broccoli nugget: the enemy of children

I’ve spent the past 10 years or so enmeshed in the world of protein options for vegetarians. When transitioning to a meat free lifestyle, my occasional meat cravings were satisfied with the morningstar brand breakfast links. In the mid-1990’s, new fake meat products seemed to be spawning weekly. Now, there is a soy alternative for every mainstream kind of meat you might choose to eat. I love them all, though being made from soy they can wreak gastrointestinal havoc on you and in turn, your loving boyfriend. Some vegetarians don’t like most brands of fake meat for the amount of processing that’s involved in their production. Lately, I’ve seen a lot of meat alternatives that aren’t made entirely from processed soy, but rather soy + grains and/or vegetables.

Tonight I had the delectable experience of tasting the broccoli nugget. When eating other fake meats, I garnish them in the same way I would a real meat: mustard for the soy corndog, ketchup for the soy burger. But what are you supposed to do with a nugget that is not designed to taste like any known meat counterpart? What is proper broccoli nugget etiquette? It’s in breaded nugget form; do I treat it like chicken? For the record, this nugget, made by Veggie Patch, is DELICIOUS. It’s much better than the chick’n nuggets by the same company. At first I tried it dry: no dipping, just popping (into my mouth). It was good, and the flavoring was not as overwhelming broccoli as you might expect from the photo on the package. I then dipped it in Dijon mustard and my nugget satisfaction went through the roof. It was then I came to the conclusion that anything breaded tastes better with mustard. What is it about that magical combination and the location of our taste buds that makes this true? Did god know/plan that we would someday invent the concept of “breaded” and turn dirty old mustard plants into a very popular condiment?

feeling bookish

As you know, I am a very smart lady. But the book club I frequent is one at which I am (relatively) not the smartest lady. I attend my college alumni book club and if you know anything about the University of Chicago, then you know that book club is made up of knowledgeable people who I cannot possibly “one-up”. It’s nice to be among peers or strangers and have something interesting or unique to say. My fellow alumni, however, have heard it all. They do their own research on the book, EVEN THOUGH I am the designated leader. They use words (millenarian), that I do not know. They outwit, outplay and outlast. But, honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s completely invigorating and I am so glad that I choose this book club rather than one that is perhaps a bit more diverse.

A few things that I noticed at tonight’s discussion of “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time” (which is fabulous by the way):
1. I am the youngest book club member by about 20 years
2. I am the poorest book club member by about 100,000/year
3. I am the least educated book club member (I don't have a PhD)
3. I am the shyest book club member
4. I am the only non-Jewish book club member

Most interesting for me was the reawakening of my interest in old(er) people. I’ve always had a rapport with the ole grey-hairs. I love the confidence that comes with aging. They’re not PC, or concerned with a right (or even relevant!) answer. They’ve come to terms with their life and everyone in it. I love older couples. There’s no strife (because you worked it all out when you were younger). There’s just familiarity and even a bit of playfulness that I think is lost when the concepts of youth and beauty factor into (and sometimes even form the basis of) a relationship. I love how if they get your attention, they just talk—even if other people are talking about something else. I love going to bed at 9! I love that they are interested in all the things that I’m interested in. I truly feel sometimes that my peer group is more the senior citizen crowd than the young adult crowd. I also love the stubbornness and feistiness of old age. Needless to say, I look forward to the day my gentleman friend and I take our teeth out and leave them in the bathroom, only to mix them up the next day. Or when we forget to wear underwear and read big print books in bed. I also look forward to young stuff too, but it’s the old stuff that makes me laugh (with, not at).

New obsession: Entering The New Yorker caption writing contest. I’ve been playing along with the game for a few months, but I finally decided to take it to the next level and enter the contest. I don’t anticipate ever winning, but it’s really fun to try and think of the perfect New Yorker caption. Dry, clever irony can be so hard to nail down! When actually entering, it’s no longer enough to come up with the concept for the cartoon and then a vague spattering of words to illustrate the concept. No...if you’re pressing the submit button, then you’ve brainstormed and worked out your phrasing. I think it's an activity that could be more fun/successful with a partner (2 brains are better than 1), but it’s still deeply satisfying alone.

Psychoanalysis (aka totally solipsistic blog about me and more me (as opposed to blogs about me))

There comes a time in our lives when we are forced to confront painful episodes of our past. For a lot of people, this can mean the most tortuous of experiences: high school. The year of my 10 year reunion is nigh and while thinking of this fact, it’s hard to not stare at the ceiling and get lost in the most embarrassing episodes of my youth, but perhaps the most crucial as well. If I were not a complete dork in high school, would I still have blossomed into the amazing lily (pad) I am today?

Due to being reunited with a few former Falcons at my friend Aurelia’s wedding last fall, I have been sickly drawn into the kitschy idea of helping plan for the reunion. But I am unsure that I can pull it off without becoming infantilized by the whole process. Are we as humans destined to fill certain roles in certain peer groups that will in essence be frozen in history only to be melted by sadistic concepts such as “reunion”? Tonight was my opportunity to test this theory. I called a former classmate to brainstorm reunion ideas. It went like this:

Ring, Ring, ring, ring (answering machine picks up)
My internal dialogue:
“She did not answer...is it because I’m a dork?”

“Does she like me?”

“What am I doing?”

“Am I a dork for doing this?”

“I have nothing to wear.”
BEEP:

“Hi Sunny. It’s Lee. Sorry I didn’t return your call last night. I………..was busy. I just started going to this knitting group. And actually, tomorrow is my book club, so I’ll be busy tomorrow night. But I’m free on Friday night and all weekend. Why don’t you call and let me know a good time to call you. Or maybe you should just e-mail and we don’t have to talk. Or call. Whatever.”

Shaking with embarrassment I quickly hung up the phone. Not only did I ramble, but I intimated that my only time commitments involved knitting and reading and that I was free on the weekends? What is wrong with me?

Since only two of my blog readers actually experienced my teenage self, I thought I’d take the rest of you on a trip down memory lane to Lee Pruett street, circa 1991-1995:

1. I was new to Cactus Shadows high school. Ms. Katy Davidson was the first person to talk to me. My method for dealing with a new school: fly under the radar (also a popular reality show technique). My low flying tactics soon crash and burn when I wear a shirt backwards (with pocket in the back) to school and Chuck Browder points this fact out to my entire geometry class. Unfortunately, this wasn’t until fourth period, thereby allowing me three whole classes to show off my new fashion sensibilities.

2. I LOVED band. So much, in fact, that I decided I would like to participate in a drum corps the summer in between my freshman and sophomore years of school. What is drum corps? Well, check it out for yourself, but in a nutshell it is marching band as an unpaid, full-time summer job. I marched and I played the mellophone. The pretty girls where the ones who flipped flags around and wore heavy costume make-up during performances. For our “wacky” photo, I put my mellophone on my head. (maybe someday I will scan in the photo)

3. I followed my drum corps summer with two summers of actual band camp! It was really fun, except for the fact that my failed attempts at love with band nerds scared me away from boys for MANY years.

4. I LOVED orchestra. Not content to play solely in our shitty high school band, I was intensely involved with the Phoenix Youth Orchestra. Actually, it was really cool and was by audition, so it was the best kids in the Phoenix area. We played a concert with the Phoenix Symphony. All my cohorts went to Ivy League schools, so it was sort of like an overachiever’s club. Needless to say I was VERY popular at youth orchestra.

5. Katy D. and I entered a hacky-sack contest held at lunch time, but due to the combination of our lack of skillz and ability to find the loopholes in the contest rules, we decided to play “virtual hacky sack”. In front of our fellow lunchers, we proceeded to play without a sack and then make up the number of hits we got. I think we won, but then had an attack of the conscience and conceded the loss.

6. Rose B. and I wrestled on the grass during lunch. Literally...and in retrospect, quite embarrassingly.

7. I gave a book report on the seminal “aliens are with us” book, Communion: A true story by Whitley Strieber. Seriously.

8. I LOVED calculus.

9. I folded my socks down, rather than “scrunching”. You guys know what I’m talking about.

10. I wrote secret love poems to my science teacher.

11. My senior yearbook quote: The ribbon lightening stalks the pleomorphic leg stump.

I don’t think I need to say much more. To counter my social failings, my brother was a VERY popular student. He was athletic, funny and the student body president. Needless to say, our dynamic was not unlike that of similarly paired siblings in many a teen movie!

I have very few photos of that period of my life, so check me out at a gun course in March!:

Taking my accuracy test at the bear target:



The assortment of guns we fired:

Squirrels: 2, Lee: 0

I’m in the wooing stage with my neighborhood birds, and like any new relationship, there are some roadblocks. In this case, there is ONE (species of) roadblock. A threat in the kingdom of urbanized animals: the pesky squirrels who insist upon making my birdhouse fall to the ground for their own edification (and feeding). Oh, how I loved the squirrels. I wondered whether I should buy them a squirrel feeder. I watched them tenderly eating twigs and leaves and I felt a special kinship to my squirrel friends. I was, however, smitten with a certain other animal of bluish color and loud squawking. He left me recently and, ever a woman of action, I decided to get him back. I bought a birdhouse and a huge bag of food. My ears perked up when I thought he was in another yard. Surely he’d come back now that I could provide him with nourishment? But no, he seemed to be gone. In his stead I saw other birds, not of beautiful blue, but of browns and reds. They ate happily at my feeder and then WHAM! The feeder fell to the ground. At first I was confused and thought that maybe the flimsy string holding the feeder was of low caliber. Secretly, a nagging voice wanted to blame the squirrels. I banished the voice and replaced the string with insulated, stranded wire. It still had pliability, but it was wire, so it must be strong and able to withstand gusts of wind or the mighty weight of birds on the feeder. Two days later I glanced outside only to discover that the birdhouse had fallen again. A clean break in the wire indicated to me that it was no accident. These squirrels meant business. I went to home depot and bought 8 gauge bare copper wire—no plastic casing to give the squirrels the wrong impression of conquer-ability. Oh no, shiny copper firmly holds my birdhouse to the tree. The extra wire was used to wrap around the main, creating a "triple fold" effect in order to confuse the animals. Upon which wire should they gnaw?




Parental vacation, take 2 (for Will):
I’m afraid I might have annoyed them with my constant attempts at photography. Digital cameras are so FUN. We went to scenic Monterey and the Monterey Bay Aquarium:







Mom really loved the jellyfish, while I really loved pissing people off with a constantly flashing camera! (not really)



Dad couldn’t help but take special interest in all fish that can be sold commercially:



Dad and I had some very earnest thoughts on our roles in ocean protection:



Mom and I overlooking Monterey Bay:



PS. latest knitting blog entry

Southern Palate

When they got off the plane, my father was wearing a button down shirt, tucked into rain pants, capped off with leather loafers.




Here are a few things you should know about my parents:

1. My father has Pizza Hut listed in his address book

2. They speak in Southern American English (SAE) (I grew up not understanding that hill and heel were two completely different words, or that penguin is not pronounced pinguin)

3. They love in n’ out burger

4. My mother’s response to my attempt at engaging her in a conversation about climate change: “All I know is that when it gets warm outside, I turn on my air conditioner”

5. My mother occasionally refers to butter as “oleo”

6. My father is completely covered in hair much like a gorilla

Most obviously (especially to anyone who has spoken to them on the phone), my parents sprung forth from the belly of the South. They are exceedingly polite. They talk often of the olden days and how different our lives could have been were we to stay in the South. Most likely I would have wanted to compete in “pageants” and have crushes on boys who did “rodeo”. I might have children by now, and maybe I would have named them things like “Crystal Gail”, “Brenna”, “Dallas”, or “Dwayne” (actual names of childhood friends). I would probably teach them values that I currently do not have such as the importance of “pageants” or “rodeo” in the development of one’s young mind. I would probably also not be a vegetarian. Oh no, if there is one thing to NOT be in the South, it is black (but also weird or vegetarian).

Oh, Southern food, I loved you so! If there was any doubt as to it’s edibility, it was fried. Mashed potatoes, gravy, ocra, collard greens stewed with ham hock, catfish, cheese grits made with eggs (!), BBQ (“pulled pork”), homemade taffy in the summer, dinner rolls, fried tomatoes. None of that low-carb crap when you could ingest large quantities of sugar, breaded and lard. My grandmothers only cooked with lard saved up from previous meals...and I ate that lard like it was going out of style.

My parents are in town, and we made my grandmother’s chocolate pie recipe. She made up this recipe and was senile when she told it to my mother, so it was definitely a beta version for the 00s, but it was surprisingly close to the real thing. Cocoa, sugar, cornstarch, eggs. It is in the syle of those crappy pudding-chocolate pies that are sold in most diners, but sooo much better as it has a deep unadulterated chocolaty taste. Many a summer my brother and I were forced to go spend a week at her house (in Holcomb, MO, dangerously close to Tennessee, Arkansas and Kentucky). The town’s economy was cotton and was dreadfully void of anything to do for “fun”. My grandmother would watch her soaps( and talk to the TV as if the story line were REALLY happening) while Will and I bought liters of mountain dew at the one tiny store in town and rifled through her stuff. But without fail, we could fill our little bodies with fried okra and chocolate pie.

Some pictures from the ‘rent's visit:

We ate Chinese food...



Then went to the Exploratorium and tested our reflexes...



Shockingly enough, mom found out she has none...



But she can still sit in a big chair!

How many funny knitting puns can YOU think of?

If there's one thing I am good at, it's eating tamales. I also, however, like to knit. Many of you might have even received a shiny new handmade item in the mail a few Christmases ago. (When I was in the midst of unemployment with nothing to do but: complete knitting projects, eat obscene amounts of pizza and hang out with my boo). I'm bringing that love to Rachel's blog (in the form of a knitting column) over at accidentalfeminist.com.

I just made my virgin entry and let me be the first to say that were I grading it in a freshamn level English class, I'd give it a: B- (for timeliness and assuming I was in a good mood that day and the kids weren't driving me bonkers with their incessant chatter about weekend frat parties and the latest in beer bong technology).

Mostly, I have an uncanny ability to be obsessive, which I think will make for an informative (at least well-researched) knitting blog and (some day) perhaps a good biography of Brendan Fraser.

I heart hot dogs

Is the fourth of July supposed to be a time of reflection? For some reason my brain considers celebration and reflection to be antithetical. Why is it that on all holidays I can only think of the negative aspects of American culture? Why am I not content to shove a shish kabob in my mouth and light sparklers? Hot dogs and fireworks are cool. I just wish that we, as a country could be a bit more like, say France. They’re livin’ lives over there based on the three important principles of: family, wine, brie. Or how about Finland? They have, like 27 hour work weeks. Why must American culture be so WORK-driven? Why must holidays feel so lame because someone out there is working because they have to, or because they don’t have to, but want the overtime green? Why is the arbitrarily chosen day of Jesus’ birth the only day when people feel entitled to relax? OK, now that I got that off of my chest...

This was possibly one of the best three day weekends ever. Partly due to the fact that I made and ate a LOT of food and mostly because I got to see four great people.

These two lovely people came over on Saturday:




We made Ethiopian food and boy, were we successful! We improvised spiced butter, and made delicious lentils with berebere spice. Then we attempted injera bread, which had the consistency, though not the taste, of the real thing. Later I begged them to play Settlers of Catan, thinking that all of my playing in Port Townsend had prepared me for battle. Oh, how I was mistaken. These people are SERIOUS about the game in the way that I am SERIOUS about fish. They even have laminated cards. So I lost and pouted (on the inside).

The very next day I received these lovely lady visitors:



I had fresh from the oven my cake of the week ™:




It was a blueberry pudding cake--so delicious. This was possibly the easiest recipe I have ever attempted and took approximately 5 minutes to make and then 40 minutes to cook (and then 5 minutes for three people to eat). I made 2! The second one shall be savored and maybe saved for my parental units.

My lady friends and I then ate a delicious vegan lunch and then watched Branjelina in Mr. and Mrs. Smith. It was possibly the worst movie ever. Laurel brought up a good point about the lack of choreography or even SENSE in terms of the violence. Shit just got blown up. I was personally offended by the base sex jokes that were written for 13 year old boys. I reread the New Yorker review of the movie and have to say it is right on about the self-satisfied acting and holey plot. I then proceeded to read an article about a man who recently “broke the scrap barrier” by building a raft out of miscellaneous refuse and sailing it across the Atlantic. Amazing!

Quality time spent eating $1 frozen yogurt at IKEA and perusing the brightly colored home décor:




Lastly, I have a new, growing obsession with a pretty, but obnoxious blue bird that visits my yard. He/she has a terrible, loud squawk, and sits in the lemon tree outside of my kitchen. Laurel calls him my rooster, so I decided that shall be his name. Here is my rooster perched on a lawn chair:




Though I have never been a birder, my rooster may change all of that.