Ah, the healing power of a lasagna!
Besides that, I also was reminded of something very important during arguments.
I don't know about you all out there in the blogosphere, but when I'm in an argument, I find it very difficult to keep an open mind. Instead, I'm internally scrambling for both damage control and evidence to prove my case. My mind is a very busy little bee and frequently the result of this is that I feel frantic and end up backing myself into a corner where I feel I must take a stand, and this simply increases the frantic thoughts, kind of like a ping pong ball at the world cup in Beijing. Some times even I loose track of the point I was trying to make in defense of the case which is already hazy but feels absolutely necessary to prove.
It would be great if instead of trying to make a point, I just listen. And listen from the secure point of validating my own emotion, which frees me from needing that validation desperately from Keith. I would be able to listen from the secure point of knowing I'm in control of myself, as opposed to feeling, as sometimes happens in an argument, that I need to win control from Keith.
It would be great if, instead of fighting for control, I simply own it and in return, completely let go of trying to control Keith. It would be great if, at the beginning of the argument, I was able to just give him complete freedom to feel what he needs to feel, say what he needs to say and do what he needs to do, instead of finally remembering at the tail end.
Wouldn't this be wonderful? Wouldn't that just take all the stress and intensity out of an argument? It would cease to be an argument and just be a very eye opening and valuable conversation.
I was finally able to extricate myself from my own dead end later on in the evening and it was awesome; it was like stepping out of a small box into the wide open sky. What's even better about reaching that point is that it also liberates my husband. My abandoning my corner suddenly disengages the entire boxing ring. (Or ping pong table, whatever metaphor one wants to go with.)
Marriage is certainly one of life's great adventures. In what other institution can a misplaced ice cube teach so many life lessons?
In other news, I can now do the step-knee-back-back just perfectly and have lost a pound and a half. I have been doing the work out for three days straight and have forgotten what it feels like to not have my thigh muscles ache day and night. Today I might give them a break and do the ab tightening exercises included on the video.
Or, I might just have a small bowl of bittersweet chocolate morsels and watch TV. Or bake a chocolate banana loaf recipe I came across recently and am dying to make.
(OK... eat.)
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
July 30th
My excellent uncle sent me his recipe for cassoulet, and guess what? This version is not so difficult and there's no cheese cloth required. What's more, it came from a blog entitled "The Amateur Gourmet." I could spend hours reading blogs such as that.
Last night's roast did not come out well, sadly. But at least I have learned that I do not like that particular cut of meat, though it might do well for a sweet and tangy BBQ loose beef recipe that Keith happens to adore. It had that kind of rope-y quality to it.
Keith and I are currently in the middle of an argument. I don't normally blog about arguments until after they're safely concluded, for all kinds of good reasons, like impaired judgement and not wanting to record the gory details for all posterity. That being said, I feel that I can safely blog at this point without going off on an ill conceived rant that I would regret later.
I'm pretty sure what started it is the fact that Keith took an ice cube out of his drink and pressed it to my unsuspecting and entirely innocent thigh as we were sitting on the couch watching TV. This tee'd me off. Especially since he held it there and he's too strong for me to wiggle free from immediately.
He was just being playful but I really wasn't in the mood to play. I have to say, that's pretty uncommon. Usually I can give out as much as I take. But not just then for some reason. Instead, I stormed into the kitchen, declaring passionately that I wished he was going to be gone longer. (He had to supervise some extra duty guys until midnight.)
He did not take this well. He left without kissing me goodbye, which is a major breach of our particular marriage protocol.
Now, Keith and I argue a lot. We always have and we always will; it's just the result of our passionate, prideful natures. We're both really strong people, each in our own way and we each made it through some really awful situations in the past that sometimes cloud the present.
Because of this, I've learned a lot about arguments; why they start, where the intensity comes from and how they end. I have to say, in some ways they are good. There's nothing like the space an argument creates between us to remind me how much I love being close to him.
I just sent him a text with the confession that I missed kissing him. He texted me back, "I do too," which tells me we are quickly approaching the most delicious phase of arguing, the phase which almost makes them worth while.
I'll bake him a lasagna tonight. Nothing says, "I love you and I'm sorry" in Keith-ese like a homemade lasagna. I'm tempted to try making it in the traditional way, with a bechamel sauce, but I better not tinker with what Keith considers perfection. Not tonight, anyway.
Last night I read further into "The Road To Serfdom." I purchased the definitive edition, which really means that the introductions, explanations and forwards are endless. I'm a quarter into the total pages and I have yet to actually begin the book.
Even so, holy crap. This book is very approachable. It is easy to read. I highly recommend going out, purchasing or borrowing this book and reading it. Consider: (I emphasized the phrases that blew my mind.)
"Yet though hot socialism is probably a thing of the past, some if its conceptions have penetrated far too deeply into the whole structure of current thought to justify complacency. If few people in the Western world now want to remake society from the bottom according to some ideal blueprint, a great many still believe in measures which, though not designed completely to remodel the economy, in the aggregate effect may well unintentionally produce this result.
"And, even more than at the time when I wrote this book, the advocacy of policies which in the long run cannot be reconciled with the preservation of a free society is no longer a party matter. That hodgepodge of ill-assembled and often inconsistent ideals which under the name of the Welfare State has largely replaced socialism as the goal of the reforms needs very careful sorting out if its results are not to be very similar to those of full-fledged socialism.
"This not to say that some of its aims are not both practicable and laudable. But there are many ways in which we can work toward the same goal, and in the present state of opinion there is some danger that our impatience for quick results may lead us to choose instruments which, though perhaps more efficient for achieving the particular ends, are not compatible with the preservation of a free society.
"The increasing tendency to rely on administrative coercion and discrimination where a modification of the general rules of law might, perhaps more slowly, achieve the same object, and to resort to direct state controls or to the creation of monopolistic institutions where judicious use of financial inducements might evoke spontaneous efforts, is still a powerful legacy of the socialist period which is likely to influence policy for some time."
-F. A. Hayek, forward to the 1956 edition.
(Begin sarcastic rant in which the word "totally" is overused)
Like wow. That's not happening at all right now. We're totally not increasing our tendency toward administrative coercion and the creation of monopolistic institutions and financial controls right now. The health care, financial reform, Cap and Trade, the EPA regulating CO2, and shutting down off shore drilling among other things are totally nothing like what Hayek is warning about.
We totally do not have an Administration that is pushing for a welfare state because they've totally not pushed more and more Americans into reliance upon government programs. That's totally not happened with health care reform and jobless benefits and welfare programs.
And of course the result of all this is going to be nothing like a Wellfare State, let alone socialism. Only crazy people think that. It's so freakin' far fetched.
Like hell it is.
(End sarcastic rant)
He also, (also mindblowingly to me) accurately described current political labels which are grossly misused. I'm never going to want to describe myself as a conservative again. I have been thinking of myself as a libertarian for a while now, but officially, I'm dropping the conservative political label:
"I use throughout the term "liberal" in the original, nineteenth-century sense in which it is still current in Britain. In current American usage it often means very nearly the opposite of this. It has been part of the camouflage of the leftish movements in this country, helped by the muddleheadedness of many who really believe in liberty, that "liberal" has come to mean the advocacy of almost every kind of government control...
"Conservatism, though a necessary element in any stable society, is not a social program; in its paternalistic, nationalistic, and power-adoring tendencies it is often closer to true socialism than true liberalism; and with its traditionalistic, anti-intellectual, and often mystical propensities it will never, except in short periods of disillusionment, appeal to the young and all those others who believe that some changes are desirable if this world is to become a better place. A conservative movement, by its very nature, is bound to be a defender of privilege."
Eye opening, no?
Last night's roast did not come out well, sadly. But at least I have learned that I do not like that particular cut of meat, though it might do well for a sweet and tangy BBQ loose beef recipe that Keith happens to adore. It had that kind of rope-y quality to it.
Keith and I are currently in the middle of an argument. I don't normally blog about arguments until after they're safely concluded, for all kinds of good reasons, like impaired judgement and not wanting to record the gory details for all posterity. That being said, I feel that I can safely blog at this point without going off on an ill conceived rant that I would regret later.
I'm pretty sure what started it is the fact that Keith took an ice cube out of his drink and pressed it to my unsuspecting and entirely innocent thigh as we were sitting on the couch watching TV. This tee'd me off. Especially since he held it there and he's too strong for me to wiggle free from immediately.
He was just being playful but I really wasn't in the mood to play. I have to say, that's pretty uncommon. Usually I can give out as much as I take. But not just then for some reason. Instead, I stormed into the kitchen, declaring passionately that I wished he was going to be gone longer. (He had to supervise some extra duty guys until midnight.)
He did not take this well. He left without kissing me goodbye, which is a major breach of our particular marriage protocol.
Now, Keith and I argue a lot. We always have and we always will; it's just the result of our passionate, prideful natures. We're both really strong people, each in our own way and we each made it through some really awful situations in the past that sometimes cloud the present.
Because of this, I've learned a lot about arguments; why they start, where the intensity comes from and how they end. I have to say, in some ways they are good. There's nothing like the space an argument creates between us to remind me how much I love being close to him.
I just sent him a text with the confession that I missed kissing him. He texted me back, "I do too," which tells me we are quickly approaching the most delicious phase of arguing, the phase which almost makes them worth while.
I'll bake him a lasagna tonight. Nothing says, "I love you and I'm sorry" in Keith-ese like a homemade lasagna. I'm tempted to try making it in the traditional way, with a bechamel sauce, but I better not tinker with what Keith considers perfection. Not tonight, anyway.
Last night I read further into "The Road To Serfdom." I purchased the definitive edition, which really means that the introductions, explanations and forwards are endless. I'm a quarter into the total pages and I have yet to actually begin the book.
Even so, holy crap. This book is very approachable. It is easy to read. I highly recommend going out, purchasing or borrowing this book and reading it. Consider: (I emphasized the phrases that blew my mind.)
"Yet though hot socialism is probably a thing of the past, some if its conceptions have penetrated far too deeply into the whole structure of current thought to justify complacency. If few people in the Western world now want to remake society from the bottom according to some ideal blueprint, a great many still believe in measures which, though not designed completely to remodel the economy, in the aggregate effect may well unintentionally produce this result.
"And, even more than at the time when I wrote this book, the advocacy of policies which in the long run cannot be reconciled with the preservation of a free society is no longer a party matter. That hodgepodge of ill-assembled and often inconsistent ideals which under the name of the Welfare State has largely replaced socialism as the goal of the reforms needs very careful sorting out if its results are not to be very similar to those of full-fledged socialism.
"This not to say that some of its aims are not both practicable and laudable. But there are many ways in which we can work toward the same goal, and in the present state of opinion there is some danger that our impatience for quick results may lead us to choose instruments which, though perhaps more efficient for achieving the particular ends, are not compatible with the preservation of a free society.
"The increasing tendency to rely on administrative coercion and discrimination where a modification of the general rules of law might, perhaps more slowly, achieve the same object, and to resort to direct state controls or to the creation of monopolistic institutions where judicious use of financial inducements might evoke spontaneous efforts, is still a powerful legacy of the socialist period which is likely to influence policy for some time."
-F. A. Hayek, forward to the 1956 edition.
(Begin sarcastic rant in which the word "totally" is overused)
Like wow. That's not happening at all right now. We're totally not increasing our tendency toward administrative coercion and the creation of monopolistic institutions and financial controls right now. The health care, financial reform, Cap and Trade, the EPA regulating CO2, and shutting down off shore drilling among other things are totally nothing like what Hayek is warning about.
We totally do not have an Administration that is pushing for a welfare state because they've totally not pushed more and more Americans into reliance upon government programs. That's totally not happened with health care reform and jobless benefits and welfare programs.
And of course the result of all this is going to be nothing like a Wellfare State, let alone socialism. Only crazy people think that. It's so freakin' far fetched.
Like hell it is.
(End sarcastic rant)
He also, (also mindblowingly to me) accurately described current political labels which are grossly misused. I'm never going to want to describe myself as a conservative again. I have been thinking of myself as a libertarian for a while now, but officially, I'm dropping the conservative political label:
"I use throughout the term "liberal" in the original, nineteenth-century sense in which it is still current in Britain. In current American usage it often means very nearly the opposite of this. It has been part of the camouflage of the leftish movements in this country, helped by the muddleheadedness of many who really believe in liberty, that "liberal" has come to mean the advocacy of almost every kind of government control...
"Conservatism, though a necessary element in any stable society, is not a social program; in its paternalistic, nationalistic, and power-adoring tendencies it is often closer to true socialism than true liberalism; and with its traditionalistic, anti-intellectual, and often mystical propensities it will never, except in short periods of disillusionment, appeal to the young and all those others who believe that some changes are desirable if this world is to become a better place. A conservative movement, by its very nature, is bound to be a defender of privilege."
Eye opening, no?
Thursday, July 29, 2010
July 29th
Yesterday I stepped on the scale and it told me I weigh a really unacceptable number. Ever since the summer began and put a stop to my long walks, the pounds have been slowly but surely creeping on.
I struggle sometimes with a sense of inevitability about my weight; I am thirty two now, eventually I hope to get pregnant, therefore putting on weight is just a fact of life I have to come to terms with sooner or later.
But if that's really true than I'd better invest in a whole new wardrobe because I'm not fitting into a lot of my clothing. Granted, some of that clothing is ten years old or older and it's a miracle I've continued to fit into them this long.
Maybe weight gain is inevitable, but I don't want to take it lying down, so to speak. I want to fight! I've been completely frustrated by my inability to pursue the usual exercise, so I've been bugging Keith to get me a treadmill. It's so strange, the thought of me using a treadmill. Who am I? Not that it's a bad thing, it's just so foreign an idea to me. But then so is barely fitting into the same capris that hung off my hip bones last summer.
Day before yesterday, Keith brought home a work out video titled "Walk at Home!" (He wasn't hinting or anything; I've been talking about getting one for a while now.) Yesterday, desperate, I decided to try it.
Boy, did I feel stupid. There I was, in the man room with the coffee table up on the couch, in my little black workout skort, long white legs revealed, trying to copy the steps of the giant woman on the flat screen. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and had to look away, I felt so silly.
After the first mile, I felt smoked. I forced myself to try the second mile and by that time I was feeling far less self conscious and doing the double side step and the thrusting knee lifts with elan. The third mile I was gasping for breath and I thought the lunges would undo me, but I pushed through. I still couldn't do the step-lift-back-back thing right, but what the heck? I was moving around, completely out of step but still determined.
By the time I got to the cool down period, I felt pretty darn good. I also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I will never, ever take a public exercise class. Not just because I am ungainly, but because the exercises caused me to fart about as much as I sweated.
This reminded me of nightmarish PT classes where one had to do sit ups with a partner holding down one's feet. Not only did I have to worry about the gaping legs of the stupid culottes I was forced to wear instead of tighter and more practical shorts or pants, but I was forced to desperately clinch up every muscle in my lower body to try and avoid the unthinkable gastronomical event.
("Jenny! I can't believe you're talking about farts on your blog!"
"Pipe down over there, Irving.")
Anyway. I am determined to do the three mile work out every day. It's really not high intensity or high impact, so I'm sure it's safe to do while trying to get pregnant and or being pregnant. Also, it's well within the realm of exercises I've been doing, albeit infrequently, for the past two years, so my body is used to it.
I hate this whole indefinitely-trying-to-get-pregnant phase. I feel guilty about drinking the one cup of coffee I keep myself to, I can't drink alcohol, I have to not over do the exercise, I take massively large vitamins daily, and all for what? For no good reason. I've taken prenatals now for over a year. Why? I'm not getting pregnant. I would love to have a nice cool drink of Kahlua and ice at the end of a long day or a cafe au lait in the late afternoon, but I can't, because why? It never actually matters.
(I haven't gotten my period yet, by the way. But it's still not technically due for another couple of days, according to last month. According to the month before, it's late. Who the hell knows. If it does come, at least I can start my count down to Clomid.)
In other news, I'm still high on cooking. In fact, so high that the last three nights I've cooked in my dreams all night long. My last shopping trip included capers, canned sardines and a chuck tender roast, which is slated for the oven today. I have a not very sophisticated but potentially delicious recipe to try.
So far I made flour tortillas and holy crap, but they were beyond delicious. You would not think that flour, milk and salt could be so tasty, but it completely transformed our taco experience. Even the two that I completely burned (because I wasn't cleaning out the dry skillet properly and was trying to roll out the next one, brown the beef and chop onions at the same time) turned out tasty.
Last night I made a tomato and bread salad. Before I started in on this whole cooking thing, I thought I knew what flavor was. I didn't. I was pretty much living in a black and white world. Now, flavor is coming alive. I'm gone through the glass ceiling of what I thought I could do, or what was practical to do and now I realize I can do anything. I might fail; in fact, I'm certain that along the way I will produce some spectacularly bad food. I don't care, it's just too much fun.
My father's brother, Uncle Floyd (Hi, Uncle Floyd!) has made a cassolet. A cassolet is a country French dish that involves a ridiculous amount of work. It's made of white beans, cuts of duck, pork, a cheesecloth and a flameproof casserole dish, among other things.
I want to make one. And oh, I will. But first I want to master the sauces. I want to be able to make a Bearnaise sauce. And Hollandaise sauce. And Veloute, Allemonde, Espagnole and Bechamel sauces.
(And I want to loose weight...ha!)
Anyway, first things first. I'm working my way through the cuts of beef and it turns out I started with something quite familiar, as cuts from the chuck or shoulder region of a cow mostly require a wet, or pot roast (braising). After that I'll try a dry roasted Rib Roast.
This is going to make the grocery bills go way up, but I told Keith he has to think of this as a hobby, and hobbies take time and money.
"But I don't have any hobbies!" he protested and then grinned. "I'm going upstairs now!" he said quickly and escaped, before I could point out that his hobbies were currently taking up the entire front yard and one hobby was upside down on its trailer in the back yard.
Maybe his hobby can bank roll mine.
I struggle sometimes with a sense of inevitability about my weight; I am thirty two now, eventually I hope to get pregnant, therefore putting on weight is just a fact of life I have to come to terms with sooner or later.
But if that's really true than I'd better invest in a whole new wardrobe because I'm not fitting into a lot of my clothing. Granted, some of that clothing is ten years old or older and it's a miracle I've continued to fit into them this long.
Maybe weight gain is inevitable, but I don't want to take it lying down, so to speak. I want to fight! I've been completely frustrated by my inability to pursue the usual exercise, so I've been bugging Keith to get me a treadmill. It's so strange, the thought of me using a treadmill. Who am I? Not that it's a bad thing, it's just so foreign an idea to me. But then so is barely fitting into the same capris that hung off my hip bones last summer.
Day before yesterday, Keith brought home a work out video titled "Walk at Home!" (He wasn't hinting or anything; I've been talking about getting one for a while now.) Yesterday, desperate, I decided to try it.
Boy, did I feel stupid. There I was, in the man room with the coffee table up on the couch, in my little black workout skort, long white legs revealed, trying to copy the steps of the giant woman on the flat screen. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and had to look away, I felt so silly.
After the first mile, I felt smoked. I forced myself to try the second mile and by that time I was feeling far less self conscious and doing the double side step and the thrusting knee lifts with elan. The third mile I was gasping for breath and I thought the lunges would undo me, but I pushed through. I still couldn't do the step-lift-back-back thing right, but what the heck? I was moving around, completely out of step but still determined.
By the time I got to the cool down period, I felt pretty darn good. I also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I will never, ever take a public exercise class. Not just because I am ungainly, but because the exercises caused me to fart about as much as I sweated.
This reminded me of nightmarish PT classes where one had to do sit ups with a partner holding down one's feet. Not only did I have to worry about the gaping legs of the stupid culottes I was forced to wear instead of tighter and more practical shorts or pants, but I was forced to desperately clinch up every muscle in my lower body to try and avoid the unthinkable gastronomical event.
("Jenny! I can't believe you're talking about farts on your blog!"
"Pipe down over there, Irving.")
Anyway. I am determined to do the three mile work out every day. It's really not high intensity or high impact, so I'm sure it's safe to do while trying to get pregnant and or being pregnant. Also, it's well within the realm of exercises I've been doing, albeit infrequently, for the past two years, so my body is used to it.
I hate this whole indefinitely-trying-to-get-pregnant phase. I feel guilty about drinking the one cup of coffee I keep myself to, I can't drink alcohol, I have to not over do the exercise, I take massively large vitamins daily, and all for what? For no good reason. I've taken prenatals now for over a year. Why? I'm not getting pregnant. I would love to have a nice cool drink of Kahlua and ice at the end of a long day or a cafe au lait in the late afternoon, but I can't, because why? It never actually matters.
(I haven't gotten my period yet, by the way. But it's still not technically due for another couple of days, according to last month. According to the month before, it's late. Who the hell knows. If it does come, at least I can start my count down to Clomid.)
In other news, I'm still high on cooking. In fact, so high that the last three nights I've cooked in my dreams all night long. My last shopping trip included capers, canned sardines and a chuck tender roast, which is slated for the oven today. I have a not very sophisticated but potentially delicious recipe to try.
So far I made flour tortillas and holy crap, but they were beyond delicious. You would not think that flour, milk and salt could be so tasty, but it completely transformed our taco experience. Even the two that I completely burned (because I wasn't cleaning out the dry skillet properly and was trying to roll out the next one, brown the beef and chop onions at the same time) turned out tasty.
Last night I made a tomato and bread salad. Before I started in on this whole cooking thing, I thought I knew what flavor was. I didn't. I was pretty much living in a black and white world. Now, flavor is coming alive. I'm gone through the glass ceiling of what I thought I could do, or what was practical to do and now I realize I can do anything. I might fail; in fact, I'm certain that along the way I will produce some spectacularly bad food. I don't care, it's just too much fun.
My father's brother, Uncle Floyd (Hi, Uncle Floyd!) has made a cassolet. A cassolet is a country French dish that involves a ridiculous amount of work. It's made of white beans, cuts of duck, pork, a cheesecloth and a flameproof casserole dish, among other things.
I want to make one. And oh, I will. But first I want to master the sauces. I want to be able to make a Bearnaise sauce. And Hollandaise sauce. And Veloute, Allemonde, Espagnole and Bechamel sauces.
(And I want to loose weight...ha!)
Anyway, first things first. I'm working my way through the cuts of beef and it turns out I started with something quite familiar, as cuts from the chuck or shoulder region of a cow mostly require a wet, or pot roast (braising). After that I'll try a dry roasted Rib Roast.
This is going to make the grocery bills go way up, but I told Keith he has to think of this as a hobby, and hobbies take time and money.
"But I don't have any hobbies!" he protested and then grinned. "I'm going upstairs now!" he said quickly and escaped, before I could point out that his hobbies were currently taking up the entire front yard and one hobby was upside down on its trailer in the back yard.
Maybe his hobby can bank roll mine.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
July 27th
This month just keeps on sliding away.
Last night I experienced major culinary failure. I attempted to make Jamie Oliver's Chicken in Milk dish. Now, I know there may be some of you thinking, "Right there, Jenny, right there was your sign to back away slowly."
I know. It kind of threw me off too. And I can't lie, further investigations into the recipe did not really alleviate my apprehensions. The seasonings included a cinnamon stick, lemon juice, ten garlic cloves, sage and a pint of milk.
So there's really no excuse, I should have known. But, well, I had two split chicken breasts in the freezer that needed to be eaten and I was tired of the same old herb roast I'd done, albeit successfully, many times before. I decided to give the new recipe the ol' college try.
I melted butter in olive oil, a tablespoon each and fried the chicken in it until crisp and golden all over. At that point it was still quite appetizing looking. Then I put the chicken in a small roasting pan, turned the heat off the sauce pan and added a half a cup of white wine to deglaze.
This step was not actually called for in the recipe, but I didn't want all the chicken-y goodness at the bottom of the pan to go to waste and honestly, what couldn't benefit from some added alcohol? I really can't think of anything.
Lately I buy whole heads of garlic instead of the small jar of minced garlic that was my step up previously from garlic powder. (You can trace my interest in cooking through my evolution of the garlic product purchase.) Anyhow, I wasn't about to throw ten whole cloves into the sauce, recipe be damned. That's a lot of garlic. I know in its whole form the flavor would still be mild, but that wasn't what I was worried about. I was worried about using my entire stock of garlic in one recipe and I'm just too thrifty to consider it an option.
So instead I sliced three large cloves. I also minced about two tablespoons of onion. Why? Just because, that's why. It seemed like it would go well and really, recipes, like the pirate code, are much more like guidelines than rules in my book.
I added garlic, onion, a bunch of sage and the last of my bottled lemon juice (I have yet to buy the whole lemon, but wait for it. I'll get there.) and about a teaspoon of cinnamon. Until the cinnamon everything looked just fine, but after the cinnamon there was something just a little off about the aroma. Not exactly unpleasant, just a little jarring somehow.
Regardless, I brought everything to a simmer, turned off the heat and added, oh, about two cups of milk. Immediately the milk split into curds (it's the lemon that did it), but warned by Jamie himself, I knew to expect this. I didn't expect to be thrilled by the appearance of the little curds, as Jamie was (he can't help himself, he's English) but I was prepared for them.
I dumped this strange mixture over the chicken and put the roasting dish into the oven at three fifty for a planned hour and a half, and prepared to baste "when you remember to," which is an exact quote from the laid back English chef himself.
Then I turned my attention to my vegetable, which was, most incongruously, a turnip. The turnip can be explained by a visit Keith and I made to a farmer's market in Corydon and my being thrown off by the presence of so much fresh produce. I just didn't know what to do with myself, so I picked up a brown bag and started throwing stuff in there.
After googling, I found a recipe for Amish Turnips, which turned out to be sort of a vegetable casserole dish. I'm familiar with the vegetable casserole, I don't mind saying that I make a killer sweet potato casserole. The problem was, I had only one turnip, which was insufficient for the recipe. Brilliantly, I decided to also boil carrots and make it a carrot/turnip casserole. (Which sounds like a dish that could be in the Redwall series, served by something like a hedgehog.)
While I slaved over peeling, cutting, boiling, mashing and casseroling the vegetables, the chicken percolated away in its perfumed milk bath. I did remember to baste it quite often and every time I did the aroma was quite delicious and the golden, crisp crust on the chicken got more and more appetizing.
Jamie recommend taking the chicken off the bones and serving it with mashed potatoes and wilted greens and pouring the sauce over everything. Maybe if I hadn't poured the sauce over the chicken, Keith might have actually taken more than one bite of it, but who knows?
All I know is, I found it delicious, if having a bit of a sour flavor imbued, I'm guessing, from the lemon juice. But as far as Keith was concerned, it was inedible, which is where the complete culinary failure came into play. Otherwise it was a perfectly edible chicken dish.
The episode sparked some intense conversations, during which these phrases, among others, were heard:
"I am not your own personal restaurant!" (Chez Keith!)
"You know I hate chicken."
"I made you an omelet for breakfast and then a pizza for lunch. You had pizza for lunch."
"I hate chicken!"
"Fine, I'm serving you ground beef with canned tomatoes poured over it every day!"
"Fine! It sounds great!"
"No more omelets for you!"
"Wait a minute...you can't do that! That's revenge and it's against our rules. You tell me that all the time."
"How does it feel now, huh?"
"Now, kitten..."
The result of all this was that when I want to branch out and try something different, Keith will be responsible for his making his own dinner. Which means while I'm searing scallops he'll be heating a microwave pizza and we'll both be happy.
Which is good, because I plan on trying Jamie's Spinach and Ricotta Stuffed Cannoli this week. I already have the shopping list prepared. (Which, by the way Scotty, if you're reading this, is the most insanely complicated recipe I've yet to come across, requiring, among other things, the use of a plastic zip lock bag as a pastry bag and a modified bechamel sauce. I'll send it too you if you guys want to try it too.)
Last night I experienced major culinary failure. I attempted to make Jamie Oliver's Chicken in Milk dish. Now, I know there may be some of you thinking, "Right there, Jenny, right there was your sign to back away slowly."
I know. It kind of threw me off too. And I can't lie, further investigations into the recipe did not really alleviate my apprehensions. The seasonings included a cinnamon stick, lemon juice, ten garlic cloves, sage and a pint of milk.
So there's really no excuse, I should have known. But, well, I had two split chicken breasts in the freezer that needed to be eaten and I was tired of the same old herb roast I'd done, albeit successfully, many times before. I decided to give the new recipe the ol' college try.
I melted butter in olive oil, a tablespoon each and fried the chicken in it until crisp and golden all over. At that point it was still quite appetizing looking. Then I put the chicken in a small roasting pan, turned the heat off the sauce pan and added a half a cup of white wine to deglaze.
This step was not actually called for in the recipe, but I didn't want all the chicken-y goodness at the bottom of the pan to go to waste and honestly, what couldn't benefit from some added alcohol? I really can't think of anything.
Lately I buy whole heads of garlic instead of the small jar of minced garlic that was my step up previously from garlic powder. (You can trace my interest in cooking through my evolution of the garlic product purchase.) Anyhow, I wasn't about to throw ten whole cloves into the sauce, recipe be damned. That's a lot of garlic. I know in its whole form the flavor would still be mild, but that wasn't what I was worried about. I was worried about using my entire stock of garlic in one recipe and I'm just too thrifty to consider it an option.
So instead I sliced three large cloves. I also minced about two tablespoons of onion. Why? Just because, that's why. It seemed like it would go well and really, recipes, like the pirate code, are much more like guidelines than rules in my book.
I added garlic, onion, a bunch of sage and the last of my bottled lemon juice (I have yet to buy the whole lemon, but wait for it. I'll get there.) and about a teaspoon of cinnamon. Until the cinnamon everything looked just fine, but after the cinnamon there was something just a little off about the aroma. Not exactly unpleasant, just a little jarring somehow.
Regardless, I brought everything to a simmer, turned off the heat and added, oh, about two cups of milk. Immediately the milk split into curds (it's the lemon that did it), but warned by Jamie himself, I knew to expect this. I didn't expect to be thrilled by the appearance of the little curds, as Jamie was (he can't help himself, he's English) but I was prepared for them.
I dumped this strange mixture over the chicken and put the roasting dish into the oven at three fifty for a planned hour and a half, and prepared to baste "when you remember to," which is an exact quote from the laid back English chef himself.
Then I turned my attention to my vegetable, which was, most incongruously, a turnip. The turnip can be explained by a visit Keith and I made to a farmer's market in Corydon and my being thrown off by the presence of so much fresh produce. I just didn't know what to do with myself, so I picked up a brown bag and started throwing stuff in there.
After googling, I found a recipe for Amish Turnips, which turned out to be sort of a vegetable casserole dish. I'm familiar with the vegetable casserole, I don't mind saying that I make a killer sweet potato casserole. The problem was, I had only one turnip, which was insufficient for the recipe. Brilliantly, I decided to also boil carrots and make it a carrot/turnip casserole. (Which sounds like a dish that could be in the Redwall series, served by something like a hedgehog.)
While I slaved over peeling, cutting, boiling, mashing and casseroling the vegetables, the chicken percolated away in its perfumed milk bath. I did remember to baste it quite often and every time I did the aroma was quite delicious and the golden, crisp crust on the chicken got more and more appetizing.
Jamie recommend taking the chicken off the bones and serving it with mashed potatoes and wilted greens and pouring the sauce over everything. Maybe if I hadn't poured the sauce over the chicken, Keith might have actually taken more than one bite of it, but who knows?
All I know is, I found it delicious, if having a bit of a sour flavor imbued, I'm guessing, from the lemon juice. But as far as Keith was concerned, it was inedible, which is where the complete culinary failure came into play. Otherwise it was a perfectly edible chicken dish.
The episode sparked some intense conversations, during which these phrases, among others, were heard:
"I am not your own personal restaurant!" (Chez Keith!)
"You know I hate chicken."
"I made you an omelet for breakfast and then a pizza for lunch. You had pizza for lunch."
"I hate chicken!"
"Fine, I'm serving you ground beef with canned tomatoes poured over it every day!"
"Fine! It sounds great!"
"No more omelets for you!"
"Wait a minute...you can't do that! That's revenge and it's against our rules. You tell me that all the time."
"How does it feel now, huh?"
"Now, kitten..."
The result of all this was that when I want to branch out and try something different, Keith will be responsible for his making his own dinner. Which means while I'm searing scallops he'll be heating a microwave pizza and we'll both be happy.
Which is good, because I plan on trying Jamie's Spinach and Ricotta Stuffed Cannoli this week. I already have the shopping list prepared. (Which, by the way Scotty, if you're reading this, is the most insanely complicated recipe I've yet to come across, requiring, among other things, the use of a plastic zip lock bag as a pastry bag and a modified bechamel sauce. I'll send it too you if you guys want to try it too.)
Monday, July 26, 2010
July 26th
As I write, there is a loud grating sound that rises and falls with annoying irregularity coming from the back yard. My husband and a guy from work are out there in sweat soaked tee shirts sanding the boat. I'm trying to ignore it.
I have almost mastered the omelet. I actually can get the omelet to be thin and wrinkly golden on the outside and cheesy warm on the inside. The last two times I have been able to loosen the edge and flip it over with no major omelet form damage.
Keep in mind that this took no less than a year's worth of experimentation, with large and misshapen mistakes along the way. The trick is a really hot, oiled pan and to precook all the fillings.
Lately I have been entranced with Jamie Oliver's "Jamie at Home" cooking show. I mean, what's not to love? He has a huge, working garden. He has a huge, summer kitchen with wood burning stove as well as gas. He does incredible things with vegetables. When he wants thyme, he goes and get some from the garden. Lavender? It's there. Anything at all, it's growing within reach.
He's clearly so comfortable with cooking that he rarely ever gives amounts, it's all, "a handful of this," or "a squirt of that." He's just having fun. (When he does give amounts, it's invariably in grams or something else indecipherable.)
I have decided I need a more scientific approach to cooking than the one I've been using, which is mainly to search desperately for yet another recipe using ground beef and then get distracted by some wildly inappropriate dish that Keith would never eat. I want to develop an underlying understanding instead, one of cuts and techniques and even sauces.
For example, I want to be able to make a steak au poivre, or to know the difference between a blade roast and a rump roast. I'll try preparing one kind of retail cut beef per week, beginning with Chuck. (Run, Chuck, run!) I will look for a Boneless Chuck Eye Roast to start.
We'll see how that goes.
In other news, the first FRG meeting happened, apparently. It wasn't much of a success. So the next one will be mandatory, but no one plans on showing up for that one either. Updates as events warrant.
I have almost mastered the omelet. I actually can get the omelet to be thin and wrinkly golden on the outside and cheesy warm on the inside. The last two times I have been able to loosen the edge and flip it over with no major omelet form damage.
Keep in mind that this took no less than a year's worth of experimentation, with large and misshapen mistakes along the way. The trick is a really hot, oiled pan and to precook all the fillings.
Lately I have been entranced with Jamie Oliver's "Jamie at Home" cooking show. I mean, what's not to love? He has a huge, working garden. He has a huge, summer kitchen with wood burning stove as well as gas. He does incredible things with vegetables. When he wants thyme, he goes and get some from the garden. Lavender? It's there. Anything at all, it's growing within reach.
He's clearly so comfortable with cooking that he rarely ever gives amounts, it's all, "a handful of this," or "a squirt of that." He's just having fun. (When he does give amounts, it's invariably in grams or something else indecipherable.)
I have decided I need a more scientific approach to cooking than the one I've been using, which is mainly to search desperately for yet another recipe using ground beef and then get distracted by some wildly inappropriate dish that Keith would never eat. I want to develop an underlying understanding instead, one of cuts and techniques and even sauces.
For example, I want to be able to make a steak au poivre, or to know the difference between a blade roast and a rump roast. I'll try preparing one kind of retail cut beef per week, beginning with Chuck. (Run, Chuck, run!) I will look for a Boneless Chuck Eye Roast to start.
We'll see how that goes.
In other news, the first FRG meeting happened, apparently. It wasn't much of a success. So the next one will be mandatory, but no one plans on showing up for that one either. Updates as events warrant.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
July 25th
Down the road from here there's a worn, tar paper shack. It has the gently sloping roof that hangs off the front to form a covered porch that's common of older houses in this area. There are two doors, two windows and a chimney at the side.
Everything about it is dingy, the porch slides off to one side, the windows are little crooked, the tar paper is falling off like birch bark. There's no road to it, it just stands alone in a corn field. It appears to be completely empty.
Opposite it is a way side bar, nothing more than a rectangle painted black with a beer sign in the window and packed dirt beside it where the trucks and cars are parked, even in the early afternoon.
That particular bend in the road never fails to stirs up my imagination like a hive of bees that's been hit with a rock. Who lived in the tar paper shack? Was it a tiny school house for the community around it-maybe that would explain the two doors. But it's so narrow how could anyone fit in it?
Was it a poor laborer and his family? Did they lay their corn shuck mattresses on the front porch to sleep at night and eat their cornbread at a rickety table inside? Was there a black wood stove with a narrow stove pipe jutting out the roof? I could imagine the thin, worn woman wearily sweeping the floors, a baby wearing a dirty cotton dress sitting in a basket, their faces glossed with sweat, a spare set of clothing hanging limp from a nail on the wall.
Maybe they didn't own the land, maybe they were just renters, a losing proposition if ever there was one.
I don't know why it summons up such a potentially sad history in my mind, maybe it's some one's homestead and they keep it standing to remind themselves of how far they've come in the succeeding generations. But it just seems to be steeped in sadness, verging an despair. It's a worn house all sunk into itself, like a mouth with no teeth.
When we were driving through South Dakota for my brother's wedding in Minnesota, I saw a deserted house high up on a ridge. In South Dakota the sky is vast, an open canvas of light and cloud. The land stretches almost as far, but it rolls, sometime serenely, majestically and sometimes with jagged, sharp edges, a sharp fall.
It was evening as we drove past to the east of the house. The land fell away from the ridge on all sides, fell away and away and away into the dusty horizon, dust brown. The gentle curve of the highway caused the sun to swing past the house and for a moment, the rays shown right through the windows, lit the whole house up from the inside and threw the hillside before it into shadow.
I felt a shiver run right up my spine. I turned my head to watch the house fall back into shadow as the sun came around to the side of it, quiet, shuttered and dark. I felt it resented the light that had shown so revealingly through it.
"That house is haunted," I told Keith, out of the blue.
"What?" he asked, sharply. "What house? How do you know?"
I didn't know. It was just my imagination. But I felt that house reach out of the dark, felt it watching as we drove away. I watched for it when we were driving home, but I didn't see it again.
Everything about it is dingy, the porch slides off to one side, the windows are little crooked, the tar paper is falling off like birch bark. There's no road to it, it just stands alone in a corn field. It appears to be completely empty.
Opposite it is a way side bar, nothing more than a rectangle painted black with a beer sign in the window and packed dirt beside it where the trucks and cars are parked, even in the early afternoon.
That particular bend in the road never fails to stirs up my imagination like a hive of bees that's been hit with a rock. Who lived in the tar paper shack? Was it a tiny school house for the community around it-maybe that would explain the two doors. But it's so narrow how could anyone fit in it?
Was it a poor laborer and his family? Did they lay their corn shuck mattresses on the front porch to sleep at night and eat their cornbread at a rickety table inside? Was there a black wood stove with a narrow stove pipe jutting out the roof? I could imagine the thin, worn woman wearily sweeping the floors, a baby wearing a dirty cotton dress sitting in a basket, their faces glossed with sweat, a spare set of clothing hanging limp from a nail on the wall.
Maybe they didn't own the land, maybe they were just renters, a losing proposition if ever there was one.
I don't know why it summons up such a potentially sad history in my mind, maybe it's some one's homestead and they keep it standing to remind themselves of how far they've come in the succeeding generations. But it just seems to be steeped in sadness, verging an despair. It's a worn house all sunk into itself, like a mouth with no teeth.
When we were driving through South Dakota for my brother's wedding in Minnesota, I saw a deserted house high up on a ridge. In South Dakota the sky is vast, an open canvas of light and cloud. The land stretches almost as far, but it rolls, sometime serenely, majestically and sometimes with jagged, sharp edges, a sharp fall.
It was evening as we drove past to the east of the house. The land fell away from the ridge on all sides, fell away and away and away into the dusty horizon, dust brown. The gentle curve of the highway caused the sun to swing past the house and for a moment, the rays shown right through the windows, lit the whole house up from the inside and threw the hillside before it into shadow.
I felt a shiver run right up my spine. I turned my head to watch the house fall back into shadow as the sun came around to the side of it, quiet, shuttered and dark. I felt it resented the light that had shown so revealingly through it.
"That house is haunted," I told Keith, out of the blue.
"What?" he asked, sharply. "What house? How do you know?"
I didn't know. It was just my imagination. But I felt that house reach out of the dark, felt it watching as we drove away. I watched for it when we were driving home, but I didn't see it again.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
July 24th
I can't write long because I have an excited husband on his way with a second boat motor in hand. The very nice guy simply gave it to him. So we will be heading down to Louisville to see if we can sell them both or maybe trade them both for one new one.
And then sell the boat.
However, as you may have noticed, I switched up my blog background, etc. I choose falling leaves (three guesses as to who may be longing for fall).
And then sell the boat.
However, as you may have noticed, I switched up my blog background, etc. I choose falling leaves (three guesses as to who may be longing for fall).
Friday, July 23, 2010
July 23rd
Keith came hone the other day and declared, with fatalism heavy in his voice, "I am a hoarder!"
I couldn't help it, I burst out laughing.
"It's not funny!" he cried. "I'm serious. I'm storing a boat motor in my jeep. I have to sell some crap. Where the hell am I going to put my boat?"
We still haven't picked it up, though we got the process of switching the boat title over to his name started. Once we get the new title, we can sell it. In the meantime, Keith is thinking of storing it at the lemon lot on post.
We have the Can on Craig's list, but I really think Keith needs to drop the price more in order for it to sell. The problem is, he loves that truck and he put in a new crank shaft. Once he puts that much blood, sweat and toil in a vehicle, he doesn't really like to let it go.
"It's just a good runnin' little truck," he likes to fondly say, his hand slapping the hood.
Anyone else looking at will merely see its age, the broken window and the fact that it's only a two wheel drive.
We watched "Alice in Wonderland" last night and though we emphatically agreed that we would never, ever let our children watch it before the age of ten, it was still an excellent movie for adults.
I went back in my blog a year ago to see how I was chronicling the last few months of my husband's deployment and instead got a vivid reminder of my transformation from political apathy to passion. It's fascinating really. It's a small illustration of the country at large during that time.
There were many posts that I simply didn't publish, as I was struggling with the direction I wanted my blog to go in, the pros and cons of being political in a blogging community and this feeling of my own ignorance of subjects I was desperate to understand.
I feel so much more confident compared to last summer, though I still think very carefully about how I blog. Mainly I want to convey the feeling that though I may directly and passionately oppose liberal/progressive/collectivist ideas, I am not actually attacking any person who may hold them.
To the contrary as individuals they tend to be, in my experience, generally compassionate, intelligent people who want to make a difference in their community and feel that the government is the best venue for making that difference.
I hear a lot lately about the polarization of our society. I'm tempted to think that we are a lot less polarized than what we are given to believe, if we listen to the talking heads on TV. I think the majority of Americans actually agree with one another on the larger issues. What creates the feeling of polarization is that the current Administration and the media in general are promoting ideas and policies that are not held or supported by the general population. This creates friction and frustration.
Lately I have been following very closely this breaking story of the by now infamous Journolist. Growing up I was always aware that there was a liberal bias in the media. I attributed that to nothing more than an organic coincidence. I believed that because those working in the journalistic profession tended to tilt left, they tended to bias their stories in that direction, mostly unconsciously, in the same way that scientists tend to effect their own findings. This naturally and without any organisation resulted in a general, across the board leftward tilt.
The realization that there was a secret, exclusive list of liberal only journalists, bloggers, editors and opinion piece authors was stunning to me. It made me feel vaguely sick to my stomach to read about how they all worked and discussed together how to present stories or articles to discredit Palin and how to help candidate Obama get elected.
I was reading an article titled, "Confessions of a Journolister" by David Corn of Mother Jones. In it, he says:
"The latest Journolist piece hit close to home, for it features a headline based on a Journolist comment made by Nick Baumann, a reporter in Mother Jones' Washington, DC, bureau. (See Nick's take on the Journolist flap here.) The article zeroes in on the hours following John McCain's announcement that Sarah Palin would be his running mate. Journolist was exploding with comments from members wondering what was behind this odd selection and what was the best way to write about it—and to attack it. (Hey, they're liberals.) In years past, this sort of conversation would have happened in a restaurant or hotel lobby—presumably the bar next to the lobby—where reporters would gather. In this instance, it occurred electronically."
Granted, he's writing for Mother Jones. No one is going to expect any non biased piece to come out of this publication, no more than one would expect journalism from, say, American Thinker.
Still, it just blew my mind that he was actually justifying their actions. He appears to be saying that journalists deciding together on the best way to write about something is perfectly acceptable, natural. As though that's the way journalism is suppose to work.
Here is a link to where it all began, if you've missed this story at The Daily Caller.
This whole thing just illustrates for me how vitally important it is to do one's own research. I know it's said that knowledge is power, but what has been true for me is that knowledge is freedom, freedom from confusion, from some one else's worldview, from the pretty little story line, so lovingly presented to me by those with an agenda to promote.
I couldn't help it, I burst out laughing.
"It's not funny!" he cried. "I'm serious. I'm storing a boat motor in my jeep. I have to sell some crap. Where the hell am I going to put my boat?"
We still haven't picked it up, though we got the process of switching the boat title over to his name started. Once we get the new title, we can sell it. In the meantime, Keith is thinking of storing it at the lemon lot on post.
We have the Can on Craig's list, but I really think Keith needs to drop the price more in order for it to sell. The problem is, he loves that truck and he put in a new crank shaft. Once he puts that much blood, sweat and toil in a vehicle, he doesn't really like to let it go.
"It's just a good runnin' little truck," he likes to fondly say, his hand slapping the hood.
Anyone else looking at will merely see its age, the broken window and the fact that it's only a two wheel drive.
We watched "Alice in Wonderland" last night and though we emphatically agreed that we would never, ever let our children watch it before the age of ten, it was still an excellent movie for adults.
I went back in my blog a year ago to see how I was chronicling the last few months of my husband's deployment and instead got a vivid reminder of my transformation from political apathy to passion. It's fascinating really. It's a small illustration of the country at large during that time.
There were many posts that I simply didn't publish, as I was struggling with the direction I wanted my blog to go in, the pros and cons of being political in a blogging community and this feeling of my own ignorance of subjects I was desperate to understand.
I feel so much more confident compared to last summer, though I still think very carefully about how I blog. Mainly I want to convey the feeling that though I may directly and passionately oppose liberal/progressive/collectivist ideas, I am not actually attacking any person who may hold them.
To the contrary as individuals they tend to be, in my experience, generally compassionate, intelligent people who want to make a difference in their community and feel that the government is the best venue for making that difference.
I hear a lot lately about the polarization of our society. I'm tempted to think that we are a lot less polarized than what we are given to believe, if we listen to the talking heads on TV. I think the majority of Americans actually agree with one another on the larger issues. What creates the feeling of polarization is that the current Administration and the media in general are promoting ideas and policies that are not held or supported by the general population. This creates friction and frustration.
Lately I have been following very closely this breaking story of the by now infamous Journolist. Growing up I was always aware that there was a liberal bias in the media. I attributed that to nothing more than an organic coincidence. I believed that because those working in the journalistic profession tended to tilt left, they tended to bias their stories in that direction, mostly unconsciously, in the same way that scientists tend to effect their own findings. This naturally and without any organisation resulted in a general, across the board leftward tilt.
The realization that there was a secret, exclusive list of liberal only journalists, bloggers, editors and opinion piece authors was stunning to me. It made me feel vaguely sick to my stomach to read about how they all worked and discussed together how to present stories or articles to discredit Palin and how to help candidate Obama get elected.
I was reading an article titled, "Confessions of a Journolister" by David Corn of Mother Jones. In it, he says:
"The latest Journolist piece hit close to home, for it features a headline based on a Journolist comment made by Nick Baumann, a reporter in Mother Jones' Washington, DC, bureau. (See Nick's take on the Journolist flap here.) The article zeroes in on the hours following John McCain's announcement that Sarah Palin would be his running mate. Journolist was exploding with comments from members wondering what was behind this odd selection and what was the best way to write about it—and to attack it. (Hey, they're liberals.) In years past, this sort of conversation would have happened in a restaurant or hotel lobby—presumably the bar next to the lobby—where reporters would gather. In this instance, it occurred electronically."
Granted, he's writing for Mother Jones. No one is going to expect any non biased piece to come out of this publication, no more than one would expect journalism from, say, American Thinker.
Still, it just blew my mind that he was actually justifying their actions. He appears to be saying that journalists deciding together on the best way to write about something is perfectly acceptable, natural. As though that's the way journalism is suppose to work.
Here is a link to where it all began, if you've missed this story at The Daily Caller.
This whole thing just illustrates for me how vitally important it is to do one's own research. I know it's said that knowledge is power, but what has been true for me is that knowledge is freedom, freedom from confusion, from some one else's worldview, from the pretty little story line, so lovingly presented to me by those with an agenda to promote.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
July 22nd
I always feel so badly after I've ranted on about Kentucky. Poor Kentucky. It can't help its climate. I'm sure if I was born here, I'd love it here.
I haven't been feeling so hot lately. I have these headaches that come and go all day long and sometimes in the night and I just feel drained. My back has been acting up, especially at night and in the day I can feel the pain in my knee joints. It's probably just that time of the month. (Sorry Irving.)
On top of this, I've had several disturbing dreams which involved my either adopting or giving birth. Generally I do have vivid dreams, usually just before I wake up. I always dream in color and sound. I don't always remember them, but if I try to impress them on my mind as soon as I wake I can recall them later. These dreams did not need any help for me to remember them.
The combination of having these dreams about babies and head aches and being exhausted has made me wonder if we finally conceived this month, a thought that I have learned to hate, because it never turns out to be true. It's just my back hurting, which causes me not to sleep well, which causes the drained feeling and headaches and the dreams are just from my wanting to conceive.
And my dream dictionary (Yes, I have one of those. I don't believe it religiously or anything, but it's interesting sometimes to double check.) says dreams about birth mean the end of one phase of life and the beginning of another, profound change. You know-coming to terms with life.
Maybe it means I'm subconsciously processing how much would profoundly change once we get pregnant or adopt. Since the dreams were disturbing or had unsettling aspects, it's probably an outlet for my anxiety or fears about this. Which is very healthy to process, so I guess I'm right on track.
I always hate this time of the month. Oh to be old, to be post menopausal, without the ebb and flow of the hormonal soup! I'll be wise and clear headed, calm. I'll have long silvery grey hair and a huge, beautiful garden and wear a lot of linen. I'll read a lot.
Ha! There I go, projecting myself into the future, away from right now. And right now I have to eat lunch.
I haven't been feeling so hot lately. I have these headaches that come and go all day long and sometimes in the night and I just feel drained. My back has been acting up, especially at night and in the day I can feel the pain in my knee joints. It's probably just that time of the month. (Sorry Irving.)
On top of this, I've had several disturbing dreams which involved my either adopting or giving birth. Generally I do have vivid dreams, usually just before I wake up. I always dream in color and sound. I don't always remember them, but if I try to impress them on my mind as soon as I wake I can recall them later. These dreams did not need any help for me to remember them.
The combination of having these dreams about babies and head aches and being exhausted has made me wonder if we finally conceived this month, a thought that I have learned to hate, because it never turns out to be true. It's just my back hurting, which causes me not to sleep well, which causes the drained feeling and headaches and the dreams are just from my wanting to conceive.
And my dream dictionary (Yes, I have one of those. I don't believe it religiously or anything, but it's interesting sometimes to double check.) says dreams about birth mean the end of one phase of life and the beginning of another, profound change. You know-coming to terms with life.
Maybe it means I'm subconsciously processing how much would profoundly change once we get pregnant or adopt. Since the dreams were disturbing or had unsettling aspects, it's probably an outlet for my anxiety or fears about this. Which is very healthy to process, so I guess I'm right on track.
I always hate this time of the month. Oh to be old, to be post menopausal, without the ebb and flow of the hormonal soup! I'll be wise and clear headed, calm. I'll have long silvery grey hair and a huge, beautiful garden and wear a lot of linen. I'll read a lot.
Ha! There I go, projecting myself into the future, away from right now. And right now I have to eat lunch.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
July 21st
It's another nasty, muggy day down here. I've never before wanted a summer to go to waste, even the summer I was waiting for Keith to come home from deployment. Summer in Kentucky though; I want nothing more than for it to be over, shed like wet clothing. Summer down here is like a rotten fruit, swollen, smelly and damp.
This is an irrational thought, but I keep feeling like Kentucky is making me fat. I know I could force myself to get up and go for a walk in the morning, but unless I get up before seven thirty, it's already hot and steamy. And the day time? Forget about it. And the evening? I have to wait until past eight thirty before it's even the slightest bit cooler. From eight in the morning until nine at night, that entire space of time is completely gone to waste.
Keith was out mowing the lawn yesterday, he wasn't out for more than ten minutes before he had to come back in for some water. His shirt was dripping wet with sweat. Literally. It was dripping onto the welcome mat.
He has to be careful now because once a body has had extreme heat cramps, it's much easier for it to happen again. That's what the doctor told us.
I went out to rake up the grass trimmings (just to keep an eye on him, really) and I felt leaden out there. I felt like I was breathing under water, nasty, fetid swamp water. We grew up on the edge of a swamp and sometimes, in desperation, we would jump into the swamp, despite the lurking threat of snapping turtles.
We saw them often, prehistoric looking creatures who dragged their fortified bodies up out of the swamp waters to lay their eggs in the sandy soil by the milk weeds. Offer them a stick and their jaws would clench down, vicious, sudden and intractable. If the stick was not sturdy, it would snap in two.
Despite this, on truly hot days, even the slimy, amber colored water looked appealing and my brothers and I would jump in from the reed banks, eyes shut tight. I would bring my feet up from the tempting cool depths of the channel, away from any waiting threats and float on the surface.
That's what the air here reminds me of, that warm swamp water, breeding place for mosquitoes and tadpoles, dragonflies skimming the surface in iridescent blues and greens.
I keep thinking of other summers, swimming in the lake, a cool, quiet lake. I could float on the top of the water and watch the clouds drift by in the delicious coolness of a NH summer. I remember it being muggy there too sometimes, but nothing like this.
I tell myself we won't be here forever, but that's small consolation, as we are merely moving deeper toward the unbearable Southern coast, towards Florida and Alabama. I used to just joke about the fact that I was a Yankee, but now I know it.
I miss the worn granite stone walls and deep green lawns, the pine boughs that sweep down like a royal train under the weight of snow. I want the rocky pastures and bald mountains that are really just hills compared to the Rockies. I want the short, muddy springs and the clouds of black flies, the apple orchards with their twisted roots twined deep in the steep side of a hill.
I would rather summer be merely the dream one is constantly waking up from than it be this interminable agony of sweat, stink and heat.
Two days ago the heat was broken by a massive bank of thunderstorms that were moving east across Kentucky. Where we were, the sky was a churning mass of blue gray cloud, the edges ragged by the force of the wind, dissolving and reforming before our eyes. The wind whipped the flag and bent the tomato plants back.
I brought the flag in and then the plants as well. For that night the dining room was transformed into a forest. My German Johnsons have gotten very tall, almost as tall as I am and one leaned up against the wall, its arms reaching for the clock. Pepper plants sat squat and heavy on the wooden table.
The hail I was saving them never arrived, but it must have been exciting for the plants to try out the "indoor" life style for a night. Hopefully they didn't bring any bugs in with them.
This is an irrational thought, but I keep feeling like Kentucky is making me fat. I know I could force myself to get up and go for a walk in the morning, but unless I get up before seven thirty, it's already hot and steamy. And the day time? Forget about it. And the evening? I have to wait until past eight thirty before it's even the slightest bit cooler. From eight in the morning until nine at night, that entire space of time is completely gone to waste.
Keith was out mowing the lawn yesterday, he wasn't out for more than ten minutes before he had to come back in for some water. His shirt was dripping wet with sweat. Literally. It was dripping onto the welcome mat.
He has to be careful now because once a body has had extreme heat cramps, it's much easier for it to happen again. That's what the doctor told us.
I went out to rake up the grass trimmings (just to keep an eye on him, really) and I felt leaden out there. I felt like I was breathing under water, nasty, fetid swamp water. We grew up on the edge of a swamp and sometimes, in desperation, we would jump into the swamp, despite the lurking threat of snapping turtles.
We saw them often, prehistoric looking creatures who dragged their fortified bodies up out of the swamp waters to lay their eggs in the sandy soil by the milk weeds. Offer them a stick and their jaws would clench down, vicious, sudden and intractable. If the stick was not sturdy, it would snap in two.
Despite this, on truly hot days, even the slimy, amber colored water looked appealing and my brothers and I would jump in from the reed banks, eyes shut tight. I would bring my feet up from the tempting cool depths of the channel, away from any waiting threats and float on the surface.
That's what the air here reminds me of, that warm swamp water, breeding place for mosquitoes and tadpoles, dragonflies skimming the surface in iridescent blues and greens.
I keep thinking of other summers, swimming in the lake, a cool, quiet lake. I could float on the top of the water and watch the clouds drift by in the delicious coolness of a NH summer. I remember it being muggy there too sometimes, but nothing like this.
I tell myself we won't be here forever, but that's small consolation, as we are merely moving deeper toward the unbearable Southern coast, towards Florida and Alabama. I used to just joke about the fact that I was a Yankee, but now I know it.
I miss the worn granite stone walls and deep green lawns, the pine boughs that sweep down like a royal train under the weight of snow. I want the rocky pastures and bald mountains that are really just hills compared to the Rockies. I want the short, muddy springs and the clouds of black flies, the apple orchards with their twisted roots twined deep in the steep side of a hill.
I would rather summer be merely the dream one is constantly waking up from than it be this interminable agony of sweat, stink and heat.
Two days ago the heat was broken by a massive bank of thunderstorms that were moving east across Kentucky. Where we were, the sky was a churning mass of blue gray cloud, the edges ragged by the force of the wind, dissolving and reforming before our eyes. The wind whipped the flag and bent the tomato plants back.
I brought the flag in and then the plants as well. For that night the dining room was transformed into a forest. My German Johnsons have gotten very tall, almost as tall as I am and one leaned up against the wall, its arms reaching for the clock. Pepper plants sat squat and heavy on the wooden table.
The hail I was saving them never arrived, but it must have been exciting for the plants to try out the "indoor" life style for a night. Hopefully they didn't bring any bugs in with them.
Monday, July 19, 2010
July 19th
Keith went and bought a boat. Yes, a boat. I swear, it is a steep uphill battle to get that man to save a penny of his pay check.
To be fair, it only cost two hundred and fifty dollars and he plans to sell it. But still.
Yesterday Keith came home around twelve with a friend from work who was only going to stay for a couple beers. Several hours later, they came tumbling down the stairs, all excited about this truck on Craig's list (an Internet service which should never have been invented, as far as I'm concerned) and scheming about how they could get enough money for the guy to buy it.
The plan was revealed to me with great gusto; the other guy would pay three hundred and we would front him the other three hundred and then on pay day, he would pay us back four hundred.
Privately, I was thinking no way in hell, mainly because I happen to know the other guy has not told his wife about this plan. (She was the one other wife who came to the fourth of July barbecue, with the two small children.) I know I'm not going for the plan, I'm pretty sure she'd have some strong opinions on the plan as well.
Furthermore, Keith had been acting all annoyingly macho all afternoon and pushed me over the edge in the midst of heated truck discussions.
I turned from the sink, put my soapy hand on my hip and glared all the way down the kitchen at him.
"Would you stop the BS already?" I snapped. "You've been showing off for your friend all afternoon and I've about had enough of it!"
They both turned red and silly faced and his friend burst out laughing. "He has! He has!" he agreed. Keith, caught, tip toed down the kitchen with an endearing little grin on his face. He covered my face and neck with little kisses.
"You are the queen," he declared passionately.
I made him give me his word he wouldn't buy the truck that evening before I agreed to drive them. But it was the boat I wasn't anticipating. There was just no stopping the purchase of that boat. In fact, both of the guys wanted it badly and after sending pictures of it to other guys, got heated phone calls from those guys, begging them to buy it for them.
It was just a dented, fourteen foot John boat with peeling paint, a trailer and an engine. But, as I was assured about a hundred times in heated, heady whispers, the trailer alone was worth six to eight hundred dollars.
Of course, that's after he sands the boat down, repaints it, fixes the engine and puts new wheels on the trailer. In the meantime, we've yet to sell the Can and of course have the Jeep in the driveway, the ATV under the back deck and the HD in the garage. Where on earth he's planning to store the boat I have no idea.
I have learned that Keith is not normally wrong about these things, he does have an uncanny ability to find projects that will be profitable. But he always overlooks some of the cost. We've got to sell the Can now, if just for the space.
His friend didn't leave until past seven in the evening, having sobered up and eaten dinner.
"My wife is going to kill me," he said sadly, as he opened the front door. (He was suppose to be home by seven at the latest.)
"Buy her flowers, open the door and say, "I'm so sorry, honey. You have every right to be angry," I offered.
"That's a great idea," he said, hope dawning. "You think like, carnations? Hey! At least I didn't buy the truck; that should count for something..."
To be fair, it only cost two hundred and fifty dollars and he plans to sell it. But still.
Yesterday Keith came home around twelve with a friend from work who was only going to stay for a couple beers. Several hours later, they came tumbling down the stairs, all excited about this truck on Craig's list (an Internet service which should never have been invented, as far as I'm concerned) and scheming about how they could get enough money for the guy to buy it.
The plan was revealed to me with great gusto; the other guy would pay three hundred and we would front him the other three hundred and then on pay day, he would pay us back four hundred.
Privately, I was thinking no way in hell, mainly because I happen to know the other guy has not told his wife about this plan. (She was the one other wife who came to the fourth of July barbecue, with the two small children.) I know I'm not going for the plan, I'm pretty sure she'd have some strong opinions on the plan as well.
Furthermore, Keith had been acting all annoyingly macho all afternoon and pushed me over the edge in the midst of heated truck discussions.
I turned from the sink, put my soapy hand on my hip and glared all the way down the kitchen at him.
"Would you stop the BS already?" I snapped. "You've been showing off for your friend all afternoon and I've about had enough of it!"
They both turned red and silly faced and his friend burst out laughing. "He has! He has!" he agreed. Keith, caught, tip toed down the kitchen with an endearing little grin on his face. He covered my face and neck with little kisses.
"You are the queen," he declared passionately.
I made him give me his word he wouldn't buy the truck that evening before I agreed to drive them. But it was the boat I wasn't anticipating. There was just no stopping the purchase of that boat. In fact, both of the guys wanted it badly and after sending pictures of it to other guys, got heated phone calls from those guys, begging them to buy it for them.
It was just a dented, fourteen foot John boat with peeling paint, a trailer and an engine. But, as I was assured about a hundred times in heated, heady whispers, the trailer alone was worth six to eight hundred dollars.
Of course, that's after he sands the boat down, repaints it, fixes the engine and puts new wheels on the trailer. In the meantime, we've yet to sell the Can and of course have the Jeep in the driveway, the ATV under the back deck and the HD in the garage. Where on earth he's planning to store the boat I have no idea.
I have learned that Keith is not normally wrong about these things, he does have an uncanny ability to find projects that will be profitable. But he always overlooks some of the cost. We've got to sell the Can now, if just for the space.
His friend didn't leave until past seven in the evening, having sobered up and eaten dinner.
"My wife is going to kill me," he said sadly, as he opened the front door. (He was suppose to be home by seven at the latest.)
"Buy her flowers, open the door and say, "I'm so sorry, honey. You have every right to be angry," I offered.
"That's a great idea," he said, hope dawning. "You think like, carnations? Hey! At least I didn't buy the truck; that should count for something..."
Written July 18th
I had a strange dream last night. I dreamed I was back at an assisted living facility, only it was in the gym at the church center where I grew up. Furthermore, an actual resident that I've cared for was in the dream. I was on the morning shift and each morning when I would go to check my resident, she would be soaked through, bedding, clothing, everything.
This happens all the time in real life, the night shift always seemed to have trouble doing their four to five am rounds and consequently, by the time the day shift reached them, by six or seven in the morning, there were major sanitary issues.
In real life, I busted my butt (or more to the point, my back) getting everyone cleaned, dry and dressed but in my dream last night I slacked off. Not only was I slacking off, but I was doing so because bizarrely, I was popular and spent more time joking around and socializing than working.
Two days in a row I neglected my resident and then the supervisor called me into the office to see if I was worth keeping on as staff. I assured them that I was great at this job, a natural and I felt so guilty for not taking better care of my resident.
I woke up at that point. It was a disturbing dream, in it's own way, perhaps because of the actual person I was dreaming about, a gracious lady who had been an art teach and a mother, but had suffered a massive stroke and was paralyzed and speechless by the time I knew her.
I still feel guilty, even though in real life I actually was an excellent care manager and took quite good care of this particular lady, who has since passed away, years ago now.
On Thursday I was out, peaceably running a few errands when I got a call from an unknown number. Normally I don't pick up those calls, but I'd called Keith twice that morning only to get his voicemail and I was starting to get a vague, bad feeling.
It turned out to be a guy from Keith's company, but a different platoon. That platoon had a seventeen mile ruck walk that morning and one of the sergeants had asked Keith if he wanted to join. And Keith decided to, and had left that morning at four thirty. That's right-he didn't have to, he just decided he wanted to.
Not only did he decide he wanted to, but Keith, it turned out, was determined to keep up with the lead guy, a much younger guy who had been training for four weeks. And he did keep up with him, the entire way. In fact, the two of them were so far ahead of the rest of the men that someone brought a truck, got the rest of the guys in the truck and drove them up a hill in order to catch the guys up.
After they reached the end, Keith sat down and immediately knew something was terribly wrong. He told the guys to drive him to the emergency room. By the time he got there, he was literally screaming in agony from heat cramps that were all over his body, from his back to his calves. They put two I.Vs in him right away and taped him up to electrodes, worried that he was having a heart attack.
I had no idea, so there I was, five hours later, comparing peanut butter brands in the local Pamida when I answered my phone.
Pamida, for those of you unacquainted with this fine store, is a little like a Wal Mart, only a much more depressing version. It was very nearly empty, everything was washed in strong florescent light and there was this monotonous elevator music playing, the kind that could drive a person quietly mad. Everything appeared to be on sale, which made me wonder if it was close to going out of business.
The soldier who called me assured me that Keith was fine, but he would need a ride home and a Subway sandwich, since apparently he was starving. I tossed a jar of chunky peanut butter in my cart and made for the check out.
"So you've landed yourself back in here already, huh?" were the first words out of my mouth when I walked into Keith's emergency room. They might be less than wife-ly, but by god, my husband thinks he's John Wayne and he isn't. It's not the first time he's pushed his body to the point of breaking, as though it were a beast of burden, subject merely to his inexorable will, not to the delicate laws of biology.
We spent several hours there, amusing ourselves by playing a few games of hangman and some of charade using my grocery list, which made it rather too easy but still fun. ("Ketchup!" "Coffee!" were a few of the answers.)
Eventually the doctor came in and told him they'd ruled out a stroke or heart attack. He put Keith on two days quarters, which means Keith was suppose to stay home. He was also suppose to rest and drink lots of water.
Only, the next morning, as I was bringing our weekend frittata out of the oven, Keith got a call from a younger soldier who'd broken down on the side of the freeway in Louisville with his mother and nine month pregnant wife along for the ride. They had a tow truck on the way, but they needed a way to get home.
So off Keith went and I put the frittata back in the oven to keep warm. An hour or so later, Keith called and said that the tow truck wanted a hundred dollars just to come look at the broken down vehicle....
So, he came all the way back home, went out into the hot and punishing sun to hook up the car trailer and play vehicle roulette to get it free. Shortly thereafter, he was driving back to Louisville to pick up their car, drive it on post and into the car shop.
He happened to be the same soldier that Keith had brought home a few months ago, when he was having a really bad spell. He and his wife are doing a lot better. I met her, she came in for some cold water and A/C while Keith was hooking up the car trailer. I liked her a lot, she was very straightforward and kindly natured.
All told, it was about two thirty before we sat down to our breakfast. It was still pretty tasty.
The next day we went adventuring and ended up eating breakfast at a Denny's. Right near the door was this young couple. The young man was in his class A's, his skinny neck barely filled out the collar, his long legs were all tangled up under the table. His girlfriend still had the full cheeked look of childhood, but with dark hair so long it made mine look short. It was loose all down her back. They were deep in earnest and meaningful conversation.
"Did you see those adorable kids...?" I asked Keith, as we sat at our booth. I didn't even have to finish my sentence, he grinned and nodded. The young couple made me feel old, but in a very good way, especially as I looked across the booth at my broad shouldered husband of almost two years, absorbed in dumping his silverware out of the paper napkin, completely unaware of how much he was being loved on in that moment.
This happens all the time in real life, the night shift always seemed to have trouble doing their four to five am rounds and consequently, by the time the day shift reached them, by six or seven in the morning, there were major sanitary issues.
In real life, I busted my butt (or more to the point, my back) getting everyone cleaned, dry and dressed but in my dream last night I slacked off. Not only was I slacking off, but I was doing so because bizarrely, I was popular and spent more time joking around and socializing than working.
Two days in a row I neglected my resident and then the supervisor called me into the office to see if I was worth keeping on as staff. I assured them that I was great at this job, a natural and I felt so guilty for not taking better care of my resident.
I woke up at that point. It was a disturbing dream, in it's own way, perhaps because of the actual person I was dreaming about, a gracious lady who had been an art teach and a mother, but had suffered a massive stroke and was paralyzed and speechless by the time I knew her.
I still feel guilty, even though in real life I actually was an excellent care manager and took quite good care of this particular lady, who has since passed away, years ago now.
On Thursday I was out, peaceably running a few errands when I got a call from an unknown number. Normally I don't pick up those calls, but I'd called Keith twice that morning only to get his voicemail and I was starting to get a vague, bad feeling.
It turned out to be a guy from Keith's company, but a different platoon. That platoon had a seventeen mile ruck walk that morning and one of the sergeants had asked Keith if he wanted to join. And Keith decided to, and had left that morning at four thirty. That's right-he didn't have to, he just decided he wanted to.
Not only did he decide he wanted to, but Keith, it turned out, was determined to keep up with the lead guy, a much younger guy who had been training for four weeks. And he did keep up with him, the entire way. In fact, the two of them were so far ahead of the rest of the men that someone brought a truck, got the rest of the guys in the truck and drove them up a hill in order to catch the guys up.
After they reached the end, Keith sat down and immediately knew something was terribly wrong. He told the guys to drive him to the emergency room. By the time he got there, he was literally screaming in agony from heat cramps that were all over his body, from his back to his calves. They put two I.Vs in him right away and taped him up to electrodes, worried that he was having a heart attack.
I had no idea, so there I was, five hours later, comparing peanut butter brands in the local Pamida when I answered my phone.
Pamida, for those of you unacquainted with this fine store, is a little like a Wal Mart, only a much more depressing version. It was very nearly empty, everything was washed in strong florescent light and there was this monotonous elevator music playing, the kind that could drive a person quietly mad. Everything appeared to be on sale, which made me wonder if it was close to going out of business.
The soldier who called me assured me that Keith was fine, but he would need a ride home and a Subway sandwich, since apparently he was starving. I tossed a jar of chunky peanut butter in my cart and made for the check out.
"So you've landed yourself back in here already, huh?" were the first words out of my mouth when I walked into Keith's emergency room. They might be less than wife-ly, but by god, my husband thinks he's John Wayne and he isn't. It's not the first time he's pushed his body to the point of breaking, as though it were a beast of burden, subject merely to his inexorable will, not to the delicate laws of biology.
We spent several hours there, amusing ourselves by playing a few games of hangman and some of charade using my grocery list, which made it rather too easy but still fun. ("Ketchup!" "Coffee!" were a few of the answers.)
Eventually the doctor came in and told him they'd ruled out a stroke or heart attack. He put Keith on two days quarters, which means Keith was suppose to stay home. He was also suppose to rest and drink lots of water.
Only, the next morning, as I was bringing our weekend frittata out of the oven, Keith got a call from a younger soldier who'd broken down on the side of the freeway in Louisville with his mother and nine month pregnant wife along for the ride. They had a tow truck on the way, but they needed a way to get home.
So off Keith went and I put the frittata back in the oven to keep warm. An hour or so later, Keith called and said that the tow truck wanted a hundred dollars just to come look at the broken down vehicle....
So, he came all the way back home, went out into the hot and punishing sun to hook up the car trailer and play vehicle roulette to get it free. Shortly thereafter, he was driving back to Louisville to pick up their car, drive it on post and into the car shop.
He happened to be the same soldier that Keith had brought home a few months ago, when he was having a really bad spell. He and his wife are doing a lot better. I met her, she came in for some cold water and A/C while Keith was hooking up the car trailer. I liked her a lot, she was very straightforward and kindly natured.
All told, it was about two thirty before we sat down to our breakfast. It was still pretty tasty.
The next day we went adventuring and ended up eating breakfast at a Denny's. Right near the door was this young couple. The young man was in his class A's, his skinny neck barely filled out the collar, his long legs were all tangled up under the table. His girlfriend still had the full cheeked look of childhood, but with dark hair so long it made mine look short. It was loose all down her back. They were deep in earnest and meaningful conversation.
"Did you see those adorable kids...?" I asked Keith, as we sat at our booth. I didn't even have to finish my sentence, he grinned and nodded. The young couple made me feel old, but in a very good way, especially as I looked across the booth at my broad shouldered husband of almost two years, absorbed in dumping his silverware out of the paper napkin, completely unaware of how much he was being loved on in that moment.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
July 14th
I found another blog titled Yellow Ribbon Diary. (Mine is distinguished by use of the word "The") She even has a button with the title attached. I never figured out how to make a button. I wonder if we both spontaneously came up with our shared title on our own? I wonder if she has read mine.
So, Keith is not suppose to eat very much red meat. The last time I went shopping I got a lot of pork, chicken, etc. Yesterday I decided to try cooking the ham steak. Ham steak seems to be quite popular around here; indeed, all pork products are. In the meat department of the local Krogers there is a display counter perennially dedicated to country cured ham, whole or sliced.
Each time I pass it I am vaguely tempted to buy one by whispers of it's legendary deliciousness, but am stopped by the remembered episode of "Good Eats," which featured this particular meat product. In it, it took Alton Brown days just to reconstitute the ham. And he did it in a cooler, if I remember correctly. And then he cooked it for hours on top of that.
Far too labor intensive. Even though I do have all day, theoretically, to cook, I don't actually want to spend all day cooking. Or days, as the case may be. Hence the ham steak.
Having never cooked a ham steak before, I googled recipes for it and my eye caught a recipe for a cherry sauce. Keith likes a fruited ham, usually with pineapple, but cherry seemed appealing too. I decided to try it.
The original recipe calls for one (12 oz) jar of Bing cherry preserves, which I didn't have. What I did have was one (21 oz) can of cherry pie filling. I figured that would do well enough. It also called for a tablespoon of red wine vinegar and a fourth of a teaspoon each of cinnamon and nutmeg.
Intriguing, no?
I opened the can of pie filling, put half in my small saucepan and split the other half between two Corning ware ramekins, to make a dessert with later. I knew that half of twenty one ounces is about ten and that's less cherry preserves than called for in the original recipe, so I should have reduced slightly the amount of vinegar called for as well.
However, I was too curious about how the vinegar would taste and put in the entire, trembling tablespoonful of the stuff. I also threw in a half a can of pineapple pieces, on a whim. In went the spices and then, on impulse, I put in an eight of a teaspoon of ground cloves. The ground clove, I have discovered, is not a spice to be taken lightly. It is a potent and potentially ruinous spice that can create almost as much heat in it's own way, as ground red pepper.
I already knew all this, but I thought that an eight of a teaspoon would surely be the right proportion for the sauce, just to pep it up a little.
Well, my first taste disabused me of this notion right away. I can't really describe the taste of the sauce well. Pungent, perhaps, would be the word. Sharp and sour would also apply. Pushing culinary panic aside, I calmly thought through my options. Sweetness was the right application for too much vinegar, so I had merely to pick the right sweetener.
I had honey, white and brown sugar and molasses at my disposal. Honey immediately jumped out, honey ham being a classic. So I gauged out about two tablespoon's worth with a butter knife and plunked it into the sauce. It almost immediately dissolved.
My next taste was heaven. There was the heat of the cloves and cinnamon, the smooth sweetness of honey and cherries, as well as the complicated flavor produced by the now tamed vinegar. And the color! It was a red worth of a King George VIII, redolent of blood, velvet, rubies and absolute decadence. The color had completely drenched even the pineapples in scarlet madness.
It was rich, but maybe too rich. It was too late to back down. I smeared the glistening stuff liberally over the unsuspecting pork and popped the whole thing into the oven at three fifty for half an hour.
I turned then to the cherry dessert. Since I had a little of the sauce left over, I mixed some of the spiced cherries in with the original in the ramekins, and sprinkled dark chocolate chips over top.
I made a crisp out of some butter left on the counter from the other day when I had been gripped by an irresistible urge for cinnamon toast. I mixed the butter with a small handful of oats and a small handful of brown sugar, threw in a little cinnamon, because why the heck not? That got dribbled on top of the chocolate chips and the ramekins went in the oven as well.
Voila. A super unhealthy, cherry inspired dinner was bubbling away. To offset all this unhealthiness, I set out a salad and cut up a sweet potato to boil. I thought fleetingly of perhaps seasoning the sweet potato with honey or molasses or even garlic, but I knew instinctively that we had more than enough seasoning elsewhere in the meal and adding more would just be ridiculous at this point. Besides, I knew Keith liked plain boiled sweet potato. It actually is quite good that way.
The ham had come out of the oven by the time Keith got home and his eyes got wide as saucers when it saw it in all its royal rubiness on the stove top. The red food coloring from the cherry pie filling has sunk down into the meat, staining it as red as a candied apple. All that sweetness was cut through by the rich fattiness of the pork.
It was really quite good but Keith kept asking nervously if this was healthy for him to eat. Which is all my fault for constantly yammering away about healthy food choices. Apparently he's been listening.
I ate the dessert later, but the spices had overwhelmed the cherry taste. It needed a lot of whipped cream. The crisp with the chocolate underneath was delicious though.
Now my mission, if I choose to accept, is to figure out a way to use the rest of the meat for today's dinner.
That cleaning for one hour a day strategy is so efficient that today my options are: clean the windowsills, organize the closet in the spare bedroom, clean the basement or steam clean the upstairs. I've polished, dusted, mopped, vacuumed, and spit shined every other surface or area available to me. And really, I think that's just too much.
Here's a sample of the language out of "The Federalist Papers":
"It is not yet forgotten that well-grounded apprehensions of imminent danger induced the people of America to form the memorable Congress of 1774. That body recommended certain measures to their constituents and the event proved their wisdom; yet is is fresh in our memories how soon the press began to teem with pamphlets and weekly papers against those very measures. Not only many of the officers of government, who obeyed the dictates of personal interest, but others, from a mistaken estimate of consequences, from the undue influence of ancient attachments or whose ambition aimed at objects which did not correspond with the public good, were indefatigable in their endeavors to persuade the people to reject the advice of that patriotic Congress. Many, indeed, were deceived and deluded, but the great majority of the people reasoned and decided judiciously; and happy they are in reflecting that they did so."
Whew.
It's like listening to the waves on the ocean. I wish I had a vocabulary like that.
So, Keith is not suppose to eat very much red meat. The last time I went shopping I got a lot of pork, chicken, etc. Yesterday I decided to try cooking the ham steak. Ham steak seems to be quite popular around here; indeed, all pork products are. In the meat department of the local Krogers there is a display counter perennially dedicated to country cured ham, whole or sliced.
Each time I pass it I am vaguely tempted to buy one by whispers of it's legendary deliciousness, but am stopped by the remembered episode of "Good Eats," which featured this particular meat product. In it, it took Alton Brown days just to reconstitute the ham. And he did it in a cooler, if I remember correctly. And then he cooked it for hours on top of that.
Far too labor intensive. Even though I do have all day, theoretically, to cook, I don't actually want to spend all day cooking. Or days, as the case may be. Hence the ham steak.
Having never cooked a ham steak before, I googled recipes for it and my eye caught a recipe for a cherry sauce. Keith likes a fruited ham, usually with pineapple, but cherry seemed appealing too. I decided to try it.
The original recipe calls for one (12 oz) jar of Bing cherry preserves, which I didn't have. What I did have was one (21 oz) can of cherry pie filling. I figured that would do well enough. It also called for a tablespoon of red wine vinegar and a fourth of a teaspoon each of cinnamon and nutmeg.
Intriguing, no?
I opened the can of pie filling, put half in my small saucepan and split the other half between two Corning ware ramekins, to make a dessert with later. I knew that half of twenty one ounces is about ten and that's less cherry preserves than called for in the original recipe, so I should have reduced slightly the amount of vinegar called for as well.
However, I was too curious about how the vinegar would taste and put in the entire, trembling tablespoonful of the stuff. I also threw in a half a can of pineapple pieces, on a whim. In went the spices and then, on impulse, I put in an eight of a teaspoon of ground cloves. The ground clove, I have discovered, is not a spice to be taken lightly. It is a potent and potentially ruinous spice that can create almost as much heat in it's own way, as ground red pepper.
I already knew all this, but I thought that an eight of a teaspoon would surely be the right proportion for the sauce, just to pep it up a little.
Well, my first taste disabused me of this notion right away. I can't really describe the taste of the sauce well. Pungent, perhaps, would be the word. Sharp and sour would also apply. Pushing culinary panic aside, I calmly thought through my options. Sweetness was the right application for too much vinegar, so I had merely to pick the right sweetener.
I had honey, white and brown sugar and molasses at my disposal. Honey immediately jumped out, honey ham being a classic. So I gauged out about two tablespoon's worth with a butter knife and plunked it into the sauce. It almost immediately dissolved.
My next taste was heaven. There was the heat of the cloves and cinnamon, the smooth sweetness of honey and cherries, as well as the complicated flavor produced by the now tamed vinegar. And the color! It was a red worth of a King George VIII, redolent of blood, velvet, rubies and absolute decadence. The color had completely drenched even the pineapples in scarlet madness.
It was rich, but maybe too rich. It was too late to back down. I smeared the glistening stuff liberally over the unsuspecting pork and popped the whole thing into the oven at three fifty for half an hour.
I turned then to the cherry dessert. Since I had a little of the sauce left over, I mixed some of the spiced cherries in with the original in the ramekins, and sprinkled dark chocolate chips over top.
I made a crisp out of some butter left on the counter from the other day when I had been gripped by an irresistible urge for cinnamon toast. I mixed the butter with a small handful of oats and a small handful of brown sugar, threw in a little cinnamon, because why the heck not? That got dribbled on top of the chocolate chips and the ramekins went in the oven as well.
Voila. A super unhealthy, cherry inspired dinner was bubbling away. To offset all this unhealthiness, I set out a salad and cut up a sweet potato to boil. I thought fleetingly of perhaps seasoning the sweet potato with honey or molasses or even garlic, but I knew instinctively that we had more than enough seasoning elsewhere in the meal and adding more would just be ridiculous at this point. Besides, I knew Keith liked plain boiled sweet potato. It actually is quite good that way.
The ham had come out of the oven by the time Keith got home and his eyes got wide as saucers when it saw it in all its royal rubiness on the stove top. The red food coloring from the cherry pie filling has sunk down into the meat, staining it as red as a candied apple. All that sweetness was cut through by the rich fattiness of the pork.
It was really quite good but Keith kept asking nervously if this was healthy for him to eat. Which is all my fault for constantly yammering away about healthy food choices. Apparently he's been listening.
I ate the dessert later, but the spices had overwhelmed the cherry taste. It needed a lot of whipped cream. The crisp with the chocolate underneath was delicious though.
Now my mission, if I choose to accept, is to figure out a way to use the rest of the meat for today's dinner.
That cleaning for one hour a day strategy is so efficient that today my options are: clean the windowsills, organize the closet in the spare bedroom, clean the basement or steam clean the upstairs. I've polished, dusted, mopped, vacuumed, and spit shined every other surface or area available to me. And really, I think that's just too much.
Here's a sample of the language out of "The Federalist Papers":
"It is not yet forgotten that well-grounded apprehensions of imminent danger induced the people of America to form the memorable Congress of 1774. That body recommended certain measures to their constituents and the event proved their wisdom; yet is is fresh in our memories how soon the press began to teem with pamphlets and weekly papers against those very measures. Not only many of the officers of government, who obeyed the dictates of personal interest, but others, from a mistaken estimate of consequences, from the undue influence of ancient attachments or whose ambition aimed at objects which did not correspond with the public good, were indefatigable in their endeavors to persuade the people to reject the advice of that patriotic Congress. Many, indeed, were deceived and deluded, but the great majority of the people reasoned and decided judiciously; and happy they are in reflecting that they did so."
Whew.
It's like listening to the waves on the ocean. I wish I had a vocabulary like that.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
July 13th, afternoon
"Jenny! Two blog entries in one day? Have you read more of your political and economic philosophy books during lunch? 'Cause I hate to break it to you, but that could get boring if you keep going on about them..."
That is my imaginary reader, by the way. I consult my IR(or "Irving" as he will referred to heretofore) often. Irving tells me that my cooking blog entries are particularly entertaining and that my male readers, especially male relative readers, find my going on about my ovulation cycle a little awkward.
Anyway, no I haven't read any more of my books, but I was thinking about how much delectable perfection there is in the married state. Around six o'clock or so, right about when I am bored, listless and hungry, the door opens, the dogs go crazy, and there is a man in the house.
Not just a man, but a soldier with big, muscled arms, dusty boots and laugh lines at the sides of his eyes. And it turns out, amazingly enough, that this man is my husband. Therefore it is not just my personal desire to throw myself into his arms and cover his sweaty face with kisses, but it is my very responsibility.
Duty never tasted so sweet.
Now it's time to house clean. Damn that phone.
That is my imaginary reader, by the way. I consult my IR(or "Irving" as he will referred to heretofore) often. Irving tells me that my cooking blog entries are particularly entertaining and that my male readers, especially male relative readers, find my going on about my ovulation cycle a little awkward.
Anyway, no I haven't read any more of my books, but I was thinking about how much delectable perfection there is in the married state. Around six o'clock or so, right about when I am bored, listless and hungry, the door opens, the dogs go crazy, and there is a man in the house.
Not just a man, but a soldier with big, muscled arms, dusty boots and laugh lines at the sides of his eyes. And it turns out, amazingly enough, that this man is my husband. Therefore it is not just my personal desire to throw myself into his arms and cover his sweaty face with kisses, but it is my very responsibility.
Duty never tasted so sweet.
Now it's time to house clean. Damn that phone.
July 12th-July 13th
July 12th
It's amazing how much rage my intermittent Internet connection can evoke from me. If an inanimate object could somehow be affected by profanity, my AT&T card would have shaped up and flown right several hours ago.
It's always slow, so I always have a game of Spider Solitaire up and going. While waiting for a window to open, I'm working on my stats. I have a win percentage of seventy two on this computer and eight four on the lap top.This represents some serious time and thought investment, and testifies to the crappy quality of my internet connection.
This morning it was especially bad, I think due to a storm system that's massing right over the tops of the trees in my back yard. Also, apparently trees themselves soak up the signal, so I'm sitting in a air card dead zone.
We can't switch to a different system, because we are four hundred yards away from the last bit of cable any cable company has in this area. If we wished to shell out four thousand dollars, the company would extend the line for us and we could have broadband. I'm ok with paying eighty to ninety dollars a month for super speedy connectivity, it's worth that much to me. But it's certainly not worth that on top of an outlay of $4,000 big ones.
July 13th
My books came in yesterday and I pretty much had to scrap bits of my brain off the ceiling last night because they blew. my. mind.
And I've only read the introduction on both. "The Federalist Papers" is pretty much like reading something in a different language. I read the first twenty one pages and I could feel my brain literally sputtering in exhaustion. I couldn't keep a grasp on all the concepts going on, so I set it aside and opened up "The Road To Serfdom," which is at least a little more current.
Then I felt like crying because I was reading about the downfall of liberty in post World War II England. I didn't want to know in so much detail how England fell from the birthplace of the Magna Carta to a Welfare state, but learn I did. In the intro.
Then I turn the page and there is the title and some quotes and I actually got chills up my spine.
"It is seldom that liberty of any kind is lost all at once." -David Hume
"I should have loved freedom, I believe, at all times, but in the time to which we live I am ready to worship it." -A. de Tocqueville
Then I turn the page and see that Hayek has a single sentence opposite the chapter page: "To socialists of all parties." Which is when I got the chills.
I put the book down then, but I stayed up for hours afterword with my brain whirring around. Already tangents are shooting off in my head. Hayek said this in his work "Freedom and the Economic System":
"In the end, agreement that planning is necessary, together with the inability of the democratic assembly to agree on a particular plan, must strengthen the demand that the government, or some single individual, should be given powers to act on their own responsibility. It becomes more and more the accepted belief that, if one wants to get things done, the responsible director of affairs must be freed from the fetters of democratic procedure."
Sound familiar? It's the growing cry of many on the left, and increasingly the practice of the Obama Administration to throw off the rule of law (which is democratic procedure) and simply force through the good that they believe must be done.
It amazes me that people do not understand the incredible danger and cost of this. I think it is largely the result of poor education. I venture to guess that if every American read "The 5,00 Year Leap," and then the other two books I am reading, there is no way that this Administration would ever have been elected. There is equally no way that Bush would have been re-elected. Or elected at all. One could go back quite a ways. The whole trajectory of our government would be different.
But we are no longer taught the history of our own country, we are generally ignorant of the ways in which our Constitution and government structure was meant to uphold individual liberty. If we don't know what we have or had, then we won't be able to recognize when it's gone or when it's being taken from us.
"If a nation expects to be both ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be." -Thomas Jefferson
I have to go eat lunch; my phone just told me so.
It's amazing how much rage my intermittent Internet connection can evoke from me. If an inanimate object could somehow be affected by profanity, my AT&T card would have shaped up and flown right several hours ago.
It's always slow, so I always have a game of Spider Solitaire up and going. While waiting for a window to open, I'm working on my stats. I have a win percentage of seventy two on this computer and eight four on the lap top.This represents some serious time and thought investment, and testifies to the crappy quality of my internet connection.
This morning it was especially bad, I think due to a storm system that's massing right over the tops of the trees in my back yard. Also, apparently trees themselves soak up the signal, so I'm sitting in a air card dead zone.
We can't switch to a different system, because we are four hundred yards away from the last bit of cable any cable company has in this area. If we wished to shell out four thousand dollars, the company would extend the line for us and we could have broadband. I'm ok with paying eighty to ninety dollars a month for super speedy connectivity, it's worth that much to me. But it's certainly not worth that on top of an outlay of $4,000 big ones.
July 13th
My books came in yesterday and I pretty much had to scrap bits of my brain off the ceiling last night because they blew. my. mind.
And I've only read the introduction on both. "The Federalist Papers" is pretty much like reading something in a different language. I read the first twenty one pages and I could feel my brain literally sputtering in exhaustion. I couldn't keep a grasp on all the concepts going on, so I set it aside and opened up "The Road To Serfdom," which is at least a little more current.
Then I felt like crying because I was reading about the downfall of liberty in post World War II England. I didn't want to know in so much detail how England fell from the birthplace of the Magna Carta to a Welfare state, but learn I did. In the intro.
Then I turn the page and there is the title and some quotes and I actually got chills up my spine.
"It is seldom that liberty of any kind is lost all at once." -David Hume
"I should have loved freedom, I believe, at all times, but in the time to which we live I am ready to worship it." -A. de Tocqueville
Then I turn the page and see that Hayek has a single sentence opposite the chapter page: "To socialists of all parties." Which is when I got the chills.
I put the book down then, but I stayed up for hours afterword with my brain whirring around. Already tangents are shooting off in my head. Hayek said this in his work "Freedom and the Economic System":
"In the end, agreement that planning is necessary, together with the inability of the democratic assembly to agree on a particular plan, must strengthen the demand that the government, or some single individual, should be given powers to act on their own responsibility. It becomes more and more the accepted belief that, if one wants to get things done, the responsible director of affairs must be freed from the fetters of democratic procedure."
Sound familiar? It's the growing cry of many on the left, and increasingly the practice of the Obama Administration to throw off the rule of law (which is democratic procedure) and simply force through the good that they believe must be done.
It amazes me that people do not understand the incredible danger and cost of this. I think it is largely the result of poor education. I venture to guess that if every American read "The 5,00 Year Leap," and then the other two books I am reading, there is no way that this Administration would ever have been elected. There is equally no way that Bush would have been re-elected. Or elected at all. One could go back quite a ways. The whole trajectory of our government would be different.
But we are no longer taught the history of our own country, we are generally ignorant of the ways in which our Constitution and government structure was meant to uphold individual liberty. If we don't know what we have or had, then we won't be able to recognize when it's gone or when it's being taken from us.
"If a nation expects to be both ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be." -Thomas Jefferson
I have to go eat lunch; my phone just told me so.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
July 11th
Last night I deglazed a pan with white wine for the first time. I forgot to take the pan off the heat first and experienced a huge burst of alcohol induced excitement among the minced garlic and rosemary. Fortunately I didn't light anything on fire.
It was delicious. I seared two pounds of pork loin in a mix of olive oil and butter until golden on all sides, poked holes in the meat all through, made the above sauce with the drippings and poured that over the meat. I covered it with tin foil and cooked it an hour covered, uncovered it and cooked it an hour more, basting it with the juices.
The flavor of garlic, rosemary and wine was just all through the meat, which was moist and almost tender enough to cut with a fork.
Keith did not like it. He ate it with ketchup.
I am so wasted on that man, I tell you what.
I can make pie crust from scratch, I used to know the recipe for banana bread by heart. I make corn bread, sweet yeast rolls, crisps, cobblers and cookies. I just end up eating it all myself because, guess what? Keith doesn't like baked goods.
I am no longer afraid of large cuts of meat or fish. I know how to make several barbecue recipes from scratch. I can make chicken pot pie with homemade, flaky pastry, chicken I roasted before hand and a white sauce for the base.
And what does Keith like to eat? Spaghetti, that's what. Spaghetti and pizza. I could feed that man spaghetti and pizza for the rest of his life and he'd be so happy he'd burst. So would his pants, I imagine.
I once made a poor man's stroganoff that was to die for. (I may have told this story before, if so my apologies. It's hard to remember after having blogged this much.) It had sour cream, mayonnaise, fresh mushrooms, Worcestershire sauce and the secret ingredient, half a packet of French onion soup mix. I have never, before or since, had stroganoff as creamy, rich and flavorful as that.
And what did Keith say to this masterpiece of home cooked comfort food?
"I don't know why anyone would want to church up Hamburger Helper like this."
That's what he said. First I wanted to hit him over the head with my plate in sheer outrage and then I was swamped with pity. The man has never known a stroganoff other than Hamburger Helper. That was his only context for the dish.
I can't wait until I have children that I can bake cookies for. With my luck, they'll end up preferring Little Debbie's wrapped snacks.
It was delicious. I seared two pounds of pork loin in a mix of olive oil and butter until golden on all sides, poked holes in the meat all through, made the above sauce with the drippings and poured that over the meat. I covered it with tin foil and cooked it an hour covered, uncovered it and cooked it an hour more, basting it with the juices.
The flavor of garlic, rosemary and wine was just all through the meat, which was moist and almost tender enough to cut with a fork.
Keith did not like it. He ate it with ketchup.
I am so wasted on that man, I tell you what.
I can make pie crust from scratch, I used to know the recipe for banana bread by heart. I make corn bread, sweet yeast rolls, crisps, cobblers and cookies. I just end up eating it all myself because, guess what? Keith doesn't like baked goods.
I am no longer afraid of large cuts of meat or fish. I know how to make several barbecue recipes from scratch. I can make chicken pot pie with homemade, flaky pastry, chicken I roasted before hand and a white sauce for the base.
And what does Keith like to eat? Spaghetti, that's what. Spaghetti and pizza. I could feed that man spaghetti and pizza for the rest of his life and he'd be so happy he'd burst. So would his pants, I imagine.
I once made a poor man's stroganoff that was to die for. (I may have told this story before, if so my apologies. It's hard to remember after having blogged this much.) It had sour cream, mayonnaise, fresh mushrooms, Worcestershire sauce and the secret ingredient, half a packet of French onion soup mix. I have never, before or since, had stroganoff as creamy, rich and flavorful as that.
And what did Keith say to this masterpiece of home cooked comfort food?
"I don't know why anyone would want to church up Hamburger Helper like this."
That's what he said. First I wanted to hit him over the head with my plate in sheer outrage and then I was swamped with pity. The man has never known a stroganoff other than Hamburger Helper. That was his only context for the dish.
I can't wait until I have children that I can bake cookies for. With my luck, they'll end up preferring Little Debbie's wrapped snacks.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
July 10th
I got my husband to eat fish, that final culinary frontier. Now, we're not talking ceviche here, just your basic crumb coated baked cod, but still. Pretty impressive for a guy who lives on red meat.
We have a new CO and his wife is determined to have an up and coming- ie. mandatory-FRG. So during the getting to know you meeting, she asked the men to write down their wive's numbers so she could get in touch with us.
Keith wrote down his own number instead, so did his friend. (So did most of the men, truth be told.) Shortly thereafter, she called my husband and shortly after that, while they were eating lunch, she called his friend's number.
Like, she means business. I have no idea who ran the last FRG, all I know is, it wasn't mandatory. Now, I would completely understand a mandatory FRG if we were in a line unit and our men were deployed and we had to meet regularly to receive updates in person to try and head off rumors and such like.
But we are a garrison unit. The most intense thing our men do is go off into the field- which is pretty much down the road- for training that only sometimes lasts weeks on end. They may not have weekends during this time, but they come home every night. They may be in the field but they can go down the road to get a Big Gulp at the gas station. You get my point.
Anyway, I have mixed feelings about the whole thing. FRGs sometimes are very good and people get support and info from them and maybe make friends. Other times, (from everything I have heard and read it's most of the time) they are a nightmare of gossip and powerplay.
Either way, I don't like being subject to someone else telling me what to do. I understand having to do what the Army tells me to do, the Army is a vast, faceless bureaucracy that I knew would dominate my life when I married my husband. It's impersonal and implacable, it's the gulf stream carrying a shrimp up the Eastern Seaboard.
But this is another woman who wants to run an FRG, (for whatever reason, maybe it's a good reason) and she needs warm bodies to do so and I am one of those warm bodies. Suddenly it's personal; I am at this woman's beck and call. It's a strange and not pleasant feeling. After all, I didn't join the Army, I just married into it.
Anyway, that's just my uncensored, army wife thoughts. She probably is a lovely person who sincerely wishes to do good. What will end up happening is that Keith will go instead of me. Which is per regulation and perfectly acceptable and all that. Maybe I'll go with him once, just to satisfy my curiousity.
The Bethany adoption agency sent me an e-mail. They said they hadn't heard from me in a while and were wondering if I was still considering adoption or if I had decided to work with a different agency and if so, could I let them know what they could do better to serve me.
I felt surprisingly moved by that. I had no idea they knew I was alive. I wrote them back and said that as we only had a year, which was not enough to move forward in an adoption plan, we had decided to focus on infertility treatments during that time. After the year is over, we'd move to GA and definitely move forward in an adoption plan at that time, most probably through the fost/adopt system.
I've had lots of time to think about it. It is possible to have an infant placed with us through the fost adopt system, it just might take a while. But so will domestic infant adoption. There is a risk that the biological parents of the fost adopt child will not have their parental rights terminated, and so we risk losing the child after parenting him or her. But there is the same risk with domestic infant adoption; the birth mother has the right to end the adoption plan at any time, up til forty eight to seven two hours after giving birth and it is not uncommon for this to happen, after the adoptive parents have taken the child home with them.
So the risks and benefits of either adoption routes seem very similar to me. The only major difference seems to be the cost. The fost adopt program is very affordable, whereas domestic infant adoption can run from ten to fifteen thousand or more. I want three or four children, and I don't want to bankrupt their future trying to adopt them.
Anyway, after I sent that off, they wrote back! They said it sounded like we had a good plan in place and to let them know if they could help in anyway and that they would be praying for us.
I'm definitely going with Bethany if these infertility treatments don't work.
I have ordered "The Road to Serfdom" by F.A. Hayek and "The Federalist Papers" by Alexander Hamilton, James Madison and John Jay. The last is going to be some serious reading, but I feel like I need to be able to articulate my own positions on government in a more intelligent and clear way. I think reading those books will help.
We have a new CO and his wife is determined to have an up and coming- ie. mandatory-FRG. So during the getting to know you meeting, she asked the men to write down their wive's numbers so she could get in touch with us.
Keith wrote down his own number instead, so did his friend. (So did most of the men, truth be told.) Shortly thereafter, she called my husband and shortly after that, while they were eating lunch, she called his friend's number.
Like, she means business. I have no idea who ran the last FRG, all I know is, it wasn't mandatory. Now, I would completely understand a mandatory FRG if we were in a line unit and our men were deployed and we had to meet regularly to receive updates in person to try and head off rumors and such like.
But we are a garrison unit. The most intense thing our men do is go off into the field- which is pretty much down the road- for training that only sometimes lasts weeks on end. They may not have weekends during this time, but they come home every night. They may be in the field but they can go down the road to get a Big Gulp at the gas station. You get my point.
Anyway, I have mixed feelings about the whole thing. FRGs sometimes are very good and people get support and info from them and maybe make friends. Other times, (from everything I have heard and read it's most of the time) they are a nightmare of gossip and powerplay.
Either way, I don't like being subject to someone else telling me what to do. I understand having to do what the Army tells me to do, the Army is a vast, faceless bureaucracy that I knew would dominate my life when I married my husband. It's impersonal and implacable, it's the gulf stream carrying a shrimp up the Eastern Seaboard.
But this is another woman who wants to run an FRG, (for whatever reason, maybe it's a good reason) and she needs warm bodies to do so and I am one of those warm bodies. Suddenly it's personal; I am at this woman's beck and call. It's a strange and not pleasant feeling. After all, I didn't join the Army, I just married into it.
Anyway, that's just my uncensored, army wife thoughts. She probably is a lovely person who sincerely wishes to do good. What will end up happening is that Keith will go instead of me. Which is per regulation and perfectly acceptable and all that. Maybe I'll go with him once, just to satisfy my curiousity.
The Bethany adoption agency sent me an e-mail. They said they hadn't heard from me in a while and were wondering if I was still considering adoption or if I had decided to work with a different agency and if so, could I let them know what they could do better to serve me.
I felt surprisingly moved by that. I had no idea they knew I was alive. I wrote them back and said that as we only had a year, which was not enough to move forward in an adoption plan, we had decided to focus on infertility treatments during that time. After the year is over, we'd move to GA and definitely move forward in an adoption plan at that time, most probably through the fost/adopt system.
I've had lots of time to think about it. It is possible to have an infant placed with us through the fost adopt system, it just might take a while. But so will domestic infant adoption. There is a risk that the biological parents of the fost adopt child will not have their parental rights terminated, and so we risk losing the child after parenting him or her. But there is the same risk with domestic infant adoption; the birth mother has the right to end the adoption plan at any time, up til forty eight to seven two hours after giving birth and it is not uncommon for this to happen, after the adoptive parents have taken the child home with them.
So the risks and benefits of either adoption routes seem very similar to me. The only major difference seems to be the cost. The fost adopt program is very affordable, whereas domestic infant adoption can run from ten to fifteen thousand or more. I want three or four children, and I don't want to bankrupt their future trying to adopt them.
Anyway, after I sent that off, they wrote back! They said it sounded like we had a good plan in place and to let them know if they could help in anyway and that they would be praying for us.
I'm definitely going with Bethany if these infertility treatments don't work.
I have ordered "The Road to Serfdom" by F.A. Hayek and "The Federalist Papers" by Alexander Hamilton, James Madison and John Jay. The last is going to be some serious reading, but I feel like I need to be able to articulate my own positions on government in a more intelligent and clear way. I think reading those books will help.
Friday, July 9, 2010
July 9th
It is finally raining. All the windows in the house have steamed up. It's like living deep under some fresh water stream, with glimpses of a watery underworld through the glass, wavy green plants undulating in the current.
The only problem is that outside it's still hot. There is something just fundamentally wrong about a hot rainfall. If it were a normal rainfall, I'd have turned off the A/C and opened the windows to catch a nice breeze, but as it is, everything must be kept locked up to prevent insta-mold appearing on all the surfaces.
So yesterday I got the pills and surprise! there were only five of them in the bottle. Hm. It said to take on days five through nine on one's cycle. I know of course that I have a cycle, but part of the problem is that mine is irregular. How on earth do I know what day is exactly the fifth day of said cycle?
This is not an easy question to answer. Here's a sample of the calculation that must be done:
"To predict your ovulation cycle, you must first determine the length of your menstrual cycle. Although a woman's cycle typically lasts between 28 and 30 days, you should count the number of days between the first and last days of your menstrual period, to determine the exact length of your cycle. For the most accurate results, you should calculate the length of your cycle for two to three months to determine your average cycle length. If the length of your cycle varies by more than a few days each month, you may have to speak with a doctor to determine a better way to calculate your ovulation cycle.
Once you know how long your menstrual cycle lasts, you will need to determine the length of your luteal phase, or days past ovulation (DPO). Beginning the day after ovulation, and lasting until the day before your next menstrual period, your luteal phase must last at least 10 days in order for you to become pregnant. Although blood tests are the only way to determine the exact length of your luteal phase, 14 days is the average length for most women. As a result, if you do not have your exact information, you can assume that your luteal phase is 14 days long.
After determining the length of your luteal phase, you can subtract those days from the total length of your cycle to predict when ovulation will occur. For example, if your menstrual cycle lasts 30 days and your luteal phase is 14 days long, your ovulation cycle will begin on the 16th day of your cycle (because 30 minus 14 is 16). Although an egg will only be available for about 24 hours, sperm can survive for three to five days. Therefore, your most fertile time will be about two to three days prior to, and after, your ovulation cycle begins. To increase your chances of becoming pregnant, you should plan to have intercourse approximately two days before you ovulate."
-How do I calculate my ovulation cycle?
Wow. Like that's not confusing at all. It's enough to make one wonder how anyone ever gets pregnant. People do all the time- other people, of course. But still. That it happens at all seems amazing to me.
I continued to google and found more straight forward instructions and, according to them, day one is the first day of my period. With that calculation, yesterday was day nine already. Which sucks, because I missed this month's window of enhanced procreating opportunity. We can still try like heck on the recommended days, but I won't have a chemically enhanced egg(s) to up the ante. We have to save that for next month.
The only problem is that outside it's still hot. There is something just fundamentally wrong about a hot rainfall. If it were a normal rainfall, I'd have turned off the A/C and opened the windows to catch a nice breeze, but as it is, everything must be kept locked up to prevent insta-mold appearing on all the surfaces.
So yesterday I got the pills and surprise! there were only five of them in the bottle. Hm. It said to take on days five through nine on one's cycle. I know of course that I have a cycle, but part of the problem is that mine is irregular. How on earth do I know what day is exactly the fifth day of said cycle?
This is not an easy question to answer. Here's a sample of the calculation that must be done:
"To predict your ovulation cycle, you must first determine the length of your menstrual cycle. Although a woman's cycle typically lasts between 28 and 30 days, you should count the number of days between the first and last days of your menstrual period, to determine the exact length of your cycle. For the most accurate results, you should calculate the length of your cycle for two to three months to determine your average cycle length. If the length of your cycle varies by more than a few days each month, you may have to speak with a doctor to determine a better way to calculate your ovulation cycle.
Once you know how long your menstrual cycle lasts, you will need to determine the length of your luteal phase, or days past ovulation (DPO). Beginning the day after ovulation, and lasting until the day before your next menstrual period, your luteal phase must last at least 10 days in order for you to become pregnant. Although blood tests are the only way to determine the exact length of your luteal phase, 14 days is the average length for most women. As a result, if you do not have your exact information, you can assume that your luteal phase is 14 days long.
After determining the length of your luteal phase, you can subtract those days from the total length of your cycle to predict when ovulation will occur. For example, if your menstrual cycle lasts 30 days and your luteal phase is 14 days long, your ovulation cycle will begin on the 16th day of your cycle (because 30 minus 14 is 16). Although an egg will only be available for about 24 hours, sperm can survive for three to five days. Therefore, your most fertile time will be about two to three days prior to, and after, your ovulation cycle begins. To increase your chances of becoming pregnant, you should plan to have intercourse approximately two days before you ovulate."
-How do I calculate my ovulation cycle?
Wow. Like that's not confusing at all. It's enough to make one wonder how anyone ever gets pregnant. People do all the time- other people, of course. But still. That it happens at all seems amazing to me.
I continued to google and found more straight forward instructions and, according to them, day one is the first day of my period. With that calculation, yesterday was day nine already. Which sucks, because I missed this month's window of enhanced procreating opportunity. We can still try like heck on the recommended days, but I won't have a chemically enhanced egg(s) to up the ante. We have to save that for next month.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
July 8th
This morning I was out before eight o'clock with the dogs. It was early enough for there still to be a cool, damp feel to the air. The sun was barely up and sending these almost horizontal rays like spot lights, lighting up a spray of branches or the rough bark of a tree deep in the woods. It was very quiet, but I could hear the low whine and rumble of a sixteen wheeler going by on a highway some where far back in the hills. There was a crow cawing in the tree tops nearby and the sawing crickets.
This feeling of melancholy settled over me. I remembered the days were already growing shorter and soon, at seven forty five the sun won't even be up, the grass will be frosted over and the leaves all fallen. And I'll still be here, in this house.
The army life imparts this kind of randomness to living. A person is sent somewhere, for a reason that popped up like a lottery ball-lucky number 47!-and away you go and there you are, in that place.
Sometimes it's like an adventure. I have lived in interesting places; I can see the route the Army is taking me like a glowing, crooked line over the map. I get to experience one state and then another, I get to try out various ways of living without actually investing in any of them.
Other times it's just lonely.
I actually heard the flat, matter of fact cadence of my voice yesterday. It came out like this:
"Might be more'n 'at."
"Ther comin' up nice."
I said that.
My father was in Boston Commons yesterday morning, walking along the street. He was there to get his teeth done. Being there filled him with thoughts of us, his kids, and he called me. He described the luscious gardens on the elegant stoups of the brick houses. I remember. I can close my eyes and see Boston Commons, with the little ducks and the iron railings and the curlicues baked into the architecture, the side streets with art galleries and small restaurants.
I remember driving over the old, steel bridge into Boston, a huge, threatening tangle of highway lifted over the water that swooped suddenly down into the streets. Now it's a white bridge that looks like a ship in full sail.
How many times have I driven down into Boston in the dark morning hours to catch a flight, my stomach on fire, wearing thick soled black shoes and a black, cloth coat, my luggage in the trunk? And flying back in, flying low over the harbor, gliding over the rippling water, weightless, the lights of the city rising up in the mist of the evening, drunk from an eighteen hour flight and gritty eyed.
Countless times. Clutching a half empty water bottle, ticket stubs in my pocket, a half eaten rice ball wrapped in tin foil in my back pack.
I tried to remember the route by which I used to get to work in Manchester and I couldn't. There was this long, blank stretch. I groped my way from house to remembered house, from a stretch of swamp to a field. Memories leaped to life in my head like guideposts, a line of sight, incomplete.
Sometimes I want to live my life over again, but not to change anything. Not at all. Just to live it all over again, just for the sheer pleasure of how good it was. That Vermont coffee I would buy at the general store in a village along the way, an old wooden building with creaking, sloping floors. I could buy the coffee with the change scraped up from the car seats.
I was thinking this yesterday morning, cresting one of the little hills that fold all the landscape around here into waves and peaks of land. It was a close shaved hillside, golden green from the sun just peaking the top. Ahead of me the path curved back and forth between the towering oak trees, their shadows stretching back into the woods that grew close.
I was thinking how badly I wished I could go back and live it all one more time, how delicious it would be. I can't, but I do have the choice to live as deeply in the present as I wish I could in the past.
Why does it matter so much to me? I'm a strange person, to be constantly pulling myself into the present moment. I wondered if it had anything to do with being abused. Did I teach myself to completely disengage from reality, from the present, untenable moment? Did I take the skill with me, its origins forgotten but still functioning seamlessly, jettisoning me out into what is not real, what was real, what could be real, but never allowing me to dwell in what actually is?
I wonder. Or maybe it's just human nature.
I have stumbled upon a brilliant way of doing housework. I live by my phone alarms. For example, at seven thirty my phone tells me to go for a walk. I'm not always obedient, but it helps. At one pm it tells me to do one hour of housework.
One hour of housework seems like not much, out of a whole entire day. But it's amazing what that one hour will accomplish, especially in five consecutive days of such devoted hours. My house looks as though I have spent all day, every day on it, when instead, I have spent the entire morning Internetting and most of the afternoon watching the Cooking Channel.
Sometimes I wish I could be "cool." Oh yes. I, the weird, vulnerable blogger of passion wishes sometimes that I could have the cool detachment and sarcastic carapace of others.
But I can't be. I have proudly staked my flag and I cannot retract. I am a person that read the following article and almost had tears in her eyes.
"In the midst of our current malaise, we feel overwhelmed by largely short-term problems and our current inability to address them — without appreciating our long-term strengths and present bounty, or learning from past recoveries.
We are soon to revert to the Clinton income-tax rates last used in 2000, when we ran budget surpluses. If likewise we were to cut the budget, or just hold federal spending to the rate of inflation, America would soon run surpluses as it did a decade ago. For all our problems, the United States is still the largest economy in the world, its 300 million residents producing more goods and services than the more than 1 billion in either China or India...
Our supposedly intractable problems are hardly insurmountable. Ascendant China and India have much less freedom and far greater environmental problems, political turmoil, and class disparity. Europe is not as productive as America and is shrinking in population, not growing as we are.
In the bleak 1930s, we were told that German discipline and order were the answer; during the depressing stagflation of the 1970s, Japan, Inc. was supposed to be the way of the future. Then a resurgence of American confidence and renewed faith in our exceptional system dispelled all such nonsense.
The United States still remains the most racially diverse, stable, free, productive, and militarily strong country in the world. Its current crises are largely the political and cultural creations of the most affluent and leisured generation in civilization’s history — not due to longstanding civil unrest, structural weakness, or a sudden shortage of natural resources.
America may well soon decline and become no different from any other nation. But such a depressing future would largely be our generation’s own free choice; it is not a historical inevitability."
-Victor Davis Hanson, "American Decline is a State of Mind," National Review, July 8th 2010
This feeling of melancholy settled over me. I remembered the days were already growing shorter and soon, at seven forty five the sun won't even be up, the grass will be frosted over and the leaves all fallen. And I'll still be here, in this house.
The army life imparts this kind of randomness to living. A person is sent somewhere, for a reason that popped up like a lottery ball-lucky number 47!-and away you go and there you are, in that place.
Sometimes it's like an adventure. I have lived in interesting places; I can see the route the Army is taking me like a glowing, crooked line over the map. I get to experience one state and then another, I get to try out various ways of living without actually investing in any of them.
Other times it's just lonely.
I actually heard the flat, matter of fact cadence of my voice yesterday. It came out like this:
"Might be more'n 'at."
"Ther comin' up nice."
I said that.
My father was in Boston Commons yesterday morning, walking along the street. He was there to get his teeth done. Being there filled him with thoughts of us, his kids, and he called me. He described the luscious gardens on the elegant stoups of the brick houses. I remember. I can close my eyes and see Boston Commons, with the little ducks and the iron railings and the curlicues baked into the architecture, the side streets with art galleries and small restaurants.
I remember driving over the old, steel bridge into Boston, a huge, threatening tangle of highway lifted over the water that swooped suddenly down into the streets. Now it's a white bridge that looks like a ship in full sail.
How many times have I driven down into Boston in the dark morning hours to catch a flight, my stomach on fire, wearing thick soled black shoes and a black, cloth coat, my luggage in the trunk? And flying back in, flying low over the harbor, gliding over the rippling water, weightless, the lights of the city rising up in the mist of the evening, drunk from an eighteen hour flight and gritty eyed.
Countless times. Clutching a half empty water bottle, ticket stubs in my pocket, a half eaten rice ball wrapped in tin foil in my back pack.
I tried to remember the route by which I used to get to work in Manchester and I couldn't. There was this long, blank stretch. I groped my way from house to remembered house, from a stretch of swamp to a field. Memories leaped to life in my head like guideposts, a line of sight, incomplete.
Sometimes I want to live my life over again, but not to change anything. Not at all. Just to live it all over again, just for the sheer pleasure of how good it was. That Vermont coffee I would buy at the general store in a village along the way, an old wooden building with creaking, sloping floors. I could buy the coffee with the change scraped up from the car seats.
I was thinking this yesterday morning, cresting one of the little hills that fold all the landscape around here into waves and peaks of land. It was a close shaved hillside, golden green from the sun just peaking the top. Ahead of me the path curved back and forth between the towering oak trees, their shadows stretching back into the woods that grew close.
I was thinking how badly I wished I could go back and live it all one more time, how delicious it would be. I can't, but I do have the choice to live as deeply in the present as I wish I could in the past.
Why does it matter so much to me? I'm a strange person, to be constantly pulling myself into the present moment. I wondered if it had anything to do with being abused. Did I teach myself to completely disengage from reality, from the present, untenable moment? Did I take the skill with me, its origins forgotten but still functioning seamlessly, jettisoning me out into what is not real, what was real, what could be real, but never allowing me to dwell in what actually is?
I wonder. Or maybe it's just human nature.
I have stumbled upon a brilliant way of doing housework. I live by my phone alarms. For example, at seven thirty my phone tells me to go for a walk. I'm not always obedient, but it helps. At one pm it tells me to do one hour of housework.
One hour of housework seems like not much, out of a whole entire day. But it's amazing what that one hour will accomplish, especially in five consecutive days of such devoted hours. My house looks as though I have spent all day, every day on it, when instead, I have spent the entire morning Internetting and most of the afternoon watching the Cooking Channel.
Sometimes I wish I could be "cool." Oh yes. I, the weird, vulnerable blogger of passion wishes sometimes that I could have the cool detachment and sarcastic carapace of others.
But I can't be. I have proudly staked my flag and I cannot retract. I am a person that read the following article and almost had tears in her eyes.
"In the midst of our current malaise, we feel overwhelmed by largely short-term problems and our current inability to address them — without appreciating our long-term strengths and present bounty, or learning from past recoveries.
We are soon to revert to the Clinton income-tax rates last used in 2000, when we ran budget surpluses. If likewise we were to cut the budget, or just hold federal spending to the rate of inflation, America would soon run surpluses as it did a decade ago. For all our problems, the United States is still the largest economy in the world, its 300 million residents producing more goods and services than the more than 1 billion in either China or India...
Our supposedly intractable problems are hardly insurmountable. Ascendant China and India have much less freedom and far greater environmental problems, political turmoil, and class disparity. Europe is not as productive as America and is shrinking in population, not growing as we are.
In the bleak 1930s, we were told that German discipline and order were the answer; during the depressing stagflation of the 1970s, Japan, Inc. was supposed to be the way of the future. Then a resurgence of American confidence and renewed faith in our exceptional system dispelled all such nonsense.
The United States still remains the most racially diverse, stable, free, productive, and militarily strong country in the world. Its current crises are largely the political and cultural creations of the most affluent and leisured generation in civilization’s history — not due to longstanding civil unrest, structural weakness, or a sudden shortage of natural resources.
America may well soon decline and become no different from any other nation. But such a depressing future would largely be our generation’s own free choice; it is not a historical inevitability."
-Victor Davis Hanson, "American Decline is a State of Mind," National Review, July 8th 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
July 7th
Ok, so the barbecue...it went really well. It ended up that most of the guys at loose ends showed up, along with one family. I had a ton of food, including twenty ears of corn (they're ten for two bucks at Kroger's right now, so I'd gotten ten and someone else brought ten).
There were two small children there. It took only a couple minutes before they realized I spoke their language. Then for the rest of the night they followed me around or came running up to me to show me something important, like a rock.
Keith mentioned once that maybe I could get a job taking care of children but I nixed it. I'm tired of taking care of other people's children. I want my own. I just couldn't take it at this point. It was fine when I was younger; I loved it. But doing it now would just be like grinding salt into the wound.
Speaking of which, we are picking up the pills today. It's such a relief to be able to actually be doing something, taking action. The worst part about trying to get pregnant and failing is the lack of control over the whole process. It's all so vague and mysterious.
For the last few days Keith has been complaining of a craving for Chinese food, specifically sweet and sour chicken. Just for kicks, yesterday I went on line and looked up a recipe. I found one.
That recipe took some studying. I had to rewrite it twice and finally devised a code to indicate which ingredients were for the sauce, which for the batter, etc. After the shocking realization that I actually had all the ingredients in house, I girded my loins for some serious cookery.
First I sauteed a chopped green pepper with onion, set that aside and then dethawed two chicken breasts in the sink. I put flour, an egg, some oil and corn starch in a bowl, realized I couldn't mix it by hand and dumped it in my gun metal grey KitchenAid.
By now things are getting messy, but there was no backing out. I poured water into the flour mix until it made a thick batter, poured it back into the original bowl and put that aside. (I didn't want to put raw chicken in my stainless steel KitchenAid bowl. It just felt blasphemous.)
I fished the aforementioned raw chicken breasts out of the by now luke warm water and began the disgusting process of hewing it into one inch size pieces, as well as hacking off the fat and grizzle. I dumped the chicken pieces into the batter and took a deep breath.
I washed a few things and prepared for the next step, which was frying. By now Keith had come home and was ecstatic about the prospect of sweet and sour chicken. When he realized how terrified I was of deep frying, he offered to stick around in order to put out the potential grease fire.
One cup of vegetable oil went into a pan on high heat. Shortly it began to bubble all by itself. It seemed alarming to me, so I turned the heat down. Keith flicked water into the oil and it hissed up in a definitely evil way. I knew it was ready but I was dancing around in sheer nervousness, afraid to go anywhere near the ominous sheet of hot oil.
So Keith ended up taking a metal serving fork and dumping some pieces in, where they did nothing more than bubble. When I saw how he was clumping them together and putting too much in at one time, I quickly stepped back in and assumed command of the fork.
I devised a system where the first fork put the batter soaked chicken in and another fork fished the cooked chicken out, all while wearing an oven mitt to protect my hand from the oil spray. I got into a pretty good rhythm but I felt certain that due to the oil having been too hot, the chicken hadn't had a chance to cook all the way through.
On went to the oven at three fifty, a sheet of tin foil went over a baking sheet and a cooling rack over that and all the chicken nuggets were laid out, for further cooking. The pan of hot oil was moved to the back of the oven, were it quietly melted the hot pad it was on, unbeknownst to me until much later.
My kitchen is now a wreck and about four hundred degrees hot. I have dishes filling both sinks and flour sprinkled over the counter tops, flour hand prints over my purple top and I have yet to make the sweet and sour sauce.
My small sauce pan comes out and is filled with water, vinegar, sugar and pineapple juice from a can of said fruit. It fills almost to the rim and I consider moving to a larger pot, but scrap that idea. It boils. In a separate container I mix cornstarch and water to get a thin glop, which I then pour into the boiling glop. It immediately seizes up and becomes a glop with the consistency of grout, or perhaps weather sealant. About the same color, too.
At this point, I'm suppose to add two drops of orange food coloring, but I don't have it. I fish out my one remaining clean bowl, dump in the pineapple and the sauteed veggies (the poor veggies which have been mouldering in a forgotten corner while all the other excitement happened). I fished out the chicken nuggets from the oven, put the pan on my last remaining piece of counter space and threw the chicken into the bowl. Lastly, I took the glop and poured it over all, tossing to coat.
It was the moment of truth. Keith took a nugget and tasted. Immediately his eyes went wide.
"That is awesome," he breathed.
We dumped the mixture onto two plates and retreated to the living room to gorge. It tasted exactly like take out sweet and sour chicken. It would have looked like it too, if only I had had orange food coloring.
The rest of the night Keith spent on the phone to various friends and relatives, bragging.
"No man, completely from scratch. Dude, she dethawed the chicken and everything..." I heard once as I walked by the man room, later on.
The only bad part is that now he expects me to make crab Rangoon's.
There were two small children there. It took only a couple minutes before they realized I spoke their language. Then for the rest of the night they followed me around or came running up to me to show me something important, like a rock.
Keith mentioned once that maybe I could get a job taking care of children but I nixed it. I'm tired of taking care of other people's children. I want my own. I just couldn't take it at this point. It was fine when I was younger; I loved it. But doing it now would just be like grinding salt into the wound.
Speaking of which, we are picking up the pills today. It's such a relief to be able to actually be doing something, taking action. The worst part about trying to get pregnant and failing is the lack of control over the whole process. It's all so vague and mysterious.
For the last few days Keith has been complaining of a craving for Chinese food, specifically sweet and sour chicken. Just for kicks, yesterday I went on line and looked up a recipe. I found one.
That recipe took some studying. I had to rewrite it twice and finally devised a code to indicate which ingredients were for the sauce, which for the batter, etc. After the shocking realization that I actually had all the ingredients in house, I girded my loins for some serious cookery.
First I sauteed a chopped green pepper with onion, set that aside and then dethawed two chicken breasts in the sink. I put flour, an egg, some oil and corn starch in a bowl, realized I couldn't mix it by hand and dumped it in my gun metal grey KitchenAid.
By now things are getting messy, but there was no backing out. I poured water into the flour mix until it made a thick batter, poured it back into the original bowl and put that aside. (I didn't want to put raw chicken in my stainless steel KitchenAid bowl. It just felt blasphemous.)
I fished the aforementioned raw chicken breasts out of the by now luke warm water and began the disgusting process of hewing it into one inch size pieces, as well as hacking off the fat and grizzle. I dumped the chicken pieces into the batter and took a deep breath.
I washed a few things and prepared for the next step, which was frying. By now Keith had come home and was ecstatic about the prospect of sweet and sour chicken. When he realized how terrified I was of deep frying, he offered to stick around in order to put out the potential grease fire.
One cup of vegetable oil went into a pan on high heat. Shortly it began to bubble all by itself. It seemed alarming to me, so I turned the heat down. Keith flicked water into the oil and it hissed up in a definitely evil way. I knew it was ready but I was dancing around in sheer nervousness, afraid to go anywhere near the ominous sheet of hot oil.
So Keith ended up taking a metal serving fork and dumping some pieces in, where they did nothing more than bubble. When I saw how he was clumping them together and putting too much in at one time, I quickly stepped back in and assumed command of the fork.
I devised a system where the first fork put the batter soaked chicken in and another fork fished the cooked chicken out, all while wearing an oven mitt to protect my hand from the oil spray. I got into a pretty good rhythm but I felt certain that due to the oil having been too hot, the chicken hadn't had a chance to cook all the way through.
On went to the oven at three fifty, a sheet of tin foil went over a baking sheet and a cooling rack over that and all the chicken nuggets were laid out, for further cooking. The pan of hot oil was moved to the back of the oven, were it quietly melted the hot pad it was on, unbeknownst to me until much later.
My kitchen is now a wreck and about four hundred degrees hot. I have dishes filling both sinks and flour sprinkled over the counter tops, flour hand prints over my purple top and I have yet to make the sweet and sour sauce.
My small sauce pan comes out and is filled with water, vinegar, sugar and pineapple juice from a can of said fruit. It fills almost to the rim and I consider moving to a larger pot, but scrap that idea. It boils. In a separate container I mix cornstarch and water to get a thin glop, which I then pour into the boiling glop. It immediately seizes up and becomes a glop with the consistency of grout, or perhaps weather sealant. About the same color, too.
At this point, I'm suppose to add two drops of orange food coloring, but I don't have it. I fish out my one remaining clean bowl, dump in the pineapple and the sauteed veggies (the poor veggies which have been mouldering in a forgotten corner while all the other excitement happened). I fished out the chicken nuggets from the oven, put the pan on my last remaining piece of counter space and threw the chicken into the bowl. Lastly, I took the glop and poured it over all, tossing to coat.
It was the moment of truth. Keith took a nugget and tasted. Immediately his eyes went wide.
"That is awesome," he breathed.
We dumped the mixture onto two plates and retreated to the living room to gorge. It tasted exactly like take out sweet and sour chicken. It would have looked like it too, if only I had had orange food coloring.
The rest of the night Keith spent on the phone to various friends and relatives, bragging.
"No man, completely from scratch. Dude, she dethawed the chicken and everything..." I heard once as I walked by the man room, later on.
The only bad part is that now he expects me to make crab Rangoon's.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
July 6th
On Friday I bought a flag that proudly flies from our front porch. Since putting up the flag, I have noticed how many other houses have as well, more than I can ever remember seeing since 9/11. We watched the fireworks display at the lake and as we were waiting, at least three of the many pontoon boats floating by were sporting large American flags, some waving from the stern of the ship, some hung horizontally along the bow.
This holiday means so much more to me now, not just since marrying a soldier, but since realizing how fragile our freedoms really are, and how much of our national identity we've lost. One of Ronald Reagon's most famous quote talks about this, how freedom is never more than one generation away from extinction, that is must be fought for and maintained.
It must be fought for not just on battlefields, but in hearts and minds as well. America is not an everlasting framework, but an idea, the great experiment of human liberty. What makes America great is our recognition that rights and liberties do not flow from the government, but from God, that they are not granted by the state, but that they are inherent in our humanity and therefore equal in all mankind.
This was a radical idea at the time of America's founding, but it has created the most prosperous, generous and free country in the world.
A fellow blogger sent me an article that talks about trend seen recently in the treatment of the Jewish people in Europe, especially the Netherlands. It's alarming.
“Decoy Jew” is a new phrase in the Netherlands. Jews are no longer safe in major Dutch cities such as Amsterdam. Since 1999, Jewish organizations in the Netherlands have been complaining that Jews who walk the Dutch streets wearing skullcaps risk verbal and physical attacks by young Muslims. Being insulted, spat at or attacked are some of the risks associated with being recognizable as a Jew in contemporary Western Europe.
Last week, a television broadcast showed how three Jews with skullcaps, two adolescents and an adult, were harassed within thirty minutes of being out in the streets of Amsterdam. Young Muslims spat at them, mocked them, shouted insults and made Nazi salutes. “Dirty Jew, go back to your own country,” a group of Moroccan youths shouted at a young indigenous Dutch Jew. “It is rather ironic,” the young man commented, adding that if one goes out in a burka one encounters less hostility than if one wears a skullcap.
In an effort to arrest the culprits who terrorize Jews, the Amsterdam authorities have ordered police officers to walk the streets disguised as Jews. The Dutch police already disguise officers as “decoy prostitutes, decoy gays and decoy grannies” to deter muggings and attacks on prostitutes, homosexuals and the elderly. Apparently sending out the decoys has helped reduce street crime. The “decoy Jew” has now been added to the police attributes.
The deployment of “decoy Jews”, however, is being criticized by leftist parties such as the Dutch Greens. Evelien van Roemburg, an Amsterdam counselor of the Green Left Party, says that using a decoy by the police amounts to provoking a crime, which is itself a criminal offence under Dutch law.
Unfortunately, the situation in Amsterdam is not unique. Jews in other Dutch cities also regularly complain about harassment. So do Jews in neighboring countries.
On Monday, the Belgian newspaper De Standaard reported that large numbers of Jews are leaving Antwerp for America, Britain or Israel...
It is often said that the Jews are the canary in the coalmine. When the Jews feel compelled to leave, the light of freedom is being extinguished. Something is badly wrong when the police need to deploy “decoy Jews.” Once again, the specter of anti-Semitism is haunting Europe. If the Europeans do not stand with the Jews, they deserve no freedom themselves and cities such as Amsterdam and Antwerp will soon be Islamic cities."
http://www.brusselsjournal.com/node/4470
I've absorbed, both from public school and through current culture, a feeling of shame for my country. I remember, ten years ago, being jealous of my Japanese boyfriend, jealous of his blatant nationalism and how that form of nationalism was acceptable to main steam or liberal thought. I felt clearly, under the same mainstream thought, that patriotism toward my own country was taboo, since America could only stand for corporate culture, excess and aggression.
But this is simply not true. Even now, we are one of the last ports in the storm for those who wish to escape religious or cultural persecution.
I'm not ashamed of my country any more and I won't apologize for being an American. Other Americans have fought and died to keep the ideas of liberty, and justice alive in the face of great darkness. I think of them often, those boys who died on the beaches of Normandy or obscure islands in the Pacific coasts. And earlier, those men who left their farms and homesteads to fight in their bare and bleeding feet because they believed that they were not the sons of a king or a government, but that they were the sons of liberty and that that was an idea worth dying for.
And it still is and I'll do all I can now that it is my turn to pass on freedom's torch. Even if all I can do is to continue to educate myself about our unique form of government; the Republic of the United States of America, and the great responsibility this places upon her citizens, that of educated involvement and a firm moral center. Even if all I can do is add my voice to a growing cry to return to the American values of common sense, fiscal responsibility, free market principles and a small, efficient government.
I'm not alone, my voice is just one of many. We have astounding obstacles in our way; we have an unthinkable amount of debt, a recession and an entrenched and greedy government that, no matter which political party, continues to expand and that no longer recognized the rule of law, including the Constitution.
But I'm not afraid. We've been in tough places before. As long as we don't forget our legacy and continue to get involved, we will pull through this. We can elect representatives who will actually defend and uphold the Constitution, who believe in limited government and have an actual plan about balancing the budget. We can remember and celebrate our unique American inheritance, one that, despite our mistakes, is defined by generosity, tolerance, and freedom.
"It is not the glory of the people of American that, while they have paid a decent regard to the opinions of former times and other nations, they have not suffered a blind veneration for antiquity, for custom, or for names to overrule the suggestions of their own good sense, the knowledge of their own situation, and the lessons of their own experience? To this manly spirit posterity will be indebted for the possession, and the world for the example, of the numerous innovations displayed on the American theater in favor of private rights and public happiness...Happily for America, happily we must trust for the whole human race, (the founders of the nation) pursued a new and more noble course. They accomplished a revolution which has no parallel in the annuals of human society. They reared the fabrics of governments which have no model on the face of the globe. They formed the design of a great confederacy, which it is incumbent on their successors to improve and perpetuate."
-James Madison,
God bless America.
This holiday means so much more to me now, not just since marrying a soldier, but since realizing how fragile our freedoms really are, and how much of our national identity we've lost. One of Ronald Reagon's most famous quote talks about this, how freedom is never more than one generation away from extinction, that is must be fought for and maintained.
It must be fought for not just on battlefields, but in hearts and minds as well. America is not an everlasting framework, but an idea, the great experiment of human liberty. What makes America great is our recognition that rights and liberties do not flow from the government, but from God, that they are not granted by the state, but that they are inherent in our humanity and therefore equal in all mankind.
This was a radical idea at the time of America's founding, but it has created the most prosperous, generous and free country in the world.
A fellow blogger sent me an article that talks about trend seen recently in the treatment of the Jewish people in Europe, especially the Netherlands. It's alarming.
“Decoy Jew” is a new phrase in the Netherlands. Jews are no longer safe in major Dutch cities such as Amsterdam. Since 1999, Jewish organizations in the Netherlands have been complaining that Jews who walk the Dutch streets wearing skullcaps risk verbal and physical attacks by young Muslims. Being insulted, spat at or attacked are some of the risks associated with being recognizable as a Jew in contemporary Western Europe.
Last week, a television broadcast showed how three Jews with skullcaps, two adolescents and an adult, were harassed within thirty minutes of being out in the streets of Amsterdam. Young Muslims spat at them, mocked them, shouted insults and made Nazi salutes. “Dirty Jew, go back to your own country,” a group of Moroccan youths shouted at a young indigenous Dutch Jew. “It is rather ironic,” the young man commented, adding that if one goes out in a burka one encounters less hostility than if one wears a skullcap.
In an effort to arrest the culprits who terrorize Jews, the Amsterdam authorities have ordered police officers to walk the streets disguised as Jews. The Dutch police already disguise officers as “decoy prostitutes, decoy gays and decoy grannies” to deter muggings and attacks on prostitutes, homosexuals and the elderly. Apparently sending out the decoys has helped reduce street crime. The “decoy Jew” has now been added to the police attributes.
The deployment of “decoy Jews”, however, is being criticized by leftist parties such as the Dutch Greens. Evelien van Roemburg, an Amsterdam counselor of the Green Left Party, says that using a decoy by the police amounts to provoking a crime, which is itself a criminal offence under Dutch law.
Unfortunately, the situation in Amsterdam is not unique. Jews in other Dutch cities also regularly complain about harassment. So do Jews in neighboring countries.
On Monday, the Belgian newspaper De Standaard reported that large numbers of Jews are leaving Antwerp for America, Britain or Israel...
It is often said that the Jews are the canary in the coalmine. When the Jews feel compelled to leave, the light of freedom is being extinguished. Something is badly wrong when the police need to deploy “decoy Jews.” Once again, the specter of anti-Semitism is haunting Europe. If the Europeans do not stand with the Jews, they deserve no freedom themselves and cities such as Amsterdam and Antwerp will soon be Islamic cities."
http://www.brusselsjournal.com/node/4470
I've absorbed, both from public school and through current culture, a feeling of shame for my country. I remember, ten years ago, being jealous of my Japanese boyfriend, jealous of his blatant nationalism and how that form of nationalism was acceptable to main steam or liberal thought. I felt clearly, under the same mainstream thought, that patriotism toward my own country was taboo, since America could only stand for corporate culture, excess and aggression.
But this is simply not true. Even now, we are one of the last ports in the storm for those who wish to escape religious or cultural persecution.
I'm not ashamed of my country any more and I won't apologize for being an American. Other Americans have fought and died to keep the ideas of liberty, and justice alive in the face of great darkness. I think of them often, those boys who died on the beaches of Normandy or obscure islands in the Pacific coasts. And earlier, those men who left their farms and homesteads to fight in their bare and bleeding feet because they believed that they were not the sons of a king or a government, but that they were the sons of liberty and that that was an idea worth dying for.
And it still is and I'll do all I can now that it is my turn to pass on freedom's torch. Even if all I can do is to continue to educate myself about our unique form of government; the Republic of the United States of America, and the great responsibility this places upon her citizens, that of educated involvement and a firm moral center. Even if all I can do is add my voice to a growing cry to return to the American values of common sense, fiscal responsibility, free market principles and a small, efficient government.
I'm not alone, my voice is just one of many. We have astounding obstacles in our way; we have an unthinkable amount of debt, a recession and an entrenched and greedy government that, no matter which political party, continues to expand and that no longer recognized the rule of law, including the Constitution.
But I'm not afraid. We've been in tough places before. As long as we don't forget our legacy and continue to get involved, we will pull through this. We can elect representatives who will actually defend and uphold the Constitution, who believe in limited government and have an actual plan about balancing the budget. We can remember and celebrate our unique American inheritance, one that, despite our mistakes, is defined by generosity, tolerance, and freedom.
"It is not the glory of the people of American that, while they have paid a decent regard to the opinions of former times and other nations, they have not suffered a blind veneration for antiquity, for custom, or for names to overrule the suggestions of their own good sense, the knowledge of their own situation, and the lessons of their own experience? To this manly spirit posterity will be indebted for the possession, and the world for the example, of the numerous innovations displayed on the American theater in favor of private rights and public happiness...Happily for America, happily we must trust for the whole human race, (the founders of the nation) pursued a new and more noble course. They accomplished a revolution which has no parallel in the annuals of human society. They reared the fabrics of governments which have no model on the face of the globe. They formed the design of a great confederacy, which it is incumbent on their successors to improve and perpetuate."
-James Madison,
God bless America.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
July 1st
I am preparing for a July 4th barbecue, but we have no idea who is coming. I distinctly told him, after our last socializing bonanza, that he should invite only our good friends from CO and any random guys who would otherwise be spending the 4th in the barracks. (Those guy require nothing more than food and beer. They hang out with Keith in the man room and are incredibly stunned by my mediocre cooking skills. I can't imagine a better guests.)
This expressly to avoid him inviting married guys, especially married guys with wives I haven't met who require actual socializing, like women generally do. However, those unfortunate innocents would then find that they had been invited to a barbecue with a hostess who would rather hide in the bathroom than talk with a stranger.
Anyway, guess who all he invited? Two complete strangers complete with wives and children. After restraining myself from wringing his neck, we had a second discussion and he assured me he would fix it.
I'm carrying on. Maybe no one will show up and we'll have twelve beer brats, eight hamburgers, ten ears of sweet corn and a flag cake all to ourselves.
My back is acting up again, causing me to feel about seventy years old. I'm currently riding high on a vicodin buzz, which did take the edge off the pain. I think it was carrying the forty four pound bag of dog food out of the car that did it. I keep forgetting that I have a severe back injury until after I've aggravated it.
This expressly to avoid him inviting married guys, especially married guys with wives I haven't met who require actual socializing, like women generally do. However, those unfortunate innocents would then find that they had been invited to a barbecue with a hostess who would rather hide in the bathroom than talk with a stranger.
Anyway, guess who all he invited? Two complete strangers complete with wives and children. After restraining myself from wringing his neck, we had a second discussion and he assured me he would fix it.
I'm carrying on. Maybe no one will show up and we'll have twelve beer brats, eight hamburgers, ten ears of sweet corn and a flag cake all to ourselves.
My back is acting up again, causing me to feel about seventy years old. I'm currently riding high on a vicodin buzz, which did take the edge off the pain. I think it was carrying the forty four pound bag of dog food out of the car that did it. I keep forgetting that I have a severe back injury until after I've aggravated it.
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