Things I have encountered this week that I would like to share. (Part III)

Back when my blog was on MySpace * (not to mention, back when I actually blogged...) I would occasionally throw a list of cool stuff up with the title Things I have encountered this week that I would like to share. I'm pretty sure I had a bunch of them, but it looks like I only transferred two over here. It was basically a way for me to say "Hey! Look at this stuff, it's pretty cool."

It's been about a year and a half since I last posted on this blog, and almost eight years since I last posted one of these. So I have no idea why the idea of doing another one popped into my head tonight. But first I thought, "Hey, this is a great book! Everybody should read this book." And then I thought, "Hey, these are great pickles. Everybody should eat these pickles." And here we are.

So here are the things I think you should try. You know you want to.

The Sisters: The Saga of the Mitford Family by Mary S. Lovell

This was on my to-read list before Deborah Mitford died in September, but it did move up the list considerably because of it. (Warning: the link leads to her obituary, which I suppose you could view as a spoiler for the book, because it details the most memorable events of a family that specialized in memorable events.)

The book is well-written. The family is fascinating. I knew the broad strokes: two sisters were Nazis, one was a communist. There were affairs and elopements and imprisonment and best-selling authors. Everyone did outrageous things--some things that were outrageous only by the standards of the time, but others that would be outrageous today as well. My favorite line from the book (so far) quotes their mother as saying, "Whenever I see a headline beginning with 'Peer's Daughter' I know one of you children has been in trouble."

The family itself is incredibly compelling, but the thing that I'm finding absolutely fascinating is to read about the family's interactions with Hitler while also knowing how that story ends. I'm about halfway through the book. World War II has not yet started. And these women--who are cousins of Winston Churchill's--are having tea with Adolf Hitler and talking to him about the nutritional values of bread. (seriously.)

Most people hear the name Hitler and immediately think "monster," for the very reasonable reason that he was clearly a monster. But it's easy to forget that people didn't always know that, that some people of the time--both inside and outside Germany--agreed with him, and that he was reportedly a fairly charismatic person, particularly during speeches. Reading about people interacting with him as a normal human being is jarring, to say the least. But because I know what happens next, I'm fascinated to see it through that lens--and how they react as the situation changes.

In short, this was a family of deeply flawed, but wildly interesting people. Lovell has done a great job of making the reader care about them, even when they're doing reprehensible things.

Shorter version: Read this book.

Lancaster Pickle Company Horseradish Pickles

When we walked into Central Market on Saturday, my sister said that she wanted to buy some pickles. So I followed her over to the Lancaster Pickle Company stand. And after I spent awhile chowing down on their free samples, I felt like I really needed to buy something, so I bought a pint of their horseradish pickles. And--don't get me wrong, they were good--I just assumed that I'd bring them home, stick them in my refrigerator, then find them behind the leftovers in three months and throw them away. When I think "snack," I don't usually think "pickles," so I figured I'd forget about them.

The first time I took them out of the refrigerator, it was Sunday afternoon, I'd been away for three days and I hadn't been to the grocery store yet. I didn't have a lot of snack options. But the second, third and fourth time...look, these are really good pickles. And therein lies my problem. The pickles are half gone. And I can't get any more until I go back to Pennsylvania. And I can't stop eating them. It's tragic, really.

So if you live near York (or, presumably, Lancaster) go get some pickles. But don't tell me about it, because jealousy stinks.

* Writing this sentence made me feel SO. OLD.

In which my crafty side comes out.

A couple of years ago, my parents bought me a die cutter for Christmas. I asked for it because it would be useful at work--I can't tell you how often I need to cut out some random shape like a train for a lesson or a bulletin board. I got a Silhouette, because it doesn't require buying expensive cartridges--you just buy individual designs for $.99 each.

I've used it sporadically, but not for anything particularly interesting. Then my friend Jackie got pregnant, and I lost my mind.

Several of us were planning Jackie's baby shower, and I volunteered to do the invitations. Any normal (sane) person would have gone to Target and bought a couple of packages of invitations, but I decided to try to make them. ...And, they were adorable.

They weren't difficult--I bought the complete pattern from Silhouette's website--but they were time-consuming to put together. In fact, when Jackie first saw them, she said to her husband, "Are you sure Kate made that? She doesn't have time to do that. She has a life!" But I did it, and I was ridiculously proud of myself. 

So, when someone needed to make the favors, I was nominated with the statement, "Well, you're so crafty, Kate..." which is flattering if totally untrue. But I was excited to do it, and in true me form left it till the last minute. I had a concept: small jar with candy and a tag of some sort, but no real ideas of how to make it work.

But work it did.

The jars were from World Market, which is an unbelievably awesome store. They were only $.99 each,  (though on the website you can only buy them in sets of 6) and I was looking for something that could potentially be useful to people in the future. There's nothing I hate more than people giving me useless crap, and these jars are the perfect size for any number of applications in the kitchen, and plenty of other places besides.

The ribbon was from Michaels (or possibly AC Moore? I went to both in a period of a couple days, and I don't remember.) and I bought the Jelly Bellies at Candy World at Arundel Mills.

The tags are double-sided--I used the onesie pattern from the card to create one side, then a simple label and date on the other. I used the Silhouette to cut out the circles, but it would have probably been far easier to just use a circle punch. I didn't have one with me since I waited till the last minute, but I actually have two at work for random projects. I have to cut out a surprising number of circles in my everyday life.

I made extra tags for the prize bags, though I had nothing to do with the games or prizes themselves.

And finally, I used a bigger version of the onesie pattern to make some decorations. It's hard to see in the pictures, but there are tiny (too tiny!) little clothespins on each onesie. They're taped onto the twine--the clothespins are just for show. Next time I'll use slightly bigger ones.

I actually had a ton of fun with this. Maybe one day I'll be that person who throws the perfectly coordinated theme parties or has the unique handmade invitations. Or...most likely not. But I'd love to do this again. It gave me a creative outlet that I don't usually have.

The Culinary Adventures of Brian and Kate: Creamed Chipped Beef

It all started with the chicken pot pie.

Last fall, my friend Brian and I went to Colonel Brooks Tavern the week before it closed. In the course of our conversation, we began rhapsodizing about Pennsylvania Dutch chicken pot pie. (Spoiler: unless you have lived in PA Dutch country, this is not anything like what you think it is. More on that another day.) Both of us spent some of our formative years living in central Pennsylvania--in fact, our parents only live about 45 minutes apart--and both of us really miss this dish.

We started talking about all kinds of dishes we remembered from our childhoods, and just like that a project was born.

We badgered our parents and grandparents for ideas and recipes...and ran into problem number one, which was that none of these people cook with recipes. But we persevered. Armed with ingredients and a sketchy outline of a recipe, we embarked on our first culinary adventure: creamed chipped beef.

This meal basically defines my childhood memories of my grandparents' house. Grandma was Southern, and she cooked like it. Every single thing she made was absolutely delicious and absolutely terrible for you. She could just throw ingredients into a dish and make it amazing. She started taking a few shortcuts as she got older, but when my mother was young she remembers that Grandma always made everything from scratch-nothing out of a box, a bag or a can.

Weekend mornings at Grandma's house always meant a huge breakfast, and more often than not, creamed chipped beef was on the menu. As I got older, she started to modify the recipe to accommodate the vegetarians and vegans in the family (Grandma could veganize a recipe like nobody's business) but what I wanted to make was the original recipe. Grandma died a few months before we started our project, so ironically it was my mom, a vegan, who walked us through making it.

And really, how can you go wrong with a recipe whose first instruction is to fry a pound of bacon? You don't need the bacon itself, although it's bacon. It'll get eaten. What you really need is the bacon grease. (You can also use olive oil--that's how my mom does it. But it's not nearly as delicious.) We made this in a cast-iron skillet that originally belonged to my grandmother, which I thought was a nice touch. She cooked everything in those things.

Once you've finished the bacon, remove it from the pan, leaving the grease. Slowly add flour to form a roux. Here, we ran into the first problem, which was that my mom's instruction was to make sure the roux was very brown but not burned. I wish I was kidding when I say there were at least three phone calls to mom to clarify details during this recipe, and the first one had to do with how brown very brown is.

So, roux. Very brown. Rip the chipped beef into small pieces and add them to the pan. Continue to brown.

In a measuring cup, combine water and milk at a ratio of 2/3 milk to 1/3 water. (I use soy milk, because ugh, lactose. Brian swore this was sacrilege. He's probably right.) Slowly add the mixture to the skillet, stirring constantly. You want to cook this down to get rid of the flour taste, and the nice thing is you can cook it down over and over again if you screw something up. This is the hardest part for me to describe, and the hardest for us to figure out on our own. You don't want it to be too runny, and you don't want it too thick, and you don't want it to taste like flour. 

That's it. Serve it over biscuits or toast; I neglected to take a picture of the assembled dish, but that's ok because my biscuits turned out to be freaks of nature. Serve with the aforementioned bacon, if any has survived to the end of the process. (Not likely.)

Brian, being Brian.

This was a tough one for me, because it wasn't like Grandma's. But then, nobody cooks like Grandma. Even my mom's chipped beef isn't quite the same, and she's been making it for ages though she now makes it vegan, which isn't nearly as good. (For the record, to veganize this dish, use olive oil instead of bacon fat, use soy milk instead of regular milk, and omit the chipped beef.)

It was a passable attempt, but like anything else I'll get better at it as I make it more often. (Not that often. My arteries can't handle it.) I'll probably never make it as good as Grandma's was, but I should be able to match my mom's.

My rating: 3 out of 5 stars. We could have used cooking it down a little bit more, but this was a close enough facsimile to make me happy, and a good base to work on to make it better.

Brian's rating: 3 out of 5 stars.

Book Log 2013 - The Year So Far

This year, the one resolution that I've been able to keep has been to keep a list of all of the books I read. I've always been curious about how much I actually read in a year, so I decided to find out. Earlier tonight, I tweeted that I have read 54 books so far this year, at an average rate of one book every 1.9 days. A couple of people asked me what I've been reading, so I figured I'd post it here. I have to admit, this list makes my tastes look somewhat less than sophisticated, but so be it. I'm enjoying myself. ...and my new Kindle. (Thanks, Mom!)

A few notes: This list includes children's and young adult novels that I've read, but not picture books. #6, #7 and #36 are for elementary school kids. #2 and #27 are for high school, more or less. (In reality, #2 is for no one. It was the most nauseatingly terrible piece of trash I've ever inflicted on myself.)

Also, I included a couple of novellas that I read. Cheating? Perhaps. But even without them, I've read 51.

January

1. Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese
2. The Vampire Diaries: The Return, Volume I - L.J. Smith
3. Storm Front - Jim Butcher
4. Naked Heat - Richard Castle
5. Heat Rises - Richard Castle
6. Benjamin Franklinstein Lives! - Matthew McElligott
7. The Expeditioners and the Treasure of Drowned Man’s Canyon - S.S. Taylor
8. Inside Scientology: The Story of America’s Most Secretive Religion - Janet Reitman
9. Fool Moon - Jim Butcher
10. The Custom of the Army (Novella) - Diana Gabaldon
11. A Leaf on the Wind of All Hallows (Novella) - Diana Gabaldon
12. Club Dead - Charlaine Harris
13. Dead to the World - Charlaine Harris
14. Dead as a Doornail - Charlaine Harris
15. Definitely Dead - Charlaine Harris
16. All Together Dead - Charlaine Harris
17. From Dead to Worse - Charlaine Harris
18. Dead and Gone - Charlaine Harris
19. Dead Reckoning - Charlaine Harris

February

20. Deadlocked - Charlaine Harris
21. A Touch of Dead - Charlaine Harris
22. Jesus Freaks - Don Lattin
23. Frozen Heat - Richard Castle
24. Baltimore Blues - Laura Lippman
25. Grave Peril - Jim Butcher
26. Mormon America - Richard Ostling and Joan Ostling
27. How to Lead a Life of Crime - Kirsten Miller
28. Summer Knight - Jim Butcher

March

29. Death Masks - Jim Butcher
30. Blood Rites - Jim Butcher
31. The Surgeon - Tess Gerritsen
32. The Apprentice - Tess Gerritsen
33. Memories of the Future: Volume 1 - Wil Wheaton
34. Dead Beat - Jim Butcher
35. In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror and an American Family in Hitler’s Berlin - Erik Larson
36. Fourth Grade Rats - Jerry Spinelli
37. Irish History for Dummies - Mike Cronin
38. The Sinner - Tess Gerritsen
39. Body Double - Tess Gerritsen
40. Vanish - Tess Gerritsen
41. The Mephisto Club - Tess Gerritsen
42. The Keepsake - Tess Gerritsen
43. Ice Cold - Tess Gerritsen
44. The Silent Girl - Tess Gerritsen
45. Last to Die - Tess Gerritsen

April

46. Happier at Home: Kiss More, Jump More, Abandon a Project, Read Samuel Johnson, and My Other Experiments in the Practice of Everyday Life - Gretchen Rubin
47. Proven Guilty - Jim Butcher
48. White Night - Jim Butcher
49. A Brewing Storm (novella) - Richard Castle
50. Small Favor - Jim Butcher
51. Turn Coat - Jim Butcher
52. Changes - Jim Butcher
53. Ghost Story - Jim Butcher
54. Cold Days - Jim Butcher

On Social Awkwardness.

I took a class today at a museum. It was a teacher education class about teaching using the museum's resources, and everything was going along swimmingly until I heard "This is Lisa, our drama expert. We're going to be doing some theatre exercises!"

It was about then that I started looking around for the bathroom.

I've had the same conversation a couple of different times in the past few months. I make some comment about being socially awkward. The person I'm talking to looks at me oddly. "You're not socially awkward at all," they say. "You're good with people."

Ha. No. No, I'm not.

Let me be clear-I am not in general an anxious person. My social anxiety comes out in very specific circumstances only. All of these people who have told me with no doubt that I'm not socially awkward are people who I'm not awkward around. They're family members, close friends, coworkers--in some cases, people I've known my whole life. They've either never seen me in those situations, or they've not noticed what was going on when they did.

And, even at its worst, it's mostly internal. A sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. An inability to figure out what to do with my hands. A fake "Nothing wrong over here!" smile. And the voice in my head screaming "Get out! Get out!" That's usually when I hide in the bathroom.

This, by the way, is my reaction to being at some sort of social event where I either don't know anyone, or the people I do know are otherwise engaged. That, more than anything else, triggers a flight response in me. It's not having a purpose that does it, I think. If I know someone there, my purpose is to talk to them. If I have a job or task, my purpose is to complete it. Standing around with nothing to do in a social setting freaks me out. I can hide it--I'm fairly good at appearing fine even when I'm absolutely not--but that doesn't change the fact that internally, I'm a mess.

Over the years, I've learned some solid rules for coping:
1. Don't go somewhere where I don't know anybody.
2. The corollary: Don't go somewhere where I only know one person and they're going to be busy.
3. Don't sign up for any sort of volunteer activity that requires approaching and/or calling people I don't know.
4. Don't stand out. If every other person in the room is in Renaissance Faire garb, by God, put on a bodice.
5. Don't perform an ambush setup. I have enough trouble acting normal under the best of circumstances. Figuring out that you invited Dave from Accounting because we'd be perfect together is not the best of circumstances.
6. Don't put myself in situations that violate rules 1-5 because I think that's what I should want to do.

There are some surprising things about this. I'm fine one on one. First dates, blind dates, job interviews--they don't stress me out any more than they do other people, I think. I call my students' parents whenever necessary. I'm usually fine in small groups. Public speaking doesn't bother me. In fact, I'm quite good at it, even if I have no prep time whatsoever. Any situation where I'm in a position of power--for instance, people coming into my library at work, or when I'm teaching someone how to do something--is fine. In fact, it's pretty rare that I have any work-related social anxiety at all. And none of this applies if I'm dealing with kids. They don't bother me.

So, the theatre exercises. The problem here is that any time I'm asked to do something that I think is ridiculous, I am extremely uncomfortable. Even if everyone else in the room is doing it, I feel ridiculous, and therefore awkward.* I'm not dramatic. I never know what to do when any sort of improvisation is called for. But I put on my big girl panties, pretended I was an 8-track cassette, and had a conversation in character with someone pretending to be a WWII-era Victory Garden cookbook. I did what I had to do. But do you know what I'm not going to do? I'm not using this technique in my library. Not only does it make me feel ridiculous, but I can guarantee that I have at least a couple of socially awkward kids in each of my classes, and there's no way that I'm going to do this to them.

* This goes double for roleplaying. No, I would NOT like to practice what I'm going to say when I call little Suzy's mother. I'm just going to call her. No, I would NOT like to wait on you like you're a customer. You're not a customer. I know that, you know that, and we both know that you know the menu better than I do.

...Perhaps there IS such a thing as too many books.

I've been writing my book review column for a couple of months now, and I have to tell you it feels a little like Christmas morning every time I come home and find a box or an envelope from a publisher waiting by my door.

I've been assured that this feeling will pass--overwhelming is the word used most often--but right now it still feels like I'm getting little presents every once in awhile. In other news, my guest room closet is now a bookshelf.

(Not pictured: about six boxes of books that I definitely ruled out.)

Car Free in DC

DC is not New York. I like it that way. New York is a great place to visit. It's a lot of fun. But I find it overwhelming. The buildings are too tall. There are too many people. After a couple of days, it becomes too much.

DC is small. The height restrictions (which have nothing to do with the height of the Capitol, by the way) keep buildings shorter. There are a lot of people, but the sidewalks aren't ridiculously crowded. Things are closer together.

But one place New York has us beat is mass transit. It's convenient — even easy — to live car-free in New York. In DC, it's doable but more difficult. Metro, for all of its shortcomings, is a pretty decent subway system, and mastering the buses isn't too bad. But there are places even in the city that are really inconvenient to get to without a car. And the suburbs? Forget it. (Obviously, this isn't universally true, but there are wide swaths of the 'burbs that are incredibly difficult to get to by mass transit.)

I've been carless for a week. Not so long in the grand scheme of things, but enough to change my routines and habits considerably. I've been getting up earlier to catch the Metro to work. I've been walking to the grocery store and therefore buying a lot less at a time. And going anywhere outside the Beltway is pretty much off limits.

In a lot of ways, I like it. It's better in terms of willpower as far as shopping. I haven't had fast food in a week, because I can't run through the drive-thru on the way to or from work. I have to be more purposeful in my outings and plan ahead more, which is always a plus for me. And I'm getting a lot more exercise.

There are downsides, though. Thursday at work I was in desperate need of a couple of nine-volt batteries to power a cordless microphone. The closest place to buy them was a CVS a mile away, which is too far to run out at lunchtime if I'm walking. Luckily my incredibly awesome volunteer, A., hopped in her car and picked them up.

This past week I had to cancel a visit to Let's Dish in Columbia with my friend J, because getting to Columbia by bus and Metro would have taken four hours. Then, there was no information for a return trip. We rescheduled for tomorrow. I still don't have a car, so I'm renting one at a not inconsiderable expense.

I've toyed off and on with the idea of giving up my car. It's ancient, it's ugly and I will use it if I have the opportunity. Being without it has forced me to make changes that I've actually wanted to make. But at the same time I don't necessarily live a lifestyle that is conducive to not having access to a car. Of course, Zipcar is an option, and if this little experiment were going to go on longer I would have signed up for a membership, but paying the $25 application fee, the $60 annual fee and the hourly rental fee for one trip to Columbia seemed a little ridiculous.

I'm trying to make the determination as to whether or not mass transit plus Zipcar is at all reasonable and financially sensible. Since it's so old, my car doesn't cost much to insure. Before this recent spate of repairs, it's been incredibly reliable. Gas is pretty expensive, but I also don't tend to drive that far-one tank of gas almost always lasts me more than two weeks. I don't have to pay to park, and street parking is plentiful in my neighborhood.

But if the car is there, I will always sleep the extra twenty minutes instead of getting up for the bus, I will not walk as much and I will eat more crappy fast food.

I've got two more weeks to try this out. I'll let you know how it goes.

Car Talk: Part 2

When I got home to PA on Friday night, my Dad told me that he didn't think he'd be able to get my car finished that weekend. He had a couple of other projects, and he had a few things he need to do on my mom's car to make it pass inspection. Not a problem-I would take the station wagon home, he'd have plenty of time, and we'd switch back later.

He started taking my car apart Saturday morning, shortly before my mother and I left in her car to pick up my grandfather to take my grandmother to lunch. Four minutes down the road: deer. Six of them. We hit the first one, skidded across the road and ended up in a farmer's field. We were still on the phone with 911 when a young guy rolled up in a tractor. (We called 911 because the deer was not dead; by the time the officer arrived, it was.) My dad drove down in the station wagon and got Mom's car home. The police arrived and made a report; the guy in the tractor took the deer. Mom and I drove back home in the station wagon.

And here we had the first problem. Mom's car was out of commission. She would have to drive the station wagon until it was fixed. And with all of the cars my parents have around them, they had nothing to send me home in.

It's not as crazy as it sounds. Mom's car was wrecked. Dad needed his truck. The station wagon would be Mom's transportation for the time being. The Beetle hasn't worked in years. The new (to Dad) Ford truck is neither registered nor tagged yet. And Grandpa's truck...well, I've driven Grandpa's truck before.

It maneuvers like a tank. I'm up for a lot of things, but piloting that behemoth through the streets of DC is possibly a bit too much. Plus, my feet barely reach the pedals. I have to drive sitting on the edge of the seat.

When Mom and I walked into the garage, Dad looked at me and said drily, "Well, you've just moved up the priority list."

He spent the rest of the day working on my car, only to find that he didn't quite have the part that he needed. His response? "I can work something out."

An aside: My sister's girlfriend has coined the term "Chuck it up" to describe my Dad's way of fixing things. It does not mean fuck it up. On the contrary, it refers to the MacGuyver-like ability that he has to fix anything regardless of whether or not he has the tools or materials to do so. When something breaks, he's exactly the guy you want around.

By Saturday night, he was confident that I'd be able to drive my car home.

Sunday morning he was still working when my sister called. I don't think I can adequately describe the look on his face when my mom handed him the phone-even before he knew what it was. It was this mix of "Why me," and "Oh, shit."

Short story: Plumbing problem. Reeeally big plumbing problem. I got bumped.

My mom drove me home. I've been sans car all week.

I don't really mind all that much. Thoughts on that later...

To close, this is the status update my sister posted on Facebook after Dad rode to her rescue. I couldn't agree more.

Why my father has earned his nickname of Saint Chuck: After spending the weekend working on my sister's car, I called him about a problem I was having at my house and he came right over to look at it. Half an hour after he left, I looked outside and there he was helping one of my neighbors (a total stranger) fix their car. I'm sure that there are a million and one things that he wanted to do this weekend, but he's always there when you need him, whether you're family or a total stranger. Love my dad!

Car Talk: Part 1

I had the most ridiculous weekend. It was one of those weekends where you just have to laugh, because if you don't, you'll cry.

It all started with my car. Those who know me know that my cars have always been...elderly. If my car were a person, it would be old enough to vote, and it's coming up on drinking age. And what I'm going to say next is going to make me sound like a total snot, but it's true. Cars have never been either a major possession or a major purchase for me. For that, I have my father to thank.

Some people collect butterflies. Some collect baseball cards. My father collects cars. Not classic cars. Not expensive cars. Cheap, ugly, serviceable cars. And for years, we had a swap plan in place. Dad would acquire a new car. My mom got first dibs. If she didn't want it, my sister or I could have it. In return, we would give our car to Dad, and he would sell it and keep the money. If Mom did want the "new" car, her old car would be available for me or Clare.

In the sixteen years I've been driving, I have paid money for exactly one car. It was $400. I bought it from my aunt. Again, I know it makes me sound like a spoiled brat, but I've never had a car that was fewer than ten years old. And as image-conscious as I can be about certain things, that has never bothered me. (With one exception. I refuse to valet park a 1992 Camry. If I'm going somewhere with valet parking, someone else has to drive or I'll Metro it.)

Things have changed a bit. Dad no longer works for a car dealership. His access has dried up a bit. This is not to say that they're lacking for cars at my parents' house. My mom has her mini SUV, my dad has his truck. The extra car du jour is a 1993 Corolla station wagon. Dad has a Beetle (old kind, not new) that is his fun car when it's working. (Not currently.) My grandfather's ancient truck is somewhere in the mix. And Dad just bought a Ford pickup truck, as a backup when his truck, which he uses for work, finally bites the big one. But the days of the great Dad trade-in program are over.

That hit home to me just over four years ago, when my mom totaled her car on an icy November morning. I was with her, headed to the grocery store to buy supplies for Thanksgiving. A car coming around a hairpin turn had to stop suddenly, hit a patch of ice, and hit us three or four times before it was over. It was frightening, but not nearly as sobering as what happened next.

She had to go to a dealer to buy her next car.

Suddenly, a car looked like a much more daunting purchase.

Luckily, my car is a tank. I kid you not, I have lost count of the number of accidents I've been in with this car. (Not my fault. Mostly. For awhile, I seemed to have a "please rear-end me" sign on my back bumper. You'd never be able to tell by looking at it.) I hit 300,000 miles a couple of months ago and according to Dad it will probably go for another couple of years.

But, with a car this old things go wrong, and for the last several months I've had a terrible problem with the windows fogging up. If there was any moisture in the air at all it would look like a couple of teenagers were making out in the back seat. This is a problem when you're driving to work in the morning. Or anywhere else. I needed a new heater coil, so Dad told me to bring it home and he'd put a new one in. Piece of cake.

Then this weekend happened, and I ended up back home in DC without a car because he didn't have one to give me. If you don't know why that's hilarious, take another look at the list of cars my parents have.

The rest of the story tomorrow.

Metro Girl by Janet Evanovich

Several years ago, I read a book about the history of NASCAR. I couldn't tell you why I picked it up in the first place, but I found it fascinating.  I am not a fan of NASCAR, but I will admit to a certain interest in the subculture. Part of this, no doubt, can be traced to the fact that the race was always on at my parents' house when I was younger. In fact, due to my father's propensity for putting the same thing on every TV in the house so he can watch it as he putters around, it was often hard to get away from it.  

When Janet Evanovich's Metro Girl came out in 2004, I snapped it right up.  I was (and to a lesser extent still am) a big fan of her Stephanie Plum series, and I would have read just about anything she published at that point. I remember liking it, certainly well enough to buy the sequel, Motor Mouth. And now that I think about it, it might have been the impetus for my reading of the NASCAR history.    

Some time ago, I lent it to my dear friend N, who returned it to me Saturday night at her New Years Eve party. I shoved it in my bag, then was grateful to have it as the Metro was predictably slow and I got bored en route to my second event of the evening...and also on the way home. Thus, Metro Girl was my first book of the New Year.

It was...look, it was a Janet Evanovich book.  Many years ago on a message board, I described the difference between Stephanie Plum and Sue Grafton's Kinsey Millhone series thus: 

I find the Kinsey Millhone books entirely plausible--I can see the events happening. Stephanie Plum, because the books include so much comedy, is less plausible. Evanovich tends to go for the big pratfall, which is why I enjoy her books. They always make me laugh, whereas the Sue Grafton books are more no-nonsense. 

That's not just true of Stephanie Plum-the Barnaby and Hooker books are the same. There are weird coincidences and ridiculous turns of events and dramatic explosions...sometimes literally. You can't take them seriously. That's fine-I read the Plum series because they make me laugh so hard my stomach hurts-but Evanovich has patterns, and she sticks to them. She has turns of phrase that she uses over and over again. I find the more of her stuff I read at once, the more obvious and irritating it seems to me. And lately I've been reading a lot of her stuff. After I finished Metro Girl, I picked up Motor Mouth right away, but I only got about a chapter and a half into that one before I hit my saturation point.

It is not great art, but it will keep its slot on my bookshelf. It is beach reading, which is a totally valid thing to be. Plus, Sam Hooker has an obnoxious sort of charm to him. Though if I have to read about someone angling out of a car again...

Book 1 of 2012

Fantasy life

I was five years old when the Colts packed up and moved to Indianapolis in the middle of the night.  My father, like most Baltimoreans, was extremely bitter about this and switched his allegiance to whichever team was playing against the Colts at any given time.  When the Ravens came to Baltimore in '95 my dad became a Ravens fan, but for most of my childhood we weren't really a football house.  We weren't really a sports house, to be honest.

That might be why I am fairly neutral about sports.  I don't like watching sports on TV, but I enjoy going to games on occasion and usually go to a couple of baseball and hockey games each year.  Professional basketball bores me, and I have always had some weird kind of pride in the fact that I do not understand football at all.

So naturally, when I was given the opportunity to play fantasy football, I said yes.

It was a spur of the moment decision that I immediately started second guessing.  I'm a quick study but I absolutely hate not knowing what I'm doing, and believe me when I say that I had no idea.  I really hate not knowing what I'm doing when I'm among those that do know what they're doing.  I hate asking questions and being unsure and I particularly hate feeling like an idiot.

So I went into this with a certain amount of trepidation.  But then I asked a couple of questions and sort of figured out what I was doing, and then I started winning and then I asked more questions and figured out that what I had figured out was actually wrong but it was working anyway, and then I changed what I was doing and started losing, so I went back and have found a happy medium.  I've pretty consistently stayed in the top half of my league.

All of this, by the way, without ever learning how the game of football is played.  I have an okay handle on how fantasy football is played, but I have not the faintest idea of where any of these points these players keep earning for me are actually coming from.  (Perhaps I should fix that?  Volunteers?)

What is most amazing to me about this whole situation is not that I'm doing okay--though that was certainly unexpected--it's that I'm having a lot of fun.  I have a little bit of a competitive streak, and apparently this has triggered it.  I check ESPN.com almost every day, I make little tweaks to my lineup up to the last minute, I downloaded ESPN's fantasy football app onto my phone.  Maybe this is a sign that I should step out of my comfort zone a little more often, because if you had told me a couple of months ago that I'd be enjoying this this much, I would have laughed in your face.

By the way, that whole "not a football house" thing I mentioned?  Ancient history.  Sometime in the last couple of years my mother spontaneously became a huge Steelers fan, and this has triggered the mother of all football rivalries between my parents.  We're expecting my grandfather to disown her at any minute.  

Good grief.

One of my students died suddenly last week.  I don't really want to talk about it, and this isn't about him in particular, but his death is what prompted musing and conversations on the subject, so it is relevant.  Suffice it to say, I've been thinking a lot about grief lately.

My first real experience with death came when I was already an adult.  My great-grandmother and my grandfather died within about a month of each other in the winter of 2000-2001.  Mamaw died in late December.  I made the trip down to southern Virginia with my mother and grandmother for the funeral, and it was a very emotional, somber time.  There were, as you might imagine, a lot of tears.  I felt uncomfortable and out of place.

Grandpa died toward the end of January, just under a month later.  While Mamaw was my mother's grandmother, Grandpa was my dad's father.  I'm not going to mince words here: Grandpa's wake was like a party.

I don't mean that in a disrespectful way, though there were certainly conversations going on that some might have considered disrespectful.  If there was a funny and/or ridiculous thing that Grandpa did at any time during his ninety-some years of life, we made fun of him for it.  There were some isolated outbreaks of tears, but most often they were tears of laughter.

My mother and my sister were aghast.  I was accused at least once of not caring that Grandpa was dead.  The word Vulcan may have been used.  And I determined that my way of grieving might be weird, but it was weird in exactly the same way as my father's whole family.  By the time my paternal grandmother died a few years later, my mother had accepted the fact that we were not actually unfeeling, terrible people, even if we did seem so sometimes.

Over the last several years, I've heard many references to stoicism in the face of grief being an Irish characteristic.  This week, as I talked with a colleague about our reactions to grief (which are similar) as well as a third colleague's, she made reference to it as well.  All three of us have extremely stereotypically Irish last names.

Is it reasonable to ascribe my reaction to a country I've spent approximately eight days in, and which my ancestors left nearly two centuries ago?  Perhaps not.  But it does make me feel a little more normal, if that's possible at a time like this.

A new addition...

I had a one-cat household for a grand total of two weeks.

Two weeks ago, my 19 year old cat, Spats, died. Putting it that way sounds wrong to me, because I made the very difficult decision to take her to the vet to be euthanized. She had, over the past several months, gotten incredibly thin and stiff. She would sit down to try to scratch herself and fall over. She got herself stuck in corners-corners that contained nothing other than herself-and howled until I would come to find her.

I second-guessed my decision right up until we arrived at the vet's office. As we waited for the doctor to arrive, I took her out of the carrier and held her, and she just laid her head on my shoulder. I held her for fifteen minutes. Those of you who knew Spats know how unusual that is. When the vet tech held her down so that the doctor could administer the sedative, she didn't even try to bite. This is a cat who was notorious among the staff at the vet's office and who had a big red flag in her file, as she had taken a chunk out of more than one overconfident staff member. Her behavior that day confirmed that I had done the right thing. For her to have acted the way she did, she must have felt terrible.

Spats, in younger years.

I got Spats when I was thirteen years old.  She had been part of my life longer than she hadn't.  And while she was all kinds of irritating in the last few months of her life, I miss her.  A lot.

I had a vague thought that I would get another cat at some indeterminate point in the future.  My other cat, Alfie, while absolutely adorable is also a bit of a bully.  He did not seem to notice nor care that Spats was gone, and he didn't show any signs of wanting to have a friend.

Alfie, being adorable.

Alfie, up close.

So, we were all set.  I had half the number of litterboxes to clean, half the amount of cat food to buy, and a slightly smaller amount of cat hair to clean up.  And then...I went home to my parents' house for the weekend.

Here is what you have to understand about my parents.  They apparently have a beacon in their front yard inviting stray animals to come and stay for awhile.  The last time my dad took one of their dogs to the vet, this was on the door of the exam room.

Their vet has a sense of humor...and possibly a new BMW.

At one point a few years ago, my parents had four dogs and three cats.  They now have only two dogs and no cats, but they kind of have a reputation for having 1) a lot of animals and 2) a lot of animals with health problems.  So it was pretty much par for the course that when I came up to visit there was a stray cat hanging out around their house.  So, when I saw the cat, my parents had the following conversation:

Mom: Go upstairs and get a can of food for him.

Dad: Grumble, grumble, if we feed him we'll stay, etc.

Mom:  Whatever.  We only have cat food because you went and bought it after he showed up.

I am as big of a sucker as my parents, apparently.  After a fairly costly vet visit (though not nearly as costly as it would have been if I had done it at home) let me introduce you to Schrödinger, who is going home with me tomorrow.

He absolutely refused to look at the camera for me.

As an aside, we knew last night that we were going to take him to the vet this morning-he has a fairly minor health issue and another issue that we thought was major but turns out to be a weird birth defect and not a problem at all-but we did not bring him into the house last night.  This morning, after my mom called to make the vet appointment, I said "Well, we have to see if we can find him first."

My dad snorted and said "He's out there with his suitcase."  There was a hilarious little hand motion that went with this, but I can't describe it with justice.

So, we are once again a two-cat household, although Alfie doesn't know that yet.  I'm predicting high drama when he finds out.

The Cookbook Project-Prosciutto and Parmesan Rolled Chicken

Let me offer this piece of advice. If you've had a shitty day at work, cook something that calls for beating the crap out of a piece of meat.


It helps. I swear.

Every couple of weeks, my friend D. and I trade off cooking for each other. Last time I was at her place, she upped the ante with a fabulous sweet potato gnocchi, so I wanted to try something a little more challenging today. Instead I did something really, really easy that looked complicated.

The recipe is from this cookbook.


I picked this up a couple of months ago at Daedalus Books. If you live in the Baltimore-Washington area and you don't know about this place, you should. You'll never leave without spending a bunch of money-but you'll walk out with so many books you won't believe it. They sell remainders, books that were sent back to the publisher, and most of their books are $5 or less. I've had to seriously limit the number of times I go there, because I have no more space on my bookshelves.

The cookbook was written by the authors of the blog Two Fat Als, and the whole idea is that people who are living on a tight budget can still afford to cook amazing food. Each recipe is broken down by cost for the entire recipe and cost per serving.

The recipe I decided to try is called Prosciutto and Parmesan Rolled Chicken, which is more or less exactly what it sounds like. It was extremely easy and extremely tasty. According to the recipe it's $5 per serving, but that doesn't take into account that I had to buy an entire package of prosciutto that I have no idea what to do with now...






I served it with roasted potatoes and acorn squash, and bread. Side note: how awesome is it that Harris Teeter sells teeny tiny loaves of bread? It's like the best thing ever for single cooks.


Two cookbooks down, 48 to go.

Veggie Pasta

When I left the house, I had every intention of ordering takeout for dinner tonight. I ran up the street to the organic market to grab a few things for tomorrow night, because my lovely friend D. is coming over for dinner. My plan was to run in, pick up two or three things, and run back out, but I saw spinach fettucini and got inspired. What I really wanted was fettucini alfredo, but milk and milk products have not been agreeing with me for some time and I wasn't really willing to suffer tonight. So, I backtracked to the produce department and picked up a couple of things.

This is my mother's recipe--I've made it several times, and it's a little different every time. It's so incredibly easy that it's not really a recipe at all.

Cut up some vegetables, put them on a cookie sheet, and spray them with Pam. I usually use a squash, a couple of peppers and a red onion.



Toss the vegetables in the oven until they're tender and brownish. While they're cooking, boil the pasta. I usually use angel hair but the spinach fettucini is what inspired this little endeavor, so I used that instead.

Drain the pasta. Add a can of Ro-Tel tomatoes (they've got jalapeno peppers in them, so they're spicy) the vegetables and whatever seasonings you want. I usually use oregano, because when I don't know what to use oregano is almost always the answer. You can be a little more creative, obviously. What you should NOT do is add red pepper flakes, because combining those with the Ro-Tel tomatoes makes you wish your tongue were detachable. I only made that mistake once.



Toss it all with olive oil. That's it. Voila-dinner.



With the pasta, I had a slice of the Brown Rice Bread I made a couple of days ago. It wasn't really the right kind of bread to serve with pasta, but it's what I had around and it actually tasted quite good with it.

In other news, this is actually the third time I've cooked this week, and I'm doing it again tomorrow. I don't really intend to turn this into a cooking blog-God knows there are other people more qualified for that-but it's making me cook more and write more, so we'll see. I am planning to blog about my cookbook project, since that will make it (slightly) more likely that I'll actually, you know, do it. Slightly.

The Cookbook Project

This is my cookbook shelf.



I counted them today, and I have 50 of them, plus a couple of years worth of Everyday Food and random other recipe magazines. I bought two of them yesterday. Out of the 50, I've cooked a recipe out of six.

Yeah, six. I buy cookbooks-I don't cook from them.

Until now.

This is my project for the summer: cook one thing from every cookbook I own. Correction: one good thing from every cookbook I own. If the recipe sucks, I have to try again. After all, if I can't find one decent recipe in a cookbook, it probably deserves to go.

My first attempt was from this book.



I haven't got a clue why I bought this in the first place. I assume that I bought it at a yard sale back when I was in the habit of buying every single cookbook I could possibly find. It was published in 1984, and it hasn't necessarily aged well. It's full of recipes for congealed salads and many other things that I have absolutely no interest in making. Because it's a cookbook written for family gatherings, all of the recipes are scaled to serve between 12 and 20 people, and I never cook for that big a crowd.

I was a little skeptical, I'll admit, but there are some really interesting recipes here. I've found several that I'd like to try, even though I'm going to have to pull out a calculator to scale them down to more reasonable quantities. The book is organized by different types of gatherings: a wedding breakfast, a bar mitzvah, a Greek New Year's dinner. One of the gatherings is for a (University of) Arkansas Tailgate Picnic. This gathering had a recipe called Razorback Roast Sandwiches, including a recipe for Brown Rice Bread. I wasn't particularly interested in making a pork roast, but the bread looked pretty good, so that's what I decided to try.

I've been looking for a good sandwich bread recipe for quite some time. The lovely Jenni sent me one that I've used quite a bit, but I've been having trouble getting it to rise the way it's supposed to (user error, I'm sure) so I wanted to try a different one.

This recipe was fantastic. The original one was for three loaves, so I cut it in half and made one slightly larger loaf.



I couldn't be happier. It was easy, it looks good, it tastes good...a perfect Sunday project.

I want to reprint the recipe here, but my little librarian heart won't let me break copyright. I've actually emailed Southern Living, who published the cookbook, to ask for permission. If they give it, I'll post an update.

Question and Answer

The first thing you need to know about my father is: If you have a question, he has an answer. The man does not know the words "I don't know." He's pretty famous for this among friends and family, which is why a few days ago as we were all in the car on the way back from my sister's girlfriend's concert, my aunt asked him why the Pigeon Hills were called the Pigeon Hills.

He immediately launched into an answer, and this is the second thing you need to know about my father: About 50% of the time, he is full of shit. If he doesn't know, he'll make it up, and he is good. On a long ago family trip, we passed a sign for a fort. Someone said "I wonder what happened at that fort." Dad launched into a five-minute lecture on the role of the fort in the Civil War and the definitive battle that was fought there, etc., etc., etc. When he was finished my mom asked "Did you see that on the History Channel?"

Dad's answer? "Nah, I just made it up."

That is the good thing-if you call him on it, he'll always admit when he's made something up. The problem is, you have to recognize that you need to call him on it-and when he's giving one of his bullshit answers, he's fairly indistinguishable from a history professor.

Years ago, when I had first started driving, I asked him why some traffic lights have those flashing lights inside the red light. He told me that it was to draw your attention, so you'd always see that the light was red. Years later, we were sitting in the car together, and Dad mused, "I wonder what those flashing lights are for." I stared at him for a moment, then gave him the same answer he'd given me. His response? "Oh, I must have been making that up. But it sounds plausible, doesn't it?" I still don't know if he was right.

So as we were in the car and Dad was giving his response to the Pigeon Hills question, I immediately challenged him. What possible reason could he have for knowing that piece of information? I was absolutely sure he was making it up. But that brings me to the final thing you need to know about my father, which is that if there is a sign or a plaque to be read, he has read it. Going to a museum with him is completely maddening, because he will read every single word that is posted anywhere. And he remembers it all. So on the one hand, when he gives an incredibly detailed answer to an obscure question, you want to think that he's making it up. Yet there's that other 50% of the time that he knows exactly what he's talking about...and he can almost always cite his source.

In this case, it was a historical plaque in Codorus State Park. Apparently passenger pigeons used to roost in the Pigeon Hills, and there were so many of them they'd block the sun when they all flew. Who knew?

My dad, apparently.

Walking Tour

This past weekend was the most relaxing one I've had in ages. I feel like I got a lot done, but in a very laid-back, unhurried way. And the best part-I walked or Metroed everywhere. My car stayed parked all weekend, except for a very brief early-morning trip to take a friend to the airport.

I haven't spent a whole lot of time just walking around my neighborhood. I'm not really big on hot OR cold weather, and I'm really likely to retreat into a climate-controlled car when temperatures are extreme. But I always feel so freaking virtuous when I walk somewhere, and I don't know why I don't do it more often.

On Saturday I walked to the library to return some books. From there I walked up to the Brookland Cafe for lunch, then over to the Franciscan monastery for their plant and herb sale. (Aside: WTF do you do with French Sorrel? I don't have a clue, and I'd better figure it out because I'm currently growing some.) On the way home, I dropped in to the organic market for some milk. All told, I was out for about 2 1/2 hours and walked about three miles, and I felt awesome afterward.

Why don't I do that more often? Now that the weather is nice, I should be taking the bus to work and walking the mile from the bus stop. I should be out enjoying spring while it lasts, and I should be getting to know the neighborhood. I have a slightly half-baked plan to leave my car at my parents' house for part of the summer to force myself to get around without it.

I'm going to try setting my alarm early enough to take the bus to work tomorrow. Getting up early is going to suck, but I know I'll feel better for doing it.

Skill Set

This afternoon, as I maneuvered my car out of a parking lot that looked like a badly played game of Tetris, I reflected on the fact that the one good thing to come out of a miserable summer working for my Dad at a car dealership is that I can get a car out of almost any tight spot. At work we have a tiny parking lot with only about half the number of spaces we need for all of our staff, and street parking is by residential parking permit only. Since the people in the neighborhood will call parking enforcement on your ass, people pack into the lot like sardines, which makes getting out of your space difficult. Somehow I can almost always do it, which is hilarious because I’m notoriously bad at backing up. My parents have actually on occasion come outside when I’m leaving their house, for the express purpose of laughing at me as I back up their (not very long) driveway and almost take out the mailbox. But somehow it works when I’m trying to get out of a tight spot.

That made me think about all the other jobs I’ve had in my life, and the extremely random skills I’ve learned from them.

Radio Shack
I worked at Radio Shack for one year in college, and I wasn’t great at it. I could sell you a TV, but if you were coming in looking for a tiny little part to fix something, you were SOL if you got me as your salesperson.

But.

I can hook up an AV system like nobody’s business.

It all goes back to something my manager told me. He said that when he was trying to connect something, he would pretend he was the TV signal. Stay with me here.

“So I’m the signal, and I’m hanging out in the wire in the wall,” he said. “But that’s pretty boring, so I go out through the coaxial cable…”

It’s crazy, but it makes me think about it linearly so it works. So when I’m hooking up a DVD player, what I’m really doing is thinking, “So I’m a TV signal…”

Waiting Tables
Until this year of teaching, I waited tables longer than I’d ever done anything else in my life. As a job, it had its up and downs, but I definitely learned a lot. I learned to deal with complete f&$@ing idiots on a regular basis. I learned that people are happiest when they can feel superior to someone else. I learned that you really never know who can overhear you, which is a lesson the mayor of Laurel could have used as he sat at a table talking about someone I know very well.

And I learned how to carry three or more glasses at a time without a tray. This is incredibly useful when you’re out at a bar with friends. I can also carry three or four full plates at a time, which is less useful but still comes in handy sometimes.

I can calculate a tip in about four seconds.

I can mix pretty damn good drinks, even though I have to look up the more complicated ones.

Public Relations
I did PR for a bunch of different organizations, in a bunch of different venues. While I didn’t much care for the work, the lessons are invaluable.

I can put a positive spin on anything.

I can translate tech-speak into something an average person can understand.

I can write 3000 words on a concept I don’t really understand myself.

I can speak at length on just about any topic, with no preparation, whether I know anything about the subject at hand or not.

I can be diplomatic even if what I really want to do is hit a person with a shovel.

Plus, it’s uncanny how many skills translate directly from working with high-level executives to working with kindergarteners.

Librarian
I feel like all I do is learn, honestly. But if there’s one thing this job has taught me, it’s that I could actually do the whole parenting thing.

Frightening, huh?

Excuse me, your sign is dumb.

DC instituted early voting this year, and I voted today for the first time as a District of Columbia resident. I'm not going to launch a political discussion here, and anyone who I've talked to for thirty seconds about the DC mayoral race probably knows who I voted for anyway, but let me tell you who I did NOT vote for.

Carlos Allen.

I submit that being best known for being that other White House party crasher probably isn't going to help your campaign, but that's not why I'm bringing him up. One of his signs is on the corner near my condo, and every time I walk past it, it irks the hell out of me, because one of his slogans is "The First Afro-Latino in history." For one thing, what the hell does THAT have to do with anything? And for another, it doesn't even make sense. He may be the first Afro-Latino candidate for mayor, but that's not what it says. And I think the many citizens of the Dominican Republic, among others, may take issue with the idea that he is the first person in all of recorded human history to be both of African and Latino descent.

On the one hand, I can take solace in the fact that his crazy ass got bounced off of the Democratic ballot. On the other hand, he's apparently now planning to run as an Independent in November, and while he still doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell it means that I'm going to have to look at his stupid signs for another two months.

In other DC politics news, the most annoying person I've ever encountered on the Internet was caught on tape stealing campaign signs, and I rejoiced. I have never met this woman in person, nor do I care to, but every time one of her emails comes over a community listserv, I gag a little. And because I am a bitchy, vindictive person, I thoroughly enjoy seeing hypocrites exposed.