Have you ever noticed that middle-aged married women are rarely the center of any light-humored novels? There is no "Bridget Jones: Married and Magnificent". There is no "Drunk, Divorced and Covered in Cat Hair, Part 2: Recovered, Remarried and Denouncing Dander". No. Marriedeeds seem to be relegated to the brooding, unhappy and looking-to-be-a-home-wrecker type of character. Or, they are the center of self-help books, such as "You (really) CAN be fabulous (again)". Society seems to have determined that married women are particularly not interesting and, most definitely, not funny.
I actually mourned the loss of my Bridget Jonesishness a few years after being married. It isn't that I wanted to return to singlehood. Not at all. But I did have that certain light-hearted, misty eyed reminiscence of what it was like when the world was better after a cocktail and a bitch session. I had relished meeting up after work with my similar life-styled girlfriends. I loved downing martini after martini after martini. I liked having the right to carry on about the current men in our lives and their ability to be "fuckwits". I felt funny and desirable and young and successful and witty and career-oriented. I felt haute couture and artistically tragic and hip. I felt like I had earned the girl scout badge of "Super Single".
But, I did also feel lonely.
We were all lonely. We were a bunch of Bridgets leading the Bridgets. We pretended to be happy when a fuckwit would propose to one of our Bridgets. In reality we were insanely jealous. We all kept waiting for our Daniel Cleavers to morph in to Mark Darcys. Some of them did. Some of them didn't. We managed to pass the time lighting one more cigarette and downing one more glass of wine. We embraced culture and youth and carried on having fun while at the same time hoping our special someone would magically appear at the 7-11 in the "so you forgot to feed your dog, dumb ass" aisle the same exact day/moment you too forgot to buy kitty litter at the grocery store (must be fate!).
Eventually I did meet my Mark Darcy. Although he had red hair (rather than black), was in the military (as opposed to being a high powered attorney) and lived in another country (as opposed to the obvious alternative here), he was perfect. After all, he did have an accent, an income and was oh so nice to look at! He was a manly man, strong and stoic. And, I was in love! I was ready to trade in my "Super Single" badge (and my Daniel Cleaver) for the "Two = Team" badge. I was ecstatic.
And, I still am ecstatic. Six years and a child later, I am still happy and (importantly) still laughing. My Mark Darcy isn't perfect. Neither am I. I have accepted that marriage is not what the romance novels are made of. It is more documentary than epic love story. There is no "editing of moments" or "redoing a scene" according to focus group research. Marriage is undeniably real and somewhat gritty. There are no lenses to filter reality or scripts to follow. It is as it is as you live it. And here is the kicker... I think I have found more humor in my married life than I ever did when I was single. Granted, I think my life has some extraordinary circumstances to it, but, throw some dysfunctional family issues, children, friends with certain stock character qualities and immigration in to the mix and you have yourself the makings for some seriously side-splitting comedy.
So, now that you have the background, this is where this story finally begins (as oxymoronic as that sounds). Our family has decided to trade in our "HOO-Rah USA" chant in hopes of finding greener pastures somewhere else. That somewhere else still speaks English (thank God, cuz languages are not my thing beyond cerveza por favor?) and I am married to one of their natives, but I'll be damned if immigration is not proving to be the most trying, and therefore, humor-producing-in-hindsight, sort of experience.
Stayed tuned for adventures in "Escaping the Statue of Liberty".
Posting Recipe...
And...because my single life wreaked of alcohol and simple domesticity, here is one of those quick, simple and alcohol using recipes:
Beer Bread
Preheat over to 350 degrees
3 c. Self-Raising Flour
1/3 cup Sugar
1 can of your favorite beer (try an import!)
Spray one Mix the above together. If you feel like being creative, mix in assorted dry or fresh herbs with some cracked pepper etc... Pour mixture in to a bread pan. Bake for 55 minutes. Serve warm with butter or some type of spread like hummus or garlic dip. And try to eat it all. It isn't the best left-over bread you will ever encounter. But, I guarantee this is a crowd pleaser.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Let's Pretend
I have never understood the idiom "peel the onion". I am not one of those careful people who digests things slowly before deciding the best plan of action. No. I am a jumper-iner-er. Once invested in something, I can plan the hell out of it, but, the decision to become passionate about something if often not well thought out.
Maybe that is why it has taken me so long to start this blog. I have been passionate about the idea of writing for a very, very long time. But actually putting things on paper does require becoming intimate with the many layers of who I am and how life has shaped me. I can figure those things out at a high level glance. Taking a deeper look (or peeling that onion) is uncomfortable and time consuming.
Besides...for those of us who enjoy cooking, one learns that peeling an onion is not a pleasant experience. Taking things slowly with an onion often results in tears. Those of us who know, attack the onion in the best manner suitable for the situation at hand. We get in and we get out. Once the onion is part of the bigger recipe, it is okay to take your time. Let things simmer. Let things bake. But that first part...one had better hurry up.
I have lived a lot of my life to date flying by the seat of my pants. Many may think I have been too quick in big decisions, too hasty in moving from point A to point B, and too removed from the emotions that should be associated with certain things (apparently they are not aware of the bottles of goodies in my medicine cabinet!!!). To illustrate their thoughts, let's take a look at the life of my imaginary friend, "Crazy Camille (CC)".
Let's pretend that CC grew up in a non-typical home where her parents ran a group home for the mentally ill and all of her earliest playmates were "not quite right".
Let's pretend that CC developed a weight issue and wasn't appreciated by her peers and that this fact would forever cause her to undervalue herself.
Let's pretend CC's parents got divorced because "daddy" had a little too much extra-curricular fun.
Let's pretend CC's dad developed a nasty disease called Huntington's Disease (HD) that made him irrational, somewhat mean at times and affected his ability to walk and talk. Let's also add that CC had watched her grandfather, uncles, aunts etc... die from the same disease because there was no treatment or cure for this weird illness.
Let's pretend that CC joined sports, lost weight and became a 7 or 8 out of 10 in the looks category.
Let's pretend that CC discovered at the age of 14 that she too had a 50% chance of developing HD by the time she reached her mid-thirties.
As a caveat here...we should add that CC discovered she was at-risk through doing a lot of research about HD. In effect, she had peeled the onion a bit too much and it had served to bite her in the ass. Ignorance had been bliss and now her life suddenly had an inherent timeline. At 14 CC knew she needed to complete her education, make her mark on the world through something really important, find a man, marry him, have kids, travel the world, experience everything she wanted out of life and run very, very, very fast in hopes of outrunning her own genetics. And, by best guess, she had better have all of the above sorted by the time she reached the ripe age of 35.
Let's pretend that CC kept it together for most of her highschool career. She excelled in school, graduated one month after turning 17 and started college before she was of legal age to vote (or have sex for that matter).
Let's pretend that CC found college wildly exciting with forays in to drinking, weed, Marlborough Lights (or whatever else she could bum from people) and trying to figure out the rest of her life.
Let's pretend that in addition to the forays above, CC continued to look for love in all the wrong places trying to replace what was missing from her father and trying to live her life as fast as possible. The result was a lot of short term relationships, a couple one or two night stands and a whole lot of heartbreak. CC still didn't quite understand that she had value.
Let's pretend that despite all of that, CC graduated with all right credentials and was on all the right "lists" in the graduation program. Let's also add that she graduated with a double major and a minor before she was old enough to legally drink.
Let's pretend that CC went to graduate school in a place far, far away from home. She completed with both academic honors and more failed, meaningless relationships.
Let's pretend that CC met the man who made her world spin right before graduating from graduate school. His name was Mike.
A little preface about Mike is needed here. Mike was an average looking guy. Mike had traveled the world for a few years and that made him seem wonderfully mysterious. Mike came from money, was going to make a lot of money (one could just tell) and was REALLY exciting. He lived life in the fast lane and he also was a jumper-iner-er. There was some magical pheromone power between the two of them resulting in relationship of great passion. Mike was, however, young and not about to settle down anytime soon despite CC's best efforts.
Let's pretend that Mike and CC continued to stumble through the next few years. During that time the highs were really high and the lows were rock bottom. On CC's 25th birthday Mike made his non-marriage intentions clear and CC realized that she was nowhere in life that she thought she would be. She was in a low-level position in a career she didn't love, marriage was nowhere in sight and the clock was ticking. But, despite Mike's clear intentions, CC hung on because maybe he would come around.
Let's pretend Mike and CC took a vacation together to Spain.
Let's pretend that after a small disagreement about travel plans, CC got on a train by herself to go somewhere else.
Let's pretend that when she checked in to the nearest backpacker's hostel, she saw a dashing young man sitting in the bar who might just break her out of the funk she was currently feeling.
Let's pretend that CC struck up a conversation with the sexy Brit who's name was Vince. CC and Vince became fast friends while site-seeing and getting to know one-another. Vince did make CC's heart beat a bit faster and she felt a certain exhiliration just being near him.
Let's pretend CC and Vince parted ways and promised to stay in touch. And, they did email each other after that from time to time.
Let's pretend that six months later, Vince called CC.
Let's pretend one year after meeting, Vince got on a plane to see CC.
Let's pretend that Vince and CC got married after a very, very short courtship because CC knew he was the one and she was tired of playing games. And, after all, he was dashingly handsome, had an accent and seemed to think CC was wonderful just as she was.
Let's pretend that although life with Vince was quite normal, CC is now 30 and entering the scariest time of her life; a phase we shall refer to as the "HD Window".
Let's pretend that in spite of everything that Crazy Camille has gone through and continues to face, she is still standing. She is somewhat crazed with the overwhelmingness that her short life has thrown her way. But she is still standing. She is standing crazy.
Let's pretend Camille is me.
Posting Recipe...
The recipe for this post pays homage to onions because clearly, an onion-centric recipe seems to make some logical sense:
Pickled Red Onions
1 1/2 pounds red onions, peeled, halved, cut into 1/8-inch-thick slices
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
1 cup fresh lime juice
1/2 cup distilled white vinegar
1 small habanero chile*
Toss first 3 ingredients in large glass bowl. Add juice and vinegar; press down to submerge onions. Cut 1/2-inch-long slit in narrow tip of chile and add to onion mixture. Top mixture with small plate to weigh down slightly. Cover; refrigerate overnight. Drain. DO AHEAD Can be made 1 week ahead. Keep refrigerated.
Eat on anything you dare.
Maybe that is why it has taken me so long to start this blog. I have been passionate about the idea of writing for a very, very long time. But actually putting things on paper does require becoming intimate with the many layers of who I am and how life has shaped me. I can figure those things out at a high level glance. Taking a deeper look (or peeling that onion) is uncomfortable and time consuming.
Besides...for those of us who enjoy cooking, one learns that peeling an onion is not a pleasant experience. Taking things slowly with an onion often results in tears. Those of us who know, attack the onion in the best manner suitable for the situation at hand. We get in and we get out. Once the onion is part of the bigger recipe, it is okay to take your time. Let things simmer. Let things bake. But that first part...one had better hurry up.
I have lived a lot of my life to date flying by the seat of my pants. Many may think I have been too quick in big decisions, too hasty in moving from point A to point B, and too removed from the emotions that should be associated with certain things (apparently they are not aware of the bottles of goodies in my medicine cabinet!!!). To illustrate their thoughts, let's take a look at the life of my imaginary friend, "Crazy Camille (CC)".
Let's pretend that CC grew up in a non-typical home where her parents ran a group home for the mentally ill and all of her earliest playmates were "not quite right".
Let's pretend that CC developed a weight issue and wasn't appreciated by her peers and that this fact would forever cause her to undervalue herself.
Let's pretend CC's parents got divorced because "daddy" had a little too much extra-curricular fun.
Let's pretend CC's dad developed a nasty disease called Huntington's Disease (HD) that made him irrational, somewhat mean at times and affected his ability to walk and talk. Let's also add that CC had watched her grandfather, uncles, aunts etc... die from the same disease because there was no treatment or cure for this weird illness.
Let's pretend that CC joined sports, lost weight and became a 7 or 8 out of 10 in the looks category.
Let's pretend that CC discovered at the age of 14 that she too had a 50% chance of developing HD by the time she reached her mid-thirties.
As a caveat here...we should add that CC discovered she was at-risk through doing a lot of research about HD. In effect, she had peeled the onion a bit too much and it had served to bite her in the ass. Ignorance had been bliss and now her life suddenly had an inherent timeline. At 14 CC knew she needed to complete her education, make her mark on the world through something really important, find a man, marry him, have kids, travel the world, experience everything she wanted out of life and run very, very, very fast in hopes of outrunning her own genetics. And, by best guess, she had better have all of the above sorted by the time she reached the ripe age of 35.
Let's pretend that CC kept it together for most of her highschool career. She excelled in school, graduated one month after turning 17 and started college before she was of legal age to vote (or have sex for that matter).
Let's pretend that CC found college wildly exciting with forays in to drinking, weed, Marlborough Lights (or whatever else she could bum from people) and trying to figure out the rest of her life.
Let's pretend that in addition to the forays above, CC continued to look for love in all the wrong places trying to replace what was missing from her father and trying to live her life as fast as possible. The result was a lot of short term relationships, a couple one or two night stands and a whole lot of heartbreak. CC still didn't quite understand that she had value.
Let's pretend that despite all of that, CC graduated with all right credentials and was on all the right "lists" in the graduation program. Let's also add that she graduated with a double major and a minor before she was old enough to legally drink.
Let's pretend that CC went to graduate school in a place far, far away from home. She completed with both academic honors and more failed, meaningless relationships.
Let's pretend that CC met the man who made her world spin right before graduating from graduate school. His name was Mike.
A little preface about Mike is needed here. Mike was an average looking guy. Mike had traveled the world for a few years and that made him seem wonderfully mysterious. Mike came from money, was going to make a lot of money (one could just tell) and was REALLY exciting. He lived life in the fast lane and he also was a jumper-iner-er. There was some magical pheromone power between the two of them resulting in relationship of great passion. Mike was, however, young and not about to settle down anytime soon despite CC's best efforts.
Let's pretend that Mike and CC continued to stumble through the next few years. During that time the highs were really high and the lows were rock bottom. On CC's 25th birthday Mike made his non-marriage intentions clear and CC realized that she was nowhere in life that she thought she would be. She was in a low-level position in a career she didn't love, marriage was nowhere in sight and the clock was ticking. But, despite Mike's clear intentions, CC hung on because maybe he would come around.
Let's pretend Mike and CC took a vacation together to Spain.
Let's pretend that after a small disagreement about travel plans, CC got on a train by herself to go somewhere else.
Let's pretend that when she checked in to the nearest backpacker's hostel, she saw a dashing young man sitting in the bar who might just break her out of the funk she was currently feeling.
Let's pretend that CC struck up a conversation with the sexy Brit who's name was Vince. CC and Vince became fast friends while site-seeing and getting to know one-another. Vince did make CC's heart beat a bit faster and she felt a certain exhiliration just being near him.
Let's pretend CC and Vince parted ways and promised to stay in touch. And, they did email each other after that from time to time.
Let's pretend that six months later, Vince called CC.
Let's pretend one year after meeting, Vince got on a plane to see CC.
Let's pretend that Vince and CC got married after a very, very short courtship because CC knew he was the one and she was tired of playing games. And, after all, he was dashingly handsome, had an accent and seemed to think CC was wonderful just as she was.
Let's pretend that although life with Vince was quite normal, CC is now 30 and entering the scariest time of her life; a phase we shall refer to as the "HD Window".
Let's pretend that in spite of everything that Crazy Camille has gone through and continues to face, she is still standing. She is somewhat crazed with the overwhelmingness that her short life has thrown her way. But she is still standing. She is standing crazy.
Let's pretend Camille is me.
Posting Recipe...
The recipe for this post pays homage to onions because clearly, an onion-centric recipe seems to make some logical sense:
Pickled Red Onions
1 1/2 pounds red onions, peeled, halved, cut into 1/8-inch-thick slices
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
1 cup fresh lime juice
1/2 cup distilled white vinegar
1 small habanero chile*
Toss first 3 ingredients in large glass bowl. Add juice and vinegar; press down to submerge onions. Cut 1/2-inch-long slit in narrow tip of chile and add to onion mixture. Top mixture with small plate to weigh down slightly. Cover; refrigerate overnight. Drain. DO AHEAD Can be made 1 week ahead. Keep refrigerated.
Eat on anything you dare.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Getting Started
So, I have been thinking about starting a blog for about 10 years now. 10 years? Yep. Actually, it started off as a desire to write a book that has now morphed in to writing a blog. Less committal.
People have been telling me to document my crazy life for some time now. And, I have wanted to. I just seem to never find the right moment to sit down and "be inspired" to say something that other people will actually want to read. I do get inspired...just never at the right times.
I am hit with inspiration while running. I am hit with inspiration at 3am when I cannot sleep (it is apparently much better to lay awake in bed because you do not officially qualify as having to be productive until your feet touch the floor. And, ever since being sucked in to watching PSU: Paranormal State and their declaration that 3am is "dead hour" when all the spooks go out for their nightly fix, I refuse to leave my "safe house" bed. And, yes, it is always 3am when I wake up...). Or, inspiration pays a visit while I am supposed to be giving my undivided attention, like while driving.
The lesson learned is that I have great thoughts when I am forced into downtime; the problem is one needs free hands and/or light to put forth genius-like prose. When I try to later recreate those exact words that sounded so great while running mile four, it just never sounds as good. It is like trying to recreate the term paper you forgot to save when the electricity went out. All that BS you worked so hard to contrive in order to cover up your actual lack of supporting evidence now needs to be "re-BSed". Re-BSing is hard to do. Recreating unique inspiration is equally challenging.
And, yes, I am aware that there are tape recorders blah blah blah, but, again, that would require commitment.
But, here I go. I was recently watching the Today Show and a famous author was being interviewed (I forgot who...that isn't the point...) and he made the comment that as a writer you have to force yourself to write at least one page every day or it will never happen. That comment struck a chord with me and I suddenly felt an urgency to start writing. I ran to my computer with all the urgency that 10 years of procrastination can cause one to feel, and, well, I signed up for my very own blog. Interestingly it took me quite some time to come up with a name (hadn't thought about that) and deciding what to use as my name. Initially I thought I would just be plain, ol' me. But, then I thought what if people actually read this? What if those people know who I am? OH SHIT. I decided a pseudonym was a much safer way to go in order the preserve some people's good opinions of me!
That was roughly a month ago.
I did start to make a list of subjects that the world needs to know my point of view on. But, again, when I tried to write down notes to further explain, it just didn't sound as pretty as it sounded in my head at 3am. It is the exact conundrum that I have faced when trying to write a journal to my daughter. I have all of these oh so very, very important life lessons that I want to share with her. Things that SHE MUST KNOW in the event that I am struck by lightning tomorrow. Memories that I want her to have of me because she won't remember me if I am struck by the aforementioned lightning (is that an okay way to go, by the way, or for literary purposes should I pick another demise???) because she is only two. Instead, all of these very important things that she must know, come out on paper as "Follow your dreams", "Love yourself", "Be happy", "Don't get drunk at your wedding" and "Be sure to watch Bridget Jones 1 and 2" (clearly one of life's very important life lessons). Shit. Serious Shit.
I think something about writing on paper and not being able to easily go back and edit thoughts takes me on a bit of a choose your own adventure style of writing that leads me in to a hole of complete crap (much like those books did!). My daughter's only take-away will be that I cannot write and then I am perhaps low on IQ points. Actually, my demise might be caused from her reaction if she ever were to read the damn thing!
But, I am now officially started. I have officially begun to put thoughts on virtual paper. It isn't rolling out as clever and contrived as some of the plots I had dreamed up long ago. Actually, the reality of those plots was that they were often developed while I was stoned (on the good stuff one gets while traveling through Amsterdam...not the stuff your boyfriend's shady brother "JD" got from his "dealer friend" in high school). And when I would become "unstoned" as one tends to become (I was never one of those "smoke all day" or even a "smoke every day" kind of people...that would require a certain commitment that I didn't have nor aspired to have), I could never reconstruct all of the delicate storylines I had previously thought up. Perhaps they never made sense in the first place, to a non-stoned person that is. Other stoned people thought they were really witty, but therein is the inherent flaw. I do remember one of them taking place in space and was laced with themes of Foucault’s episteme, and another being something to do with the lead character imagining different "lifescapes" of herself had she taken different paths in life la, la, ladeda. As you can see...not the stuff that literary giants are made of!
Recently, however, it dawned on me that maybe life in general is hysterical, crazy and somewhat unbelievable enough to be something worth writing about. Not every person needs to find my writing earth-shattering; just a few people who share my sense of humor and life perspective (although those few people better bloody-well love it! HA.).
And, that is enough for today. I have written my page. I have, indeed. May ten years of thoughtful procrastination rest in peace.
With the exception of one thing. I feel the need to post a recipe with my entries. I LOVE to cook. It is therapeutic for me. I would say I am somewhere between a "B" and a "B+/A-" in the world of household cook rankings. I enter a random recipe contest from time to time (have never won), I read all the cooking glossies and challenge myself with techniques that are somewhat advanced. I often don't follow recipes and rarely measure things (which is why I cannot bake very well). Sometime I fail. Other times I prevail. I have silly dreams of being on "Top Chef" (and for what it is worth, "Amazing Race" too in the event that any producers ever read this blog...) but I am painfully aware that I would be voted off in the first episode with my inability to whip up a coq au vin off the top of my head or sous-vide anything. In all of my previously mentioned dreams of writing, I could never figure out how to weave in the ability to throw in a cool recipe here and there without it looking out of place or not at all relevant to the rest of story (and so, our heroine, Judy, has saved the planet by relocating all good-looking, highly desirable men to places that really need them, like Kentucky. Population decline is no longer a problem. Alas! And, don't close the book just yet because Judy is now going to whip up her favorite soufflé!) .
But it is my blog. I get to write this. I don't care if it doesn't fit! And, mothers will appreciate this one because it was developed for my picky, picky two year old.
Apple-Cheddar French Toast
This recipe works for one serve of two pieces of toast. If you want more, double it accordingly. As I mentioned, I am not a measurer with recipes that don't need to be exact, so do your best.
Preheat oven to 350
2 eggs, well beaten
1 good squeeze of honey
1 good glug of whole milk, whipping cream or french vanilla coffee creamer
1 small pinch of salt
A couple of dashes of Ceylon Cinnamon
2 Slices Cheddar Cheese
A couple pinches of granulated sugar
1 granny smith apple, cored and sliced into thin, long slices
A couple TBLSPs of butter (salted or unsalted...your choice)
Two sliced bread of your choice (I like brioche or something like that, but good ol' sandwich bread is a good pinch hitter)
Melt the butter on a skillet over medium heat. Don't get it too hot because butter burns and has the capacity to really smell up your house. Mix eggs, honey, milk, cinnamon and salt. Put in into a flat dish of some sort that will allow you put the bread in and soak. Then, surprise, soak the bread in the egg mixture 30 seconds on each side. Put the soaked bread on to the skillet. Brown the toast on each side being careful not to over brown (burn) it because if this is for a little one, they will no longer eat it if it is slightly burnt (I could go in to a whole explanation that I recently read about kids and the "bitter" taste and why, scientifically, they won't eat it, but, I will spare you). Move toast to an oven-proof pan or dish. Sprinkle the top side of the toast with a light dusting of granulated sugar. Top each piece with one slice cheddar cheese. Put the bread in the oven for about 5 minutes or until the cheese is nice and melty. Remove from oven and top the bread/cheese with slices of granny smith apple.
Before you judge...this is good. For all you folks who like apple pie with a slice of cheddar cheese on it...this recipe is for you.
Oh...any my little one still insists on syrup. Use your own discretion on that one!
People have been telling me to document my crazy life for some time now. And, I have wanted to. I just seem to never find the right moment to sit down and "be inspired" to say something that other people will actually want to read. I do get inspired...just never at the right times.
I am hit with inspiration while running. I am hit with inspiration at 3am when I cannot sleep (it is apparently much better to lay awake in bed because you do not officially qualify as having to be productive until your feet touch the floor. And, ever since being sucked in to watching PSU: Paranormal State and their declaration that 3am is "dead hour" when all the spooks go out for their nightly fix, I refuse to leave my "safe house" bed. And, yes, it is always 3am when I wake up...). Or, inspiration pays a visit while I am supposed to be giving my undivided attention, like while driving.
The lesson learned is that I have great thoughts when I am forced into downtime; the problem is one needs free hands and/or light to put forth genius-like prose. When I try to later recreate those exact words that sounded so great while running mile four, it just never sounds as good. It is like trying to recreate the term paper you forgot to save when the electricity went out. All that BS you worked so hard to contrive in order to cover up your actual lack of supporting evidence now needs to be "re-BSed". Re-BSing is hard to do. Recreating unique inspiration is equally challenging.
And, yes, I am aware that there are tape recorders blah blah blah, but, again, that would require commitment.
But, here I go. I was recently watching the Today Show and a famous author was being interviewed (I forgot who...that isn't the point...) and he made the comment that as a writer you have to force yourself to write at least one page every day or it will never happen. That comment struck a chord with me and I suddenly felt an urgency to start writing. I ran to my computer with all the urgency that 10 years of procrastination can cause one to feel, and, well, I signed up for my very own blog. Interestingly it took me quite some time to come up with a name (hadn't thought about that) and deciding what to use as my name. Initially I thought I would just be plain, ol' me. But, then I thought what if people actually read this? What if those people know who I am? OH SHIT. I decided a pseudonym was a much safer way to go in order the preserve some people's good opinions of me!
That was roughly a month ago.
I did start to make a list of subjects that the world needs to know my point of view on. But, again, when I tried to write down notes to further explain, it just didn't sound as pretty as it sounded in my head at 3am. It is the exact conundrum that I have faced when trying to write a journal to my daughter. I have all of these oh so very, very important life lessons that I want to share with her. Things that SHE MUST KNOW in the event that I am struck by lightning tomorrow. Memories that I want her to have of me because she won't remember me if I am struck by the aforementioned lightning (is that an okay way to go, by the way, or for literary purposes should I pick another demise???) because she is only two. Instead, all of these very important things that she must know, come out on paper as "Follow your dreams", "Love yourself", "Be happy", "Don't get drunk at your wedding" and "Be sure to watch Bridget Jones 1 and 2" (clearly one of life's very important life lessons). Shit. Serious Shit.
I think something about writing on paper and not being able to easily go back and edit thoughts takes me on a bit of a choose your own adventure style of writing that leads me in to a hole of complete crap (much like those books did!). My daughter's only take-away will be that I cannot write and then I am perhaps low on IQ points. Actually, my demise might be caused from her reaction if she ever were to read the damn thing!
But, I am now officially started. I have officially begun to put thoughts on virtual paper. It isn't rolling out as clever and contrived as some of the plots I had dreamed up long ago. Actually, the reality of those plots was that they were often developed while I was stoned (on the good stuff one gets while traveling through Amsterdam...not the stuff your boyfriend's shady brother "JD" got from his "dealer friend" in high school). And when I would become "unstoned" as one tends to become (I was never one of those "smoke all day" or even a "smoke every day" kind of people...that would require a certain commitment that I didn't have nor aspired to have), I could never reconstruct all of the delicate storylines I had previously thought up. Perhaps they never made sense in the first place, to a non-stoned person that is. Other stoned people thought they were really witty, but therein is the inherent flaw. I do remember one of them taking place in space and was laced with themes of Foucault’s episteme, and another being something to do with the lead character imagining different "lifescapes" of herself had she taken different paths in life la, la, ladeda. As you can see...not the stuff that literary giants are made of!
Recently, however, it dawned on me that maybe life in general is hysterical, crazy and somewhat unbelievable enough to be something worth writing about. Not every person needs to find my writing earth-shattering; just a few people who share my sense of humor and life perspective (although those few people better bloody-well love it! HA.).
And, that is enough for today. I have written my page. I have, indeed. May ten years of thoughtful procrastination rest in peace.
With the exception of one thing. I feel the need to post a recipe with my entries. I LOVE to cook. It is therapeutic for me. I would say I am somewhere between a "B" and a "B+/A-" in the world of household cook rankings. I enter a random recipe contest from time to time (have never won), I read all the cooking glossies and challenge myself with techniques that are somewhat advanced. I often don't follow recipes and rarely measure things (which is why I cannot bake very well). Sometime I fail. Other times I prevail. I have silly dreams of being on "Top Chef" (and for what it is worth, "Amazing Race" too in the event that any producers ever read this blog...) but I am painfully aware that I would be voted off in the first episode with my inability to whip up a coq au vin off the top of my head or sous-vide anything. In all of my previously mentioned dreams of writing, I could never figure out how to weave in the ability to throw in a cool recipe here and there without it looking out of place or not at all relevant to the rest of story (and so, our heroine, Judy, has saved the planet by relocating all good-looking, highly desirable men to places that really need them, like Kentucky. Population decline is no longer a problem. Alas! And, don't close the book just yet because Judy is now going to whip up her favorite soufflé!) .
But it is my blog. I get to write this. I don't care if it doesn't fit! And, mothers will appreciate this one because it was developed for my picky, picky two year old.
Apple-Cheddar French Toast
This recipe works for one serve of two pieces of toast. If you want more, double it accordingly. As I mentioned, I am not a measurer with recipes that don't need to be exact, so do your best.
Preheat oven to 350
2 eggs, well beaten
1 good squeeze of honey
1 good glug of whole milk, whipping cream or french vanilla coffee creamer
1 small pinch of salt
A couple of dashes of Ceylon Cinnamon
2 Slices Cheddar Cheese
A couple pinches of granulated sugar
1 granny smith apple, cored and sliced into thin, long slices
A couple TBLSPs of butter (salted or unsalted...your choice)
Two sliced bread of your choice (I like brioche or something like that, but good ol' sandwich bread is a good pinch hitter)
Melt the butter on a skillet over medium heat. Don't get it too hot because butter burns and has the capacity to really smell up your house. Mix eggs, honey, milk, cinnamon and salt. Put in into a flat dish of some sort that will allow you put the bread in and soak. Then, surprise, soak the bread in the egg mixture 30 seconds on each side. Put the soaked bread on to the skillet. Brown the toast on each side being careful not to over brown (burn) it because if this is for a little one, they will no longer eat it if it is slightly burnt (I could go in to a whole explanation that I recently read about kids and the "bitter" taste and why, scientifically, they won't eat it, but, I will spare you). Move toast to an oven-proof pan or dish. Sprinkle the top side of the toast with a light dusting of granulated sugar. Top each piece with one slice cheddar cheese. Put the bread in the oven for about 5 minutes or until the cheese is nice and melty. Remove from oven and top the bread/cheese with slices of granny smith apple.
Before you judge...this is good. For all you folks who like apple pie with a slice of cheddar cheese on it...this recipe is for you.
Oh...any my little one still insists on syrup. Use your own discretion on that one!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
