The heat and the smoke and the uncus and Pemphigus- we needed to get away from it. So we piled into a car and went to old favorites, unearthed a new treasure (a scoop of cinnamon with snickerdoodles!?!), disrupted hipster-haven, and sat in Dolores Park watching the preparations for a tranny march. Hot by San Francisco standards, cool, breezy perfection by my new ones.
Those I had brought along said foolish things in Dolores Park, the sort of foolish things uttered by people who have not lived in San Francisco, somehow have no understanding of it. Then they balked when I had not been to some deli in North Beach. It did not bother me though, since I was sitting there on such a beautiful day, watching the Twin Peaks tower shrouded in fog. And later, they no longer questioned me, when I found them a parking spot downtown where no tourist would have thought to look.
They only asked, "Did you love living here?"
I said, "Of course I did."
But I didn't explain. I didn't wax nostalgic about it. I can see now that I sort of don't have to anymore. There are things about San Francisco that I love that have stayed with me. A friendly man walking his dog stopped to take our picture when he saw us fumbling around. I stopped to give directions to a pair of clueless out-of-towners huddled by a hotel with a map unfolded in front of them (note to other visitors- while SF is safe, this is still a very foolish thing to do in any city). In the mission, the usual hilarity- an old white man dressed up like Juan Valdez (not on purpose) and a white woman wearing a sari and a poncho. Seemingly punk-rock hipster men with piercings and tattoos carrying... a baby Bjorn with a little hipster-in-the-making snugly inside.
Other things about San Francisco change. Old landmarks give way to new places to experience. What seemed like it would never finish does. Murals are repainted, re-imagined. The music list at Aquarius Records has a new set of bands you ought to hear.
It's what keeps me warm and, in my current home, keeps me cool. The thought that, while I change and San Francisco changes, I'll always carry a little bit of it with me, the little bit that will, hopefully, remain there always.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
these words in shadow play
Yesterday I was annoyed for a variety of reasons, but this morning some maniacal birds woke me up. And for some reason, it did not make me grumpier. For some reason, it humbled me a little.
Beginnings when they are not really beginnings are a little tricky. The beginning of a chapter vs. the beginning of a book, if you will. You know you have to keep going, and it is a beginning of sorts, but it lacks that excitement and energy that the first word held. But if I kept starting anew, and chased every shiny trinket, I suppose I would forever be wandering about in a circle. Although sometimes that feels inevitable too.
As most already know, George Carlin passed away this week. If there is one thing Carlin made clear in all of his performances, it is that he would not want people becoming maudlin on his behalf. So instead, I'll just say that it seemed to me that Carlin's humor was of the best kind. While you were laughing hysterically at his very funny insights, his comedy was of the type that also hit you somewhere in the gut. You found yourself laughing, but at the same time you got the feeling you could have an entire, very serious discussion about the topics he discussed.
I find that extremely valuable at times like these, when often I find the need to laugh about things that are actually not very funny, when you really think about it.
Beginnings when they are not really beginnings are a little tricky. The beginning of a chapter vs. the beginning of a book, if you will. You know you have to keep going, and it is a beginning of sorts, but it lacks that excitement and energy that the first word held. But if I kept starting anew, and chased every shiny trinket, I suppose I would forever be wandering about in a circle. Although sometimes that feels inevitable too.
As most already know, George Carlin passed away this week. If there is one thing Carlin made clear in all of his performances, it is that he would not want people becoming maudlin on his behalf. So instead, I'll just say that it seemed to me that Carlin's humor was of the best kind. While you were laughing hysterically at his very funny insights, his comedy was of the type that also hit you somewhere in the gut. You found yourself laughing, but at the same time you got the feeling you could have an entire, very serious discussion about the topics he discussed.
I find that extremely valuable at times like these, when often I find the need to laugh about things that are actually not very funny, when you really think about it.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
this is not a romance with the road
This might end up being a little bit like one of those ‘what did you do during your summer vacation’ reports you’re required to give on returning to school. I was thinking, when posing that question to myself, that I have not done a whole lot. I have not gone anywhere really, have not caught up with all the people I might have thought I would, have not trained for a 5K, have not written a research paper. I barely kept up this blog.
But then I considered that I did not feel like I had particularly missed out. It’s not that I squandered my time. It’s just that my notion of happiness has changed. I spent a month in Spain a year ago, and was it wonderful? Indeed it was. Was I buoyant and unbelievably happy? Absolutely yes. Would I go there again some day? In less than a heartbeat. But would the going, would the being there, would all of it make me happy? No.
I loved Spain, and I will always love it. I will always think of it fondly, and I will remember the trip as one of the best of my life. But part of the reason it will be so memorialized for me is that it came at a time when I was happy. Just happy.
But then I wondered what had happened, where had that happiness suddenly gone? As much as I complain and kvetch, school did not do anything to assail my feelings. It began to dawn on me that I was happy in Spain because I was, maybe for the first and only time in my life, extremely, acutely present. I didn’t dissect or dwell on the past and I did not worry about the future. I just started to see, more clearly, what makes me happy. The feeling of the spray of water from a fountain on a sunny day in Madrid. The cool shade and cracks of light provided by the dark wood door on the Mezquita. Drinking white wine and sherry with an old friend to the point of taking those ridiculous camera shots where one person is holding the camera.
And then, of course, Barcelona. There is all the grandeur of Barcelona, the things you are told to see- Parc Guell and Sagrada Familia, the Miro museum, Las Ramblas and the Boceria. But I have a feeling that is not what I will hold dear. What I will hold dear is going on a search for saffron and in the process finding a bakery that mixed all manner of flavors together in their cookies- coffee and basil, shortbread biscuits with bacon.
I will be tickled by the night I stayed out late to go to the only bar that sells absinthe, where a British man spoke such crap Spanish that I cut him off and asked, “Do you speak English?”.
To which, he replied, “Yes,” and after a long and deliberate pause, asked, “Do you?”
And I will remember all the walking, the quiet walks on bustling streets and the feeling of life pervading all corners. Vibrancy. It kept me happy.
While all of this was lovely and in some ways can only be found in Spain, the underlying fact is that what really makes you happy (or me happy, at least) are little things. Little, blink-and-you-miss-it things. Like this IM chat RR and I had this evening:
And then later:
Yes, we act like 12-year olds, but it occurs to me that this immature behavior of ours, well, makes me happy.
Other things that make me happy:
So you know. I may not have traveled to distant lands, or had radical shifts in my life. I may not have accomplished anything of note. But I find, in reviewing how I spent my time, that I was, by and large, happy. Really, I cannot have asked for more than that.
But then I considered that I did not feel like I had particularly missed out. It’s not that I squandered my time. It’s just that my notion of happiness has changed. I spent a month in Spain a year ago, and was it wonderful? Indeed it was. Was I buoyant and unbelievably happy? Absolutely yes. Would I go there again some day? In less than a heartbeat. But would the going, would the being there, would all of it make me happy? No.
I loved Spain, and I will always love it. I will always think of it fondly, and I will remember the trip as one of the best of my life. But part of the reason it will be so memorialized for me is that it came at a time when I was happy. Just happy.
But then I wondered what had happened, where had that happiness suddenly gone? As much as I complain and kvetch, school did not do anything to assail my feelings. It began to dawn on me that I was happy in Spain because I was, maybe for the first and only time in my life, extremely, acutely present. I didn’t dissect or dwell on the past and I did not worry about the future. I just started to see, more clearly, what makes me happy. The feeling of the spray of water from a fountain on a sunny day in Madrid. The cool shade and cracks of light provided by the dark wood door on the Mezquita. Drinking white wine and sherry with an old friend to the point of taking those ridiculous camera shots where one person is holding the camera.
And then, of course, Barcelona. There is all the grandeur of Barcelona, the things you are told to see- Parc Guell and Sagrada Familia, the Miro museum, Las Ramblas and the Boceria. But I have a feeling that is not what I will hold dear. What I will hold dear is going on a search for saffron and in the process finding a bakery that mixed all manner of flavors together in their cookies- coffee and basil, shortbread biscuits with bacon.
I will be tickled by the night I stayed out late to go to the only bar that sells absinthe, where a British man spoke such crap Spanish that I cut him off and asked, “Do you speak English?”.
To which, he replied, “Yes,” and after a long and deliberate pause, asked, “Do you?”
And I will remember all the walking, the quiet walks on bustling streets and the feeling of life pervading all corners. Vibrancy. It kept me happy.
While all of this was lovely and in some ways can only be found in Spain, the underlying fact is that what really makes you happy (or me happy, at least) are little things. Little, blink-and-you-miss-it things. Like this IM chat RR and I had this evening:
- RR: Your first boyfriend, that guy from high school?
me: No, I don’t count him- he was ultimately too boring.
RR: I like him already.
me: Yes, you really would have- he went to West Point.
RR: Army. But not bad. Hmm.
RR: Guess being all he could be wasn’t enough for you.
And then later:
- RR: Big T was betting all these blokes in a bar in Windsor when we were in the UK.
me: Oh man. Knowing him, he probably wound up in a debt.
RR: That’s what I would have guessed too, so imagine my surprise when the poor sod came over with 20 quid for Big T.
me: Holy crap! Maybe T does better abroad.
me: He’s like the Hoff!
Yes, we act like 12-year olds, but it occurs to me that this immature behavior of ours, well, makes me happy.
Other things that make me happy:
- Given the spontaneously-combustible weather here of late, making tank tops of linen or cotton by hand, and finding they fit better than what I would have wound up buying at some clothing store.
- Inexplicably, soaking mung beans in preparation for cooking them for dinner.
- Walking to the market every few days, partly to save money, partly because it felt luxurious to have such time at my disposal.
- Learning to roll out dough in a proper circle, which translated to learning to make empanadas from scratch, and figuring out how to do that twisty foldover thing that somehow eluded me previously.
- Cake disasters, followed by leftover cake that turned into a pseudo-truffle idea that worked out to be a good hit with a certain sweet friend.
- Making strawberry sorbet from scratch, making tart Greek frozen yogurt from scratch, and toying with the ice cream maker for the past month, which included several crash-and-burn episodes with caramel.
So you know. I may not have traveled to distant lands, or had radical shifts in my life. I may not have accomplished anything of note. But I find, in reviewing how I spent my time, that I was, by and large, happy. Really, I cannot have asked for more than that.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
because my country is all I know
All that complaining about the heat? Well, it got way worse. Today, I got home and the heat actually caused me to break into hives. Either that or a swarm of mosquitoes descended upon my arms without me noticing, in which case, maybe the heat has melted my brain.
Of course, I didn't get home from a hard day's work or anything, so I suppose I ought not complain at all. I was over at a friend who has air-conditioning, watching an entertaining soccer match between Germany and Portugal, part of the Eurocup. Yesterday, I had waxed all cheesy about basketball and the silly meanings we derive in such sports, but I completely forgot that nowhere are sports more hyperbolized than in European soccer.
This time I was watching as something of an observer rather than an active participant. I was hoping Germany would win, simply because the friend who had invited me was German, and extremely engaged in the match. If she talked about the win incessantly (which she did), she would have talked about the loss to the point that I might have had to run away screaming. When the Germans won, she let out such a high-pitched squeal, I could have sworn that dogs in the neighborhood seemed suddenly agitated.
Still, it was fun to watch with someone who really enjoys the sport and has some allegiance to a team. Thinking more about it, I find that sports walks this fine line. There is something beautiful, and I noticed it when I was visiting Spain last year. AL and I were walking along the river in Sevilla while a soccer match was ongoing. Each bar we passed, everyone was gathered around cheerfully watching the game together, no matter how small the television in the establishment. When Sevilla won that night, you could hear synchronous cheers from either side of the river, and there were cars honking in celebration well into the morning. The town, which had seemed rather sleepy and calm the night before, had transformed into a ticker tape parade instantaneously.
And that's beautiful, the banding together of an entire town around a team. And then, with soccer, consider this- all these individual regional rivalries are set aside for tournaments like the World Cup and Eurocup, where suddenly players are on a national team. An unfortunately faux-hawked/mulleted wunderkind from Manchester United is suddenly playing for Portugal. And now the entire country joins together to cheer for their team. There is something really inspiring about that unity.
Yet, something frightening and scary too. It's like patriotism carried one step too far. Just as fanaticism can lead to riots on the streets, brawls and bar fights, so can patriotism that has gone one step too far lead to limits on free speech, lack of tolerance, violence, blind faith. And perhaps the most disturbing part about it is how easy it is to get swept in all the vigor and frenzy.
Of course, I didn't get home from a hard day's work or anything, so I suppose I ought not complain at all. I was over at a friend who has air-conditioning, watching an entertaining soccer match between Germany and Portugal, part of the Eurocup. Yesterday, I had waxed all cheesy about basketball and the silly meanings we derive in such sports, but I completely forgot that nowhere are sports more hyperbolized than in European soccer.
This time I was watching as something of an observer rather than an active participant. I was hoping Germany would win, simply because the friend who had invited me was German, and extremely engaged in the match. If she talked about the win incessantly (which she did), she would have talked about the loss to the point that I might have had to run away screaming. When the Germans won, she let out such a high-pitched squeal, I could have sworn that dogs in the neighborhood seemed suddenly agitated.
Still, it was fun to watch with someone who really enjoys the sport and has some allegiance to a team. Thinking more about it, I find that sports walks this fine line. There is something beautiful, and I noticed it when I was visiting Spain last year. AL and I were walking along the river in Sevilla while a soccer match was ongoing. Each bar we passed, everyone was gathered around cheerfully watching the game together, no matter how small the television in the establishment. When Sevilla won that night, you could hear synchronous cheers from either side of the river, and there were cars honking in celebration well into the morning. The town, which had seemed rather sleepy and calm the night before, had transformed into a ticker tape parade instantaneously.
And that's beautiful, the banding together of an entire town around a team. And then, with soccer, consider this- all these individual regional rivalries are set aside for tournaments like the World Cup and Eurocup, where suddenly players are on a national team. An unfortunately faux-hawked/mulleted wunderkind from Manchester United is suddenly playing for Portugal. And now the entire country joins together to cheer for their team. There is something really inspiring about that unity.
Yet, something frightening and scary too. It's like patriotism carried one step too far. Just as fanaticism can lead to riots on the streets, brawls and bar fights, so can patriotism that has gone one step too far lead to limits on free speech, lack of tolerance, violence, blind faith. And perhaps the most disturbing part about it is how easy it is to get swept in all the vigor and frenzy.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
this is that new song I told you about twenty years ago
Just checking in to do a little trash talking. This week has been a little crazy, even besides the subject on which I'm about to waste time writing, but there will be a respite soon enough.
You had to know that I, being a New England native, would have to write something about the business of the Celtics. If I had the time, I would go link-crazy offering up evidence of the whys and hows. But for now, I was thinking, strangely enough, about the importance of sports.
Because really, professional sports are not that important. We're basically watching a bunch of overpaid people scramble to win a game that is being won mostly for entertainment purposes. But still, sports do seem to mean so much to people. Especially in Boston, where I would daresay they mean entirely too much to people. I know why so many people outside of New England cannot stand Boston-based sports teams- the fans might be the basis of the word fanatic.
Still. Last night was yet another example. History itself got turned on its head. I'm old enough to remember the last time the Celtics won a championship. And though that championship was lovely and memorable, I recall feeling, even at that young an age, that something was over. That team would never play together that way again. The Garden, the decaying, uneven parquet-floored Garden was torn down in favor of a more typically flashy venue. And then there was the matter of the Celtics pretty much sucking for years and years.
I recall sort of shrugging when the Celts started to truly stink, and just thinking, well those times are over. Larry Bird and Kevin McHale and Robert Parish would never be resurrected. Still. Last night was something to see. They are not the same team. Those days will never return. But when you watch a series like this, you realize it's okay that those days will never return. New days come along and give you something new to marvel.
That's, I have to think, why sports matter. You watch the unexpected happen, and you see a group of fans go crazy in support of something that, whether it's stupid or not, matters a lot to them. Maybe my cynicism melts away a little when I watch a series like this, think that perhaps change is possible and good.
*
On a separate note, though, Kevin Garnett's reaction to winning was some of the most simultaneously hilarious and heart-fluttering of all time. The dude lost his shizz on court at the end of the game, but oddly enough, it was kind of touching to see. There was no sense of entitlement or pre-canned speeches. Later, in the locker room, when asked what happened out there, all he yelled out was "We won!" That kind of enthusiasm from someone who has been in the league for years- sorry, but there is no other word for it but cute.
Also, on chat, my friend VL and I were breaking down the win, like so:
Finally, I am much amused to think that the man that was once got into a tousle with a 7'+ Tree Rollins and wound up with a bitten finger and a tetanus shot is now a General Manager for a championship team.
You had to know that I, being a New England native, would have to write something about the business of the Celtics. If I had the time, I would go link-crazy offering up evidence of the whys and hows. But for now, I was thinking, strangely enough, about the importance of sports.
Because really, professional sports are not that important. We're basically watching a bunch of overpaid people scramble to win a game that is being won mostly for entertainment purposes. But still, sports do seem to mean so much to people. Especially in Boston, where I would daresay they mean entirely too much to people. I know why so many people outside of New England cannot stand Boston-based sports teams- the fans might be the basis of the word fanatic.
Still. Last night was yet another example. History itself got turned on its head. I'm old enough to remember the last time the Celtics won a championship. And though that championship was lovely and memorable, I recall feeling, even at that young an age, that something was over. That team would never play together that way again. The Garden, the decaying, uneven parquet-floored Garden was torn down in favor of a more typically flashy venue. And then there was the matter of the Celtics pretty much sucking for years and years.
I recall sort of shrugging when the Celts started to truly stink, and just thinking, well those times are over. Larry Bird and Kevin McHale and Robert Parish would never be resurrected. Still. Last night was something to see. They are not the same team. Those days will never return. But when you watch a series like this, you realize it's okay that those days will never return. New days come along and give you something new to marvel.
That's, I have to think, why sports matter. You watch the unexpected happen, and you see a group of fans go crazy in support of something that, whether it's stupid or not, matters a lot to them. Maybe my cynicism melts away a little when I watch a series like this, think that perhaps change is possible and good.
On a separate note, though, Kevin Garnett's reaction to winning was some of the most simultaneously hilarious and heart-fluttering of all time. The dude lost his shizz on court at the end of the game, but oddly enough, it was kind of touching to see. There was no sense of entitlement or pre-canned speeches. Later, in the locker room, when asked what happened out there, all he yelled out was "We won!" That kind of enthusiasm from someone who has been in the league for years- sorry, but there is no other word for it but cute.
Also, on chat, my friend VL and I were breaking down the win, like so:
- VL: Oh, no. They just doused the coach with Gatorade.
Me: I didn't know they were still doing that.
VL: They probably don't, but it's been so long since they've won anything that they aren't up on the latest.
Finally, I am much amused to think that the man that was once got into a tousle with a 7'+ Tree Rollins and wound up with a bitten finger and a tetanus shot is now a General Manager for a championship team.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
you miss too much these days if you stop to think
Oh boy. I charged my camera this morning in dizzy anticipation of the slideshow I would have to post of the beautiful cake I had pieced together throughout the week. The idea was so perfect- a chocolate layer cake, but to cut the chocolate, dulce de leche ice cream in the middle. And to top it all off, a helping of caramel cream cheese frosting. Each individual component had come together despite their little issues. I had worried, making ice cream from scratch, that it might not harden properly when frozen. Not so, it set beautifully over the past two days, as I checked it along the way. The cake had its issues. It wasn't very sweet, but that was intentional. I had cut the sugar considerably and added almond meal, and tinkered with the recipe as I always do. But it had come out a little crumbly, and I worried it would be too dry. Not to worry, I made some chocolate ganache, and coated the cakes with it, and it drank in the sauce perfectly and transformed into moist cakes. The cream cheese frosting was just what it ought to be, not too sweet, not too tart, and of the right consistency when chilled to frost a cake properly. Everything was settled.
Except today, everything conspired to go wrong. I blame the ice cream. It was the truly disastrous component. It sat beautifully on the cake for about 60 seconds, and then proceeded to start to melt rapidly. So rapidly that the cake quickly started to slant. I tried to throw it all in the freezer, thought perhaps it needed some time to all freeze together. Not so much. I tried to frost the cake while it was in the freezer. Bigger disaster still.
Finally, it was time to admit defeat. Out went the ice cream layer, into a plastic container. The ice cream would have to go on the side. The chocolate ganache wound up making the middle layer. The cake became more amenable to being frosted. All seemed salvaged. Still, the cream cheese frosting was unhappy about being left out without air conditioning,, and the chocolate ganache started to mingle outside of its middle layer. But I chose to ignore these things temporarily. The cake stayed in the refrigerator until I was ready to leave.
I was walking out the door with everything in hand when, quite without warning, splat! The ice cream container inexplicably shattered. It's made of plastic, people. This was truly bizarre, but now there was a big blob of ice cream sitting on my porch, and a quickly deteriorating carton of ice cream. I stared at it for a second and then rushed back inside. I saved the ice cream I could, put it into a bowl in the freezer, and then looked around bewildered. If one more thing went wrong, I concluded, I'd have to take it as a sign and just call off going to this dinner party altogether.
Luckily nothing else went wrong and I went off to the party, looking every bit as frazzled as I felt. Oh, I had brought some from-scratch empanadas, which distracted the guests from the dessert disaster. In the end, the dessert was fine. The ice cream was still tasty, even if it had turned the consistency of soup. The cake tasted fine, even though the frosting sloppily tilted about this way and that. I was mighty annoyed with it, mostly because it had not come out exactly as I had envisioned it in my mind's eye. Certainly, if I didn't know everyone at the party, I would have felt apprehensive about even serving it. But the good thing about dessert is that you can wait until everyone has had a couple of drinks before offering it up for consumption. At that point, they either no longer want for dessert, or their taste buds have dulled.
At the party, a dude that could have become Abhi and Ashvin's fast friend spent at least 35 minutes explaining to me the physics that explain the show Lost. He was talking about wormholes and apertures, y'all. I told him that I think he gives a bunch of Hollywood writers way too much credit, but he was adamant in his disagreement.
And I came home too late to do what I was supposed to do. And in some ways, all of this was subterfuge from what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to have a conversation, and I didn't have it. I was supposed to go away tomorrow, but I very likely won't. I was supposed to take the harder path, but I chose the easy way instead. I'd tell you it's just that I couldn't bear another defeat today, but I think the overly ambitious cake plan was designed to fail as a perfect distraction.
Except today, everything conspired to go wrong. I blame the ice cream. It was the truly disastrous component. It sat beautifully on the cake for about 60 seconds, and then proceeded to start to melt rapidly. So rapidly that the cake quickly started to slant. I tried to throw it all in the freezer, thought perhaps it needed some time to all freeze together. Not so much. I tried to frost the cake while it was in the freezer. Bigger disaster still.
Finally, it was time to admit defeat. Out went the ice cream layer, into a plastic container. The ice cream would have to go on the side. The chocolate ganache wound up making the middle layer. The cake became more amenable to being frosted. All seemed salvaged. Still, the cream cheese frosting was unhappy about being left out without air conditioning,, and the chocolate ganache started to mingle outside of its middle layer. But I chose to ignore these things temporarily. The cake stayed in the refrigerator until I was ready to leave.
I was walking out the door with everything in hand when, quite without warning, splat! The ice cream container inexplicably shattered. It's made of plastic, people. This was truly bizarre, but now there was a big blob of ice cream sitting on my porch, and a quickly deteriorating carton of ice cream. I stared at it for a second and then rushed back inside. I saved the ice cream I could, put it into a bowl in the freezer, and then looked around bewildered. If one more thing went wrong, I concluded, I'd have to take it as a sign and just call off going to this dinner party altogether.
Luckily nothing else went wrong and I went off to the party, looking every bit as frazzled as I felt. Oh, I had brought some from-scratch empanadas, which distracted the guests from the dessert disaster. In the end, the dessert was fine. The ice cream was still tasty, even if it had turned the consistency of soup. The cake tasted fine, even though the frosting sloppily tilted about this way and that. I was mighty annoyed with it, mostly because it had not come out exactly as I had envisioned it in my mind's eye. Certainly, if I didn't know everyone at the party, I would have felt apprehensive about even serving it. But the good thing about dessert is that you can wait until everyone has had a couple of drinks before offering it up for consumption. At that point, they either no longer want for dessert, or their taste buds have dulled.
At the party, a dude that could have become Abhi and Ashvin's fast friend spent at least 35 minutes explaining to me the physics that explain the show Lost. He was talking about wormholes and apertures, y'all. I told him that I think he gives a bunch of Hollywood writers way too much credit, but he was adamant in his disagreement.
And I came home too late to do what I was supposed to do. And in some ways, all of this was subterfuge from what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to have a conversation, and I didn't have it. I was supposed to go away tomorrow, but I very likely won't. I was supposed to take the harder path, but I chose the easy way instead. I'd tell you it's just that I couldn't bear another defeat today, but I think the overly ambitious cake plan was designed to fail as a perfect distraction.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
we leave just before it's gone
There's a gentle breeze blowing through the window, keeping the place from becoming stifling. It occurs to me today that the summer is really just starting, and yet, for me, it is coming to a close. And I am rather ready for it.
I am feeling rather paralyzed. I have to finish making the cake. The frosting is finished, the ice cream that goes in the middle is finished. And it's hot and I don't feel like getting started, but I know I ought to suck it up. That's what the end of the summer, and the end of things in general, feels like-- so close to complete, and yet I am kept from finishing because of weariness, laziness, or just the passing of time.
There is a good chance a rift will finally be acknowledged this weekend between me and my oldest friend. We are both avoiding it, passive-aggressively leaving phone calls unanswered, using other things- school, work, children, cell phone reception, gas prices- as excuses. But I think we both know, and I think we are both holding ourselves back.
I don't really know how people live like this for an extended amount of time. The broseph and I recently had a long chat about a significant impasse he has reached with his SO. To me, it all seemed awfully painful, to know there is this disagreement that can neither be resolved nor be set aside. All the more painful when you do not otherwise want an exit route. I know that some people live lifetimes with these kinds of disagreements between them, but I suppose I never appreciated what a major undertaking it is until recently.
It's really rather unbearable. The easy route is to vilify the other, congratulate yourself. But easy is not right in all cases. And really, I don't see how it would make things all that much easier in the long run. If you have known someone for so long, cared about them so much, what good is it to think that this whole time, you were attached to a scoundrel? It's no better than the reality, it seems to me, and the reality is that suddenly, who knows how, this wide and halting chasm spreads out between us. I don't know how to cross it, I don't know how to make it right. It's like my arms used to be longer, and I used to be able to reach out across the great divide and pull us closer together.
And now, unexpectedly, it's not just that I can't stretch like before. It's more that I am afraid I am grasping for nothing but air. The cheesy songs sometimes get it right, and today that seems especially true: hold on, hold on to yourself, because this is going to hurt like hell. Indeed.
I am feeling rather paralyzed. I have to finish making the cake. The frosting is finished, the ice cream that goes in the middle is finished. And it's hot and I don't feel like getting started, but I know I ought to suck it up. That's what the end of the summer, and the end of things in general, feels like-- so close to complete, and yet I am kept from finishing because of weariness, laziness, or just the passing of time.
There is a good chance a rift will finally be acknowledged this weekend between me and my oldest friend. We are both avoiding it, passive-aggressively leaving phone calls unanswered, using other things- school, work, children, cell phone reception, gas prices- as excuses. But I think we both know, and I think we are both holding ourselves back.
I don't really know how people live like this for an extended amount of time. The broseph and I recently had a long chat about a significant impasse he has reached with his SO. To me, it all seemed awfully painful, to know there is this disagreement that can neither be resolved nor be set aside. All the more painful when you do not otherwise want an exit route. I know that some people live lifetimes with these kinds of disagreements between them, but I suppose I never appreciated what a major undertaking it is until recently.
It's really rather unbearable. The easy route is to vilify the other, congratulate yourself. But easy is not right in all cases. And really, I don't see how it would make things all that much easier in the long run. If you have known someone for so long, cared about them so much, what good is it to think that this whole time, you were attached to a scoundrel? It's no better than the reality, it seems to me, and the reality is that suddenly, who knows how, this wide and halting chasm spreads out between us. I don't know how to cross it, I don't know how to make it right. It's like my arms used to be longer, and I used to be able to reach out across the great divide and pull us closer together.
And now, unexpectedly, it's not just that I can't stretch like before. It's more that I am afraid I am grasping for nothing but air. The cheesy songs sometimes get it right, and today that seems especially true: hold on, hold on to yourself, because this is going to hurt like hell. Indeed.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
I'm just standing in a doorway
Y'all, it's SJM's birthday! You could go wish him a happy birthday (well, for the next 1.5 hours or so), but fair warning- he might yell at you if you do. I got an ear-boxing for not visiting in a long time, or, well, ever, actually.
But let me tell you, it was the kind of scolding I needed today. That whole when it rains, it pours phenomenon took over recently and I suddenly had this wave of emotion this week, this questioning of whether I have anyone really on whom I can rely, or anyone that even welcomes my company. No worries, no pep talk required. I know I was being irrational, but that's the whole issue with emotions, after all-- they don't really respond to quit being crazy.
You just feel them. And sometimes, like today, I needed to just admit to the feeling. I think I had been exhausted by the constant fighting, the constant internal correction. No, that's not really how it is, I kept telling myself. But today I just stopped fighting. Because once I let myself really feel it, really feel sad and lonely for a little while, suddenly it was a lot easier to let it go, to be convinced that it would all be okay. Sometimes you just have to get reacquainted with sadness and loneliness, realize it's not the end of the world. And sometimes you have to push towards hyperbole in order to get back down to normal, or whatever passes for normal when it comes to me.
And then, under such circumstances, the gentle rear-kicking from SJM translated to a hug. I don't have an answer for him, of course. Going to the east coast may not be in the cards for me for some time (thanks, rocketing fuel prices!). But boy, who would have thought that on his birthday, SJM would wind up giving me a present?
But let me tell you, it was the kind of scolding I needed today. That whole when it rains, it pours phenomenon took over recently and I suddenly had this wave of emotion this week, this questioning of whether I have anyone really on whom I can rely, or anyone that even welcomes my company. No worries, no pep talk required. I know I was being irrational, but that's the whole issue with emotions, after all-- they don't really respond to quit being crazy.
You just feel them. And sometimes, like today, I needed to just admit to the feeling. I think I had been exhausted by the constant fighting, the constant internal correction. No, that's not really how it is, I kept telling myself. But today I just stopped fighting. Because once I let myself really feel it, really feel sad and lonely for a little while, suddenly it was a lot easier to let it go, to be convinced that it would all be okay. Sometimes you just have to get reacquainted with sadness and loneliness, realize it's not the end of the world. And sometimes you have to push towards hyperbole in order to get back down to normal, or whatever passes for normal when it comes to me.
And then, under such circumstances, the gentle rear-kicking from SJM translated to a hug. I don't have an answer for him, of course. Going to the east coast may not be in the cards for me for some time (thanks, rocketing fuel prices!). But boy, who would have thought that on his birthday, SJM would wind up giving me a present?
Monday, June 09, 2008
let me stand next to your
Things I learned from my apartment being over 90 degrees at 8:30 in the evening:
In other news, I am making frosting. I'm doing things a bit out of sequence, but there's logic here. I am trying to assemble a rather involved cake, if you will, and therefore, I am trying to knock the easy parts of the recipe out first. Plus, since I, again, came home to an apartment that was sweltering over 95 degrees this evening, I don't have to wait very long for butter and cream cheese to soften. Living in an oven has its perks. I pulled out a frozen bagel a second ago, and it's pretty much defrosted already.
- A run outside can serve as a way to cool down in this situation, unbelievably enough.
- My neighbors are super wasteful. While I was running, I noticed that every other house not only had the sprinkler on, but had the sprinkler on in such a way that a solid 50% of the water was heading out into the pavement or sidewalk or anywhere not resembling life whatsoever.
- People like cats in my neighborhood, sort of. While running on one block, I encountered no less than 8 cats wandering around on the sidewalks. These cats were also not of the skittish variety; they sat on the sidewalk glaring at me. Sure, you think this is a sign that I live in catlover's paradise. Except, if you really loved your cat, would you let it wander around outside after dark?
- I am out of shape.
- And I hate running.
- And yet I kind of like it at the same time.
In other news, I am making frosting. I'm doing things a bit out of sequence, but there's logic here. I am trying to assemble a rather involved cake, if you will, and therefore, I am trying to knock the easy parts of the recipe out first. Plus, since I, again, came home to an apartment that was sweltering over 95 degrees this evening, I don't have to wait very long for butter and cream cheese to soften. Living in an oven has its perks. I pulled out a frozen bagel a second ago, and it's pretty much defrosted already.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
she once believed in every story he had to tell
This morning I learned that myself and white wine need to go on a break. This marks me as a bit of a snob, but I have a habit of only drinking alcohol that I myself bring to a party. And while this makes me a snooty jerk, the alternative is the headache that I got this morning. Because the difference between good wine and bad wine is not always the taste-- more often, it's the headache. Of course, for most of the people at the party, this is not an issue. They're young and don't really know the meaning of hangover yet. And that is probably the only thing I miss about being younger.
Because yesterday turned into a bit of a blur, I forgot to take pictures before I took off. Yesterday I made double chocolate cookies in the morning, and then later in the afternoon, I suddenly was seized with the inspiration to make empanadas from scratch. Teach a girl how to roll out dough into a circle, and all kinds of havoc follows, apparently. Because it turned into a bit of a rush job, the empanadas were not as petite and cute as I'd planned them to be. Instead, each one was the size of an entire meal. That didn't seem to bother anyone yesterday, as they disappeared pretty rapidly. But I had a lot of filling left over, so I will be making these empanadas again, and then there might even be photographic evidence that I really suck at making those pretty folds and crimps that some people can manage on empanadas (or samosas for that matter).
When I bake these days, it has to be a carefully orchestrated plan. For example, I make cookie dough at night, and then bake first thing in the morning, when the apartment is actually cooled down from the night air. Sometimes I wake up, turn the oven on to preheat, take the dough out to soften back up, and go back to sleep until everything is ready to go. Similarly, if I am baking later in the day, I have to plan to be out of the house pretty much minutes after the baking is done, because it otherwise heats up to an unbearable extent such that I have to stick my head in an ice bucket. I know anyone foolish enough to read this is wondering why I don't just turn on the air conditioning. But here's the thing- if I'm going to be wasteful enough to turn on my oven in the summertime, then I have to give up the A/C for the timebeing. If I'm not baking anything and it's very hot, I might make allowances.
*
I know I haven't stopped writing of being in the kitchen lately, and for that I apologize. There's something else occupying my head, but it's really bothering me so much that I am having trouble putting the words down. I have reached a crossroads with someone, and I have been avoiding that reality for maybe over a year now. But it's in my face now, and it's getting increasingly difficult to turn a blind eye.
When you have known someone for a long time, you are willing to make a lot of allowances for them. Whereas I usually assume the worst intentions when I am wronged, I tend to optimistically rationalize into never-never land with people I have known for a long time. I know why. Until a person crosses that invisible threshold, I know I can live without them. I know that I have lived without them, and that I can do without them again should the need arise.
But afterwards, they've become so close to me that they have become a part of me. Afterwards, the idea of losing them is like losing an artery in your body. You know that you may survive, but you also know there will be damage, there will be a scar. It's going to hurt.
So, as long as I can, I have tried to ignore it. But the other day, I realized that I was feeling like a complete failure and f***-up in life, and I realized that it was solely because one of my closest friends in the world was making me feel that way. Now, I had to give this a lot of thought. The whole reason I value having close friends is that I want someone in my life to call me on my sh*t. I want someone to be honest with me. And honestly, I can be intimidating, and thus acquaintances or recent friends do not have the stones to take me on sometimes. So, when I had been repeatedly derided by someone who means the world to me, I had to really sit there with all the facts, sift through it to see what was warranted and what wasn't.
And this time, it wasn't very warranted. It was hurtful. It was even more hurtful than anyone else could be. When someone knows you really well, they know your Achilles' heel. They know which parts of your history to cite that will strike doubt into your heart, make you question everything.
Suddenly, I realized that our entire dynamic had shifted. I hadn't returned calls, I hadn't sent long, idle emails. It was my feeble way of fighting the situation, but it's not a mature way of dealing with things. I know now that I have to face it head-on, and yet I dread it. I can't imagine actually facing it, but I can't imagine not either. I have never been so scared of a confrontation, because, for the first time in a long, long while, I feel I have something very precious to lose.
Because yesterday turned into a bit of a blur, I forgot to take pictures before I took off. Yesterday I made double chocolate cookies in the morning, and then later in the afternoon, I suddenly was seized with the inspiration to make empanadas from scratch. Teach a girl how to roll out dough into a circle, and all kinds of havoc follows, apparently. Because it turned into a bit of a rush job, the empanadas were not as petite and cute as I'd planned them to be. Instead, each one was the size of an entire meal. That didn't seem to bother anyone yesterday, as they disappeared pretty rapidly. But I had a lot of filling left over, so I will be making these empanadas again, and then there might even be photographic evidence that I really suck at making those pretty folds and crimps that some people can manage on empanadas (or samosas for that matter).
When I bake these days, it has to be a carefully orchestrated plan. For example, I make cookie dough at night, and then bake first thing in the morning, when the apartment is actually cooled down from the night air. Sometimes I wake up, turn the oven on to preheat, take the dough out to soften back up, and go back to sleep until everything is ready to go. Similarly, if I am baking later in the day, I have to plan to be out of the house pretty much minutes after the baking is done, because it otherwise heats up to an unbearable extent such that I have to stick my head in an ice bucket. I know anyone foolish enough to read this is wondering why I don't just turn on the air conditioning. But here's the thing- if I'm going to be wasteful enough to turn on my oven in the summertime, then I have to give up the A/C for the timebeing. If I'm not baking anything and it's very hot, I might make allowances.
I know I haven't stopped writing of being in the kitchen lately, and for that I apologize. There's something else occupying my head, but it's really bothering me so much that I am having trouble putting the words down. I have reached a crossroads with someone, and I have been avoiding that reality for maybe over a year now. But it's in my face now, and it's getting increasingly difficult to turn a blind eye.
When you have known someone for a long time, you are willing to make a lot of allowances for them. Whereas I usually assume the worst intentions when I am wronged, I tend to optimistically rationalize into never-never land with people I have known for a long time. I know why. Until a person crosses that invisible threshold, I know I can live without them. I know that I have lived without them, and that I can do without them again should the need arise.
But afterwards, they've become so close to me that they have become a part of me. Afterwards, the idea of losing them is like losing an artery in your body. You know that you may survive, but you also know there will be damage, there will be a scar. It's going to hurt.
So, as long as I can, I have tried to ignore it. But the other day, I realized that I was feeling like a complete failure and f***-up in life, and I realized that it was solely because one of my closest friends in the world was making me feel that way. Now, I had to give this a lot of thought. The whole reason I value having close friends is that I want someone in my life to call me on my sh*t. I want someone to be honest with me. And honestly, I can be intimidating, and thus acquaintances or recent friends do not have the stones to take me on sometimes. So, when I had been repeatedly derided by someone who means the world to me, I had to really sit there with all the facts, sift through it to see what was warranted and what wasn't.
And this time, it wasn't very warranted. It was hurtful. It was even more hurtful than anyone else could be. When someone knows you really well, they know your Achilles' heel. They know which parts of your history to cite that will strike doubt into your heart, make you question everything.
Suddenly, I realized that our entire dynamic had shifted. I hadn't returned calls, I hadn't sent long, idle emails. It was my feeble way of fighting the situation, but it's not a mature way of dealing with things. I know now that I have to face it head-on, and yet I dread it. I can't imagine actually facing it, but I can't imagine not either. I have never been so scared of a confrontation, because, for the first time in a long, long while, I feel I have something very precious to lose.
Friday, June 06, 2008
I know it don't thrill you, I hope it don't kill you
Warning: crappy photography to follow.
I almost fell asleep today while I was in the middle of a mundane task. That was not a good sign, although maybe it was. What I am doing at the moment has little to do with what I want to be doing in the long run. And I always find it hilarious when people fall asleep in our classes. First of all, there is no reason to be sleep-deprived on a normal day in medical school. Secondly, everything we are learning ought to be interesting to you if you are interested in medicine. Thirdly, if it isn't, hardly any of the classes are mandatory, and therefore, there is no reason to go to class if you are going to chat online with others or nod off during lecture.
And yet today I almost fell asleep in the middle of watching a technique someone else was doing. I can laugh at myself about it, but I think it's also a clear indication that my life has moved past the era of loading columns, magnetic stir bars, and argon balloons. If I'm going to be mixing things together these days, if I'm going to be experimenting, it's only going to be happening in the kitchen.
Remember I told you that I wasted 2 cups of flour the other day? Yeah, I wouldn't remember that either, it's fairly dull. But anyway, I was angry. I was trying to make lemon snaps, and the first batch came out horrible. It felt like biting into a rock. I thought I was going to break a tooth. On top of that, hardly any lemon flavor, and overall, just plain bland. It made me fume, mostly because, normally, if I am trying a new recipe, I have the good sense to not waste 2 cups of flour on it. So there I was, two batches of crappy cookies staring me in the face, and a ridiculous amount of raw dough taunting me. Throw it away? Would that be the Guju thing to do?
That's when I decided to just throw caution to the wind. I slapped the whole sucker into a pan and topped it with fig jam. Because, in my experience, figs make everything better. Try it, it's kind of true. Now, in this case, figs can only do so much. But they did keep me from throwing everything away:
Now these are still nothing I would give to another human being, but they serve as good snacks for just me, myself and I. The fig jam gives the whole thing enough of a kick that it doesn't feel like you're eating a sugar-free biscuit, and at this thickness, the cookie part is much softer and less like a brick.
That's nothing to get too worked up about though. So then I had to go back to basics:
Half of these cookies are for me, myself and I also. That would be the half with the chocolate chips in them. Alright, fine, I might share them, especially if I make ice cream this weekend, as I think they would serve quite well as part of an ice cream sandwich extravaganza. In the meanwhile, the plain oatmeal cookies got embellished:
Those might be headed to a dinner party tomorrow night. I'm not a huge fan of oatmeal cookie pies, but I know a few people who like them.
Oh and then to prove to you that I am really losing my mind, here's what I had for lunch yesterday:
I swear to you, six months ago, had I looked at this picture, I might have thrown up in my mouth a little bit (well, except for the wilted spinach, I am like Popeye when it comes to that stuff). And yet I ate it, voluntarily, for lunch. I think I might be pregnant. Just kidding. I hope.
I almost fell asleep today while I was in the middle of a mundane task. That was not a good sign, although maybe it was. What I am doing at the moment has little to do with what I want to be doing in the long run. And I always find it hilarious when people fall asleep in our classes. First of all, there is no reason to be sleep-deprived on a normal day in medical school. Secondly, everything we are learning ought to be interesting to you if you are interested in medicine. Thirdly, if it isn't, hardly any of the classes are mandatory, and therefore, there is no reason to go to class if you are going to chat online with others or nod off during lecture.
And yet today I almost fell asleep in the middle of watching a technique someone else was doing. I can laugh at myself about it, but I think it's also a clear indication that my life has moved past the era of loading columns, magnetic stir bars, and argon balloons. If I'm going to be mixing things together these days, if I'm going to be experimenting, it's only going to be happening in the kitchen.
Remember I told you that I wasted 2 cups of flour the other day? Yeah, I wouldn't remember that either, it's fairly dull. But anyway, I was angry. I was trying to make lemon snaps, and the first batch came out horrible. It felt like biting into a rock. I thought I was going to break a tooth. On top of that, hardly any lemon flavor, and overall, just plain bland. It made me fume, mostly because, normally, if I am trying a new recipe, I have the good sense to not waste 2 cups of flour on it. So there I was, two batches of crappy cookies staring me in the face, and a ridiculous amount of raw dough taunting me. Throw it away? Would that be the Guju thing to do?
That's when I decided to just throw caution to the wind. I slapped the whole sucker into a pan and topped it with fig jam. Because, in my experience, figs make everything better. Try it, it's kind of true. Now, in this case, figs can only do so much. But they did keep me from throwing everything away:
Now these are still nothing I would give to another human being, but they serve as good snacks for just me, myself and I. The fig jam gives the whole thing enough of a kick that it doesn't feel like you're eating a sugar-free biscuit, and at this thickness, the cookie part is much softer and less like a brick.
That's nothing to get too worked up about though. So then I had to go back to basics:
Half of these cookies are for me, myself and I also. That would be the half with the chocolate chips in them. Alright, fine, I might share them, especially if I make ice cream this weekend, as I think they would serve quite well as part of an ice cream sandwich extravaganza. In the meanwhile, the plain oatmeal cookies got embellished:
Those might be headed to a dinner party tomorrow night. I'm not a huge fan of oatmeal cookie pies, but I know a few people who like them.
Oh and then to prove to you that I am really losing my mind, here's what I had for lunch yesterday:
I swear to you, six months ago, had I looked at this picture, I might have thrown up in my mouth a little bit (well, except for the wilted spinach, I am like Popeye when it comes to that stuff). And yet I ate it, voluntarily, for lunch. I think I might be pregnant. Just kidding. I hope.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
suppertime in the hole
Maybe I wasn't bitter about politics at all. Maybe I was actually bitter about wasting 2 cups of flour on something that didn't turn out as I'd wanted it to. Don't put it past me to be more worked up by that than anything else- as I already stated, I can be quite self-absorbed.
It's unusually cold today, and by cold, I mean it's in the low 80s. Such has become my frame of reference. Just a little over a year ago, the low 80s would have been characterized a heat wave by me. Nonetheless, I am taking advantage of this. Right now, there is a pot of mung beans (yes, I'm still on this odd Gujarati vegetarian food kick) simmering on the stove. Later, there will, with luck, be a reversal of fortune where cups of flour are concerned. And I get the feeling that everything will be alright.
That's what the kitchen has become for me, I can see now. It's a place to make things okay. I surveyed the refrigerator this morning and saw something that made me a bit sad. Last time I was at the farmer's market, I bought a 5 pound bag of tangelos. Yes, a 5 pound bag. Yes, I live alone. Yes, I am an idiot. It was cheap, I love tangelos, I could not resist. This morning, I saw three forlorn tangelos still sitting in my refrigerator. The last time I had one from this bag, it was soft and showing signs of losing its freshness. Something about the three leftovers just seemed to indicate that they would not withstand being peeled. But to waste tangelos seemed horrible to me. I juiced them, thinking that, if the results were questionable, I would bake the juice into something. But they tasted just fine, and made a very nice addition to breakfast, I must say.
The kitchen seems one of the few places under my control these days. I can save things here, rescue them from bad decisions or salvage them from the edge of decay. I can be mindful in ways that elude me in other parts of my life. And most of all, I get the urge to try. It seems like, in so many ways, it's one of the few places where I don't simply throw up my hands in weariness and declare the damage done and beyond repair.
I'm starting to think that sometimes I spend so much time in the kitchen just because it's a first step in a routine that never happens. It reminds me of what Sunday evenings used to mean to me when I was gainfully employed. Regardless of what foolishness had passed over the course of the weekend, I would go to the market on Sunday night and it was like a reset button, the sign of a new week, the chance to do things properly and right this time around. In the same way, I think a part of me believes that being industrious in the kitchen will lead me to be industrious in all the other neglected aspects of my life. It does not really happen, just as the reset button on Sunday evenings rarely led to anything impressive. But it's nice to think it might.
It's unusually cold today, and by cold, I mean it's in the low 80s. Such has become my frame of reference. Just a little over a year ago, the low 80s would have been characterized a heat wave by me. Nonetheless, I am taking advantage of this. Right now, there is a pot of mung beans (yes, I'm still on this odd Gujarati vegetarian food kick) simmering on the stove. Later, there will, with luck, be a reversal of fortune where cups of flour are concerned. And I get the feeling that everything will be alright.
That's what the kitchen has become for me, I can see now. It's a place to make things okay. I surveyed the refrigerator this morning and saw something that made me a bit sad. Last time I was at the farmer's market, I bought a 5 pound bag of tangelos. Yes, a 5 pound bag. Yes, I live alone. Yes, I am an idiot. It was cheap, I love tangelos, I could not resist. This morning, I saw three forlorn tangelos still sitting in my refrigerator. The last time I had one from this bag, it was soft and showing signs of losing its freshness. Something about the three leftovers just seemed to indicate that they would not withstand being peeled. But to waste tangelos seemed horrible to me. I juiced them, thinking that, if the results were questionable, I would bake the juice into something. But they tasted just fine, and made a very nice addition to breakfast, I must say.
The kitchen seems one of the few places under my control these days. I can save things here, rescue them from bad decisions or salvage them from the edge of decay. I can be mindful in ways that elude me in other parts of my life. And most of all, I get the urge to try. It seems like, in so many ways, it's one of the few places where I don't simply throw up my hands in weariness and declare the damage done and beyond repair.
I'm starting to think that sometimes I spend so much time in the kitchen just because it's a first step in a routine that never happens. It reminds me of what Sunday evenings used to mean to me when I was gainfully employed. Regardless of what foolishness had passed over the course of the weekend, I would go to the market on Sunday night and it was like a reset button, the sign of a new week, the chance to do things properly and right this time around. In the same way, I think a part of me believes that being industrious in the kitchen will lead me to be industrious in all the other neglected aspects of my life. It does not really happen, just as the reset button on Sunday evenings rarely led to anything impressive. But it's nice to think it might.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
just where to put all your faith and how will it grow
Thanks to SJM, you are spared my lack of eloquence on the subject, and instead I can just refer you to Richard Cohen's diatribe against the Democratic campaign this year. He sums it up disturbingly well, and actually, is strangely the only thing that has comforted me regarding this election cycle. I have been completely shocked at how polarized people around me have become regarding the nomination, and have been feeling oddly sad about how not polarized I felt about it. Instead, I just felt bitter, and I think reading Cohen's article finally gave me the feeling that maybe I am not the only one.
I wonder if this is just a sign of age. I can't help but think about this because my little youngblood classmates are sincerely, earnestly excited about the election. They are fired up in that way that only youth can be fired up- with the blinders on and with no acceptance of how much of what is said is rhetoric and not real.
In some ways, I love to see it. It reminds me of how passionately I, too, believed in my youth in change. I remember how unreasonably exhilarated I was when Bill Clinton won the DNC nomination. In some ways, it wasn't that different a time. The economy was circling the toilet, Bush the First had his head buried in the sand, and the country was coming out of a war in Iraq. And it's probably hard for people to believe who have seen him in recent months, but Bill Clinton was talking some good voodoo. He was talking about change and hope, and I was buying what he was selling. I remember how convinced I was that things were going to really change when he became president.
Unfortunately, I remember everything that came afterwards too. And so now, I'm left to ponder whether there has been a steady decay over the last several years, or whether all of this has happened and will happen again. Maybe it was always like this, and I'm just older now and realizing it.
Maybe the decay was actually in me, and the hopes that I had in my youth have been eroded. Obviously, I prefer not to believe that. I get nervous when people talk about big change, I suppose, these days, because I do not believe in that anymore. Big changes are usually bad news. Maybe that's just science talking, but I tell you, most of the time, big changes are too much of a shock to the system, and are not tolerated particularly well.
What I've come to believe in is homeostasis and entropy. Everything tends towards chaos, physics dictates that it must be so. But the body maintains order, sets stability for itself, regulates. What can happen is that set point can shift. It shifts subtly, with small, barely tangible moves, and slowly, there is a shift. That is the kind of change I believe in. Science, I suppose, has taught me two things- patience and insignificance. Change comes slowly, and our best attempts are often thwarted by entropy, by the natural order. But that we still have hope, that we still make the effort, I think there's something to be said for that.
I guess that is what I don't like about politics. It's too much emphasis on someone else. Placing your hopes in other people is great, but it's far more important to spend some of that hope inwardly, I should think. So, perhaps (perhaps?!? bwahaha) I am extremely self-absorbed, but: while I have some hope that Obama will win the presidential race and change the course of the country, I am hoping much moreso that I will find some purpose in life and be of some use, that I will be a better person and do a little more for someone beside myself.
Oops. I guess you got the ineloquent diatribe just the same.
I wonder if this is just a sign of age. I can't help but think about this because my little youngblood classmates are sincerely, earnestly excited about the election. They are fired up in that way that only youth can be fired up- with the blinders on and with no acceptance of how much of what is said is rhetoric and not real.
In some ways, I love to see it. It reminds me of how passionately I, too, believed in my youth in change. I remember how unreasonably exhilarated I was when Bill Clinton won the DNC nomination. In some ways, it wasn't that different a time. The economy was circling the toilet, Bush the First had his head buried in the sand, and the country was coming out of a war in Iraq. And it's probably hard for people to believe who have seen him in recent months, but Bill Clinton was talking some good voodoo. He was talking about change and hope, and I was buying what he was selling. I remember how convinced I was that things were going to really change when he became president.
Unfortunately, I remember everything that came afterwards too. And so now, I'm left to ponder whether there has been a steady decay over the last several years, or whether all of this has happened and will happen again. Maybe it was always like this, and I'm just older now and realizing it.
Maybe the decay was actually in me, and the hopes that I had in my youth have been eroded. Obviously, I prefer not to believe that. I get nervous when people talk about big change, I suppose, these days, because I do not believe in that anymore. Big changes are usually bad news. Maybe that's just science talking, but I tell you, most of the time, big changes are too much of a shock to the system, and are not tolerated particularly well.
What I've come to believe in is homeostasis and entropy. Everything tends towards chaos, physics dictates that it must be so. But the body maintains order, sets stability for itself, regulates. What can happen is that set point can shift. It shifts subtly, with small, barely tangible moves, and slowly, there is a shift. That is the kind of change I believe in. Science, I suppose, has taught me two things- patience and insignificance. Change comes slowly, and our best attempts are often thwarted by entropy, by the natural order. But that we still have hope, that we still make the effort, I think there's something to be said for that.
I guess that is what I don't like about politics. It's too much emphasis on someone else. Placing your hopes in other people is great, but it's far more important to spend some of that hope inwardly, I should think. So, perhaps (perhaps?!? bwahaha) I am extremely self-absorbed, but: while I have some hope that Obama will win the presidential race and change the course of the country, I am hoping much moreso that I will find some purpose in life and be of some use, that I will be a better person and do a little more for someone beside myself.
Oops. I guess you got the ineloquent diatribe just the same.
Monday, June 02, 2008
I don't belong to you and you don't belong to me
It started with me thinking about why I knit but don't sew (bear with me, I promise not to talk about arts & crafts for the entirety of this post). I have wanted to learn how to sew for some time. Well, I should modify that- I knew how to sew, once upon a time, but I have wanted to refresh myself on the subject and actually do it well. But then again, I have been saying that for some years now and have never actually put my mind to it.
But there's actually a big difference between knitting and sewing. I couldn't figure out knitting when I was younger, and so I never even really got started. Sewing, on the other hand, was easily learned, especially since we actually had to learn it in middle school as part of class. When I was younger, sewing appealed to me. Have a plan, lay it out carefully, tend to it with precision and detail, execute and there you have it.
Knitting has never gone that way for me. Technically, you should be able to approach it the same way, but there is always something that I haven't accounted for with knitting. There is always something I am tinkering with along the way, always something that turns out differently than I expected. And it's fine, because you can almost always go back with knitting. It's a forgiving thing- you can unwind and unravel, clean the slate, start from scratch, approach it differently until you get it right.
Not so, for the most part, with sewing. You need a clear, focused vision, a full understanding of all the components and how they will play together, before you ever turn on a sewing machine. When I was young, I had all kinds of grand plans for sewing, and it was both a triumph when the plan led to fruition and a tragedy when it all went awry. But either way, it was fairly irreversible.
I did not mind that so much when I was young. I sort of thought I would just do better next time, learn how to reliably achieve perfection. And now. Well, now I do not have such delusions. I still believe I can be better, that I can learn. But I don't believe in perfection anymore. And that's why knitting is so attractive to me. Nothing need go to waste. If it goes to waste, it's because you gave up on it, and in that case, you have only yourself to blame. And best of all, even if you do give up, you can go back. You can come back to it later, it will be waiting for you.
Yes, it's a lot of work, in some ways more work than sewing, but the amount of flexibility and reversibility it offers makes it attractive to me. And I came to see that means something in my life. I had, a few months ago, remarked in passing to classmates that I'll likely never buy an apartment or house. They looked at me with pity and tried to assure me that I certainly would some day. What they failed to see is that my prediction had nothing to do with means, and everything to do with permanence.
I am trying to figure out how I got from there to here. From there, where I yearned for roots and a sense of belonging, to here, where I am forever unraveling myself from seams that sometimes form, always calculating the manner in which I can unshackle myself should the need arise. I suppose that back there, I made a lot of plans, and they sort of never worked out. I suppose also that back there, permanence and commitment were dangled in front of me, and every time, I would step just this close to it, and then balk. Every time someone tried to bind me, something inside me said it wasn't for me. I do not think I was running away. I think I was running for my life.
Even medical school, in a strange way, is more like knitting than sewing. Sure, it is a commitment. But nothing's set in stone. I remarked to W, it seems a long time ago now, that I might be the only person on earth to go to medical school to figure my life out. But such seems to be the case.
But there's actually a big difference between knitting and sewing. I couldn't figure out knitting when I was younger, and so I never even really got started. Sewing, on the other hand, was easily learned, especially since we actually had to learn it in middle school as part of class. When I was younger, sewing appealed to me. Have a plan, lay it out carefully, tend to it with precision and detail, execute and there you have it.
Knitting has never gone that way for me. Technically, you should be able to approach it the same way, but there is always something that I haven't accounted for with knitting. There is always something I am tinkering with along the way, always something that turns out differently than I expected. And it's fine, because you can almost always go back with knitting. It's a forgiving thing- you can unwind and unravel, clean the slate, start from scratch, approach it differently until you get it right.
Not so, for the most part, with sewing. You need a clear, focused vision, a full understanding of all the components and how they will play together, before you ever turn on a sewing machine. When I was young, I had all kinds of grand plans for sewing, and it was both a triumph when the plan led to fruition and a tragedy when it all went awry. But either way, it was fairly irreversible.
I did not mind that so much when I was young. I sort of thought I would just do better next time, learn how to reliably achieve perfection. And now. Well, now I do not have such delusions. I still believe I can be better, that I can learn. But I don't believe in perfection anymore. And that's why knitting is so attractive to me. Nothing need go to waste. If it goes to waste, it's because you gave up on it, and in that case, you have only yourself to blame. And best of all, even if you do give up, you can go back. You can come back to it later, it will be waiting for you.
Yes, it's a lot of work, in some ways more work than sewing, but the amount of flexibility and reversibility it offers makes it attractive to me. And I came to see that means something in my life. I had, a few months ago, remarked in passing to classmates that I'll likely never buy an apartment or house. They looked at me with pity and tried to assure me that I certainly would some day. What they failed to see is that my prediction had nothing to do with means, and everything to do with permanence.
I am trying to figure out how I got from there to here. From there, where I yearned for roots and a sense of belonging, to here, where I am forever unraveling myself from seams that sometimes form, always calculating the manner in which I can unshackle myself should the need arise. I suppose that back there, I made a lot of plans, and they sort of never worked out. I suppose also that back there, permanence and commitment were dangled in front of me, and every time, I would step just this close to it, and then balk. Every time someone tried to bind me, something inside me said it wasn't for me. I do not think I was running away. I think I was running for my life.
Even medical school, in a strange way, is more like knitting than sewing. Sure, it is a commitment. But nothing's set in stone. I remarked to W, it seems a long time ago now, that I might be the only person on earth to go to medical school to figure my life out. But such seems to be the case.
Friday, May 30, 2008
loose ends tying a noose
So. Well, this, I suppose, is what happens when you are wholly dependent on other people's schedules and plans, your own being rather pliant. In short, I crammed almost a week's worth of activity into one day yesterday. It was, needless to say, overkill. It didn't help that the night before, I had not slept well at all. I should have slept really well, because I had this completely bizarre dream about being married to an impossibly handsome man, who kept following me around even though an impossibly beautiful woman kept popping up and inviting herself along, at one point even while I was examining a dissected cadaver (hey, don't ask me, it's not meant to be logical). But instead of feeling all dreamy (much as I did when Sawyer walked out of the ocean all shirtless last night on Lost), I felt downright exhausted.
The end result being that I was so knackered that I fell asleep while watching the season finale of Lost. The season mothereffing finale of Lost! I now feel downright sheepish about how much I teased a good friend of mine who nodded off in the movie theater when Speed came out. Luckily, unlike her Speed-somnia, I could easily watch the season finale online today. Thank you, internets, you did it again, feeding my ability to waste time, time and again.
At this point, it is fair to say that I have no idea what in the name of the Flying Spaghetti Monster is going on in Lost. Over the holidays last year, I finally fell victim to the BSG craze, and started to watch that, but I'm finding myself underwhelmed with the new episodes- everything is so cryptic and nonsensical that I find myself shrugging and just watching to see if the pieces ever fall into place. That is what had happened to me with Lost, and to some extent not much has changed with the finale. I can only recall:
Anyway. I made the second batch of caramel ice cream today. It tastes okay, but not enough like caramel to suit me. I'll take pictures side by side tomorrow so you can compare. The other batch is definitely too burnt, but there must be some middle ground that I shall have to seek out.
It's funny- to me there is very little difference between what I have done in the kitchen and what I have done in the lab this past week. What is required is not very different- good calculations, a steady hand, a sense of when things are going right or wrong, and managing time effectively. You babysit a reaction, you babysit a pot of melting sugar- makes no real difference, except you can only do one in the comfort of your own kitchen, I guess.
But I am a bit tired today. So tired, in fact, that I just sat down to type this and had to think about when I last ate. I know this would seem normal to anyone else, but I eat so frequently, and eating is such a joy to me that I am a little shocked that I am uncertain as to whether or not I have had a meal since returning home, and if not, when the last time was I ate. Maybe I should keep busy more often. Then again, I probably ate a meal, forgot, and will now eat another one just to be safe.
The end result being that I was so knackered that I fell asleep while watching the season finale of Lost. The season mothereffing finale of Lost! I now feel downright sheepish about how much I teased a good friend of mine who nodded off in the movie theater when Speed came out. Luckily, unlike her Speed-somnia, I could easily watch the season finale online today. Thank you, internets, you did it again, feeding my ability to waste time, time and again.
At this point, it is fair to say that I have no idea what in the name of the Flying Spaghetti Monster is going on in Lost. Over the holidays last year, I finally fell victim to the BSG craze, and started to watch that, but I'm finding myself underwhelmed with the new episodes- everything is so cryptic and nonsensical that I find myself shrugging and just watching to see if the pieces ever fall into place. That is what had happened to me with Lost, and to some extent not much has changed with the finale. I can only recall:
- Does Walt have some kind of accelerated aging disorder? I fear the next time we see him, he will be walking with a cane.
- Sawyer's nicknames for everyone sort of became a tiresome schtick the last few seasons. However, nicknaming Frank Lapidus as Kenny Rogers was sort of brilliant.
- Speaking of Sawyer, I do not understand how Juliet could look so morose at the sight of him emerging from the water. She should have looked at her bottle of Dharma initiative rum and said, "This stuff is amazing! I'm becoming an alcoholic!"
- Naveen Andrews should play conflicted bad guys for a living.
- I don't like it when Lost clutters the already confusing plots and storylines with new characters, but I liked Miles telling Daniel he was sufficiently dire.
- Even though there is little to no chance that he is alive, I just cannot bring myself to believe that Jin is dead. Poor Daniel Dae Kim finally gets to speak his native tongue, and they go and kill his character off?!?
Anyway. I made the second batch of caramel ice cream today. It tastes okay, but not enough like caramel to suit me. I'll take pictures side by side tomorrow so you can compare. The other batch is definitely too burnt, but there must be some middle ground that I shall have to seek out.
It's funny- to me there is very little difference between what I have done in the kitchen and what I have done in the lab this past week. What is required is not very different- good calculations, a steady hand, a sense of when things are going right or wrong, and managing time effectively. You babysit a reaction, you babysit a pot of melting sugar- makes no real difference, except you can only do one in the comfort of your own kitchen, I guess.
But I am a bit tired today. So tired, in fact, that I just sat down to type this and had to think about when I last ate. I know this would seem normal to anyone else, but I eat so frequently, and eating is such a joy to me that I am a little shocked that I am uncertain as to whether or not I have had a meal since returning home, and if not, when the last time was I ate. Maybe I should keep busy more often. Then again, I probably ate a meal, forgot, and will now eat another one just to be safe.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
a second chance, a third chance, a fourth chance
People, it was time. I've been avoiding this for years. Ever since A Auntie's superior South Indian son once scoffed at me about it, I have longed to make a pie crust from scratch. "It's easy," he sniffed, in response to a remark I had made about how tricky it seemed, when I was 23 and visiting the family during Thanksgiving. "All you really need is a good pastry cutter."
Well, all these years later, I still do not own a pastry cutter, but I think I have finally decided to man up and figure out this whole pie crust business, what with the amount of time I have on my hands at the moment. What with the prior failures and prior declarations that wound up amounting to wimp-outs, pies & I do have a kind of troubled history. Still, I was thinking today that I had recently figured out how to use a rolling pin passably, so I might as well put it to the test.
Everything went a lot more smoothly than it did the last times. For all the knowledge you can amass in the world, it seems like nothing replaces a good instinct. It is as true in the kitchen as it is anywhere else- you can often just feel whether something is going well or not. The same thing happened this morning with Attempt #2 in the Caramel Chronicles, except against my favor- I knew something was not quite right, and this time instead of burning it, the caramel didn't quite go all the way caramel enough. I know that makes no sense, but let's just say at this point, the Caramel Chronicles are starting to resemble Goldilocks and the Three Bears- maybe on Attempt #3, things will fall into place.
The pie, on the other hand, appears to be okay:
It came out looking a bit sunken, but that is just because I had to be stingy with the filling, as I was only given a small amount of fresh cherries frommy dealer my friend. But of course, as everyone knows, looks do not count for everything, especially when it comes to baked goods. I happen to have a real problem with cherries, so I am going to have to force someone else to taste test this for me.
I'll leave you with the most emotional conversation the broseph and I may have ever had with each other:
In other news, I see my godson tomorrow! I predict he will not recognize me and cry with absolute commitment.
Well, all these years later, I still do not own a pastry cutter, but I think I have finally decided to man up and figure out this whole pie crust business, what with the amount of time I have on my hands at the moment. What with the prior failures and prior declarations that wound up amounting to wimp-outs, pies & I do have a kind of troubled history. Still, I was thinking today that I had recently figured out how to use a rolling pin passably, so I might as well put it to the test.
Everything went a lot more smoothly than it did the last times. For all the knowledge you can amass in the world, it seems like nothing replaces a good instinct. It is as true in the kitchen as it is anywhere else- you can often just feel whether something is going well or not. The same thing happened this morning with Attempt #2 in the Caramel Chronicles, except against my favor- I knew something was not quite right, and this time instead of burning it, the caramel didn't quite go all the way caramel enough. I know that makes no sense, but let's just say at this point, the Caramel Chronicles are starting to resemble Goldilocks and the Three Bears- maybe on Attempt #3, things will fall into place.
The pie, on the other hand, appears to be okay:
It came out looking a bit sunken, but that is just because I had to be stingy with the filling, as I was only given a small amount of fresh cherries from
I'll leave you with the most emotional conversation the broseph and I may have ever had with each other:
- me: (answering phone call) Hey, man, I was just thinking of you.
broseph: Really (weirded out), why?
me: I was just giving some friends these brownies I made with a peanut butter frosting on them, and I always think of you when I'm using peanut butter.
broseph: Oh! I just came from a coffee shop where I had the most unsatisfying peanut butter cookie of my whole life. I was just thinking, sh*t, my sister would not have stood for these.
In other news, I see my godson tomorrow! I predict he will not recognize me and cry with absolute commitment.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
still coming up with lint
My mania reached a peak:
But as is often the case when you reach a peak, you find that it's actually just a rest before a bigger peak. So, then I got to making caramel and caramel ice cream. Caramel is a finicky sticky little critter. It does not want to be touched, no stirring involved. Yet it does not abide to abandonment- you have to babysit it vigilantly, and even then, hesitate for a moment, and you will wind up with a burnt mess. This was probably not the right way to experiment. Cream is expensive these days, and besides which, adding cream to caramelized sugar causes something suspiciously reminiscent of Hiroshima. So I probably should have just fooled around with caramelizing sugar instead of diving blindly into making ice cream. Truth be told, I am pretty sure this first batch of ice cream is going to be a stinker- the caramel did smoke a bit, and because of that, I think this batch will have a bit of a burnt, bitter flavor to it.
However, what I do have, refreshingly, is a lot of time. So tomorrow morning, I shall see if I can get the hang of it. Of course, in the meanwhile,an enabler a friend gave me a bag of cherries. I do not eat cherries, never much liked the taste of them. So of course, now I am trying to figure out what I can bake with cherries (that is, if I can first figure out how to remove the pits without losing my mind). Also, the heat may return by the end of the week, so suddenly, I'm even more frantic about baking as much as I can.
Luckily, I did spend quite a bit of time outside yesterday. AG and I did some exploring and found ourselves a trail. It wasn't much of a hike, because I live sort of in a valley, but we walked along the river for miles. I forgot how nice it was to just be outdoors and close to something not resembling buildings, pavement and concrete. After the 'hike', we met up with some other people and watched the new Indiana Jones movie. The less I write about that, the better- my review of the movie is: go watch Iron Man instead.
Being rather disconnected from everything was nice, especially since I was subjected to more Gunner-ific characters in the morning. I have decided that the only way to tolerate it all is to acknowledge it, to myself. I really think that half the trouble I have stems from falling victim to the hype every so often and actually believing that med school is populated with calm, non-competitive people. Those people do exist, in fact, but they keep so to themselves that one will never encounter them. Which got me to thinking that perhaps that is the answer- keeping to myself whenever possible.
And successfully making caramel.
But as is often the case when you reach a peak, you find that it's actually just a rest before a bigger peak. So, then I got to making caramel and caramel ice cream. Caramel is a finicky sticky little critter. It does not want to be touched, no stirring involved. Yet it does not abide to abandonment- you have to babysit it vigilantly, and even then, hesitate for a moment, and you will wind up with a burnt mess. This was probably not the right way to experiment. Cream is expensive these days, and besides which, adding cream to caramelized sugar causes something suspiciously reminiscent of Hiroshima. So I probably should have just fooled around with caramelizing sugar instead of diving blindly into making ice cream. Truth be told, I am pretty sure this first batch of ice cream is going to be a stinker- the caramel did smoke a bit, and because of that, I think this batch will have a bit of a burnt, bitter flavor to it.
However, what I do have, refreshingly, is a lot of time. So tomorrow morning, I shall see if I can get the hang of it. Of course, in the meanwhile,
Luckily, I did spend quite a bit of time outside yesterday. AG and I did some exploring and found ourselves a trail. It wasn't much of a hike, because I live sort of in a valley, but we walked along the river for miles. I forgot how nice it was to just be outdoors and close to something not resembling buildings, pavement and concrete. After the 'hike', we met up with some other people and watched the new Indiana Jones movie. The less I write about that, the better- my review of the movie is: go watch Iron Man instead.
Being rather disconnected from everything was nice, especially since I was subjected to more Gunner-ific characters in the morning. I have decided that the only way to tolerate it all is to acknowledge it, to myself. I really think that half the trouble I have stems from falling victim to the hype every so often and actually believing that med school is populated with calm, non-competitive people. Those people do exist, in fact, but they keep so to themselves that one will never encounter them. Which got me to thinking that perhaps that is the answer- keeping to myself whenever possible.
And successfully making caramel.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
I was running blind
Today, I was reminded that I had a little sour cream left in the refrigerator. I had made a chocolate chip pound cake for a friend’s birthday, and had not used all the sour cream in the small container I bought. I decided to make cookies, lemon ones, with icing. Sour cream keeps a cookie moist, and gives it an almost cake-like consistency. Which was pleasant, if you like something like a lemon drop.
But this had started an itch. So then I made a batch of brownies. They are supposed to be topped with a peanut butter mixture that has to set in the refrigerator. But that is when I noticed that my refrigerator had a garlic odor pervading through it. At the farmer’s market last weekend, a stand was selling a massive amount of peeled cloves of garlic for $1.99, and the Guju in me could not resist.
RR gave me an excellent suggestion for what to do with this massive quantity of garlic. To get such a deal on that much garlic and then have it go to waste would have been unforgivable. Instead, I threw all of it in a pan, added some olive oil and sea salt, and then put in some broth (I used chicken broth because I didn’t have any vegetable broth on me, but I bet either works just as well). Baking that for an hour temporarily turned my apartment into an Italian bistro. Roasting garlic wafting through the air made me heady, though I had to hide the brownies in another corner of the apartment, wrapped in foil to make sure they did not get contaminated with garlic. When the baking part was over, I mashed it all up with a fork, and dipped a cracker in it to taste- it made me happy, though it should be noted that I find it’s hard for garlic to do wrong by me. I’m hoping it will keep well too, since even I cannot consume that much garlic in one sitting.
I’ve been soaking black-eyed peas since then. And I chopped up a pile of baby spinach, threw it on some naan, added some tomato sauce and cheese, threw that in the oven, and called it dinner.
Now, in addition to the black-eyed peas that will serve as part of my meals for the week, I’m contemplating foccacia. And making caramel ice cream. I think this might be a sign of madness or a sign of trying to work out my demons by way of a completely unrelated activity.
This might also mean I ought to go for a hike tomorrow or my refrigerator might end up exploding.
But this had started an itch. So then I made a batch of brownies. They are supposed to be topped with a peanut butter mixture that has to set in the refrigerator. But that is when I noticed that my refrigerator had a garlic odor pervading through it. At the farmer’s market last weekend, a stand was selling a massive amount of peeled cloves of garlic for $1.99, and the Guju in me could not resist.
RR gave me an excellent suggestion for what to do with this massive quantity of garlic. To get such a deal on that much garlic and then have it go to waste would have been unforgivable. Instead, I threw all of it in a pan, added some olive oil and sea salt, and then put in some broth (I used chicken broth because I didn’t have any vegetable broth on me, but I bet either works just as well). Baking that for an hour temporarily turned my apartment into an Italian bistro. Roasting garlic wafting through the air made me heady, though I had to hide the brownies in another corner of the apartment, wrapped in foil to make sure they did not get contaminated with garlic. When the baking part was over, I mashed it all up with a fork, and dipped a cracker in it to taste- it made me happy, though it should be noted that I find it’s hard for garlic to do wrong by me. I’m hoping it will keep well too, since even I cannot consume that much garlic in one sitting.
I’ve been soaking black-eyed peas since then. And I chopped up a pile of baby spinach, threw it on some naan, added some tomato sauce and cheese, threw that in the oven, and called it dinner.
Now, in addition to the black-eyed peas that will serve as part of my meals for the week, I’m contemplating foccacia. And making caramel ice cream. I think this might be a sign of madness or a sign of trying to work out my demons by way of a completely unrelated activity.
This might also mean I ought to go for a hike tomorrow or my refrigerator might end up exploding.
Friday, May 23, 2008
too many stars and not enough sky
Fridays are good days these days even though I do not have the kind of schedule that means Friday is the end of the week. If anything, Friday is kind of the beginning of the week for me these days. But on Fridays, I get a little reassurance that this road I am on is not completely, insanely misguided.
Still. There were things today that pulled me down from the high. I hesitate to mention this, because I do not think it's a legitimate thing to be too concerned about. The broseph once told me that he wanted to get out of IT because 'there are no cool people in tech'. Now, while he's entitled to his opinion on the quality of IT folks, I think that is a flimsy reason to get out of a profession.
Sure, it is important that you can establish a work environment that is tolerable enough that you can do your job without going into therapy. But do you really need to be BFF with your coworkers? I think not.
Or I hope not. At first, I said it was because I was older that I could not say I would have lasting friendships from school. Now, upon further reflection, I do not think my age has anything to do with it. There is a lot about medical students that I simply do. not. like. at. all.
Mostly, this past year has been a lesson in making lemon juice from lemons. Most of the time, I am thinking of ways to see classmates in a light that allows them more slack. It's slack they do not really deserve and have not earned. But it's slack that's necessary to give to make another three years with them tolerable. That is how I know I won't keep in touch with most once I am out of here- when you're basically tolerating people for convenience sake, there's a low likelihood you will continue to tolerate them when you are no longer thrust together at all times.
The worst part, I'm finding, is that whenever someone emits those crazy medical school competitive gunner-manic behavior, my instinct is to just get as far away as possible. And while it's been a successful method of avoiding getting sucked into that kind of neurotic sparring, it's robbed me of a lot of opportunities. I realized it today because, on Fridays, I get to do something I really enjoy and it is 100% to do with medicine. But then, one of the crazy I will shank you if you show any interest in my specialty people showed up and invaded the sanctuary. Later, another classmate-purported-friend emailed me and wanted to come along with me next week, simply because I had told her that I had enjoyed it.
And that's the whole problem. When you tell a friend in school that you enjoyed something, they do not process that as ah, she found something she enjoyed. Instead, their crazy Babelfish speak translates it to OMG, she is doing something that I could be doing and enjoying instead. The thing is, in the past year, I think every time anyone has come at me with that sort of craziness, I've backed off and basically waved them through, with an it's all yours, crazy, all yours.
But if I continue to do that, I will miss out on the things that might actually make me feel I am in the right place. I used to be better at this, but I feel past it now. My instinct now is to just avoid it. But that is strange, because I don't think that anyone who knows me would describe me as someone prone to getting trampled. Trying to reconcile these two aspects of my personality is something I am finding difficult.
Anyhow, sorry. That's a lot of complaining for a Friday evening. But now that I have got some of this out of my system, perhaps I will have something of substance to say.
Still. There were things today that pulled me down from the high. I hesitate to mention this, because I do not think it's a legitimate thing to be too concerned about. The broseph once told me that he wanted to get out of IT because 'there are no cool people in tech'. Now, while he's entitled to his opinion on the quality of IT folks, I think that is a flimsy reason to get out of a profession.
Sure, it is important that you can establish a work environment that is tolerable enough that you can do your job without going into therapy. But do you really need to be BFF with your coworkers? I think not.
Or I hope not. At first, I said it was because I was older that I could not say I would have lasting friendships from school. Now, upon further reflection, I do not think my age has anything to do with it. There is a lot about medical students that I simply do. not. like. at. all.
Mostly, this past year has been a lesson in making lemon juice from lemons. Most of the time, I am thinking of ways to see classmates in a light that allows them more slack. It's slack they do not really deserve and have not earned. But it's slack that's necessary to give to make another three years with them tolerable. That is how I know I won't keep in touch with most once I am out of here- when you're basically tolerating people for convenience sake, there's a low likelihood you will continue to tolerate them when you are no longer thrust together at all times.
The worst part, I'm finding, is that whenever someone emits those crazy medical school competitive gunner-manic behavior, my instinct is to just get as far away as possible. And while it's been a successful method of avoiding getting sucked into that kind of neurotic sparring, it's robbed me of a lot of opportunities. I realized it today because, on Fridays, I get to do something I really enjoy and it is 100% to do with medicine. But then, one of the crazy I will shank you if you show any interest in my specialty people showed up and invaded the sanctuary. Later, another classmate-purported-friend emailed me and wanted to come along with me next week, simply because I had told her that I had enjoyed it.
And that's the whole problem. When you tell a friend in school that you enjoyed something, they do not process that as ah, she found something she enjoyed. Instead, their crazy Babelfish speak translates it to OMG, she is doing something that I could be doing and enjoying instead. The thing is, in the past year, I think every time anyone has come at me with that sort of craziness, I've backed off and basically waved them through, with an it's all yours, crazy, all yours.
But if I continue to do that, I will miss out on the things that might actually make me feel I am in the right place. I used to be better at this, but I feel past it now. My instinct now is to just avoid it. But that is strange, because I don't think that anyone who knows me would describe me as someone prone to getting trampled. Trying to reconcile these two aspects of my personality is something I am finding difficult.
Anyhow, sorry. That's a lot of complaining for a Friday evening. But now that I have got some of this out of my system, perhaps I will have something of substance to say.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
anyone else but you
This is the post that gave me a dose of writer's block. I wrote the flimsy paragraphs down on a piece of paper the other day, realized it was honest, and then all of a sudden felt conflicted about whether to post it or not. And then after that, I couldn't write anything, paralyzed by this indecision as to whether I should get quite this down to it here. So, I'm putting it up not so much because I want it to be read (a part of me still doesn't want it to be), but rather so that I can move past it:
I was childish back then really, but not much has changed. When E had first, unexpectedly, blurted out his interest in me and kissed me, I had come home that night with mainly one thought: yes. The yes had nothing to do with E. It had to do with a wave of relief, a silent pumping of the fist. Yes, I thought, he (the one who came before) wasn't the last one. The last one wasn't the last one.
Everything else I can bear these days. I can bear the bad he did me, can bear my own foolishness, can even bear that he will, in my life, always be the one person with whom amends will never be made. But what is still a hard thing to stomach, to consider, is that Q was the last or, worse yet, is the last.
I was childish back then really, but not much has changed. When E had first, unexpectedly, blurted out his interest in me and kissed me, I had come home that night with mainly one thought: yes. The yes had nothing to do with E. It had to do with a wave of relief, a silent pumping of the fist. Yes, I thought, he (the one who came before) wasn't the last one. The last one wasn't the last one.
Everything else I can bear these days. I can bear the bad he did me, can bear my own foolishness, can even bear that he will, in my life, always be the one person with whom amends will never be made. But what is still a hard thing to stomach, to consider, is that Q was the last or, worse yet, is the last.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
heavy boots of lead
If you abhor action movies or Robert Downey Jr, you need read no further.
But really? You do not like action movies? Not ever? Is there never an occasion when you need some mindless dishoom fun? Or you dislike Robert Downey Jr? Really? Still begrudging him for Ally McBeal, perhaps? Convinced that success will just drive him back into the arms of cocaine? You can really resist his inherent zing and charisma? You're a better person than I.
I am biased because I have a soft spot for Jon Favreau, and for Robert Downey Jr, and about 30 to 45 minutes into the movie, I noticed the voice of Paul Bettany, and I was like, you had me at hello already. So, clearly, mine is not a fair, objective take on the movie.
Yet I'd be surprised to find someone who didn't at least enjoy the movie. If you did not enjoy the movie, I would have to conclude it is because you do not like action/superhero genre. Because Iron Man is definitely of that ilk. You're not going to see huge character development, you're not going to see an epic love for all ages, and you will probably see some far-fetched plotlines here and there. But it's Iron Man- I should hope you walked in with proper expectations.
As clever as Johnny Depp was as Captain Jack Sparrow, I didn't need to see him reprise the role twice more. I'll even admit that Keanu Reeves was well cast in The Matrix, but we could have all lived very happy existences had the next two movies never been made. And of course, there was the often-cited-by-me debacle of the second Indiana Jones movie. Most of the time, a hero just loses their mystique the more you see of them.
Either the marketing folks have done a fantastic job or it's the real thing, but I actually walked out of the theater hoping they make a second Iron Man movie and that they make it soon. I could watch Robert Downey Jr. deliver one-liners for several more hours. He even managed to make me believe that Gwyneth Paltrow is pleasant- that's very nearly Oscar-worthy.
*
This makes it seem like this movie was my entire day, when actually there was much more going on. First thing in the morning, I rushed to the local farmer's market and bought a flat of strawberries, and 5 pounds of tangelos. It may not quite yet be strawberry season though because the berries were still a bit tangy, not the small ripe wonders they become when they are truly in their prime. No worries. I hulled them and threw them in the food processor, and they are soon to become strawberry sorbet. And yes, in case you are wondering, due to the heat, basically every idea of mine ends with "and then I threw it in the ice cream maker." Let's just hope this doesn't go too far and that I'm not throwing carrots and green peppers in there next.
I am still on this odd kick so I also made makeshift theplas, which would not be anything special to anyone but me. In our family, when someone didn't know how to properly roll out a roti or chapati or puri, they would joke that it was shaped like India. I never learned how to roll things out properly. My mother just had me prepare the dough intead, and would have me cook the rotis, while she would roll them out. I think this is because she got no enjoyment out of the daily preparation, and thus did not want to prolong it with having me make misshapen rotis that she would then have to reform from scratch. I concluded that it was just one of those things I'd never quite get the hang of doing.
It's so easy to convince children of this notion, with very little intention to do so. But it's not a particularly good idea to instill. Especially when it is a really silly thing like this. Today when I was rolling out the theplas, I thought to myself that it hardly mattered what they were shaped like- only I would be eating them and what did I care if they were shaped like the moon or like India? But something weird happened while I was going about the business. It just kind of came to me, this technique of two quick strokes and then a light, nimble turn of the dough just maybe 15 degrees, and repeat and repeat and what do you know? A circle, a moon.
At first I felt a wave of annoyance about it. Really? It had been that easy all along and no one had bothered to show me? Not my mother nor my aunts? I relented though. The truth is, once I was a teenager, I avoided my mother's realm- I only did what she told me and tried not to take on any additional responsibility. I even forgot how to do some of the things I knew when I was younger, willfully flushing my mind of things that could be useful in the kitchen. And learning it this way, it's in my bones, it's in the memory of my muscles, and it's in my mind- I figured it out myself, so I know I could figure it out again.
If only the same could be said about IKEA furniture, which never fails to flummox me when I am assembling it.
But really? You do not like action movies? Not ever? Is there never an occasion when you need some mindless dishoom fun? Or you dislike Robert Downey Jr? Really? Still begrudging him for Ally McBeal, perhaps? Convinced that success will just drive him back into the arms of cocaine? You can really resist his inherent zing and charisma? You're a better person than I.
I am biased because I have a soft spot for Jon Favreau, and for Robert Downey Jr, and about 30 to 45 minutes into the movie, I noticed the voice of Paul Bettany, and I was like, you had me at hello already. So, clearly, mine is not a fair, objective take on the movie.
Yet I'd be surprised to find someone who didn't at least enjoy the movie. If you did not enjoy the movie, I would have to conclude it is because you do not like action/superhero genre. Because Iron Man is definitely of that ilk. You're not going to see huge character development, you're not going to see an epic love for all ages, and you will probably see some far-fetched plotlines here and there. But it's Iron Man- I should hope you walked in with proper expectations.
As clever as Johnny Depp was as Captain Jack Sparrow, I didn't need to see him reprise the role twice more. I'll even admit that Keanu Reeves was well cast in The Matrix, but we could have all lived very happy existences had the next two movies never been made. And of course, there was the often-cited-by-me debacle of the second Indiana Jones movie. Most of the time, a hero just loses their mystique the more you see of them.
Either the marketing folks have done a fantastic job or it's the real thing, but I actually walked out of the theater hoping they make a second Iron Man movie and that they make it soon. I could watch Robert Downey Jr. deliver one-liners for several more hours. He even managed to make me believe that Gwyneth Paltrow is pleasant- that's very nearly Oscar-worthy.
This makes it seem like this movie was my entire day, when actually there was much more going on. First thing in the morning, I rushed to the local farmer's market and bought a flat of strawberries, and 5 pounds of tangelos. It may not quite yet be strawberry season though because the berries were still a bit tangy, not the small ripe wonders they become when they are truly in their prime. No worries. I hulled them and threw them in the food processor, and they are soon to become strawberry sorbet. And yes, in case you are wondering, due to the heat, basically every idea of mine ends with "and then I threw it in the ice cream maker." Let's just hope this doesn't go too far and that I'm not throwing carrots and green peppers in there next.
I am still on this odd kick so I also made makeshift theplas, which would not be anything special to anyone but me. In our family, when someone didn't know how to properly roll out a roti or chapati or puri, they would joke that it was shaped like India. I never learned how to roll things out properly. My mother just had me prepare the dough intead, and would have me cook the rotis, while she would roll them out. I think this is because she got no enjoyment out of the daily preparation, and thus did not want to prolong it with having me make misshapen rotis that she would then have to reform from scratch. I concluded that it was just one of those things I'd never quite get the hang of doing.
It's so easy to convince children of this notion, with very little intention to do so. But it's not a particularly good idea to instill. Especially when it is a really silly thing like this. Today when I was rolling out the theplas, I thought to myself that it hardly mattered what they were shaped like- only I would be eating them and what did I care if they were shaped like the moon or like India? But something weird happened while I was going about the business. It just kind of came to me, this technique of two quick strokes and then a light, nimble turn of the dough just maybe 15 degrees, and repeat and repeat and what do you know? A circle, a moon.
At first I felt a wave of annoyance about it. Really? It had been that easy all along and no one had bothered to show me? Not my mother nor my aunts? I relented though. The truth is, once I was a teenager, I avoided my mother's realm- I only did what she told me and tried not to take on any additional responsibility. I even forgot how to do some of the things I knew when I was younger, willfully flushing my mind of things that could be useful in the kitchen. And learning it this way, it's in my bones, it's in the memory of my muscles, and it's in my mind- I figured it out myself, so I know I could figure it out again.
If only the same could be said about IKEA furniture, which never fails to flummox me when I am assembling it.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
makes me feel fine
karrvakarela was prompted to write a memory of a summer afternoon. Given that it's morning and it already feels like it's close to 100 here, this is a meme I can get behind:
It is only hot like this two weeks out of the year, maybe less. So there is no air-conditioning in the house, but for the wall unit in my parents' room, which is only turned on at night. My brother and I sleep in the basement on nights when it gets too hot.
My grandmother, the nice one, is kneading flour and water and oil together at the table while I fill a bucket with cold water. She is not one for silence. We are in the kitchen together, she wearing the lightest sari she can find, I wearing shorts and a t-shirt. She is telling me about the summers in India. How they closed all the windows and the shutters tight, how they turned off all the lights too, just tiny slivers of sunlight creeping through. And then, she says, she would wet the floor with cold water, and it would cool the house down just enough that it was bearable.
As she says this, I have started to clean the floor. We do not own a mop. I am crouched down, washing the floor with a rag, and trying to convince myself it is working. That the house is getting cooler because I am scrubbing. This is linoleum, of course, and we don't have the wooden shutters that can be closed from the inside to shield us from the light. We don't believe in that here.
But it doesn't matter. Her words are like the washcloth she used to lay over my head when I had a fever. They soothe me. I let my hands and the rag linger in the cold water each time before wringing it out again. I let her get me to pretend.
It is only hot like this two weeks out of the year, maybe less. So there is no air-conditioning in the house, but for the wall unit in my parents' room, which is only turned on at night. My brother and I sleep in the basement on nights when it gets too hot.
My grandmother, the nice one, is kneading flour and water and oil together at the table while I fill a bucket with cold water. She is not one for silence. We are in the kitchen together, she wearing the lightest sari she can find, I wearing shorts and a t-shirt. She is telling me about the summers in India. How they closed all the windows and the shutters tight, how they turned off all the lights too, just tiny slivers of sunlight creeping through. And then, she says, she would wet the floor with cold water, and it would cool the house down just enough that it was bearable.
As she says this, I have started to clean the floor. We do not own a mop. I am crouched down, washing the floor with a rag, and trying to convince myself it is working. That the house is getting cooler because I am scrubbing. This is linoleum, of course, and we don't have the wooden shutters that can be closed from the inside to shield us from the light. We don't believe in that here.
But it doesn't matter. Her words are like the washcloth she used to lay over my head when I had a fever. They soothe me. I let my hands and the rag linger in the cold water each time before wringing it out again. I let her get me to pretend.
Friday, May 16, 2008
who knew of the secret sun
8:25 in the morning and two empty cans of Diet Pepsi in front of him. There were a bowl-full, placed there especially for him. Two cans of Diet Pepsi pulsing through his veins and still he sounded to be speaking at half the speed as everyone else. We had found that tiresome when he lectured, the slow-paced speech, the defeated tone, a voice filled with weariness. Not exactly inspiring. Yet here, on this early morning, it was so welcome. Same person, new setting, suddenly a dazzling gem- how could you have not seen it before?
He was so welcome, in fact, also a surprise. In class, afterwards, he was always surrounded by students, the same ones that gathered around every professor after class, equipped with concocted questions and canned flattery. He had seemed to respond to that sort of adulation, was patient with them- I held that against him. My favorite instructors saw through the sycophants, made their responses curt, brushing them off with annoyed efficiency. Not him.
But now I understood why. We weren't used to seeing someone so in love. If your motives were noble or nefarious, it mattered not to him. If you showed any interest, he saw an ember, and set about trying to fan it to a flame. When I had talked to other physicians on staff, they had that skeptical tone laced through "hmmm, so you think you are interested in X?" As if they could not wait to prove me wrong. Not him.
The words were fairly much the same- "So you think you might be interested in" but the tone was altogether new, completely the opposite of all the others. Devoid of cynicism, he sounded hopeful. He hoped you were interested. He wanted to show you how interested you could be.
And there there were the 2 cans of Diet Pepsi, the playful jeering of diagnoses so obscure and unhelpful that they sounded made up, the forgetting of anatomy terms and the description of a patient with mental status changes as sort of far out. It was, in fact, a very good day.
He was so welcome, in fact, also a surprise. In class, afterwards, he was always surrounded by students, the same ones that gathered around every professor after class, equipped with concocted questions and canned flattery. He had seemed to respond to that sort of adulation, was patient with them- I held that against him. My favorite instructors saw through the sycophants, made their responses curt, brushing them off with annoyed efficiency. Not him.
But now I understood why. We weren't used to seeing someone so in love. If your motives were noble or nefarious, it mattered not to him. If you showed any interest, he saw an ember, and set about trying to fan it to a flame. When I had talked to other physicians on staff, they had that skeptical tone laced through "hmmm, so you think you are interested in X?" As if they could not wait to prove me wrong. Not him.
The words were fairly much the same- "So you think you might be interested in" but the tone was altogether new, completely the opposite of all the others. Devoid of cynicism, he sounded hopeful. He hoped you were interested. He wanted to show you how interested you could be.
And there there were the 2 cans of Diet Pepsi, the playful jeering of diagnoses so obscure and unhelpful that they sounded made up, the forgetting of anatomy terms and the description of a patient with mental status changes as sort of far out. It was, in fact, a very good day.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
fevered feeling hot hot hot
Thank goodness my hair is cut short right now, because it is all I can do to keep from melting at the moment. We are beset with an unusual heat wave. Since Nutella ice cream is dangerous to keep in the house (translation: it may spontaneously disappear and I may find myself feeling strangely 5 lbs heavier), I had packed it off and given it to various friends in the area. It's almost gone at this point, so I would say that the first run on the ice cream maker was acceptable.
But now I'm thinking more selfishly, and I am not a big ice cream fan, as I have already stated. Some time back, when it was stiflingly hot in Brooklyn, I was taken to a frozen yogurt shop that won me over. Don't even bother telling me how far superior Pinkberry is, folks. While it may be true, Pinkberry is not in Brooklyn (as far as I know, at least), therefore it loses. Anyway, the thing about Oka in Brooklyn is that it is so spare. And I went as spare as you could get, which is rare for me. I have a sweet tooth, and am not crazy about frozen things, so usually, I order all kinds of stupid toppings on ice cream or frozen yogurt.
Somehow at Oka, that just did not seem right. Something about the simplicity of the place, and the fact that I lose my appetite when it is too hot outside, just compelled me to order a plain frozen yogurt, no frills. And oh, it did not disappoint.
Now this is not for everyone, as I have discovered. There are two frozen yogurt shops in my current city, and they could not be more different. One prides itself in having 7,000 (ok, perhaps an exaggeration) toppings, and the frozen yogurt tastes more like soft serve, synthetic ice cream. The other prides itself in fresh ingredients, and the frozen yogurt tastes like frozen yogurt, complete with that tangy bite, that little sour zing that gets you on the inside of your cheeks. And it's interesting how much people diverge regarding these two yogurt shops.
As usual, I oscillate between extremes. There are times when I am in the mood for comfort, and then I want some fake frozen yogurt with crushed candybars and whatnot on it. But other times, times like now, I'm just interested in cooling down. Or, in my case, currently obsessed with my ice cream maker and with things that are somewhat, at least arguably, good for me.
So today, I treated myself to a bunch of Fage, which has since been sweetened with some honey and molasses, flavored with just a bit of vanilla, and will soon be taking a trip in the ICE-20. Is it cheaper than store bought ice cream? Absolutely not. Will it be tastier? Perhaps only to me. But at the moment, I am the only person I am interested in pleasing, so it works out quite well. Pictures when I put the stuff through its paces.
In other news, I think I have given my mother the best Mother's Day present ever, though she doesn't actually know it. Out of nowhere this week, I've become fixated with cooking Gujarati food. This is truly bizarre, and may be a sign that the heat is actually causing me to lose my senses. Stranger still, I can't bring myself to call my mom and just get some pointers on how to make all of this stuff. Instead, I keep relying entirely on random memories and tasting as I go, and who knows what else. I made this dish with black-eyed peas, garlic, and ginger yesterday that my mom used to make in a pressure-cooker. I do not own one of those, so I basically just tinkered around with the mixture until it tasted edible. Furthermore, I may have made something resembling chapatis. I may also be making another batch tomorrow with spinach. Wow. The more I type this out, the crazier it sounds to me. I know it may not sound crazy to those of you reading- after all, I am Guju, and I am writing of making Guju food. Except- I don't really like this food at all. In fact, until now, if it did not involve meat or creating some kind of sauce to be added to pasta, you could pretty much count me out of it. For the record, though, if I buy a pressure-cooker this summer, it will be a sign that someone needs to stage an intervention.
But now I'm thinking more selfishly, and I am not a big ice cream fan, as I have already stated. Some time back, when it was stiflingly hot in Brooklyn, I was taken to a frozen yogurt shop that won me over. Don't even bother telling me how far superior Pinkberry is, folks. While it may be true, Pinkberry is not in Brooklyn (as far as I know, at least), therefore it loses. Anyway, the thing about Oka in Brooklyn is that it is so spare. And I went as spare as you could get, which is rare for me. I have a sweet tooth, and am not crazy about frozen things, so usually, I order all kinds of stupid toppings on ice cream or frozen yogurt.
Somehow at Oka, that just did not seem right. Something about the simplicity of the place, and the fact that I lose my appetite when it is too hot outside, just compelled me to order a plain frozen yogurt, no frills. And oh, it did not disappoint.
Now this is not for everyone, as I have discovered. There are two frozen yogurt shops in my current city, and they could not be more different. One prides itself in having 7,000 (ok, perhaps an exaggeration) toppings, and the frozen yogurt tastes more like soft serve, synthetic ice cream. The other prides itself in fresh ingredients, and the frozen yogurt tastes like frozen yogurt, complete with that tangy bite, that little sour zing that gets you on the inside of your cheeks. And it's interesting how much people diverge regarding these two yogurt shops.
As usual, I oscillate between extremes. There are times when I am in the mood for comfort, and then I want some fake frozen yogurt with crushed candybars and whatnot on it. But other times, times like now, I'm just interested in cooling down. Or, in my case, currently obsessed with my ice cream maker and with things that are somewhat, at least arguably, good for me.
So today, I treated myself to a bunch of Fage, which has since been sweetened with some honey and molasses, flavored with just a bit of vanilla, and will soon be taking a trip in the ICE-20. Is it cheaper than store bought ice cream? Absolutely not. Will it be tastier? Perhaps only to me. But at the moment, I am the only person I am interested in pleasing, so it works out quite well. Pictures when I put the stuff through its paces.
In other news, I think I have given my mother the best Mother's Day present ever, though she doesn't actually know it. Out of nowhere this week, I've become fixated with cooking Gujarati food. This is truly bizarre, and may be a sign that the heat is actually causing me to lose my senses. Stranger still, I can't bring myself to call my mom and just get some pointers on how to make all of this stuff. Instead, I keep relying entirely on random memories and tasting as I go, and who knows what else. I made this dish with black-eyed peas, garlic, and ginger yesterday that my mom used to make in a pressure-cooker. I do not own one of those, so I basically just tinkered around with the mixture until it tasted edible. Furthermore, I may have made something resembling chapatis. I may also be making another batch tomorrow with spinach. Wow. The more I type this out, the crazier it sounds to me. I know it may not sound crazy to those of you reading- after all, I am Guju, and I am writing of making Guju food. Except- I don't really like this food at all. In fact, until now, if it did not involve meat or creating some kind of sauce to be added to pasta, you could pretty much count me out of it. For the record, though, if I buy a pressure-cooker this summer, it will be a sign that someone needs to stage an intervention.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
when all the answers, they don't amount to much
Not the best picture in the world, but if you'd like to see what Nutella ice cream looks like on a maiden voyage, check it here. Though there are a number of things I'm supposed to be doing right now, instead I keep thinking about Greek yogurt and honey and vanilla, and wouldn't it be nice all frozen and creamy?
Anyway. I have incorporated a healthy dose of vodka in my daily regimen, which probably has not helped my productivity any. But I just went for a very long stroll around the neighborhood, the temperature finally dipping down to a tolerable level. I never noticed, prior to this, how beautiful some of my neighborhood is. Granted, it is quite suburban. I'm not going to wax romantic about it like I could about San Francisco. But there are still things to admire, things to make you feel at home, things that make you want to go for a walk around the block.
I can't think of those things, specifically, at the moment, but I blame the Grey Goose on that. Oh yes. I may not be gainfully employed, I may be dwindling all savings away, but that is no reason to drink bad vodka.
It turns out I do not have a whole lot to write about today, because I am feeling ambivalent about a lot of things. I feel ambivalent that I have really seen no one today: while I like it now, I wonder if this is setting precedent for the next month. I feel ambivalent about politics, which people seem to have taken up talking about again, but I can't manage to feel idealistic enough about. I feel ambivalent about my family- on the one hand, I got a lovely phone call yesterday that was filled with effusions with I miss you and we need you, but on the other hand, I felt that tension of feeling needed and feeling like I just can't do what is required of me. I feel ambivalent about my future- I am happy in what I am doing, but every time I take any initiative, I am immediately disgusted by the competitive spirit that any small move seems to elicit in my classmates. I feel ambivalent about myself. I do not know what I have to offer anyone, and yet I feel like I deserve something such that I should not settle for anything less.
When I feel this ambivalent, it is best. Best to drink a vodka tonic. Best to contemplate sorbets and frozen yogurts and ice creams. Best to toy around with cooking vegetarian for a week rather than fixating on these matters that with myself I too much discuss. Otherwise, I'll convince myself the answer lies in words and poetry, when in fact, that path is rife with danger, danger, danger, Will Robinson.
At times like this, it is clear that some people embody peace and other people... well, other people are like me. Never quite at rest, never quite able to figure it all out, never quite quite, if you will. And I don't know why, suddenly, perhaps with too much time at my disposal, I am somehow conflicted about that. I wonder if people that are settled, entrenched in a nice steady pace of life, have similar moments of this is not my beautiful home at times. I hope so, honestly, or I shall never aspire to become one of them.
Anyway. I have incorporated a healthy dose of vodka in my daily regimen, which probably has not helped my productivity any. But I just went for a very long stroll around the neighborhood, the temperature finally dipping down to a tolerable level. I never noticed, prior to this, how beautiful some of my neighborhood is. Granted, it is quite suburban. I'm not going to wax romantic about it like I could about San Francisco. But there are still things to admire, things to make you feel at home, things that make you want to go for a walk around the block.
I can't think of those things, specifically, at the moment, but I blame the Grey Goose on that. Oh yes. I may not be gainfully employed, I may be dwindling all savings away, but that is no reason to drink bad vodka.
It turns out I do not have a whole lot to write about today, because I am feeling ambivalent about a lot of things. I feel ambivalent that I have really seen no one today: while I like it now, I wonder if this is setting precedent for the next month. I feel ambivalent about politics, which people seem to have taken up talking about again, but I can't manage to feel idealistic enough about. I feel ambivalent about my family- on the one hand, I got a lovely phone call yesterday that was filled with effusions with I miss you and we need you, but on the other hand, I felt that tension of feeling needed and feeling like I just can't do what is required of me. I feel ambivalent about my future- I am happy in what I am doing, but every time I take any initiative, I am immediately disgusted by the competitive spirit that any small move seems to elicit in my classmates. I feel ambivalent about myself. I do not know what I have to offer anyone, and yet I feel like I deserve something such that I should not settle for anything less.
When I feel this ambivalent, it is best. Best to drink a vodka tonic. Best to contemplate sorbets and frozen yogurts and ice creams. Best to toy around with cooking vegetarian for a week rather than fixating on these matters that with myself I too much discuss. Otherwise, I'll convince myself the answer lies in words and poetry, when in fact, that path is rife with danger, danger, danger, Will Robinson.
At times like this, it is clear that some people embody peace and other people... well, other people are like me. Never quite at rest, never quite able to figure it all out, never quite quite, if you will. And I don't know why, suddenly, perhaps with too much time at my disposal, I am somehow conflicted about that. I wonder if people that are settled, entrenched in a nice steady pace of life, have similar moments of this is not my beautiful home at times. I hope so, honestly, or I shall never aspire to become one of them.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
when I try, I only get it wrong
You cannot really ask for much when you are not in touch with what you want. Of course, the advantage is that, since you weren't even sure what it was you wanted, you're bound to be content with what you get. I had walked into the salon armed with this attitude. All I adequately expressed was that my hair was too long, too thick for the heat that is soon to besiege the land. The next thing I knew, the stylist had let a six inch chunk of my hair fall to the ground. It's going to be that kind of a time, I concluded.
Sometimes I think I have it together, sometimes I think I am in complete shambles. At times, it is clear what I want, and that I have it, and that all is right. At other times, I feel the need to chop off all of my hair and laugh, nervously, at how little has changed since the last time the shears had their way with me. The reasons are different, but the instability is just about the same.
The constant was W in this particular bit of my history. Last time, when I told him on the phone, his voice had taken a tone of dread, of oh you are so going to regret this by tomorrow. But when I saw him, he was nothing but complimentary. This time, I did not even bother telling him. Out of the car I emerged without explanation. Once again, he said it framed my face properly, was all smiles. There was a difference but it wasn't him. The last time, I had watched his face carefully. I wanted him to tell me it was okay, that it was not a mistake, that it was all going to be okay. This time, truly, I did not care.
It was not that his opinion did not matter to me anymore, because it still does. It's just that I either do not believe in mistakes anymore or I believe in them too much. I'm either convinced there are no mistakes in life or that pretty much everything I do is another form of a mistake. So I can't get too worked up about it. Perhaps that's why I cheerfully announced to W that I am a mess. Because what else is new? Because, if this is all a mistake, how would I tell it apart from anything else I have done with my life?
Really the only things I can be certain were not mistakes are what I've let go. Contrary to popular belief, contrary to how it may sometime seem, I do not let go of things so easily. If I do, it's because I never held it very dear in the first place. There are things I've let go of that nearly had to be pried from my grasp. And the urge still strikes me sometimes to grab hold of them, but if I take a breath and think, I can see it was no mistake, letting such things go.
Maybe I am okay with letting go of six-plus inches of hair. Maybe I am okay with making blunder after blunder. Maybe I do not know what I am talking about. Maybe I'm a lost cause.
Sometimes I think I have it together, sometimes I think I am in complete shambles. At times, it is clear what I want, and that I have it, and that all is right. At other times, I feel the need to chop off all of my hair and laugh, nervously, at how little has changed since the last time the shears had their way with me. The reasons are different, but the instability is just about the same.
The constant was W in this particular bit of my history. Last time, when I told him on the phone, his voice had taken a tone of dread, of oh you are so going to regret this by tomorrow. But when I saw him, he was nothing but complimentary. This time, I did not even bother telling him. Out of the car I emerged without explanation. Once again, he said it framed my face properly, was all smiles. There was a difference but it wasn't him. The last time, I had watched his face carefully. I wanted him to tell me it was okay, that it was not a mistake, that it was all going to be okay. This time, truly, I did not care.
It was not that his opinion did not matter to me anymore, because it still does. It's just that I either do not believe in mistakes anymore or I believe in them too much. I'm either convinced there are no mistakes in life or that pretty much everything I do is another form of a mistake. So I can't get too worked up about it. Perhaps that's why I cheerfully announced to W that I am a mess. Because what else is new? Because, if this is all a mistake, how would I tell it apart from anything else I have done with my life?
Really the only things I can be certain were not mistakes are what I've let go. Contrary to popular belief, contrary to how it may sometime seem, I do not let go of things so easily. If I do, it's because I never held it very dear in the first place. There are things I've let go of that nearly had to be pried from my grasp. And the urge still strikes me sometimes to grab hold of them, but if I take a breath and think, I can see it was no mistake, letting such things go.
Maybe I am okay with letting go of six-plus inches of hair. Maybe I am okay with making blunder after blunder. Maybe I do not know what I am talking about. Maybe I'm a lost cause.
Monday, May 12, 2008
like to get to know you well
Today was supposed to be a productive day but it did not turn out to be. Don't worry. This isn't another one of those bummerific posts though. Though I have been thinking about a lot of things, though I have cheerfully declared to my closest, oldest friend that I am a complete mess, I cannot say I have been particularly sad of late.
So, my plans for today were canceled, and the impatience in me welled up and got frustrated for a moment. And then in the next moment, I got a bit of a twinkle in my eye, and got quite excited about freedom, sweet freedom. Perhaps too sweet. See, a few weeks ago, when the first hints of heat were starting to make themselves known, it dawned on me that my days of therapeutic baking were numbered. Prior to that, about once a week, I baked something. Once the heat started, I tried to stay upbeat- I made fudge, and marshmallow treats, things that required some heat, but not a full blazing oven. But, as it turns out, fudge and rice krispies are not really therapeutic enough. A process is important in these kinds of things. Actually, who knows what is important in such matters- it's all arbitrary and illogical, this impulse to make/bake things when stressed. But at any rate, the stovetop business was unsatisfactory.
Enter my new purchase, one Cuisinart ICE-20, bought thanks to some well-meaning coworkers who gave me a gift certificate last year that I never found use for until now. I got the ice cream maker before finals, and it required so much restraint not to give it a go immediately that it was a true testament to my dedication to medical school. Okay, not a great testament, as I did eagerly unpack the machine from the box and inspect it, contemplating what to make for a first run.
When trying something new, you don't want to go in with expectations that are too inflated. And you don't want any pressure. You want things to be relaxed, and you want to make things as easy for yourself as possible. Make your goal too lofty and you could turn yourself off from something that really deserves a second chance. It's like a first date, but with a positive attitude.
So, for my first date with my ice cream maker, I made Nutella ice cream. Very simple really, and very low expectations- I have such a thing for Nutella that if it had just turned out Nutella-flavored milk, I would not have complained one bit. But in fact, like fairy magic, a 30 minute run in the ice cream maker, and I have something that most people could be convinced was ice cream. I was most worried it would turn out tasting like ice milk, which my mother used to buy on sale at the supermarket. If you've ever had ice milk, you know what a disappointment it can be when you are expecting ice cream. Because Nutella is probably 110% fat, there was no ice milk flavor whatsoever. If I get my camera charged, I'll try to post a picture tomorrow, so you can inspect for yourself.
The funny thing is that I don't really eat ice cream. Never really have enjoyed it. I used to work at an ice cream shop as a teenager, and something about coming home with the smell of stale ice cream on my clothes cured me of any interest in the stuff. Also, I'm pretty lactose intolerant, which means that eating more than a spoonful or two of ice cream comes with a rather unwelcome stomach ache. But then there's always the matter of sorbets. And it's summer, and hot, and more about the process anyway.
Tomorrow I'll tell you about my new fixation with cooking, how I cut my hair ultra-short this past weekend (!), and hopefully post a song for the week too. Time to get all the habits back.
So, my plans for today were canceled, and the impatience in me welled up and got frustrated for a moment. And then in the next moment, I got a bit of a twinkle in my eye, and got quite excited about freedom, sweet freedom. Perhaps too sweet. See, a few weeks ago, when the first hints of heat were starting to make themselves known, it dawned on me that my days of therapeutic baking were numbered. Prior to that, about once a week, I baked something. Once the heat started, I tried to stay upbeat- I made fudge, and marshmallow treats, things that required some heat, but not a full blazing oven. But, as it turns out, fudge and rice krispies are not really therapeutic enough. A process is important in these kinds of things. Actually, who knows what is important in such matters- it's all arbitrary and illogical, this impulse to make/bake things when stressed. But at any rate, the stovetop business was unsatisfactory.
Enter my new purchase, one Cuisinart ICE-20, bought thanks to some well-meaning coworkers who gave me a gift certificate last year that I never found use for until now. I got the ice cream maker before finals, and it required so much restraint not to give it a go immediately that it was a true testament to my dedication to medical school. Okay, not a great testament, as I did eagerly unpack the machine from the box and inspect it, contemplating what to make for a first run.
When trying something new, you don't want to go in with expectations that are too inflated. And you don't want any pressure. You want things to be relaxed, and you want to make things as easy for yourself as possible. Make your goal too lofty and you could turn yourself off from something that really deserves a second chance. It's like a first date, but with a positive attitude.
So, for my first date with my ice cream maker, I made Nutella ice cream. Very simple really, and very low expectations- I have such a thing for Nutella that if it had just turned out Nutella-flavored milk, I would not have complained one bit. But in fact, like fairy magic, a 30 minute run in the ice cream maker, and I have something that most people could be convinced was ice cream. I was most worried it would turn out tasting like ice milk, which my mother used to buy on sale at the supermarket. If you've ever had ice milk, you know what a disappointment it can be when you are expecting ice cream. Because Nutella is probably 110% fat, there was no ice milk flavor whatsoever. If I get my camera charged, I'll try to post a picture tomorrow, so you can inspect for yourself.
The funny thing is that I don't really eat ice cream. Never really have enjoyed it. I used to work at an ice cream shop as a teenager, and something about coming home with the smell of stale ice cream on my clothes cured me of any interest in the stuff. Also, I'm pretty lactose intolerant, which means that eating more than a spoonful or two of ice cream comes with a rather unwelcome stomach ache. But then there's always the matter of sorbets. And it's summer, and hot, and more about the process anyway.
Tomorrow I'll tell you about my new fixation with cooking, how I cut my hair ultra-short this past weekend (!), and hopefully post a song for the week too. Time to get all the habits back.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
the way is clear if you're ready now
But isn't that a completely false lyric? If the way is truly clear, who would really hesitate? Maybe some people do, but it is hard for me to fathom. If anything, I am so impatient for clarity that I will sometimes hurtle myself headlong in the direction of the closest sign towards the right way.
And then I get on that road, and maybe you have had that feeling. You drive for some time and things start to seem unfamiliar. You have your doubts. But it's too early yet. You quell them, reasoning that it was night the last time you were driving this way, or maybe someone was in the car with you before, distracting you. You weren't paying attention to the signs then, is all, and that is why they provide no comfort to you now. So you keep driving, but as you continue, you get to wondering if it should really take so long. Did you miss some critical turn, are you now way off course?
What to do. You could stop to ask directions, if you knew exactly where you were headed. But maybe where you are headed is a place that no one else knows. You could turn around, go back to the safety of the retraced footsteps to the comfort home. But that seems an awful waste. Or you can keep driving, anxiously reading each sign, looking for the one that will allow you that breath of relief, that assurance that you are on your way.
I still do not know. I look for signs every day. I keep a keen eye for arrows telling me to move forward or go back. A sign that says 'Yes' or 'No' is not enough, will not do. I need arrows, I need movement. It is not enough to say, 'you're lost.' And then, of course, the problem with all of this is that I am waiting for Godot, waiting for something that will never come, that I don't even want to come. I would not listen anyway, I would not heed signs made by someone else. The only person who can steer me right is me, which is most unfortunate news. Certainly, I can consult a map, I can plot a path, I have a good sense of direction. But until I know where I am going, I will continue to drive along with a growing feeling of dread. So maybe the right lyrics should have been: "but I still haven't found what I'm looking for."
And then I get on that road, and maybe you have had that feeling. You drive for some time and things start to seem unfamiliar. You have your doubts. But it's too early yet. You quell them, reasoning that it was night the last time you were driving this way, or maybe someone was in the car with you before, distracting you. You weren't paying attention to the signs then, is all, and that is why they provide no comfort to you now. So you keep driving, but as you continue, you get to wondering if it should really take so long. Did you miss some critical turn, are you now way off course?
What to do. You could stop to ask directions, if you knew exactly where you were headed. But maybe where you are headed is a place that no one else knows. You could turn around, go back to the safety of the retraced footsteps to the comfort home. But that seems an awful waste. Or you can keep driving, anxiously reading each sign, looking for the one that will allow you that breath of relief, that assurance that you are on your way.
I still do not know. I look for signs every day. I keep a keen eye for arrows telling me to move forward or go back. A sign that says 'Yes' or 'No' is not enough, will not do. I need arrows, I need movement. It is not enough to say, 'you're lost.' And then, of course, the problem with all of this is that I am waiting for Godot, waiting for something that will never come, that I don't even want to come. I would not listen anyway, I would not heed signs made by someone else. The only person who can steer me right is me, which is most unfortunate news. Certainly, I can consult a map, I can plot a path, I have a good sense of direction. But until I know where I am going, I will continue to drive along with a growing feeling of dread. So maybe the right lyrics should have been: "but I still haven't found what I'm looking for."
Thursday, May 08, 2008
it's just a bunch of feelings that we've had
So here we are again.
As soon as I said I was in want of a break from writing, I wanted to write again. Funny how that happens.
Another thing that is funny in much the same way occurred to me last night, as I was drifting off to sleep reasoning out the difference between sensitivity, specificity, and positive predictive value. When I find myself really fond of a friend, when I really feel comfortable with them, I will babble on and on. It's all very self-absorbed, and worse yet, circular and undoubtedly excessively annoying. I turn a problem over in my head, but I do it verbally, examining it from a million angles, thinking I have figured it out, only to come back to it 15 minutes later in a conversation with a "but you know what it really is?" followed by another round of picking myself apart.
Sometimes I think this blog serves the same purpose. And I think sometimes, over the past year, I got this sense that I had already put a The End on my story. Often, I felt that there was no point. For so long, I had pursued one thing, and then I got it, so what was there left to say really? Sequels never really do much for anyone, especially when there was already a happy ending. Do you want to see what happens after Empire Strikes Back? Sure thing. Do you want to see what happens after When Harry Met Sally? Not so much.
But here's the thing. There wasn't a The End. I thought there was, but I was mistaken. There's this zen-master instructor who I laugh at a lot at school, as he's the complete antithesis of everything else that is drilled into your head in medical school. On his door, he has a quote that says live until you die. The mischief in me cannot help but mock that sign, because it is certainly a statement of the obvious, and kind of doesn't mean a lot if you take it at face value. Live until you die? I didn't know there were any other options on the table.
Except that, actually, I did. A happy ending doesn't exist outside of a narrative. Because there is no end, until the very end of it. I have felt a bit conflicted about complaining about anything to do with medical school for the past year because:
And yet, the story continues on, as life tends to do. The only way to find out if you want something is to go after it, get it, and determine if you want to hold onto it. And even then, what you hold in your hand today slowly takes shape into something else entirely over time. So, strangely enough, I got what I wanted, still want it, but I remain uncertain as to where it will lead. Yet, for now, that is okay.
There's a huge party tonight, celebrating the imminent completion of a year in medical school. But I'm unapologetically sitting in my living room, mixing myself a vodka tonic, getting ready to watch an episode of 30Rock, and pondering baking a batch of cookies and packing a bag. Tomorrow I'm making a brief pilgrimage to San Francisco, followed by visiting one of my oldest friends. We will undoubtedly spend the wee hours of the night coming up with answers to my chorus of "but you know what it really is?" But when there is enough alcohol involved, it's not quite as annoying.
As soon as I said I was in want of a break from writing, I wanted to write again. Funny how that happens.
Another thing that is funny in much the same way occurred to me last night, as I was drifting off to sleep reasoning out the difference between sensitivity, specificity, and positive predictive value. When I find myself really fond of a friend, when I really feel comfortable with them, I will babble on and on. It's all very self-absorbed, and worse yet, circular and undoubtedly excessively annoying. I turn a problem over in my head, but I do it verbally, examining it from a million angles, thinking I have figured it out, only to come back to it 15 minutes later in a conversation with a "but you know what it really is?" followed by another round of picking myself apart.
Sometimes I think this blog serves the same purpose. And I think sometimes, over the past year, I got this sense that I had already put a The End on my story. Often, I felt that there was no point. For so long, I had pursued one thing, and then I got it, so what was there left to say really? Sequels never really do much for anyone, especially when there was already a happy ending. Do you want to see what happens after Empire Strikes Back? Sure thing. Do you want to see what happens after When Harry Met Sally? Not so much.
But here's the thing. There wasn't a The End. I thought there was, but I was mistaken. There's this zen-master instructor who I laugh at a lot at school, as he's the complete antithesis of everything else that is drilled into your head in medical school. On his door, he has a quote that says live until you die. The mischief in me cannot help but mock that sign, because it is certainly a statement of the obvious, and kind of doesn't mean a lot if you take it at face value. Live until you die? I didn't know there were any other options on the table.
Except that, actually, I did. A happy ending doesn't exist outside of a narrative. Because there is no end, until the very end of it. I have felt a bit conflicted about complaining about anything to do with medical school for the past year because:
- it was, after all, The Goal
- no one forced me into it
- it often invites the range of "yeah, medical school is stupid and I hate doctors" to "don't worry, you'll be different!" variety of remarks that, while helpful in some ways, tend to oversimplify the facts in my particular case.
And yet, the story continues on, as life tends to do. The only way to find out if you want something is to go after it, get it, and determine if you want to hold onto it. And even then, what you hold in your hand today slowly takes shape into something else entirely over time. So, strangely enough, I got what I wanted, still want it, but I remain uncertain as to where it will lead. Yet, for now, that is okay.
There's a huge party tonight, celebrating the imminent completion of a year in medical school. But I'm unapologetically sitting in my living room, mixing myself a vodka tonic, getting ready to watch an episode of 30Rock, and pondering baking a batch of cookies and packing a bag. Tomorrow I'm making a brief pilgrimage to San Francisco, followed by visiting one of my oldest friends. We will undoubtedly spend the wee hours of the night coming up with answers to my chorus of "but you know what it really is?" But when there is enough alcohol involved, it's not quite as annoying.
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