I intended to post this well before Christmas but Clearwire/gmail was having issues...better late than never!
Christmas has always had a special magical quality for me and though I know my children enjoy the holiday, somehow, things are just not quite the same.
It starts with the music. Christmas music is arguably some of the most beautiful ever written. It's pleasant to listen to and I love to sing along with them (singability is a huge factor for any song for me). Though I am not particularly religious, I still find the traditional songs to be poignant; I remember wishing (when I was about 8) that I could be a Christian. Just for the holiday season so I could sing the songs and truly be a part of the wonder and awe I felt in the lyrics (I assumed it was a given that came with the religious label). I am often sadly amazed by how few of these carols can be sung by my children; A hears Christmas music piped in at work these days but even when she was a small child, she only picked up a few of the most frequently played songs. Both C and T, who play a number of songs for band, know the tunes but don't always know the lyrics. Many's the time we are driving along, a song will come on the radio and one of them will say, "Hey, that sounds familiar..."
Then there's the tree. When we were kids, picking out the tree was a family affair. We would go down to the lot and look at dozens of trees. Mom would stand them up and shake them out to see if too many needles fell off. We had to make sure it wasn't too tall for our low ceiling and we had to make sure if there was a bald spot it could be cleverly hidden against the wall. My brother and sister and I couldn't wait for Mom to finishing stringing the lights on and each ornament we personally hung felt like an old friend. Now my family has been ordering trees to support Habilitat for years now. We go down to the pick-up site, show them our ticket, one of the workers shows us several trees in the type and height that we purchased, we select one, and we cart it home. It is all very brisk and business-like. E and I put the tree in the stand immediately and fill it with water but the decorating is often put on hold for at least a day or two; my kids' schedules have reached a point where we have to figure out on which day and time the majority of them will be home. This year, we decorated the tree without A. She put her decorations on the tree a few days later. We could tell she was in a hurry because all her ornaments ended up in the front instead of being equally distributed all the way around.
Then there's the delicious anticipation. I remember sitting under the tree for long stretches at a time; sometimes just to admire the tree and breathe in its unmatchable fragrance and sometimes, along with my brother and sister, it was to poke and prod at the tantalizingly wrapped packages beneath the tree. Anything new that was added was immediately noted. The wonder and the waiting. It was all part of the magic. These days, my kids walk past the tree and barely acknowledge it. Maybe it's because our house is a lot bigger than the one I grew up in; it's easier for a tree to become part of the scenery when you aren't passing within inches of it several times a day. So far, the only "kid" I had to extract from underneath the tree was Rusty; he had found a package addressed to "Judy's furry children" from my co-worker Sandi. That particular package ended up on the dining room table until gift-opening time!
When E and I first got married, we began the Christmas Eve tradition of taking A to a movie. The theaters were almost completely deserted so a squirming, talkative child was not the disruption it would be at other times. It was also a good way to tire her out enough to sleep that night. We continued the tradition with the boys. Unfortunately for the past couple of years, A has not joined us. Her work schedule around the holiday picks up and she is often too tired to want to join in. This year, C was also not available on the Eve either; UH played in the Sheraton Bowl and whither the team goest, so shall the band. We did do movie night on the 23rd instead of eliminating it completely, but it did feel a bit strange.
But is that just me? Now that the kids are so much older and beginning to truly build their own lives, how important are the little traditions we've built up over the years? Would they notice if we didn't have crunchy jumble cookies when we decorate the tree? Would they care if their gifts from us were placed under the tree ahead of time, rather than placed in their huge personalized stockings on Christmas Eve? What if I changed the dinner menu or ceased selecting a new ornament for each kid every year? Would it matter?
Of course it would. Because traditions are not just the time and effort that are put into them, nor are they merely the acts themselves; they are also the feelings and memories that surround them. I cannot assume that just because my children are growing older and their priorities needed to change that the traditions mean any less to them today than they did 10 years ago. My children may not be able to join us for Christmas Eve movie night or sing the exact words to the Top 10 Christmas Carols of the Ages, but they do have fond memories of meals shared, gifts given and time spent during this magical time of the year. I know. Because when I think of my Christmas past, what shines brightest and clearest is the sense of joy and family I experienced with my own mother and siblings. This remembered joy makes me miss my brother and sister at Christmas more than at any other time of the year and will ensure that our Christmas traditions endure and adapt with each stage of our children's lives and with every addition to our family.
A Merry Christmas...today and always!
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
Being a Dog
There are dogs who pull sleds, guide the blind, assist the disabled, locate missing people and alert their families to danger. There are dogs who do tricks for our enjoyment, sniff out drugs, guard property and protect their owners. Then there are my dogs.
We have two dogs: Rusty is a 6-year old Tibetan Spaniel and Farley is a 4-year old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Both dogs are purebred. Both dogs are beautiful. Both dogs are neurotic: Rusty takes strange and irrational dislikes to certain people and no matter what they try to do to win him over (feed him treats, ignore him, talk to him) he doesn't want anything to do with them. He is so extremely suspicious of strangers, that if he were human, he'd count his change twice before he left the register and if he had hands, he'd slam people up against a wall and frisk them for concealed weapons before allowing them in the house. Rusty is always on alert and always on patrol--he figured out quickly that higher elevations provide the best vantage points; when he was a pup, he scaled straight up a vertical book shelf to get out of his pen. It gave me quite a start to see him calmly perched on the 4th shelf, nearly 5 feet off the ground!
Farley, on the other hand, will bark at strangers but he is so food-oriented, anyone can win him over with a liver treat or two. A huge part of Farley's world revolves around his digestive tract: he is a total food whore and is willing to go to any length to get something, anything, to eat. I fully believe that he would sell me out for a chunk of steak. He drools copiously while watching other people eat and before we discovered he had a corn allergy, he would have regular bouts of diarrhea; diarrhea on a long-haired dog is a pain but diarrhea on a long-haired dog who races around in an attempt to rid himself of the mess is just disgusting. The allergy also made him, uh, windy. Since he sleeps between our pillows, both E and I found his emissions extremely volatile. Farley, who does suffer from a congenital eye defect, always barks when he sees A; he barks as if she were a total stranger, even if he saw her earlier in the day, even if she is just emerging from her bedroom or rounding the corner from one room to the next. Sometimes we aren't sure if it's his poor eyesight or his seeming inability to hold onto too many thoughts at once; he is the doggy equivalent of a goldfish who swims to one side of its bowl and says, "Oh, look! A castle!" Then swims around, comes back and says, "Oh, look! A castle!"
Odes describing acts of bravery and heroism will never be written about these two. They lack the temperament to be trained as therapy or guide dogs and have no interest in learning to wind surf, skateboard or ride a Harley. Yes, they have their flaws but they also have one special quality: they are dogs.
To be a dog means to be appreciative--simply and unquestioningly grateful. For food. For affection. For the opportunity to walk and explore in the company of someone they love. For a good tummy rub and a scratch behind the ears. For interesting scents and sights. You know, the simple things in life.
To be a dog means to be accepting--they don't judge or criticize. Dogs don't care what car you drive or whether or not there are designer labels on your clothing. You can cuss in front of your dog without worrying that he'll think less of you for it. You can undress in front of your dog and never fear that he will point out the unattractive parts of your body or comment that holiday eating just might be catching up with you!
To be a dog means knowing when and how to be present. Having a bad day and feel the need to mull in silence? A human will try to get you to talk or offer some advice (I know I tend to do that!) Dogs just are. They give you a lick or a nudge on your hand. They cuddle up against you. They wait you out and when your mood brightens, so does theirs.
Rusty and Farley may not be the dogs of whom stories are written but they, along with their predecessor Kirby, have seen me through surgery and sickness, sadness and frustration, anger and fear, in ways that my human family and friends, no matter how loving and supporting, could not.
I will always have a dog in my life.
We have two dogs: Rusty is a 6-year old Tibetan Spaniel and Farley is a 4-year old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Both dogs are purebred. Both dogs are beautiful. Both dogs are neurotic: Rusty takes strange and irrational dislikes to certain people and no matter what they try to do to win him over (feed him treats, ignore him, talk to him) he doesn't want anything to do with them. He is so extremely suspicious of strangers, that if he were human, he'd count his change twice before he left the register and if he had hands, he'd slam people up against a wall and frisk them for concealed weapons before allowing them in the house. Rusty is always on alert and always on patrol--he figured out quickly that higher elevations provide the best vantage points; when he was a pup, he scaled straight up a vertical book shelf to get out of his pen. It gave me quite a start to see him calmly perched on the 4th shelf, nearly 5 feet off the ground!
Farley, on the other hand, will bark at strangers but he is so food-oriented, anyone can win him over with a liver treat or two. A huge part of Farley's world revolves around his digestive tract: he is a total food whore and is willing to go to any length to get something, anything, to eat. I fully believe that he would sell me out for a chunk of steak. He drools copiously while watching other people eat and before we discovered he had a corn allergy, he would have regular bouts of diarrhea; diarrhea on a long-haired dog is a pain but diarrhea on a long-haired dog who races around in an attempt to rid himself of the mess is just disgusting. The allergy also made him, uh, windy. Since he sleeps between our pillows, both E and I found his emissions extremely volatile. Farley, who does suffer from a congenital eye defect, always barks when he sees A; he barks as if she were a total stranger, even if he saw her earlier in the day, even if she is just emerging from her bedroom or rounding the corner from one room to the next. Sometimes we aren't sure if it's his poor eyesight or his seeming inability to hold onto too many thoughts at once; he is the doggy equivalent of a goldfish who swims to one side of its bowl and says, "Oh, look! A castle!" Then swims around, comes back and says, "Oh, look! A castle!"
Odes describing acts of bravery and heroism will never be written about these two. They lack the temperament to be trained as therapy or guide dogs and have no interest in learning to wind surf, skateboard or ride a Harley. Yes, they have their flaws but they also have one special quality: they are dogs.
To be a dog means to be appreciative--simply and unquestioningly grateful. For food. For affection. For the opportunity to walk and explore in the company of someone they love. For a good tummy rub and a scratch behind the ears. For interesting scents and sights. You know, the simple things in life.
To be a dog means to be accepting--they don't judge or criticize. Dogs don't care what car you drive or whether or not there are designer labels on your clothing. You can cuss in front of your dog without worrying that he'll think less of you for it. You can undress in front of your dog and never fear that he will point out the unattractive parts of your body or comment that holiday eating just might be catching up with you!
To be a dog means knowing when and how to be present. Having a bad day and feel the need to mull in silence? A human will try to get you to talk or offer some advice (I know I tend to do that!) Dogs just are. They give you a lick or a nudge on your hand. They cuddle up against you. They wait you out and when your mood brightens, so does theirs.
Rusty and Farley may not be the dogs of whom stories are written but they, along with their predecessor Kirby, have seen me through surgery and sickness, sadness and frustration, anger and fear, in ways that my human family and friends, no matter how loving and supporting, could not.
I will always have a dog in my life.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Costco sucks your brains!
I hate shopping at Costco. I especially hate shopping at Iwilei Costco which, wouldn't you know it, is the one closest to my home. First of all, I can't stand the parking lot; each row looks pretty much like the next so unless you park in the very last row on any of the sides, it's hard to remember exactly where you left your car. Then, the way the parking lot is arranged, there is a big section fronting the store where no one is clear who has the right of way; some drivers inch along desperately trying to make eye contact with other drivers to indicate their intent to go while other drivers suddenly speed up to assert their self-given right to proceed. As this area is also full of pedestrians, some with loaded carts, this makes for potentially dangerous situations.
Secondly, the shopping carts are parked on the right of the store; this means you have to get your cart then cross through the line of people exiting the building in order to get to the entrance which is on the left. That creates another huge pile up of people and wheeled vehicles.
Thirdly, and most annoying are the people. I often have occasion to be in places where large groups of people gather yet only at Costco are there so many random acts of idiocy in such a small period of time. The biggest crowd of people is near the doors, either checking in or checking out so why would you suddenly come to an abrupt stop to have a conversation with your companion? The aisles are wide enough for 3 carts to fit through so if we all stay to our right, that creates a nice open space down the middle--unless someone decides to park there. And they usually do. Parents allow small children to push their carts; many of the children aren't big enough to see over the handlebar nor are they strong enough to maneuver a cart full of heavy items. Sometimes the kids can't stop the carts; that's where all the nice adult ankles come in handy--instant wheel wedgers!
And some people do things that the rest of us just don't get. Today a woman was standing in the checkout line; she was clearly waiting for someone judging by the way she kept turning around and scanning the area behind her but instead of getting out of the line, she continued to stand there and even waved several people, including me, ahead of her. That was courteous enough but since she didn't move her wagon or herself, that meant whoever she waved through had to maneuver around her and load their items onto the conveyor belt with this woman's wagon pressing against their butts.
Since I am assuming that not everyone who shops at Costco is already an idiot (I have to make this assumption since I shop there as well), there must be something in that physical space that creates what C calls a "stupidity field" (he hates to shop at Costco even more than I do). Why else would the designer have created that nice new overflow parking lot and not put in any cart returns?
Costco sucks your brains...and even its own people are not immune to its effects.
Secondly, the shopping carts are parked on the right of the store; this means you have to get your cart then cross through the line of people exiting the building in order to get to the entrance which is on the left. That creates another huge pile up of people and wheeled vehicles.
Thirdly, and most annoying are the people. I often have occasion to be in places where large groups of people gather yet only at Costco are there so many random acts of idiocy in such a small period of time. The biggest crowd of people is near the doors, either checking in or checking out so why would you suddenly come to an abrupt stop to have a conversation with your companion? The aisles are wide enough for 3 carts to fit through so if we all stay to our right, that creates a nice open space down the middle--unless someone decides to park there. And they usually do. Parents allow small children to push their carts; many of the children aren't big enough to see over the handlebar nor are they strong enough to maneuver a cart full of heavy items. Sometimes the kids can't stop the carts; that's where all the nice adult ankles come in handy--instant wheel wedgers!
And some people do things that the rest of us just don't get. Today a woman was standing in the checkout line; she was clearly waiting for someone judging by the way she kept turning around and scanning the area behind her but instead of getting out of the line, she continued to stand there and even waved several people, including me, ahead of her. That was courteous enough but since she didn't move her wagon or herself, that meant whoever she waved through had to maneuver around her and load their items onto the conveyor belt with this woman's wagon pressing against their butts.
Since I am assuming that not everyone who shops at Costco is already an idiot (I have to make this assumption since I shop there as well), there must be something in that physical space that creates what C calls a "stupidity field" (he hates to shop at Costco even more than I do). Why else would the designer have created that nice new overflow parking lot and not put in any cart returns?
Costco sucks your brains...and even its own people are not immune to its effects.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Turkey Tales
Turkeys deserve to be eaten. Forget for the moment that they are delicious; they also lack pleasing personalities to make up for their clear lack of physical attractiveness. They are also aggressive brutes and my encounter with a pack of them when I was about 13 has been providing my sons with gleeful amusement at my expense.
When I was a kid, I often went to the beach with my friend RH and her dad. Mr. H. had relatives who owned a prawn farm and we visited several times. Besides the prawn pond, the family also owned a large tract of land that was cultivated near the house but wild and scrubby on the outer reaches. To us city kids, it was a wonderful place to ramble.
One of our visits coincided with prawn harvest. We spent much longer at the farm then on previous occasions, watching in fascination as RH's cousins pulled in the nets and shot at birds that swooped from the skies in search of an easy meal. RH, another friend FT, and I returned to the house to find RH's aunt feeding 5 large, gray birds. At the time, I did not know they were turkeys as I had never seen juveniles before. Young or no, these birds were big specimens; husky and tall! I was about 5'5" at the time and these birds easily reached to my waist.
We received a few slices of bread and continued to scatter bites for the birds to eat. They were placid enough...until all the bread was gone. They didn't seem to believe that we had nothing left to give them and decided the situation warranted a closer look. There was something menacing in their slow advance and the suspicious intelligence reflected in those beady black eyes. When they were several feet away, they suddenly seemed taller; their wings began to move away from their sides, feathers around the neck began to mantle.
I don't remember who broke first. All I know is suddenly the three of us were screaming and running down the hill as fast as we could with five shrieking, flapping turkeys in hot pursuit. Mr. H's truck was parked at the bottom of the hill and we all leaped into the back as one. The turkeys (fortunately) did not leap into the bed but continued to circle the vehicle, wings out, squawking in triumph. RH's aunt, dad, and cousins could not stop laughing. And ever since I told them the story, neither can my sons.
That was a long time ago but interestingly enough, Thanksgiving has become my favorite cooking/eating holiday. I guess the saying is true: Revenge is sweet...Happy Thanksgiving! Gobble, gobble! ;-)
When I was a kid, I often went to the beach with my friend RH and her dad. Mr. H. had relatives who owned a prawn farm and we visited several times. Besides the prawn pond, the family also owned a large tract of land that was cultivated near the house but wild and scrubby on the outer reaches. To us city kids, it was a wonderful place to ramble.
One of our visits coincided with prawn harvest. We spent much longer at the farm then on previous occasions, watching in fascination as RH's cousins pulled in the nets and shot at birds that swooped from the skies in search of an easy meal. RH, another friend FT, and I returned to the house to find RH's aunt feeding 5 large, gray birds. At the time, I did not know they were turkeys as I had never seen juveniles before. Young or no, these birds were big specimens; husky and tall! I was about 5'5" at the time and these birds easily reached to my waist.
We received a few slices of bread and continued to scatter bites for the birds to eat. They were placid enough...until all the bread was gone. They didn't seem to believe that we had nothing left to give them and decided the situation warranted a closer look. There was something menacing in their slow advance and the suspicious intelligence reflected in those beady black eyes. When they were several feet away, they suddenly seemed taller; their wings began to move away from their sides, feathers around the neck began to mantle.
I don't remember who broke first. All I know is suddenly the three of us were screaming and running down the hill as fast as we could with five shrieking, flapping turkeys in hot pursuit. Mr. H's truck was parked at the bottom of the hill and we all leaped into the back as one. The turkeys (fortunately) did not leap into the bed but continued to circle the vehicle, wings out, squawking in triumph. RH's aunt, dad, and cousins could not stop laughing. And ever since I told them the story, neither can my sons.
That was a long time ago but interestingly enough, Thanksgiving has become my favorite cooking/eating holiday. I guess the saying is true: Revenge is sweet...Happy Thanksgiving! Gobble, gobble! ;-)
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Won't you be my neighbor?
The N family (house to our left) was there when we moved in 13 years ago. We barely saw them. We know there was a married couple with two teen-aged children and judging by the tortured sounds of a violin and then a trumpet, the said children were band/orchestra members. The music improved in the next couple of years but their visibility did not; unless we heard the music or an occasional slamming of a car door, our neighbors could just as well have been ghosts. I can count on one hand the number of times I had any kind of conversation longer than "hello" with either husband or wife.
The children grew up and presumably moved out. The house began to fall into a serious state of disrepair; the external staircase rotted and crumbled, the roof began to sag and exterior light fixtures rusted and fell off. The only reason we knew someone still lived there were the cars in the garage. Then one day, the house was sold! Our neighbors on the opposite side of the N family purchased it as a, well, fixer-upper; only they didn't realize how much fixing upping needed to be done until the house was actually theirs. Instead of just fixing here and there, they decided to knock the whole structure down and start from scratch. This past May they did just that; they started when we were leaving for work and the whole thing was down and almost completely carted off by the time we came home. Judging by the house's condition, it was definitely a mercy killing.
Then the noise began. Our "new" neighbors are early risers and pay absolutely no attention to the laws/neighborly consideration that restrict construction before 9 AM in a residential area. Backhoes, cement mixers, power saws, loud contractors speaking in several different languages, louder radios set to a number of different stations have been the norm since May--and not just on weekdays. This has been a daily occurrence for months. Unfortunately the kids' bedrooms are on that side of the house and their reactions have been mixed: C rants and fumes (his bedroom is closest) and cusses them out on Facebook; T shrugs rather philosophically and A took C's ranting one step farther; she actually went out there and yelled at the workers that, "There are laws" and they should "turn off their damn mariachi music!" That particular group of workers were Spanish and definitely wanted to share their culture with the entire neighborhood.
Though I personally don't appreciate their discourtesy, they are going to be our neighbors and they are basically nice people. I was willing to put up with it...until yesterday. Yesterday started at 7 AM with the presence of a cement mixer. The noise was one thing but the workers decided in order to lay the cement properly they needed to come into our yard. Since the sidewalk extends from their house right up to our fence line, I could see why; they had no footspace in which to work. Still, they did not ask first and if they had, I could have informed them that the pens they were working around, and in, hold live turtles.
Now, my neighbors know I have turtles there. I informed them first thing when they knocked the original house down so they would know not to spray any poisons or pesticides in that area. I don't know if the owner and his brother were present when the cement workers started doing their thing but the older brother TN definitely was when I went out into the yard and saw what they had done.
First off, someone had removed one of the corner cinder blocks of Chestnut's pen to use as a step stool to reach over the fence...then didn't bother to put it back. As Chestnut has recently become very interested in knowing what is on the outside of his pen and has developed some serious climbing ability, this was an act of potentially horrific consequences. Fortunately, Chestnut had not discovered the gap. But that was not the worst of it. Someone had sloshed some wet cement in Minka's enclosure and splattered her and her food in the process. She had splatters on her back, her legs and even on her face. Fortunately it had missed her eyes, nostrils and mouth.
Now I have a strong personality but I rarely get truly angry. I don't like the way it feels and I usually feel I can resort to other methods to resolve conflict. This wasn't one of the times. I did not yell at TN and his workers but I know I was loud and forceful. If I wasn't so furious, it would have been funny; you never saw 5 grown men leap up and scramble in different directions at once so quickly. They just didn't know what to do; maybe they didn't speak much English and all they knew was there was suddenly a very angry woman brandishing a cement-spattered turtle in their direction.
TN apologized profusely and cleaned up Minka's enclosure while I washed the cement off of her. He actually got off easy; it wasn't till later in the afternoon that I discovered she was missing a small chip off the back edge of her carapace and the edge must have dug into her back leg because she had a red mark scored into her skin. I think one of the idiots stepped on her which caused her injury and which caused him to lose his balance and slop the cement into her enclosure. I will always be grateful that I went out when I did. If the cement had dried on her, she might not have survived.
Minka is using her leg okay and ate a big meal of mixed veggies. I am glad she doesn't seem to be suffering from any lingering effects and I know a bunch of construction workers who will think twice before they cross our fence again. Screw being neighborly. Even Mr. Rogers would have approved.
The children grew up and presumably moved out. The house began to fall into a serious state of disrepair; the external staircase rotted and crumbled, the roof began to sag and exterior light fixtures rusted and fell off. The only reason we knew someone still lived there were the cars in the garage. Then one day, the house was sold! Our neighbors on the opposite side of the N family purchased it as a, well, fixer-upper; only they didn't realize how much fixing upping needed to be done until the house was actually theirs. Instead of just fixing here and there, they decided to knock the whole structure down and start from scratch. This past May they did just that; they started when we were leaving for work and the whole thing was down and almost completely carted off by the time we came home. Judging by the house's condition, it was definitely a mercy killing.
Then the noise began. Our "new" neighbors are early risers and pay absolutely no attention to the laws/neighborly consideration that restrict construction before 9 AM in a residential area. Backhoes, cement mixers, power saws, loud contractors speaking in several different languages, louder radios set to a number of different stations have been the norm since May--and not just on weekdays. This has been a daily occurrence for months. Unfortunately the kids' bedrooms are on that side of the house and their reactions have been mixed: C rants and fumes (his bedroom is closest) and cusses them out on Facebook; T shrugs rather philosophically and A took C's ranting one step farther; she actually went out there and yelled at the workers that, "There are laws" and they should "turn off their damn mariachi music!" That particular group of workers were Spanish and definitely wanted to share their culture with the entire neighborhood.
Though I personally don't appreciate their discourtesy, they are going to be our neighbors and they are basically nice people. I was willing to put up with it...until yesterday. Yesterday started at 7 AM with the presence of a cement mixer. The noise was one thing but the workers decided in order to lay the cement properly they needed to come into our yard. Since the sidewalk extends from their house right up to our fence line, I could see why; they had no footspace in which to work. Still, they did not ask first and if they had, I could have informed them that the pens they were working around, and in, hold live turtles.
Now, my neighbors know I have turtles there. I informed them first thing when they knocked the original house down so they would know not to spray any poisons or pesticides in that area. I don't know if the owner and his brother were present when the cement workers started doing their thing but the older brother TN definitely was when I went out into the yard and saw what they had done.
First off, someone had removed one of the corner cinder blocks of Chestnut's pen to use as a step stool to reach over the fence...then didn't bother to put it back. As Chestnut has recently become very interested in knowing what is on the outside of his pen and has developed some serious climbing ability, this was an act of potentially horrific consequences. Fortunately, Chestnut had not discovered the gap. But that was not the worst of it. Someone had sloshed some wet cement in Minka's enclosure and splattered her and her food in the process. She had splatters on her back, her legs and even on her face. Fortunately it had missed her eyes, nostrils and mouth.
Now I have a strong personality but I rarely get truly angry. I don't like the way it feels and I usually feel I can resort to other methods to resolve conflict. This wasn't one of the times. I did not yell at TN and his workers but I know I was loud and forceful. If I wasn't so furious, it would have been funny; you never saw 5 grown men leap up and scramble in different directions at once so quickly. They just didn't know what to do; maybe they didn't speak much English and all they knew was there was suddenly a very angry woman brandishing a cement-spattered turtle in their direction.
TN apologized profusely and cleaned up Minka's enclosure while I washed the cement off of her. He actually got off easy; it wasn't till later in the afternoon that I discovered she was missing a small chip off the back edge of her carapace and the edge must have dug into her back leg because she had a red mark scored into her skin. I think one of the idiots stepped on her which caused her injury and which caused him to lose his balance and slop the cement into her enclosure. I will always be grateful that I went out when I did. If the cement had dried on her, she might not have survived.
Minka is using her leg okay and ate a big meal of mixed veggies. I am glad she doesn't seem to be suffering from any lingering effects and I know a bunch of construction workers who will think twice before they cross our fence again. Screw being neighborly. Even Mr. Rogers would have approved.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
An idiot by any other name...is still an idiot
E tells me I need to stop reading the pet ads on craigslist. Maybe he's right; more often than not, reading the ads on this site exasperates me and in some cases, drives me berserk. Last summer I read an ad for a guy looking for a male box turtle to mate with his female. Imagine my shock when the picture he posted to display his turtle was actually a picture of my Molly! After I contacted him and ripped him a new one, he apologized and immediately took the ad down. It was a positive outcome but it was the beginning of my increasingly negative attitude toward craigslist posters.
I originally thought it was a great concept: taking advantage of a large internet audience to find animals new homes. Unfortunately, a disproportionate number of the people offering animals for "rehoming" (the Craigslist euphemism for "selling") are not people I would personally choose to get an animal from. For a number of reasons.
Person type #1 is basically ignorant--they are offering "purebread" dogs for reasonable prices. Forgive me for being a snob but I refuse to take a dog from any breeder who incorrectly spells their breed's name. I have seen just about every possible combination of letters for chihuahua, not to mention the ever-popular "german shepphard" and "shit zoo". Person type #1 often finds terms associated with responsible breeding confusing as well; male dogs have been "spade" and female dogs are often "nuttered." Sometimes these types offer hybrid dogs (a blending of 2 pure, but different breeds) and say these pups will even come with papers! Yeah, newspapers!
Person type #2 is a blatant backyard breeder. This person slyly tries to hide the fact that it is the 2nd time this year that he offered pups for sale by posting his ads under different aliases. Maybe you should also change your contact information and the contact person's name. And yes, we recognize the pictures you posted of the parents from the last time.
Person type #3 is a heartless idiot; the worst kind. As you can imagine, this is the biggest group. These people range from those who buy a puppy and a week later offer it for rehoming because "I didn't realize how much work a young puppy is" to those who rehome established pets because they suddenly find out they are pregnant, moving, losing a job, getting a divorce, allergic, or dumber than their pets. I understand that sometimes there are true, unforeseen emergencies (like a pregnant woman being put on bed rest) but the odds just don't seem to match the proportion of ads of this nature. In fact, in the year and a half that I have been reading craigslist, this group seems to have grown exponentially; an unwelcome sign of the growing idiot population. Why do so many people consider animals to be disposable?
Normally, I hate to call people by derogatory names but when it comes to the mistreatment of animals, I will make an exception. Just call a spayed a spade.
I originally thought it was a great concept: taking advantage of a large internet audience to find animals new homes. Unfortunately, a disproportionate number of the people offering animals for "rehoming" (the Craigslist euphemism for "selling") are not people I would personally choose to get an animal from. For a number of reasons.
Person type #1 is basically ignorant--they are offering "purebread" dogs for reasonable prices. Forgive me for being a snob but I refuse to take a dog from any breeder who incorrectly spells their breed's name. I have seen just about every possible combination of letters for chihuahua, not to mention the ever-popular "german shepphard" and "shit zoo". Person type #1 often finds terms associated with responsible breeding confusing as well; male dogs have been "spade" and female dogs are often "nuttered." Sometimes these types offer hybrid dogs (a blending of 2 pure, but different breeds) and say these pups will even come with papers! Yeah, newspapers!
Person type #2 is a blatant backyard breeder. This person slyly tries to hide the fact that it is the 2nd time this year that he offered pups for sale by posting his ads under different aliases. Maybe you should also change your contact information and the contact person's name. And yes, we recognize the pictures you posted of the parents from the last time.
Person type #3 is a heartless idiot; the worst kind. As you can imagine, this is the biggest group. These people range from those who buy a puppy and a week later offer it for rehoming because "I didn't realize how much work a young puppy is" to those who rehome established pets because they suddenly find out they are pregnant, moving, losing a job, getting a divorce, allergic, or dumber than their pets. I understand that sometimes there are true, unforeseen emergencies (like a pregnant woman being put on bed rest) but the odds just don't seem to match the proportion of ads of this nature. In fact, in the year and a half that I have been reading craigslist, this group seems to have grown exponentially; an unwelcome sign of the growing idiot population. Why do so many people consider animals to be disposable?
Normally, I hate to call people by derogatory names but when it comes to the mistreatment of animals, I will make an exception. Just call a spayed a spade.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Lip service
So I was 'net surfing last night about reconstructive surgeries and came across a procedure known as labiaplasty. As in, vaginal labia "lift" surgery. At first I thought it was a procedure for women with certain gynecological health issues but it turns out that it's actually an increasingly popular elective procedure for women who are dissatisfied with the appearance of their vaginas. I thought I'd heard everything.
Perhaps it is not surprising; the pressure to fit a certain societal standard of beauty is not a new one, but I guess I'm just surprised, amazed and saddened by how far some people will go. One of the doctors quoted in the article mentioned that it is an inevitable result of the media and the easy access to pornography; men and women view these images and find that their own bodies fall by the wayside. Many women, this doctor states, bring in pictures of porn stars, point and say, "Make me look like her." You know how some hair stylists have folders of celebrity hairstyles for customers to choose from? Imagine the samples in a plastic surgeon's office: "I'd like the Janet Jackson Special, please." Yikes.
I think the worst part of this trend is the middle-aged women who requested the surgery, not because they wanted it themselves but, because their husbands or boyfriends did not like their sagging labia. Their partners' remarks made them so self-conscious they elected to have a surgery that can have fairly serious risks, including scarring, infection and nerve damage. One woman went even farther; before the surgery, this woman states, her marriage was on the rocks and her husband told her after giving birth to their four children, "she was looser and he didn't want her anymore." She had the labiaplasty along with a procedure called "vaginal rejuvenation" to tighten her vulva. She reports: "He's become my sweetheart again," she said. "He bought me a house and he wants me all the time."
But why the hell do you want him?
Perhaps it is not surprising; the pressure to fit a certain societal standard of beauty is not a new one, but I guess I'm just surprised, amazed and saddened by how far some people will go. One of the doctors quoted in the article mentioned that it is an inevitable result of the media and the easy access to pornography; men and women view these images and find that their own bodies fall by the wayside. Many women, this doctor states, bring in pictures of porn stars, point and say, "Make me look like her." You know how some hair stylists have folders of celebrity hairstyles for customers to choose from? Imagine the samples in a plastic surgeon's office: "I'd like the Janet Jackson Special, please." Yikes.
I think the worst part of this trend is the middle-aged women who requested the surgery, not because they wanted it themselves but, because their husbands or boyfriends did not like their sagging labia. Their partners' remarks made them so self-conscious they elected to have a surgery that can have fairly serious risks, including scarring, infection and nerve damage. One woman went even farther; before the surgery, this woman states, her marriage was on the rocks and her husband told her after giving birth to their four children, "she was looser and he didn't want her anymore." She had the labiaplasty along with a procedure called "vaginal rejuvenation" to tighten her vulva. She reports: "He's become my sweetheart again," she said. "He bought me a house and he wants me all the time."
But why the hell do you want him?
Saturday, November 6, 2010
What's YOUR Guilty Pleasure?
Nearly every year for the past 10 years or so, I have emailed a question for my good friends to answer. Their responses help me to select their Christmas gifts. Questions in the past have ranged from "What's your favorite animal?" to "What one quality best describes you?" The answers are always interesting and more often than not, I learn a little bit more about people I thought I already knew well. The best response to the "What's your favorite animal?" query came from TC who fired back, "To eat or to keep as a pet?" Guess who got coal in his stocking that year?
This year the question is, you guessed it, "What's your guilty pleasure?" Since I knew this particular phrasing was going to open a whole can of worms with some of my smart-alecky friends, I did give them a few guidelines: keep it clean, make sure it was something few people would know or guess and of course, make sure you are comfortable sharing it.
One friend, SK, always provides long and detailed responses to my annual question which he cc's to his wife--in case she also needs gift-giving ideas. He went pretty far out on a limb with some of his GPs; a few of them definitely fall into the category of, "I would never have guessed that of you" (he did follow the guidelines and kept it clean, but still). After his response, I expected more stunners from my other friends; instead I was amused by how many of the responses were food-related: chocolate, candy, chili hot dogs from Zippy's, Dairy Queen butterscotch-dipped cones and McDonald's milkshakes were prominent contenders and the overall reason for their selection seemed to be a combination of flavor, childhood nostalgia or as a reward for "good behavior" (like exercising!).
That's when I realized that nearly all of my own GPs also revolve around food. Except for being, I admit it, a fan of Barry Manilow and a player of a game that shall remain nameless, my GPs are pretty much foods I like to eat, often while I am enjoying a good book. And that's where the guilty part of the pleasure comes in. Normally, one of the things I like best about food is the social aspect; sitting around a table of good food with good conversation is one of my absolute favorite things and yet my GP foods are those I would much rather enjoy alone. The reason for that is obvious; if I feel guilty while I'm eating it, it's probably bad for me and if I am eating things that are bad for me, well, the fewer witnesses, the better!
Popcorn sprinkled with grated Parmesan cheese is a favorite I have enjoyed for years--it's cheesy, salty, crispy goodness and each bite tastes better than the one before it. I HAVE to eat it by myself; E doesn't like popcorn and I find that eating a dish in front of someone who refuses to see the point tempers the "mmmm" factor. I also can't eat it in front of the kids--that's a dangerous proposition; sometimes, they expect me to share it. The nerve.
So I continue to enjoy my Parmesan topped popcorn in total solitude. Because when it comes to guilty pleasures, that's just the way it should be.
This year the question is, you guessed it, "What's your guilty pleasure?" Since I knew this particular phrasing was going to open a whole can of worms with some of my smart-alecky friends, I did give them a few guidelines: keep it clean, make sure it was something few people would know or guess and of course, make sure you are comfortable sharing it.
One friend, SK, always provides long and detailed responses to my annual question which he cc's to his wife--in case she also needs gift-giving ideas. He went pretty far out on a limb with some of his GPs; a few of them definitely fall into the category of, "I would never have guessed that of you" (he did follow the guidelines and kept it clean, but still). After his response, I expected more stunners from my other friends; instead I was amused by how many of the responses were food-related: chocolate, candy, chili hot dogs from Zippy's, Dairy Queen butterscotch-dipped cones and McDonald's milkshakes were prominent contenders and the overall reason for their selection seemed to be a combination of flavor, childhood nostalgia or as a reward for "good behavior" (like exercising!).
That's when I realized that nearly all of my own GPs also revolve around food. Except for being, I admit it, a fan of Barry Manilow and a player of a game that shall remain nameless, my GPs are pretty much foods I like to eat, often while I am enjoying a good book. And that's where the guilty part of the pleasure comes in. Normally, one of the things I like best about food is the social aspect; sitting around a table of good food with good conversation is one of my absolute favorite things and yet my GP foods are those I would much rather enjoy alone. The reason for that is obvious; if I feel guilty while I'm eating it, it's probably bad for me and if I am eating things that are bad for me, well, the fewer witnesses, the better!
Popcorn sprinkled with grated Parmesan cheese is a favorite I have enjoyed for years--it's cheesy, salty, crispy goodness and each bite tastes better than the one before it. I HAVE to eat it by myself; E doesn't like popcorn and I find that eating a dish in front of someone who refuses to see the point tempers the "mmmm" factor. I also can't eat it in front of the kids--that's a dangerous proposition; sometimes, they expect me to share it. The nerve.
So I continue to enjoy my Parmesan topped popcorn in total solitude. Because when it comes to guilty pleasures, that's just the way it should be.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Epilogue: What's wrong with this picture?
So I've been back at work for 3 whole days now. I have taught my classes, answered some email correspondence, attended a faculty meeting, and started correcting 3rd drafts of senior project papers while the laundry has slowly begun to stack up and errant balls of "Rust bunnies" collect under the furniture threatening to mutate into more dogs. Today I dropped T off at home after band practice (which ran late) while simultaneously picking C up to take him to play at a UH basketball game, fought traffic coming and going from UH in the pouring rain and ended up picking up Popeye's Chicken for dinner.
At 6:45, I was silently lamenting the loss of the time that allowed me to leisurely grocery shop, plan and cook homemade meals for my family and even help the boys keep up with their laundry. E wasn't home yet and T was perfectly content to sit in the quiet happily munching on take-out fried chicken with all the fixings, blissfully oblivious to the time demands that were forcing, forcing him to eat this food prepared by hands other than his mother's!
At 7:15, as T lugged a full laundry basket of his clothes down to the garage, his thoughts finally paralleled mine. Dreamy eyes came into focus as he gazed wistfully from his full basket to me: "It used to be nice when you were being a housewife."
At 6:45, I was silently lamenting the loss of the time that allowed me to leisurely grocery shop, plan and cook homemade meals for my family and even help the boys keep up with their laundry. E wasn't home yet and T was perfectly content to sit in the quiet happily munching on take-out fried chicken with all the fixings, blissfully oblivious to the time demands that were forcing, forcing him to eat this food prepared by hands other than his mother's!
At 7:15, as T lugged a full laundry basket of his clothes down to the garage, his thoughts finally paralleled mine. Dreamy eyes came into focus as he gazed wistfully from his full basket to me: "It used to be nice when you were being a housewife."
Monday, November 1, 2010
What's wrong with this picture?
Though it may sound that way to some, this is not a pity party post (how's that for alliteration!). Rather, it is a slightly mournful commentary on a phenomena that I don't feel is unique to me; that is the constant choosing between the needs of job, family, and self. For me, at least, when it comes to a battle between these three superpowers, self always loses. Some of the demands on me naturally come with the territory; I am a parent, so I am obligated to fulfill the needs of my children. My children may be older and more self-sufficient than they've ever been but their needs didn't necessarily lessen as the children aged. They just got...different. I have a job which gives me even more obligations to fulfill. But what about the time that is not taken up by my family and career? How do I get to spend that?
Today I went back to work after having surgery that required a 6-week recuperation period. One of these days I'll get around to blogging about that interlude in my life but at the moment, what is foremost on my mind is the ironic realization that it took surgery and a forced break from my normal life to allow me to reconnect with some of the enjoyable aspects of my life; aspects that often get shunted to the background simply because other things are of a higher priority.
During my recuperation I read several books that were sitting around collecting dust for years, I watched several DVDs that I'd been meaning to get to for months, I got totally hooked on the TV series Criminal Minds, I did tons of cross-stitch, updated my student organization's website, read through a number of cookbooks and recipes, tried out many of the said recipes, remodeled Minka's enclosure, established a weekly grocery shopping schedule (a huge feat!), and started this blog. I picked up C from school on Thursday (his short school day) and had a weekly lunch and good conversation with him. It makes sense that I was able to do all of these things. I wasn't working. I had all this unoccupied time! But even more than that, I had an excuse.
My surgery gave me a built-in, universally acceptable reason for not fulfilling any of my normal responsibilities; though I still corrected senior project papers and did lesson plans, I did not have to go into the classroom and execute them, I didn't have to correct homework, do grades or attendance, I did not have to attend conferences, I did not have to attend committee meetings, oversee club events, pick up and drop off the kids, cook, grocery shop, or clean the house! For a few days after coming home from the hospital, I didn't even have to take care of my pets! Everyone knew why I wasn't doing what I normally did so I did not have to feel guilty!
I am far from being a self-sacrificing martyr but it is still a shock to realize that somewhere along the road, I have allowed myself to so consistently allow responsibility and obligation to take over my free time that I felt I needed to justify to MYSELF that an activity I was engaging in, strictly for enjoyment sake, was not a selfish, waste of time. How incredibly sad. Even worse, I know I can't promise myself that, despite my new-found awareness, it won't happen again.
The most repeated question my students asked today was this: "Did you miss us while you were gone?" Of course I did. But I suspect I will miss my excuse to play even more.
Today I went back to work after having surgery that required a 6-week recuperation period. One of these days I'll get around to blogging about that interlude in my life but at the moment, what is foremost on my mind is the ironic realization that it took surgery and a forced break from my normal life to allow me to reconnect with some of the enjoyable aspects of my life; aspects that often get shunted to the background simply because other things are of a higher priority.
During my recuperation I read several books that were sitting around collecting dust for years, I watched several DVDs that I'd been meaning to get to for months, I got totally hooked on the TV series Criminal Minds, I did tons of cross-stitch, updated my student organization's website, read through a number of cookbooks and recipes, tried out many of the said recipes, remodeled Minka's enclosure, established a weekly grocery shopping schedule (a huge feat!), and started this blog. I picked up C from school on Thursday (his short school day) and had a weekly lunch and good conversation with him. It makes sense that I was able to do all of these things. I wasn't working. I had all this unoccupied time! But even more than that, I had an excuse.
My surgery gave me a built-in, universally acceptable reason for not fulfilling any of my normal responsibilities; though I still corrected senior project papers and did lesson plans, I did not have to go into the classroom and execute them, I didn't have to correct homework, do grades or attendance, I did not have to attend conferences, I did not have to attend committee meetings, oversee club events, pick up and drop off the kids, cook, grocery shop, or clean the house! For a few days after coming home from the hospital, I didn't even have to take care of my pets! Everyone knew why I wasn't doing what I normally did so I did not have to feel guilty!
I am far from being a self-sacrificing martyr but it is still a shock to realize that somewhere along the road, I have allowed myself to so consistently allow responsibility and obligation to take over my free time that I felt I needed to justify to MYSELF that an activity I was engaging in, strictly for enjoyment sake, was not a selfish, waste of time. How incredibly sad. Even worse, I know I can't promise myself that, despite my new-found awareness, it won't happen again.
The most repeated question my students asked today was this: "Did you miss us while you were gone?" Of course I did. But I suspect I will miss my excuse to play even more.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
A Bajillion Kids
One of the things I love about Facebook is catching up with my kids. Not, as I often make the distinction, the kids I personally gave birth to, but the ones I have taught in my now 20-year history at my alma mater, Farrington High School. I am sincerely thrilled to receive messages from them, to see pictures of them with their partners and children and to catch up on the many little details that transpired since our last meeting. What's hard to take is how OLD all of this is making me feel!
For a number of years, some of the members of the class of 1998 and I made it a point to meet for dinner several times a year. When we started this ritual, they were 17 or 18 years old. A few years after that, they were ordering alcoholic beverages. Now many of them are married and having children of their own. Perhaps predictably, our meeting for dinner tradition has dropped off appreciably but thanks to FB, keeping in touch has never been easier.
I made a comment about my current students on my status recently and one of my students from the class of 2000 wrote, "How many kids do you have now? A bajillion?" The question made me wonder: Just how many young minds have I tainted in the last 20 years? I did some rough calculations (and those of you who know me well know how rough these probably are). When I first started teaching, we were on a 6 period schedule so each teacher taught 5 classes (approximately 30 students/per class). Then in 1997, we switched to the block schedule (4 classes per term, each teacher has 3 classes) but that same year, I also switched to the Health Academy where I was blessed (for a time) to have smaller classes than the norm AND where I sometimes I had students more than once during their 2-3 year stay in the Academy. By my calculations, subject to extreme human error, I have had (give or take) approximately 3200 students in the past 20 years!
About 7 years ago, I found out one of my students was the son of my classmate. Since then I have had 4 more students come through who were also the children of my classmates. This year I again noted an unusual and familiar surname on my roster but with a noted difference; this surname did not belong to one of my peers, it belonged to one of my very first students. When SGR walked into the classroom on the first day, there was no mistaking who her mother was; the resemblance was striking and I was hurtled back 20 years to a time I often would much rather forget: My first attempts (and I use that word charitably) at teaching.
College did not, in any way, prepare me to teach. It taught me subject matter that I would eventually pass on to my students and it offered theories on how and why the subject matter I found so interesting and exciting would bore the crap out of the not-so-eager young minds I was responsible for nurturing. College did not give me tips on how to efficiently set up my grade book (in the days BC--before computers), offer strategies that were relevant to an increasingly video-oriented generation, teach me how to console a grieving child who just lost a parent or to maintain control over 30 almost-adults, most of whom wanted to be anywhere but in the classroom.
My kids are the ones responsible for teaching me these things. Their behavior, their interest or lack thereof, their cultures and their attitudes helped me to shape my teaching style in a way that best suited my audience: Them. For most of the first few years of my teaching career, I was about 2 lessons ahead of my students and often worlds behind in comprehending who they were and where they were coming from. If I am a confident, effective teacher today, it is due to the contributions of all 3200 of them.
Sometimes, it takes a village...to make a teacher.
For a number of years, some of the members of the class of 1998 and I made it a point to meet for dinner several times a year. When we started this ritual, they were 17 or 18 years old. A few years after that, they were ordering alcoholic beverages. Now many of them are married and having children of their own. Perhaps predictably, our meeting for dinner tradition has dropped off appreciably but thanks to FB, keeping in touch has never been easier.
I made a comment about my current students on my status recently and one of my students from the class of 2000 wrote, "How many kids do you have now? A bajillion?" The question made me wonder: Just how many young minds have I tainted in the last 20 years? I did some rough calculations (and those of you who know me well know how rough these probably are). When I first started teaching, we were on a 6 period schedule so each teacher taught 5 classes (approximately 30 students/per class). Then in 1997, we switched to the block schedule (4 classes per term, each teacher has 3 classes) but that same year, I also switched to the Health Academy where I was blessed (for a time) to have smaller classes than the norm AND where I sometimes I had students more than once during their 2-3 year stay in the Academy. By my calculations, subject to extreme human error, I have had (give or take) approximately 3200 students in the past 20 years!
About 7 years ago, I found out one of my students was the son of my classmate. Since then I have had 4 more students come through who were also the children of my classmates. This year I again noted an unusual and familiar surname on my roster but with a noted difference; this surname did not belong to one of my peers, it belonged to one of my very first students. When SGR walked into the classroom on the first day, there was no mistaking who her mother was; the resemblance was striking and I was hurtled back 20 years to a time I often would much rather forget: My first attempts (and I use that word charitably) at teaching.
College did not, in any way, prepare me to teach. It taught me subject matter that I would eventually pass on to my students and it offered theories on how and why the subject matter I found so interesting and exciting would bore the crap out of the not-so-eager young minds I was responsible for nurturing. College did not give me tips on how to efficiently set up my grade book (in the days BC--before computers), offer strategies that were relevant to an increasingly video-oriented generation, teach me how to console a grieving child who just lost a parent or to maintain control over 30 almost-adults, most of whom wanted to be anywhere but in the classroom.
My kids are the ones responsible for teaching me these things. Their behavior, their interest or lack thereof, their cultures and their attitudes helped me to shape my teaching style in a way that best suited my audience: Them. For most of the first few years of my teaching career, I was about 2 lessons ahead of my students and often worlds behind in comprehending who they were and where they were coming from. If I am a confident, effective teacher today, it is due to the contributions of all 3200 of them.
Sometimes, it takes a village...to make a teacher.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Thai Chicken Curry and Savory Lamb Stew
If there is anything I hate about cooking it's when a recipe I am trying turns out really wrong. Sometimes it's the recipe and sometimes it's me but either way it is frustrating and annoying to work so hard and have so little to show for it. Fortunately, tonight was not one of those nights. Yup, it was a double header and I banged homeruns in both games!
I have been struggling to master Thai food recently. I love it, especially the curries, and have tried several recipes on and off over the past year or two with varying results. My last curry attempt was horrid; I think the recipe was actually printed wrong because it had a hugely disproportionate amount of water to coconut milk ratio. The result was very watery and so bland it wasn't worth the effort of swallowing, much less digesting. T doesn't like Thai food so he was spared the experience and A doesn't eat meat so that automatically disqualified her. That left the sampling to E and C who ate it, and like the troopers they are, didn't offer any criticism stronger than, "It's really not that bad." Uh huh. It was really not that good either.
Tonight's recipe came out of a book entitled Simply Thai Cooking and it was a definite hit; a mild red curry that was creamy, smooth, and flavorful with tender chicken strips and crunchy slivers of bamboo shoots and red bell pepper. Very nice. Both E and C had two bowls each and this time, they weren't just being kind.
Lamb is one thing I do feel fairly confident about. I have grilled it, roasted it and made it into stew on a number of occasions. This time I did a sort of combination of things; I cut the boneless leg of lamb into chunks and marinated it overnight. Today, I cooked a few strips of bacon, drained most of the fat and substituted olive oil before I tossed in the drained and flour-dredged lamb chunks. I let the lamb brown up a bit before I added chunks of onion then deglazed the pot with a good sploosh of red wine and the rest of the marinade.
I added chicken broth, a couple of bay leaves and a good sprinkling of dried thyme and let the whole thing simmer for about an hour and a half. I thickened the broth with some of the flour that was left after the dredging, added chopped carrot and potatoes and simmered it until everything was cooked through. The broth is rich and savory and the lamb is falling apart tender. E, C and I were too focused on the curry to get to the lamb stew tonight but there is always tomorrow; lamb stew is one thing that just gets better overnight. If I am patting myself on the back over these culinary triumphs tonight, just wait till tomorrow's dinner. I'll be insufferable by then. :-)
I have been struggling to master Thai food recently. I love it, especially the curries, and have tried several recipes on and off over the past year or two with varying results. My last curry attempt was horrid; I think the recipe was actually printed wrong because it had a hugely disproportionate amount of water to coconut milk ratio. The result was very watery and so bland it wasn't worth the effort of swallowing, much less digesting. T doesn't like Thai food so he was spared the experience and A doesn't eat meat so that automatically disqualified her. That left the sampling to E and C who ate it, and like the troopers they are, didn't offer any criticism stronger than, "It's really not that bad." Uh huh. It was really not that good either.
Tonight's recipe came out of a book entitled Simply Thai Cooking and it was a definite hit; a mild red curry that was creamy, smooth, and flavorful with tender chicken strips and crunchy slivers of bamboo shoots and red bell pepper. Very nice. Both E and C had two bowls each and this time, they weren't just being kind.
Lamb is one thing I do feel fairly confident about. I have grilled it, roasted it and made it into stew on a number of occasions. This time I did a sort of combination of things; I cut the boneless leg of lamb into chunks and marinated it overnight. Today, I cooked a few strips of bacon, drained most of the fat and substituted olive oil before I tossed in the drained and flour-dredged lamb chunks. I let the lamb brown up a bit before I added chunks of onion then deglazed the pot with a good sploosh of red wine and the rest of the marinade.
I added chicken broth, a couple of bay leaves and a good sprinkling of dried thyme and let the whole thing simmer for about an hour and a half. I thickened the broth with some of the flour that was left after the dredging, added chopped carrot and potatoes and simmered it until everything was cooked through. The broth is rich and savory and the lamb is falling apart tender. E, C and I were too focused on the curry to get to the lamb stew tonight but there is always tomorrow; lamb stew is one thing that just gets better overnight. If I am patting myself on the back over these culinary triumphs tonight, just wait till tomorrow's dinner. I'll be insufferable by then. :-)
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Slip me some tongue, part 2
I was expecting to make the tongue into sandwiches but today I got a better idea while I was mixing up a batch of guacamole. I would make soft tacos! I heated corn tortillas in my griddle pan, sprinkled them with a mixture of grated cheddar and Monterey jack cheeses and topped them with the sliced tongue that I had quickly reheated by tossing around in an oiled pan. Some finely chopped lettuce and salsa to finish it all off and ta da! Tongue tacos!
The heating of the tongue in an oiled pan made a huge flavor and texture difference; because the slices were so thin, the edges quickly seared which gave the overall dish a nice grilled taste and the meat more of a "chew". Judging by how quickly the guys ate 'em up, I would say it is a hit with the humans as well as the canines. Yes, Rusty and Farley got a few nuggets as well...no guacamole for them though.
The heating of the tongue in an oiled pan made a huge flavor and texture difference; because the slices were so thin, the edges quickly seared which gave the overall dish a nice grilled taste and the meat more of a "chew". Judging by how quickly the guys ate 'em up, I would say it is a hit with the humans as well as the canines. Yes, Rusty and Farley got a few nuggets as well...no guacamole for them though.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Slip me some tongue
The first time I realized people eat animal tongue was when I read one of Beverly Cleary's books. I don't recall the title but I do remember Beezus and Ramona's disgust when they realized the delicious, tender pot roast they were enjoying for dinner was tongue their mother had cleverly hidden under brown gravy. At that time, I shared their disgust. Fortunately, I grew up and my, uh, taste buds did, too.
I had my first taste of beef tongue at a Japanese yakiniku-style restaurant several years ago. It was grilled, tender and absolutely delicious. Since then, I have made it a point to order it when I spot it on a menu; that doesn't happen as often as I would like. This past Tuesday was the third of the month and that means Ladies' Night Out (LNO). LNO is deserving of a blog post all its own so I will simply say that we ate at Gazen Restaurant, an izakaya-style eatery and tongue was on the menu. It was delicious but 5 slivers of meat for $12 made me decide I needed to learn to cook this thing on my own.
I purchased a tongue yesterday and did the cooking today. I have to admit that a tongue, seen in its entirety, is intimidating and more than a little disgusting. Cow tongues average 3-4 pounds so that is a significant hunk of flesh! Undeterred, I gave it a scrub, immersed it in water along with a bay leaf, some peppercorns and a generous handful of salt. I brought the water to a boil, reduced the heat and simmered the pot, covered, for almost 3 hours. I drained off the cooking liquid, soaked the tongue in cold water for a bit and then peeled the thick white skin off. Most of it came off extremely easily and the few bits that did stick were taken care of with a few scrapes of the knife.
The fatty underside was sliced away and after a few judicious swipes with my knife across the top surface (to skim off the bumps that so disgusted Ramona and Beezus), I sliced the remainder into thin slices. The majority of the meat was refrigerated for sandwiches tomorrow. The bits that did not make it into the fridge were appraised by Quality Control; Rusty and Farley were extremely attentive during my tongue-in-cheek performance and judging by the small pool of Farley-drool at my feet, they appreciated the smell, and samples, as much as I did.
I had my first taste of beef tongue at a Japanese yakiniku-style restaurant several years ago. It was grilled, tender and absolutely delicious. Since then, I have made it a point to order it when I spot it on a menu; that doesn't happen as often as I would like. This past Tuesday was the third of the month and that means Ladies' Night Out (LNO). LNO is deserving of a blog post all its own so I will simply say that we ate at Gazen Restaurant, an izakaya-style eatery and tongue was on the menu. It was delicious but 5 slivers of meat for $12 made me decide I needed to learn to cook this thing on my own.
I purchased a tongue yesterday and did the cooking today. I have to admit that a tongue, seen in its entirety, is intimidating and more than a little disgusting. Cow tongues average 3-4 pounds so that is a significant hunk of flesh! Undeterred, I gave it a scrub, immersed it in water along with a bay leaf, some peppercorns and a generous handful of salt. I brought the water to a boil, reduced the heat and simmered the pot, covered, for almost 3 hours. I drained off the cooking liquid, soaked the tongue in cold water for a bit and then peeled the thick white skin off. Most of it came off extremely easily and the few bits that did stick were taken care of with a few scrapes of the knife.
The fatty underside was sliced away and after a few judicious swipes with my knife across the top surface (to skim off the bumps that so disgusted Ramona and Beezus), I sliced the remainder into thin slices. The majority of the meat was refrigerated for sandwiches tomorrow. The bits that did not make it into the fridge were appraised by Quality Control; Rusty and Farley were extremely attentive during my tongue-in-cheek performance and judging by the small pool of Farley-drool at my feet, they appreciated the smell, and samples, as much as I did.
My Child is a Monkey
Nope, not making disparaging remarks about my own progeny though T's nickname was "Monkey" for quite a while. He forbade me to continue calling him that about 4 years ago. Anyway, that is the title of a program I just saw on National Geographic; yup, humans who keep monkeys as pets. Or as one woman said, "He is not my pet, he's my lifelong companion."
It was even worse than the dog owners who treat their dogs as children: the diapers, the bonnets, the hugs and kisses were bad enough; allowing them to eat off of the same plate, allowing them the same (bad) human diet and putting the animals before the human children? No, no, no! I actually yelled, "You have to be kidding me!" I've often made fun of people for talking back to their TV sets. Now look at what I have been reduced to.
Several primate experts on the show described monkeys as perpetual infants so it was no surprise to note that most of these monkey fanatics are women--especially the middle-aged women whose own children have left the nest. One owner surprised me though; early 40s with 7 children of her own! This woman's friend has 2 monkeys, both of whom are entering puberty. One of these monkeys attacked one of the children and got put in "time out". Lovely.
The self-proclaimed "Monkey Whisperer" extolled the virtues of primates as companions (see quote above) and then emphasized the need for precautions, especially around children. She strongly advised that animals be altered--in the canine world, this means desexing. In the monkey world it means desexing and removal of the canine teeth and sometimes the others as well. After all says this primate fan, "Would you rather have a ripping, tearing wound or a bruise?"
If it's all the same to you, I'll stick with turtles.
It was even worse than the dog owners who treat their dogs as children: the diapers, the bonnets, the hugs and kisses were bad enough; allowing them to eat off of the same plate, allowing them the same (bad) human diet and putting the animals before the human children? No, no, no! I actually yelled, "You have to be kidding me!" I've often made fun of people for talking back to their TV sets. Now look at what I have been reduced to.
Several primate experts on the show described monkeys as perpetual infants so it was no surprise to note that most of these monkey fanatics are women--especially the middle-aged women whose own children have left the nest. One owner surprised me though; early 40s with 7 children of her own! This woman's friend has 2 monkeys, both of whom are entering puberty. One of these monkeys attacked one of the children and got put in "time out". Lovely.
The self-proclaimed "Monkey Whisperer" extolled the virtues of primates as companions (see quote above) and then emphasized the need for precautions, especially around children. She strongly advised that animals be altered--in the canine world, this means desexing. In the monkey world it means desexing and removal of the canine teeth and sometimes the others as well. After all says this primate fan, "Would you rather have a ripping, tearing wound or a bruise?"
If it's all the same to you, I'll stick with turtles.
Flash Fic
My two good friends, L and N, are great writers and they convinced me to give Flash Fic writing a try. For those of you, who like me, are novices to the art, the procedure is as follows: we take turns sending out a trio of words then give ourselves 8 minutes in which to create a quick story utilizing those words. Eight minutes. It's supposed to be quick, fun, painless. That's what they said. That's not what it's been.
I have not written for pure, creative pleasure for years. All my writing is teaching-related, emails or instructions to the family for animal care when I am off on business trips. When you write for other people's instructional purposes you have to be very clear, concise, and organized. I've been teaching for 20 years and the amount of editing that goes into the handouts I create for my students is monumental. Writing step-by-step pet care instructions for 2 dogs, a cockatiel, 2 tortoises and 3 box turtles to make sure they are user-friendly and ensures that none of the animals die from want of care also requires review and revision. This writing off the top of my head stuff, with a minimal of editing or the benefit of time to let ideas simmer and mature...it's tough. Not to mention scary.
I was pleasantly surprised with my first attempt. I utilized the requisite 3 words and went just slightly over the allotted 8 minute time frame. In addition, I was happy with the characterization and the development of a plot with future potential. Not too bad for a greenhorn. But the problem with Flash Fic? There's always another round.
The 3 words for the second round were submitted by yours truly; I selected words that popped into my head during a shower: grin, spice and arrogant. Why these words would come to me in a shower is best left to the imagination. I refuse to self-analyze too deeply. Well, I have just completed my second installment and found to my dismay that it was even more challenging to write than the first. That's because I was too proud of my first attempt and have now set a personal standard that will forever need to be met or beaten. I have upped my own ante. And it's only the second round...
I have not written for pure, creative pleasure for years. All my writing is teaching-related, emails or instructions to the family for animal care when I am off on business trips. When you write for other people's instructional purposes you have to be very clear, concise, and organized. I've been teaching for 20 years and the amount of editing that goes into the handouts I create for my students is monumental. Writing step-by-step pet care instructions for 2 dogs, a cockatiel, 2 tortoises and 3 box turtles to make sure they are user-friendly and ensures that none of the animals die from want of care also requires review and revision. This writing off the top of my head stuff, with a minimal of editing or the benefit of time to let ideas simmer and mature...it's tough. Not to mention scary.
I was pleasantly surprised with my first attempt. I utilized the requisite 3 words and went just slightly over the allotted 8 minute time frame. In addition, I was happy with the characterization and the development of a plot with future potential. Not too bad for a greenhorn. But the problem with Flash Fic? There's always another round.
The 3 words for the second round were submitted by yours truly; I selected words that popped into my head during a shower: grin, spice and arrogant. Why these words would come to me in a shower is best left to the imagination. I refuse to self-analyze too deeply. Well, I have just completed my second installment and found to my dismay that it was even more challenging to write than the first. That's because I was too proud of my first attempt and have now set a personal standard that will forever need to be met or beaten. I have upped my own ante. And it's only the second round...
Thursday, October 21, 2010
In the beginning...
...Judy created this blog. Not because she had nothing better to do with her spare time but because she had things to say and needed a place to say it. Reading this blog is purely optional. Writing it is turning out not to be. Stay tuned and you'll get my opinion off the top of my head and always, straight from the hip.
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