Saturday, April 28, 2007

Sometimes you should read a recipe well in advance of trying to make it. I had read the recipe and made a shopping list. On Saturday, I was going to go get the things I needed and then assemble it. I was having company so I had everything under control - well almost. I'd forgotten about everything else that I was doing that week-end but no matter. We were doing the MS walk on Sunday, so the team captain had everyone over Friday night. Before leaving I made the dessert. The table was already set so I was good to go for a relaxing day on Saturday.

I reread the meat recipe just before getting ready to go out. Then my eye alight on the crucial line, "Marinate for at least four hours beforehand, preferably overnight." Um, the meat was still the freezer. ARGH! Forgot to pull the meat. So I pulled the meat and resolved to deal with it when I got back.

Which is why I found myself at midnight dealing with meat. Smart people would have left it until the next day. I was meeting a friend for breakfast. I didn't think I could deal with the meat before leaving. I have trouble enough being on time without adding to my problems.

So at slightly past midnight I was mixing things in my blender to smear on partially defrosted meat. Then it struck me. I was missing some ingredients. I needed fresh parsley and garlic. It was on my list of things to buy today. I stared at the recipe. Parsley and garlic. The quantities struck me as large enough that they were key ingredients. At this point I panicked. What was the point of putting lemon zest in the rub if you didn't have fresh garlic?

In my excuse, it was late at night and I was tired. I was having a panic attack because I had no idea how to get the fresh produce I needed, get the meat prepared and into the fridge and still make it to breakfast. After discarding the idea of phoning friends who lived nearby to ask if I could borrow the items (not because it was a ridiculous thing to do or late at night but because my friends most likely wouldn't have the item on hand), it suddenly struck me. I had bottled garlic. I had dried parsley. They just might do. After searching through the cookbooks, I found the conversion rate between fresh and bottled for both items and dumped an approximate amount of both into the blender. Finally, one partially defrosted rubbed piece of meat went into the fridge and I went to bed hoping that it would do.

The funny thing was that it did do. My dinner party was a smash. We've been inspired to have another one; at someone else's place, which suits me just fine. It's my turn to have a decent night's sleep.

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Pita Bread

Sometimes when flipping through a cookbook, trying to find one recipe you stumble upon another. For instance, I wanted to know how to make pita chips. I figured it couldn't be too difficult. Instead I found a recipe for pitas themselves. This didn't look too difficult. So tonight I made pitas.

First of all, the dough is tough. So all this nonsense about getting the dough smooth really means if you can get it to stick together and have the strength to knead if for ten minutes go ahead. I thumped it for ten minutes-ish.

You're supposed to let it rest in which time it's supposed to get puffy. Mine didn't. (See above. Tough things tend not to get puffy.) I decided the room wasn't hot enough so put it in a warm oven for a few minutes before getting impatient. It helped. There was a definite increase in puffyness.

Next you split it up and roll it into circles. My last one was approaching a circle. Apparently, rolling balls into circles is a skill. I have not yet developed it. I am very good with oblongue and odd-shaped.

Lastly, you put them into a 500 degree oven. I didn't know ovens went that hot. What they don't tell you is that you should only do this if your smoke-alarm is turned off. Mine wasn't. I think it's hardwired into the building. This meant that everytime ,and I mean everytime, I opened the oven door longer than two seconds the firealarm went off. The recipe said if they didn't start to puff after the five minutes, then you should turn the oven up. I really should have. However, my kitchen already had mirages forming in it and I was getting scared the fire department was going to show up. The last one puffed up wonderfully. By then the oven was really hot.

The recipe also said that the result was far superior to the shop bought ones. This is true. Despite not puffing correctly and not being round, they are fabulous. If I didn't have other plans for them, I would probabely have eaten through half of them by now. No sauce or dressing needed.

If you can disengage your firealarm, aren't paying for your electricity, and have some spare time, I highly recommend making pitas. It's just plain fun.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Highway Robbery

Unbelievable! Absolutely unbelievable!

I stopped in at the dry cleaner's on my way home as I wanted to get an idea of the cost before I lugged in my winter wardrobe for cleaning. I have recently invested in some proper dress shirts and I wanted to know how much it would cost to have them cleaned. Men get it done all the time. The guys at work don't seem to know which end of the iron you plug in, yet their shirts are always crisp. They take them to the cleaner's.

Pants, skirt, jacket, you name it, $6.70. I inquired into a women's dress shirt.
"A blouse? $6.70."
I corrected the girl, "no it's a shirt."
"$6.70."
"How much is a male's shirt?"
"$2.45."
"Huh?"
"Women's shirts tend to be of a more delicate fabric and they're smaller."

Ah-ha, I was glad to have that cleared up. I explained that it was the exact same fabric as a male's shirt. Having bought it from a shirt maker who originated in making shirts for men, I knew that it was not special fabric.

"But women's shirts tend to be smaller, so we can't use the same machine that we use for the men's shirts. We have to use a bunch of different ones."

I was about to argue that one too. Then I realised that I am a scrawny runt and there was no way I was going to make the argument that my shirt was just as big as a man's. Yet I know that scrawny runt males are out there, I've had friends who fall into that category. What happens to their shirts? Do their shirts fit on the machine? What do they get charged?

If I was the size of a tank, my shirts would fit on the other machine. What would I be charged? The darts in a women's shirt and the narrowing for the waist give them away.

I'm going to take my shirts in. I'm going to ask for proof that they won't fit on this machine. I'm going to ask for the justification for the more than double the price increase for the same item. I'm beginning to understand why women know how to weld an iron. Discriminatory pricing. Clearly the fight for equality didn't target all the right areas. Dry cleaning should be the next big target. I should be able to look as crisp as a male for the same low price, just like the men should be able to iron their own darn shirts.

Too Sane to Be Crazy

I've sometimes wished that I could just let go. That I could care less about what other people think of me and just do something that would startle everyone. Just because I could and because I wanted to.

On my way home tonight, I was waiting to cross the street. The light was just turning so there was no point in trying to nip across the street. A woman with a tattoo and wildish hair had gotten about half-way across the street before the light changed to orange. There was a car waiting to turn right in front of her path and it was slowly moving forward to make the turn. The woman flung her hands up in a fencer's display of defeat and went "AHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Needless to say, the car stopped. The woman flipped her hands as if to say haha- gotcha and sauntered onto the sidewalk chuckling. I collapsed into a fit of the giggles. The two gentlemen waiting with me on the corner, new to the area, asked in a hushed voice if there were many like that here. I looked at him with a smile, not here, normally they hang out about two streets over.

I've often wanted to do something like that. Having witnessed it, I know now I can't. You'd get locked up. You would join the ranks of the crazies on the bus. Having spent most of my student bus career avoiding them, I can't join their ranks. I doubt they'd accept me. I'm too sane to be that crazy.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Mock Election in Bhutan

There is a tiny kingdom in the Himalayas that is making the transition to democracy. The king of Bhutan has decided that the country must make the move towards democracy. So in preparation for this step, this past week, a mock election was held so that the citizens could practise the process. The idea is that when the real elections are held next year, they will proceed smoothly. The second round of the mock election will take place on May 28th.

When so many elections are contested and quite frankly, a complete mess, it seems almost naive to hear of a country practising the electorial process. It also strikes me as being incredibley farsighted and just down-right commonsense.

I wish the country the best of luck in their transition!

Bhutan Conducts Mock Election
Bhutan Practises for First Election
Bhutan Holds Practice Election

Saturday, April 21, 2007

Cost per Outfit

Many people when they're in a clothes store agonizing over whether to buy the black dress pants or the fuchsia-sequined tank top do a mental calculation something like this:

Right if I buy the dress pants, then I can wear them to work and out at night. I will have to take them up though as they're a bit too long. Oh, maybe my black strappy sandals are tall enough, but then I can only wear the pants in the summer, and then I can't wear them to work as I can't wear my sandals to work. I could have them hemmed, but not this week, as I don't have time to go to the tailor's and if I don't take them this week, then I'll never get them hemmed. I could hem them myself . . . . The potential cost per wear is about ten cents after hemming.

Deliberation on the tank-top goes something like this: Well, I need something to wear to so-and-so's and this looks good and I've been looking all morning and I need something for tonight. Oh, I can probably wear it later in the month for x. Hmmm, but so-and-so is going to be at both events so I can't wear the same thing. I'm sure it will come in handy at some point. Fuchsia-sequined tank tops never come in handy. The potential cost per wear is the full price of the item.

The credit card is whipped out and a fuchsia-sequined tank top is put across it. It will earn rave reviews at the event and will never be worn again. The black pants lost because they were going to be too much work and quite frankly, they were boring.

I have several fuchsia-sequined tank top equivalents in my wardrobe. They never won over a more boring item simply because you don't pull the boring items off the rack. Or I don't. I only got black pants when I started work. I still don't own a proper white shirt. I do have a white shirt but it has a street scene painted on the back.

For this reason, I am not a big fan of the cost per wear school of thought. Why? You can buy a pair of jeans and wear them into the ground and congratulate yourself that it only cost you pennies each time you wore them. Of course, this isn't true. You forget the cost of upkeep - the proportion of laundry money and soap that the jeans soaked up. You didn't include the opportunity cost of not wearing every other pair of pants in your wardrobe or even of not buying a different pair. And you forgot to include the cost when you washed the jeans for the first time and they turned all your underwear blue so you had to buy new ones. Clearly, this is a poor estimate at best.

I do like to do cost per outfits though. Why? Because it's much more fun and much more startling. You start at the bottom and you reckon full price for everything - whether you paid it or not. Shoes, say $100. Socks, well part of a three set deal, so say $6.66, round to $7. Jeans, $75. T-shirt, say $25. Cute Sweater, $50. Jacket, $125. Watch, $100. Jewellery, $300. Purse, $100. Glasses, $300. New haircut . . . . add it up. Total cost of outfit: $882. It's even more fun on a day when you're going to work. Don’t try and figure out your cost per wear on the outfit. It will wreck your day.

You will probably soon buy a pair of black pants, hem them yourself, and wear a fuchsia tank-top all summer.

I, on the other hand, won't. I have several other items that I need to get the cost per wear down on before making such sensible purchases.

Curriculum Vitae

One day when you have some spare time and you're mucking about on the computer, pull up your CV, preferably an older version.

CV as we all know is short for curriculum vitae. What isn't always so well known is that this is the Latin for "the running order of life." CV's tend to be lists. I went to school here and here and here. I worked. I volunteered. I have these skills. It's a running inventory of everything you've done in point form.

That's why every now and then, I like to take a look at mine. I tend to feel that the person who did all those things isn't me. I rediscover things. I was once on a WUSC SRSP committee. This experience had become relegated to the back of my memory. But just seeing Finance and Fundraising officer of, brings back a whole host of memories. I remember sitting on a chair in my faculty counter-part's office drinking tea and eating kitkats as we discussed the legality of the receipts we'd been presented. We decided they were not valid. The entire debate surrounding the issue floods back. From not having thought about it in several years, I know exactly what happened and what I thought and what I thought should have been done. My annoyance level is par to what it was at the time.

However, as I go further back in time, things are not as clear. I don't like geography - on principle. This is based on a prejudice against a high school teacher. I didn't like his class. I don't remember anything from his class. I remember quite a bit of geography from public school. Ask me about plate-tectonics. I'm a pro. I don't even know what we were taught in grade 10 geography. Apparently, I won the geography prize. I did not know this. But it's on my CV, so I know it's true. Somewhere in a box at home there is a plaque with my name and geography. I still don't like geography - on principle.

This is why it's a good thing to check your CV once in a while. You rediscover things about yourself. It's a good way to stir up the memory. It's also why it's a good idea to keep it up-to-date - it's the running order of your life and it's best to keep it in order. You're not too sure what you'll forget in the mean time.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Coconut Macroons

Part of the consolidation effort - from back in May 2005. Clearly me and cooking have been having trouble for some time. I remember this - it was a huge mess.


I like Coconut Macaroons . . . so I decided that I would make some so that when I had finished the commercial ones currently residing in our cupboard, no one would notice. Um, yes, you will notice the big flaw in this, I didn't until it was too late. So one disaster later and one panic phone call to my cooking fairy godmother, I had a disaster in a bowl and was starting another one in another bowl. This set worked but looked nothing like the ones I had finished eating. But now I had four egg yolks to use and a runny meringue- type stuff. Using my quick thinking skills, I determined that making a pie needing meringue topping would use up all the necessary ingredients. One pie shell made from scratch and the richest chocolate filling later (really what was I thinking), I slowly poured the meringue over the pie and it kept going . . . all over the stove . . . and the oven . . . and the oven mitt . . . and the floor.

THIS IS WHY I NEVER BAKE.

Always Carry a Tissue

This I found on an old msn space that I had forgotten about. In the interest of consolidating, I'm moving it over to here.

I was a little annoyed at this mother demanding a napkin just like that. I mean, napkins are over there with the other condiments. My job is to take your money. And then I saw it . . . you could not miss the mucus slowly descending out of this child's nose as he bent his head away from his upper body and held his hands out at the side for balance. It was impressive that it had gotten to that length without someone doing anything about it. Someone should really get that child a tissue. oh wait, superwoman with a heavy duty supply of tissue-like substances was apparently me.

And that's when I made a vow, when in charge of small children, you carry the purse like a suitcase and bring the entire box of kleenex. Because children want to see how long it will get, so you will have to notice the situation for yourself. or not care . . . which might be easier. You would definitely never have to wait in line again.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Tiger Tiger Burning Bright

Feline's Aid Society

Most people have heard of the Children's Aid Society. They're the people that come and take away your children for various reasons. The idea is that they act in the best interests on the child. Few people have heard of the Feline Aid Society. It's a smaller organization and really has one administrator and one client. The administrator would be my mother. The client would be my feline. I am the one who gets my cat taken away from me. It's always in the best interests of my cat.

I grew up with a dog. We were best friends and when he had to be put down I missed him. I started the campaign for another dog but when it became obvious that a dog was out of the question, I settled for a cat. I had spent my entire life up until that point being scared of cats. Suddenly I had a small kitten in my house. It was cute even when it tried to poke my eye out. I then found myself at school without an animal in the house. This was not right.

I timed the buying of my cat carefully. Right after my micro midterm I headed to the pet store. I had a week in which to settle a kitten into my routine before my professors started ruining my life again with assignments. I wanted a male cat. The pet store only had two kittens and they were both female. I only had a week. I choose the one that seemed to like me best.

Oh the attitude.

My cat was not an easy kitten. The details of our power struggles are long and tedious. The first time my cat was taken away was in last summer. I was going away for a few weeks. I didn't want to leave my room mate to look after my cat although she was more than willing. My apartment had no air conditioning and summer was starting to heat up. The Feline's Aid Society came to the rescue and took the cat to a well air-conditioned house. This house also has another cat which my cat enjoys fighting. My cat spent the summer there. I sweltered in my apartment as I spent all my waking time on my paper.

My Cat is the smaller one. She started it.

This time my cat was taken away because I was going away again. I think the Feline's Aid Society also decided it was time we were separated before we killed each other. My cat and I were not adjusting well to the working world. I was gone for longer periods of time and I was tired. The result was less cat time. Not one to suffer in silence, she was making her feelings known by slowly pushing all breakables off all surfaces. She commenced this activity at 6:30am and then proceeded to start a little bit earlier each day. I think she had reached 4:30am. Net result was that I was getting hardly any sleep.

The first week she was gone I had a proper night's sleep. The next week I missed her. Before she comes back, I'm going to install shelves and move all breakables beyond cat reach. I'm also marking cat time in pen in my organiser. This time round we'll both get a proper night's sleep. The Feline's Aid Society is not one to be overused. The previous stint, my cat wrecked the screen door most spectacularly and this time she's working on destroying the furniture. And then there's the therapy bills for the other cat . . . .



My cat's name is Auburn. The other cat is Stanley. Bonus points for those who recognize the name theme. Family members and close friends may not play due to unfair advantage of already knowing.

The Game of Life

Tonight I walked home with four large bags of expired tea in varying flavours. The weather is warming up and the inevitable threat of rain that accompanies the start of spring was hanging in the air. I had stayed out later than I had expected but really it was to be expected. I had gone over to a friend's house. as earlier in the day I had agreed to drop in during the evening. I phoned just before leaving. "You're coming?" she asked, "Good, I've got a mission for you." Click.

When I arrived I found that I was not the only one over and she was working on a script. We're going to film a video for YouTube, I was informed. Of course we are. I pointed out that I was slumming it in the fashion department but was overruled. So her niece and I went through the script a gazillion times trying to get it just right. The "director's" mother was up visiting and had brought a stash of cookies. So the two of us working on fine-tuning the script raided the fridge for milk and sat and ate cookies while arguing about split infinitives. The director finally yelled at us to stop. We were making it too complicated. We looked up mid-cookie bite and said, "But you asked us to edit it."

Finally we started filming. Despite the inevitable giggle-fit and the technical failures, it looked like we had a final product. We had fun doing it. We laughed until it hurt, we called each other names, there was some physical violence, and we assured each other that we all looked wonderful on film. It was a great time.

Except that none of us should have been there this evening doing what we were doing.

Life is funny. Its twists and turns take us all down different paths. Sometimes the paths are of our choosing and other times, it's due to the decisions of others. And then there are the curve balls that life throws us. Sometimes we can hit them to the outfield and sometimes life strikes us out.

We were making a film because last February my friend was diagnosed with MS. We were making a video about her story. We were having fun because her world got turned upside down and inside out. Today she started her treatment. From now on, she has to give herself a needle injection once a week. She has a massive bruise on her leg and she's popping painkillers to counter-act the side-effects from the drugs. Her mother is in town to make sure she's ok. Her mother is discussing how and when she should give herself the next injection. The rest of us are discussing fundraising efforts and who's raised what money.

Right now she can take on the world. She's brave. However, she's scared. Life, like any good pitcher, didn't give her a warning, but threw one straight down the pitch. STRIKE! but it's strike one. She's re-arranging her batter's stance and she's getting ready to swing again. Like any good fans, we're calling the umpire names and we're trying to distract the pitcher. We know the score but we're only in the first half of the second inning. There's the whole rest of the game to go.

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