A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm!

Live From the Third (or Fourth?) Circle of Hell

The house?  Quiet.

The baby?  Asleep, quietly snoring with a little wheezy feedback (he's been a little sick).

The mixer?  Here!  In gleaming red, ready to quite literally whisk me and my choice of ingredients away in a lovely adventure wherein I pack on more pounds and enjoy it until I weigh myself.

(I must add that I didn't pay the price on the site, but a far more delightful one-- who knew Amazon had kickass deals?!)

The recipe to officially break in this appliance?  Aye.  There's the rub.

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Ever since my cells' genetic information decided to start screaming at me about wanting to be a domestic deity and creating perfect cakes and cookies and possibly brioche --or at least simperingly AND whimperingly aspiring to do so-- I have wanted to have a KitchenAid mixer.

A KitchenAid mixer, I would tell myself, would solve all the problems of mankind.  Or at least would solve the problem of my developing tennis elbow whenever I decide to make something that requires stiff peaks.

For some reason, things acquire larger-than-life attributes in our minds; and ever since seeing my step-sister
obtaining her own gleaming, look-at-me-I'm-so-grown-up KitchenAid, I figured that the day I secured mine would be the day my kitchen would transform itself into a palace of culinary competence and cornucopian abundance.

That day came yesterday, as my Mother's Day present from Monsieur and Herr Meow arrived early. 

My kitchen has not gone Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo.

It hasn't even moved.

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But my mind has been racing.  Was it just frivolity, then, that led me to ask for a KitchenAid for Mother's Day?

Am I just one more dastardly consumerist searching to fill a void that deepens with every wretched interaction in this growing, festering sore we call life?  A chasm so large that the leaden weight of the KitchenAid stand (I'm guessing about 8 lbs) only pushes it farther in, threatening to create a black hole where my soul used to be? 

Okay, maybe a little.

And since it is a little unsettling to realize that one's new mixer is creating a level of hell in one's soul solely by weight (not volume), I decided to run to someone whose soul had already explored the vast depths of consumerist hell: one of my most beloved gurus, Craig Claiborne. (he deserves a post of his own sometime soon)

To The New York Times Cookbook!

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One word:  poundcake. 

Technically that's two words.  But oh.... POUNDCAKE!

In my opinion, there is no better, richer, or fluffier cake when done right.  And to do it right, you have to whip the crap out of it to allow more air.

Never in my life have I felt so fulfilled with so little... relatively speaking.

But so yes.  Welcome back, me, and all that good stuff.  And I'll let you know how it turns out, okay?

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Oh hey, you guys?  Faithful readers?  I have a question for you guys.  Would you buy things from me?  Would you visit my Etsy shop, were I to start one?  Thoughts?  Comments?  Shall I start up a poll?

Oks-- happy HumpDay!

All Things Seem Possible in May (Even a Little Rest)

Now that there is no NaBloPoMo for me, I am feeling a little naked and more than a bit aimless.  It's nice to have one's work cut out for one: much like wearing an uniform, somehow the identity takes a backseat and the mentality shifts into other pursuits.

I do realize that NaBloPoMo continues in May-- the theme this month is Voices, if any of you fellow bloggers are so inclined (and I also realize some of you brave and prolific souls do Blog365, which sounds like a great project as well).  But thirty days in a row is a fine endeavor as far as I'm concerned.  I feel accomplished and I need a little rest-- a longish weekend.

Also, I imagine some of you also need a break of my daily blogging, right?  You've stuck it out for thirty days-- I think you need to chill out, put up your feet, and use the time you've dedicated to reading my humble little musings to drink up whatever you want.  In honor of Cinco de Mayo I'd highly recommend a Margarita, but you can pick whatever you want whether alcoholic or not.

Cheers to you all and I'll see you back here on May 5th or 6th!

"H" is for Ho-Hum

When you're single and dreaming of white knights and wine and roses and endless nights of song and dance and perfect hair but instead crawl into bed with the beginnings of a hangover and lament your bad dating luck and misery of the single life, at least you know the bed belongs to YOU.

So, bereft of someone to love you and snuggle you, you take revenge upon the space you've carefully assigned in your mind to another and splay out as far and wide as you can get and cackle filled with glee and say something childish that amounts to, "AT LEAST MY BED IS MINE, ALL MINE, HA!"

And you sob a little, but you sleep the sleep of the hungover dead comfortably alone in your bed.

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And then you fast-forward a few years and several things happen:

1. You discover that sleeping with another person, beyond the stage of sucking in your stomach and posing in bed and pretending that your large intestine harbors no gas, is actually kind of inconvenient and not truly conducive to restful sleep.

2. You discover that sleeping with a boyfriend and later a husband AND a cat is not what is pictured in cartoons and cutesy photographs and books and your mind, but it's actually like sleeping with a large radiator and a tiny radiator with claws, both of whom happen to be bed and cover hogs.

3. You discover that sleep as you know it is dead.

You also make more horrible discoveries that turn into funny stories as motherhood takes its toll, but I'm not here to talk about that.

I'm here to talk about the husband.  Because, you see, even if sleep as you know it is no longer even on the table, sleeping with another person becomes a fun and snuggly endeavor all its own-- but it sure does take time.

And once it's taken time and you manage to find the crook of a foot in the middle of the night; or manage to know whether to start a 3 am conversation just by the rate of his breathing; and to know that you can count on your bigger radiator to have the bed toasty warm in winter; and to know that if there is a freaky noise you can always wake up "the man"; once all that is in place and he has to go and be somewhere else and you get the bed again and you splay out as much as possible so that your limbs reach all four corners of the mattress until the angle is uncomfortable enough to convince you that, yes, you have the bed to yourself again and aren't you lucky, then you miss the warmth and the foot and the breathing and the 50-75% reduction in sleeping space and/or covers.

And that's why tonight is ho-hum.

"C" is for Chinese Food

I mostly like cooking dinner.  It's the one time of day where your creative endeavors have to bear fruit-- lest you go without an actual dinner and resort to scooping up peanut butter with saltine crackers or having a potato-chip-and-air sandwich.

It's an often humble endeavor-- sometimes it's just some pasta and a salad.  Sometimes it's chicken soup.  Sometimes it's a cup of soup and a sandwich, or a bowl of chili.

Sometimes it's grandiose and elaborate-- and usually appallingly deviant from the original recipe, because while I keep the house well stocked (yes, I have yellow and white corn meal; I have corn starch AND cassava starch; AND I have four different types of rice as of today, April 3rd), the recipe I pick always has something so basic, I forget it in the shuffle.

Case in point: the other day I made Sloppy Joes and instead of the plain yellow mustard, I had to substitute for the dijon-- it was either that or honey dijon mustard or the one with mustard seeds in it.  Which, I have to say, gave the sauce a depth previously nonexistent in the confines of "SloppyJoeness."

Yes: I have three other types of mustard, none of which happens to be the regular one that is so good I could eat it with a spoon.

(probably because I ate the last bits of it with a spoon, come to think of it)

I'd like to believe that what I cook it's often tasty.  Well, at least I like it and things don't sit there, forlorn and turning mushy quickly -- as well as further inedible.

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But sometimes, there is nothing like Chinese food.

And really, that's it.  Some days are dark, wet, dreary and you don't have enough in your fridge to make dinner and there is nothing quite like the savory and greasy bouquet of some kung pao chicken and some lo mein.

And some wonton soup.

And some egg rolls.

And some moo shu chicken. And moo shu pork.  And orange chicken.  And almond chicken.  And northern style veggies.  And that nest thing.  And anything coated in plum sauce.

And definitely, my favorite: sweet and sour pork.

I need a moment of silence in honor of all the delicious Chinese food I've ever consumed.

And I need a Tums.

No Wolf, Just Peachy

Sometimes, I just feel like sharing something good and nice and wholesome.

This life is filled with way too many things that make us scream and rail and, to use a scientific term, make us lose our shit.

But this is something nice:

Pretty Roma tomatoes, homegrown parsley, salt, pepper, balsamic vinegar, olive oil.

Feast your eyes; feast your mouth; enjoy; smile.

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Pee Ess: About the title-- Solanum lycopersicum (or Lycopersicon esculentum) is the binomial name of the tomato.  "Lycopersicum"  means "wolf's peach" because people thought tomatoes were evil. 

Silly silly primitive people.

Celebrating by Blogging Under the Cotton Sheets (Made in China?)

So I've been wondering how to properly reflect on the fact that we've been living here for two years now, and the only way I could really put it into any kind of tangible concept for myself was thusly:

I don't feature Herr Meow on here very often (bit paranoid, go figure), but today's pictures are here to illustrate a point:

March 25th, 2008-- Herr Meow by a sunny window, with a friend.

March 25th, 2006-- Herr Meow by a sunny window, with a carseat.

The picture above was taken the morning after we arrived in DC, after surviving the scariest cab ride ever and a long, long pilgrimage to our future home.

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Two years don't seem like much until you see what it all means to a little baby: someone who really has known nothing other than DC in his little (semi) conscious lifetime.

Two years in DC-- and it's been good.

Dr. Ecologically-Sound and Mr. Clean

Oh yeah.  I was supposed to blog.

But after a whole day of... let's just call them "toilet training adventures", I'm quite whipped and feeling bereft of something.

Something I like to call, "the ability to look upon a surface and wonder if it's been touched by a small bottom with the taint of poop about his cheeks."

Let's just say that my hands ache a little from all the cleaning and washing and scrubbing and  washing again.

And let's just say that despite my greenest of efforts, I might have caused an ozone hole right above my house today.  There is just something about poop that makes me lose all the faith I could ever muster up for eco-friendly products.  Plant-based botanicals?  Screw that: give me quaternary aluminum and as much caustic crap as you can muster, STAT.

In case you haven't yet figured it out, I am a little paranoid at times, with a delightful hypocritical chewy center.  Bad, bad me.

And now, if you'll pardon me, I'm off to sleepytime and to rub in some vegan hand lotion, in hopes that it will take away the sins of the day.

Me, Myself, I Brew The Beer

I haven't fully addressed the changes in layout, but yes: there have been several.  I have a friend who tells me I have to keep things minimal and be true to my art.

But this friend needs to realize that blogging, while fun, rewarding, relatively low in doucheness, and creative outlet that it is, also needs certain things to survive.

Certain garish, I'm-listed-on-such-and-such a thingy type of things that --unless you're an accomplished web designer-- are going to look at least a wee bit cluttered.

But anyway-- yes.  I have three columns still but now both are pushed to the far right in every way except core beliefs.  I tried to put as much graphic-related stuff in the far right one.  So, how's it lookin'?  Does it take forever to load?  Is it cleaner?  Easier to navigate?  Do tell.

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Today?

Not so many words, but a few action shots of Monsieur Meow's latest Enterprise of Oomph:  making beer!!

That's right: we're having an urban boho moment of sorts, listening to some Afro-Caribbean discoey jazzy thing, chillin' out after having made yeast into more than just fun-guys, and with cute baby sitting back and eating "appoh" --or "maZAHna!" when he's feeling ambitious.

Feel free to barf, although you are warned: the beer actually  came out pretty good.

Behold a few Meowhold scenes:

This blurry picture should remind you of the moon, yet should fill you with a bit of nauseated revulsion.  It smelled like beer and felt like mud.  It was awesome.

This, kids, was the yeasty sediment that was at the bottom of the brewing barrel.  Yummy.

To be honest, this was a strange process to behold.  One of the things that kept going through my mind is the fact that somehow someone had to spit into ancient barrels of grain or something, so that yeasties would sprout up and do their thing.

Ew.

And that would be a spigot, chiding that when it points to the right, it is, in fact, closed.

Which, funny enough, seems to be kind of a theme for today.

Anyhoo.... yes.  That's a funny little plastic spigot and it was very useful and handy and whatnot except for when we got to the last inch and a half of liquid.  Then it was pretty useless.

Aren't you glad you now know this fact?

Ah.

The beauty of bottling.

I'm telling you-- it was fun.
Do you like my mediocre action shot?  I like it.

We filled forty-five bottles.  My fingers are beer-pruny.  Should I be worried about my hands being intoxicated?

What about the counter?  Many droplets of beer met an untimely demise and brave comrades were lost.  I would have licked the counter, but I didn't.

These are the things I might later regret disclosing, huh?

And finally, the bottles answer to a Higher Authority, thus having much in common with Hebrew National hot dogs, which oddly enough sound really good about now, even though I had quite a filling dinner.

Nothing fancy, no.  Just pasta and sauce and meatballs and salad, really, -- simple stuff.  But yummy and filling, yes.

Oooh.  Beer.

Don't they look like they are holy bottles, somehow?  Humor me.
And now off to two or so weeks of r&r for these beauties, while the carbonation kicks in and it really fully tastes as sparkly as the beer we all know and love.  Wooo!

There you have it: BEER.

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This blog post probably knocked a couple points off your IQ score but seriously-- you my dear readers can spare a few points.  Britney Spears?  Not so much.

Auf wiedersehen.  I shall fade to the sound of polka tonight.

Pretty (Sleepy) Woman

Even if the looming threat of missing a day of NaBloPoMo weren't looming large above my head, I would still find it hard to write right now.  I have a pounding headache and my feet are cold and I'm watching "Pretty Woman" and I need a pedicure.

There. I've whined.

But seriously.... it's hard to think sometimes, with all this posting all the time thingy. 

I'd better win a prize for all this martyrdom or something.

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Honestly, I must say that the whole prize thing makes it fun but a little weird.

I mean, blogging is something to do for fun... and you get prizes?  I honestly don't think I'm doing a good job of explaining this.  It could be the sirens blaring or it could be the Gere-Roberts pillow talk making me all mushy-hearted and misty-eyed.

Julia Roberts is not pretty, but she is charming.

Richard Gere, on the other hand, is quite foxy.  Let it be known that he and his slightly poufed hair are so very dreamy.

Ah, the red dress.  Classic.

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But a red dress does not a redress make.  That's my pun for the night.

Mmm... sleep.

Nighty-night bloggies; nighty-night BloPos; nighty-night fellow bloggers who were so fun and loud and racuous the other night.  It was lovely to meet you all (even if I had to leave early).

Sleep.

("You LOVE him?")

You Can Come Again Anytime

I am here to tell you two things.  One is shorter and it requires that you click a link (so please do).  The other is longer. Here we go.

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Let us not kid ourselves.

You want a good book to read and gift, and that book is The Daring Book For Girls. So you should go read my review of it at Zen Sarcasm Reviews to know more about it.  Especially because there is much handmade goodness in there and we all now know how I'm all for handmade goodness.

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Ok.  I'm done with that.
The other thing I needed to tell you about?  I love the rain.

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I grew up in a place where it rains about 180 out of 365 days of the year.  That is quite literally half the year's worth of rain, so I guess something must snap inside a person after so much rain-soaked being and so many days of seeing it come down and sideways and upside down and, to quote Forrest Gump, "rain that flew in sideways. And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath."

So I like the rain.  I don't mind driving in most kinds of rain.  I don't really mind walking in it, either --maybe at some point in time I did, but not anymore (partly because I have some shockingly-unstylish-yet-ironically-stylish wellies that keep me warm and let me skip across puddles). 

In Hawaii, where rain seems to come out of nowhere, unannounced and like a thief in the night --even in the middle of the day-- you have to get used to the rain but somehow cannot.  Or at least most of the locals cannot, and there are all manner of silly fender-benders on every rainy day.

But the rain also means a break in the mosquitoes and a day of not having to worry about keeping the windows open --even for a little while.  The rain means a cool and calm day, and what could be better than breaking out the sweaters when it hits 70?

Over here in the mainland, the rain seems to irritate most people.  But woe to us all if people don't have enough water to lawn their delicate lawns or have their water glasses filled to oblivion as they sit there, gathering condensation, right?

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Today's rain was wonderful; crisp, cleansing and cold, and very reminiscent of cold páramo (subpáramo?) rain. 

Herr Meow's little rain boots --even though they are on the big side for his feet (note to self: shoes labeled with S, M or L are not reliable sizewise even if they claim they'll fit two year old feet)-- kept him dry and allowed him to jump on the puddles and smile gleefully every time a little splish-splash was heard.

Sometimes that's all you need.