse, blacksmith shop, slave quarters, etc, it’s a bit of a letdown, no matter how much you love pioneers. It’s much more fun to fantasize about living in the other house. But the farm did have sheep!

Although this got me paranoid that I smelled like sheep for the rest of the day. Sheep and sweat--the most alluring scent known to man.

lose an hour...to cooking

When I tell people I don’t cook, I am usually greeted with disapproval. Apparently everyone needs to know how to cook. And though I’ve made it this far without learning much more than how to work a microwave, sometimes I do wish I knew more about cooking. Like when I’m staring down the options of another frozen Lean Cuisine or peanut butter and jelly sandwich. So one of my Lenten resolutions, in addition to blogging every day, doing stomach crunches every day, and abstaining from soda and chocolate, was to cook 5 new things for myself.

Tonight was my first attempt. After perusing several cookbooks checked out from the library, I decided to with a recipe for “Vegetable and Couscous Stacks,” as written by one Rachael Ray. As someone who doesn’t cook, I have often been told I should check out Rachael Ray, since she promises to get you in and out of the kitchen in 30 minutes. Well, I have one complaint off the bat about her cookbook. Instead of beautiful pictures of the finished dish that inspire you to push forward to your goal, the only pictures in this cookbook were of Rachael Ray. I did not like that one bit. If I wanted to see Rachael Ray, I could watch her on television; however, there is something to be said for a Rachael Ray image that cannot speak to you, because she is two-dimensional. She’s loud and perky, is what I’m trying to say there.

I picked “Vegetable and Couscous Stacks” because I’m deathly afraid of cooking with meat. I am scared it will turn out raw so I tend to overcook it. I will conquer meat before this Lent is over, but I figured I would start out with something that wouldn’t give me salmonella, as far as I could tell. I did have some problems in the grocery store, because I didn’t know how to pick out an eggplant. Also, I didn’t buy fresh herbs the way Ms. Ray suggested; there is a recession on and the Food Network is sadly not footing the bill for me to learn how to cook (though I would be amenable to discussions regarding that prospect – surely everyone would like to sit at home and watch someone bumble through something they already know how to do, right? Plus, I would cuss a lot).

Here’s what I came home from the store with:
All laid out the way it is on tv!

Trouble began immediately, when I realized I copied down my ingredient list for the grocery store without including the ingredient of zucchini. This made me sad because I love zucchini. There was also trouble when I realized I didn’t really know how to get into garlic. Rachael said smack it with the flat of a knife but that didn’t do anything. So I just kind of broke it with my hands and now I smell bad. I also only skimmed the recipe beforehand, and I didn’t notice that grilling was involved. I don’t have a grill, so I had to do that thing where it just sits in a skillet thing on the stove. Skilleting?

Making this recipe was a non-stop fun ride of cutting things up. Unfortunately, I am not good with knives so it really wasn’t a fun ride for me. First I cut eggplant. Then I was off to my onion; during the cutting of said onion I sliced into my thumb. So now I’m bleeding everywhere. I don’t have bandaids in the house. But I have to keep moving! Because now eggplant is roasting in the oven and if I don’t continue at a fast pace I might not be done in 30 minutes! It’s okay to consume a little bit of your own blood, right? I’m not saying I did but I feel some probably got in the food. Other things I sliced included mozzarella and tomatoes.

It was a pleasant surprise how easy couscous was, though I didn’t know if I was supposed to put in 2 cups dry couscous or put in enough dry couscous so that the finished amount came out to 2 cups. I still will never know, I guess. While the couscous was cous-ing, I was supposed to remove the bottom and top of the can that the chicken broth came in, because that’s how you made the titular stacks in this recipe. You kind of pushed everything way down in the can and then pulled the can up and voila! Stacks.

Except I couldn’t get the bottom of the can off. Maybe I just wasn’t strong enough, or maybe it was the weird rounded edges that I ended up blaming my failure on. Either way, I abandoned the can and decide to just use a plastic cup. It would yield slightly bigger servings than intended, but according to Rachael Ray, these stacks were merely designed to be a side dish to some sort of hummus entrée, so I figured that if it was my main and only dish, it could be a little bigger than normal. By the way, was the 30 minutes supposed to include making that hummus dish and the paired dessert? Because there was no way. It took me 45 minutes just to do these f’ing stacks.

Okay, so here are all the ingredients that go into a stack. From left to right: couscous, seasoned eggplant, basil, tomatoes, mozzarella, red pepper and onion.

I assembled the stack in a Jimmy John’s plastic cup and turned it over onto a plate. I had a stack!

As soon as I turned my back, though, it became this:

I made two other cups out of all the stuff. Tomorrow for lunch all I have to do is grab a stack in a cup! Portable party cup indeed!

Then I’m just going to dump it out into a Tupperware bowl, because what I learned from eating my concoction is that this dish is really impossible to eat as a stack. You kind of just have to mess it all up and eat it as a veggie couscous cheese salad. But it was enjoyable. Maybe, if I had an extra 45 minutes, I would make it again.

I didn’t take a picture of the kitchen mess, but it took awhile to clean up. Lots of leftover pieces of food from all that slicing and lots of bloody towels. This is why I don’t cook, people. But I shall persevere, four more times before April 12.

crawl back under my stone

Last night I went to see Richard Thompson in concert at the Variety Playhouse. It was an absolutely stunning show…just the man and his guitar, playing some of my favorite songs. Recently my dad said that I had never been good at playing the piano because I couldn’t get the messages from my head to my fingers fast enough. Seemed particularly harsh, particularly since that was 10 years ago. But watching RT play, it’s hard not to be amazed at how fast his fingers move. It’s like the messages start down there or something. I don’t know. I don’t play guitar so I can’t say.

Watching the show, I marveled again at how lucky I am to live in Atlanta and have access to the Variety Playhouse, which is probably my favorite place to see a show. I could have never seen Richard Thompson in Seattle because he would have played someplace with jacked up Ticketmaster tickets. The Variety is a fun place with big-name acts that’s general admission. I’ve always been able to walk right in and get right up by the stage. It’s much more intimate than anywhere I ever went in Seattle and for less than what I would have paid there. But in thinking about that, I couldn’t help but realize that there are a lot of things in Seattle that don’t have equivalents in Atlanta that I really miss. Like:

The Seattle Public Library
I’ve waxed rhapsodic about this place before, I’m sure. And I don’t miss the books, because you can get books anywhere, and I don’t miss the movies, because I have Netflix now. But I sure do miss a library system that really invests in music. I heard so much good music by borrowing library cd’s in Seattle. That’s how I heard Richard Thompson, in fact. I feel like I can’t keep up with music as well without spending an arm and a leg here in Atlanta. Speaking of which….

Easy Street Records
This was a music store in my old neighborhood that I absolutely adored, particularly because they had so many indie, off the radar cds for cheap. Plus they had a ton of listening stations, and a pretty sweet rewards program. Even if I never bought much (since I also had the library at my disposal), it was an awesome place to while away a Saturday afternoon. As was:

Half-Price Books
Okay, this is a chain, but I love it. Talk about a good way to spend a Saturday afternoon…browsing bookshelves that have a better selection than Barnes & Noble but for half the price. Not to mention all the $1 and $2 mass market paperbacks. I mean, I don’t need any more books for the duration of my life. But that was a fun place to go for just looking at books.

Coffeeshops
This one is my fault, because I haven’t been trying very many new coffeeshops lately. And of course Seattle is the granddaddy of coffeeshops and you can’t duplicate that experience. But even the duddiest of coffeeshops there beats any of the ones I’ve tried here. But I will try more! That’s a new resolution.

Happy hour specials
I read somewhere recently that happy hour specials are technically illegal in Atlanta. And whether that’s true or not, it certainly feels that way. Gone are the days of $2 cocktails and $3 appetizers from 4-6 pm.

My gym
I always enjoyed going to my old gym. Affordable, good classes, nice equipment, DVD players on machines, right on the way home from work. Who would ever thought I’d miss a gym? But I do.

Riding the bus to work
I don’t always miss this. I love the convenience of driving to work and running errands on the way home if I need to. I certainly don’t miss being stuck on a slow bus or waiting for a bus that never seemed to come. But I do miss all that spare reading time.

Mountain and water scenery
Seattle was pretty.

And of course, the people I knew out there.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not itching to move back there all of a sudden. I could easily do a list of things Atlanta has that Seattle doesn’t, and I’m very happy here. All the same, I do miss these things, after about a year-and-a-half of being gone.