We are not the best at scanning the pantry for expired items. In fact, I've been known to use items if they're within reasonable reach of the expiration date. (Like, you know, a couple of years if it's not obviously perishable. Or sometimes, within a few weeks for cold stuff. Case in point, we are all still alive.) I tend to think of those dates as "guidelines." And don't worry, if you're a guest in my home for a meal, I'll serve you only the freshest food.
But it came to my attention this afternoon that we've been overly lax. My daughter was digging through the pantry and stopped to stare at a box of Hamburger Helper Lasagna. Now, I've scanned this same package many times (I shudder now to think how many) and never found an expiration date, but the thought of making lasagna from Hamburger Helper just doesn't appeal. So, I pass it over, but leave it alone ... just in case.
I heard an exclamation from the kitchen: "GROSS!"
After a few minutes, when I was ready, I responded: "What?"
"Mom, this box of Hamburger Helper has a Jurassic Park sweepstakes that ended October 31, 1997!"
Dang.
I told her to throw the sauce mix away, stick the box on the recycle shelf, and put the pasta bag back in the pantry. I'm pretty sure pasta doesn't ever die, but I'll check to be sure in a few years.
Showing posts with label Food for thought. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Food for thought. Show all posts
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
What's in the water?
Back when I was a kid, the last place you ever expected to see your parents was in the school cafeteria, unless it was a PTA meeting or program ... or you were in big trouble.
Not so anymore. It seems the latest badge of a "cool kid" is to have your mom or dad show up at lunchtime to eat with you. Even cooler when they come bearing fast food. It buys you the privilege of sitting at a special table with the 'rents and even picking one or two friends to come along if you are so moved.
So, my youngest wants to be cool, of course. (And maybe, just maybe, she actually likes to see us in the middle of the day for an extra hug and kiss as well.) She laid the heavy guilt on me last night. "Whennn are you going to come eat lunch with me? Todd does it alllll the time and he even has to do it on his day off and you don't even go to work anywhere!"
I told her he was just good at it--better at it than me, obviously. But of course, I showed up today. Fun was had by all, the food was even pretty good. No, I didn't take fast food. Can anyone imagine me getting there in time for lunch AND scheduling it so I managed to buy fast food on the way? Right.
There were only a few questionable situations.
First, the kids in this 5th/6th grade school have been SO BAD at lunch they had silent lunch several days this week. Including today! Yay! I asked Kristen when I got there if she wanted me to stay or come back another day when we could actually talk. She thought I was pretty silly and said you're allowed to talk when you're with your parent at the special table.
It was awkward, however, being one of about 10 people allowed to talk in a cafeteria stuffed with 300 silent 5th and 6th graders staring at you pitifully. Especially the kid sitting across from us (because apparently the special parent table is only the special parent *side* of the table in certain areas). He had long, stringy hair, glasses, loads of uncomfortable looking freckles, appeared to be about 15 instead of 12, and glared at us the whole time we ate and tried to make normal conversation.
We managed reasonably well, though, which leads to questionable situation number two. I picked up a bottle of water in the lunch line because (as I mentioned recently) I am not a fan of milk as a general rule. Especially not school milk. Ew. So, we were eating our pizza, corn on the cob, applesauce, and mandarin oranges, and Kristen asked if she could have a drink of my water. She was out of milk and the pizza was making her verrrry thirsty.
She studied the bottle, took a few swigs, then looked at it again and started reading the label out loud.
Kristen: "Water with fluoride. Isn't that the stuff they use for dead people?"
Me: "No, you must be thinking of formaldehyde." (For today, only, I was apparently smarter than a fifth grader.)
Kristen: "Oh, yeah."
But she pushed it back my way anyway.
The bell rang soon after and thus ended our lunch together. But, if Kristen and I start looking pickled any time in the near future, you'll know why.
Not so anymore. It seems the latest badge of a "cool kid" is to have your mom or dad show up at lunchtime to eat with you. Even cooler when they come bearing fast food. It buys you the privilege of sitting at a special table with the 'rents and even picking one or two friends to come along if you are so moved.
So, my youngest wants to be cool, of course. (And maybe, just maybe, she actually likes to see us in the middle of the day for an extra hug and kiss as well.) She laid the heavy guilt on me last night. "Whennn are you going to come eat lunch with me? Todd does it alllll the time and he even has to do it on his day off and you don't even go to work anywhere!"
I told her he was just good at it--better at it than me, obviously. But of course, I showed up today. Fun was had by all, the food was even pretty good. No, I didn't take fast food. Can anyone imagine me getting there in time for lunch AND scheduling it so I managed to buy fast food on the way? Right.
There were only a few questionable situations.
First, the kids in this 5th/6th grade school have been SO BAD at lunch they had silent lunch several days this week. Including today! Yay! I asked Kristen when I got there if she wanted me to stay or come back another day when we could actually talk. She thought I was pretty silly and said you're allowed to talk when you're with your parent at the special table.
It was awkward, however, being one of about 10 people allowed to talk in a cafeteria stuffed with 300 silent 5th and 6th graders staring at you pitifully. Especially the kid sitting across from us (because apparently the special parent table is only the special parent *side* of the table in certain areas). He had long, stringy hair, glasses, loads of uncomfortable looking freckles, appeared to be about 15 instead of 12, and glared at us the whole time we ate and tried to make normal conversation.
We managed reasonably well, though, which leads to questionable situation number two. I picked up a bottle of water in the lunch line because (as I mentioned recently) I am not a fan of milk as a general rule. Especially not school milk. Ew. So, we were eating our pizza, corn on the cob, applesauce, and mandarin oranges, and Kristen asked if she could have a drink of my water. She was out of milk and the pizza was making her verrrry thirsty.
She studied the bottle, took a few swigs, then looked at it again and started reading the label out loud.
Kristen: "Water with fluoride. Isn't that the stuff they use for dead people?"
Me: "No, you must be thinking of formaldehyde." (For today, only, I was apparently smarter than a fifth grader.)
Kristen: "Oh, yeah."
But she pushed it back my way anyway.
The bell rang soon after and thus ended our lunch together. But, if Kristen and I start looking pickled any time in the near future, you'll know why.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Your Blues Ain't Like Mine
I have read more books this year that have really, really made me think. More than in who knows how long--maybe ever. I've double posted a few times lately on both my blogs,and I'm going to have to do it again tonight.
Over the weekend, I finished the latest--Your Blues Ain't Like Mine, by Bebe Moore Campbell. I happened to see this while browsing at the library a few weeks ago, and remembered a reference to the author in a blurb on Carleen's book, Orange Mint & Honey, of course! And I did not know until just this minute when I went searching for a book link that Campbell is deceased, having died of a brain tumor in 2006.
If you've known me very well in "real life" for long, you know racism (i.e., trying to eliminate it) is one of my soapboxes. And yet, my eyes were opened even a bit wider reading this book. I felt such a mixture of anger, shame, and hope while reading. I think the premise behind the book is that we all have our burdens to bear, and that it's far too easy to judge others, believing that our own burden is just a little bit heavier because of what or who we are. You might come away with something altogether different if you read it. And, of course, there are so many big ideas in the book, and that's just one.
But, I want to talk about those emotions a little more here.
Anger. If you can read this story without feeling anger, I am afraid for you. The fictional events are based on a true story, where a young African American man in the deep South, right at the beginning of the civil rights era, was lynched for allegedly speaking inappropriately to a white woman. Lip service was paid to justice, almost making it worse than if it had never been brought up at all. The rest of the story entails the unfolding of the lives of those surrounding the event over the next 30 years--African American, white, and mixed-race characters.
Shame. I had to ask my mom over dinner Saturday evening what happened in our own family to stall racism. I loved my maternal grandma--she was truly one of my favorite people when I was growing up--yet I cringed and felt physically ill every time I heard her or one of her generation in my family use that horrible word you can guess at here.
For some reason, though, my mother wasn't like that. Over dinner, she told me that when she was growing up in New Mexico, they were beginning to talk in the public schools about civil rights and putting a stop to racism, and she guesses she just took it to heart. This suprises me--it was in the 40s and 50s, and that seems pretty progressive to me! She remembers a time when her father was furious with her for accepting a ride home from camp from the family of an African American girl, and another when she went on a date with a Hispanic boy.
Unfortunately, others in my extended family of her same generation weren't influenced like she was, and I am sorry to say some are no different all the way down to my generation. You could say we are not close today. :-D
On the other hand, my father's family was a strange contrast. I was under the impression my paternal grandmother was racist, too, although I did not know her well, but it turns out she was selective--she was prejudiced against Hispanics, but not African Americans.
This could be because, as it turns out, she fell deeply in love with an African American boy when she was in her late teens, and her father forced an end to that relationship, sometime in the 1920s, I guess. Grandma was an unhappy person as long as I knew her, and that went a long way in explaining her personality to me. She also bore the stigma of being one quarter Cherokee. At least, we think it was Cherokee. The family never talked much about it back in those days. It was a stigma, after all, and the guy responsible for that quarter was never publicly in the picture. I think there is a great story idea in there somewhere, and in fact, did a character sketch for a writing class last year based on the few details I knew.
Anyway, all I knew was the story I heard for years--when my father called to tell her he was engaged to a girl at the university he attended in New Mexico, Grandma's first question was, "Is she a Mexican?" And yet, she also sponsored a Jewish family in the displacement camps after WWII to come to the United States--including their grandbaby who had been fathered by a Nazi soldier who was in love with the daughter.
So, shame because I hate the way people related to me acted sometimes, and how some probably act to this day. But also hope.
Hope because I saw how my parents were able to stop this cycle in one family, in one generation, simply by saying to themselves and to us, their children, "This is never, ever acceptable." My dad worked with international students at the University of Colorado when I was a kid, and we had visitors of every race and religion in our house from the earliest time I can remember. It was just the norm.
My brother's best friend called my mom "Mom," too, and frequently asked my mom to give him and his bike a ride home from our house when it got too dark. He said, "White people don't like to see me riding my bike in your neighborhood after dark, sometimes they shoot at my bike license with BB guns." He was my brother's best man in his wedding. I spent the day I came home from the hospital with my middle baby with a broken heart. Alan had tried really hard to build a good life for himself, serving in the military, and trying to raise his son right, eventually as a single parent. Yet, somehow things went seriously awry. We learned that day I came home with my new baby that Alan, a victim of severe poverty and a childhood home in Five Points filled with crime, drugs, and despair, had cracked--he had murdered his own 10-year-old son, whom we had held as a baby, because the little guy had become involved in a gang. At least that was his reasoning.
The story was more horrible than we ever could have imagined, and yet, he wasn't just another statistic to us, he was our big brother, our son, our best friend. And I don't mean that in the sense of those who say, "I love black people. Some of my best friends are black." I admire your intention, but really, are they your best friends? On the other hand, I am not tooting my own horn here. I am sometimes reminded of the instances where I am myself racist, in some form or another. You know how I know? That still, small voice in my heart that whispers to me.
It occurred to me as I wrote that paragraph that one of the overriding themes in the manuscript I'm currently revising comes directly from my experiences. Several of my characters have a big "difference"--they are deaf. In my story, my main protagonist is deaf, but some of the other deaf characters do bad things. It is impossible to identify the "good guys" or "bad guys" simply based on their physical characteristics. In one scene, my character's granddad reminds him that in the world, there are really only two types of people--those who really care and those who really don't. I know that's pretty broad, but it's also pretty true if you think about it.
Anyway, I encourage you to locate this book. I think this would be an excellent book for a mandatory high school reading list. It's quite graphic, but probably no more graphic than they see every day on television and in movies, if more disturbing.
Sorry for going on so long, but this was on my heart. And how appropriate, the following quote just showed up on an email digest I get.
"People are like stained glass windows: they sparkle and shine when the sun's out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is light within."
—Elizabeth Kubler-Ross
Over the weekend, I finished the latest--Your Blues Ain't Like Mine, by Bebe Moore Campbell. I happened to see this while browsing at the library a few weeks ago, and remembered a reference to the author in a blurb on Carleen's book, Orange Mint & Honey, of course! And I did not know until just this minute when I went searching for a book link that Campbell is deceased, having died of a brain tumor in 2006.
If you've known me very well in "real life" for long, you know racism (i.e., trying to eliminate it) is one of my soapboxes. And yet, my eyes were opened even a bit wider reading this book. I felt such a mixture of anger, shame, and hope while reading. I think the premise behind the book is that we all have our burdens to bear, and that it's far too easy to judge others, believing that our own burden is just a little bit heavier because of what or who we are. You might come away with something altogether different if you read it. And, of course, there are so many big ideas in the book, and that's just one.
But, I want to talk about those emotions a little more here.
Anger. If you can read this story without feeling anger, I am afraid for you. The fictional events are based on a true story, where a young African American man in the deep South, right at the beginning of the civil rights era, was lynched for allegedly speaking inappropriately to a white woman. Lip service was paid to justice, almost making it worse than if it had never been brought up at all. The rest of the story entails the unfolding of the lives of those surrounding the event over the next 30 years--African American, white, and mixed-race characters.
Shame. I had to ask my mom over dinner Saturday evening what happened in our own family to stall racism. I loved my maternal grandma--she was truly one of my favorite people when I was growing up--yet I cringed and felt physically ill every time I heard her or one of her generation in my family use that horrible word you can guess at here.
For some reason, though, my mother wasn't like that. Over dinner, she told me that when she was growing up in New Mexico, they were beginning to talk in the public schools about civil rights and putting a stop to racism, and she guesses she just took it to heart. This suprises me--it was in the 40s and 50s, and that seems pretty progressive to me! She remembers a time when her father was furious with her for accepting a ride home from camp from the family of an African American girl, and another when she went on a date with a Hispanic boy.
Unfortunately, others in my extended family of her same generation weren't influenced like she was, and I am sorry to say some are no different all the way down to my generation. You could say we are not close today. :-D
On the other hand, my father's family was a strange contrast. I was under the impression my paternal grandmother was racist, too, although I did not know her well, but it turns out she was selective--she was prejudiced against Hispanics, but not African Americans.
This could be because, as it turns out, she fell deeply in love with an African American boy when she was in her late teens, and her father forced an end to that relationship, sometime in the 1920s, I guess. Grandma was an unhappy person as long as I knew her, and that went a long way in explaining her personality to me. She also bore the stigma of being one quarter Cherokee. At least, we think it was Cherokee. The family never talked much about it back in those days. It was a stigma, after all, and the guy responsible for that quarter was never publicly in the picture. I think there is a great story idea in there somewhere, and in fact, did a character sketch for a writing class last year based on the few details I knew.
Anyway, all I knew was the story I heard for years--when my father called to tell her he was engaged to a girl at the university he attended in New Mexico, Grandma's first question was, "Is she a Mexican?" And yet, she also sponsored a Jewish family in the displacement camps after WWII to come to the United States--including their grandbaby who had been fathered by a Nazi soldier who was in love with the daughter.
So, shame because I hate the way people related to me acted sometimes, and how some probably act to this day. But also hope.
Hope because I saw how my parents were able to stop this cycle in one family, in one generation, simply by saying to themselves and to us, their children, "This is never, ever acceptable." My dad worked with international students at the University of Colorado when I was a kid, and we had visitors of every race and religion in our house from the earliest time I can remember. It was just the norm.
My brother's best friend called my mom "Mom," too, and frequently asked my mom to give him and his bike a ride home from our house when it got too dark. He said, "White people don't like to see me riding my bike in your neighborhood after dark, sometimes they shoot at my bike license with BB guns." He was my brother's best man in his wedding. I spent the day I came home from the hospital with my middle baby with a broken heart. Alan had tried really hard to build a good life for himself, serving in the military, and trying to raise his son right, eventually as a single parent. Yet, somehow things went seriously awry. We learned that day I came home with my new baby that Alan, a victim of severe poverty and a childhood home in Five Points filled with crime, drugs, and despair, had cracked--he had murdered his own 10-year-old son, whom we had held as a baby, because the little guy had become involved in a gang. At least that was his reasoning.
The story was more horrible than we ever could have imagined, and yet, he wasn't just another statistic to us, he was our big brother, our son, our best friend. And I don't mean that in the sense of those who say, "I love black people. Some of my best friends are black." I admire your intention, but really, are they your best friends? On the other hand, I am not tooting my own horn here. I am sometimes reminded of the instances where I am myself racist, in some form or another. You know how I know? That still, small voice in my heart that whispers to me.
It occurred to me as I wrote that paragraph that one of the overriding themes in the manuscript I'm currently revising comes directly from my experiences. Several of my characters have a big "difference"--they are deaf. In my story, my main protagonist is deaf, but some of the other deaf characters do bad things. It is impossible to identify the "good guys" or "bad guys" simply based on their physical characteristics. In one scene, my character's granddad reminds him that in the world, there are really only two types of people--those who really care and those who really don't. I know that's pretty broad, but it's also pretty true if you think about it.
Anyway, I encourage you to locate this book. I think this would be an excellent book for a mandatory high school reading list. It's quite graphic, but probably no more graphic than they see every day on television and in movies, if more disturbing.
Sorry for going on so long, but this was on my heart. And how appropriate, the following quote just showed up on an email digest I get.
"People are like stained glass windows: they sparkle and shine when the sun's out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is light within."
—Elizabeth Kubler-Ross
Friday, March 14, 2008
Putting the burger back in burgers
If you're a newer reader, you might not know that I live by the Murphy's Law of Fast Food Experiences. Can I get a witness?
Tonight was no different. My friend Gail and I drove to Dallas to hear Anne Lamott speak as part of the Dallas Arts and Letters series. We stopped at Sonic on the way back to grab a bite to eat--everything else closes at 10 here in Texas, and it was 10:01. (I love that in some other parts of the world, places stay open a wee bit later.)
I decided to go fully leaded and ordered the Combo #5: Bacon Cheeseburger Toaster, Tots, and a Diet Cherry Limeade. (Because the diet drink cancelled the fat and calories in the other items, right?) I mentioned I didn't want onions, but I did want the onion RING. Weird, I know.
I ended up with two sandwiches. You want to know why? (Sure you do.)
They forgot to put the burger in the bacon cheeseburger.
???
I would have gladly traded in the original. I'm not completely sure they believed me when I reported that my burger appeared to be missing the burger. The manager got on the intercom and said, "I understand you have a problem with your cheeseburger?" Gail (because she was on the side by the intercom) said, "She's missing the hamburger patty from her--" and the guy cut in. He said, "Just a second." Alas, he never came back.
But, a few minutes later, voila, I was presented with a hot, fresh BCT, including the burger. The mutant was in plain site on the dash, but they didn't want it back.
So, I guess for lunch tomorrow I'm having a Bacon Cheeseburger, hold the burger.
Tonight was no different. My friend Gail and I drove to Dallas to hear Anne Lamott speak as part of the Dallas Arts and Letters series. We stopped at Sonic on the way back to grab a bite to eat--everything else closes at 10 here in Texas, and it was 10:01. (I love that in some other parts of the world, places stay open a wee bit later.)
I decided to go fully leaded and ordered the Combo #5: Bacon Cheeseburger Toaster, Tots, and a Diet Cherry Limeade. (Because the diet drink cancelled the fat and calories in the other items, right?) I mentioned I didn't want onions, but I did want the onion RING. Weird, I know.
I ended up with two sandwiches. You want to know why? (Sure you do.)
They forgot to put the burger in the bacon cheeseburger.
???
I would have gladly traded in the original. I'm not completely sure they believed me when I reported that my burger appeared to be missing the burger. The manager got on the intercom and said, "I understand you have a problem with your cheeseburger?" Gail (because she was on the side by the intercom) said, "She's missing the hamburger patty from her--" and the guy cut in. He said, "Just a second." Alas, he never came back.
But, a few minutes later, voila, I was presented with a hot, fresh BCT, including the burger. The mutant was in plain site on the dash, but they didn't want it back.
So, I guess for lunch tomorrow I'm having a Bacon Cheeseburger, hold the burger.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Another evening to remember
I'm going to balance out this blog by posting something short. Want to think you died and went to heaven early?
Three words:
Buca di Beppo
Three words:
Buca di Beppo
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Here we come a-yelling?
Kristen and I were out doing some holiday errands and stopped for hamburgers at the Burger King drive-through. While we were there, an incident happened that reminded me not only of who we are, and who we are to be, but also that it's better to go postal vicariously through other people.
The lady ahead of us had great difficulty placing her order. She repeated the whole thing several times, and the poor employee kept getting it wrong. The last time he repeated it back to her, the lady simply yelled at the top of her lungs, "TWO NUMBER ONES!!!!" (and although she didn't say it, you could hear the rest of it in her voice, "... you $%#$ %$%*@!!"
To his credit, the employee replied calmly. "Okay, two number ones, and what drink would you like with the second one?" And amazingly, she answered him calmly.
I have to say that after she yelled, I laughed my head off. She really didn't sound like she was about to go to the window and do anything violent, she was just fed up--not only with the BK employee, but with holiday stress in general. It was her moment to let it all go. (I hope, but then again, perhaps this is her usual M.O.)
In the long run, it was not only a release for her, but for me, too, and it reminded me of how hard it is to keep your cool during this time of year. We are supposed to be thinking about peace and love and all the good stuff, but instead are running around like headless chickens trying to get everything finished. It all seems so critical in the days leading up to Christmas, but so unimportant when it's all over.
In these last few days of the season, temember who you are to be, and let someone else do the yelling.
Here we come a-wassailing
Among the leaves so green,
Here we come a-wand'ring
So fair to be seen.
Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail, too,
And God bless you, and send you
A Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year.
We are not daily beggers
That beg from door to door,
But we are neighbors' children
Whom you have seen before
Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail, too,
And God bless you, and send you
A Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year.
Good master and good mistress,
As you sit beside the fire,
Pray think of us poor children
Who wander in the mire.
Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail, too,
And God bless you, and send you
A Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year
The lady ahead of us had great difficulty placing her order. She repeated the whole thing several times, and the poor employee kept getting it wrong. The last time he repeated it back to her, the lady simply yelled at the top of her lungs, "TWO NUMBER ONES!!!!" (and although she didn't say it, you could hear the rest of it in her voice, "... you $%#$ %$%*@!!"
To his credit, the employee replied calmly. "Okay, two number ones, and what drink would you like with the second one?" And amazingly, she answered him calmly.
I have to say that after she yelled, I laughed my head off. She really didn't sound like she was about to go to the window and do anything violent, she was just fed up--not only with the BK employee, but with holiday stress in general. It was her moment to let it all go. (I hope, but then again, perhaps this is her usual M.O.)
In the long run, it was not only a release for her, but for me, too, and it reminded me of how hard it is to keep your cool during this time of year. We are supposed to be thinking about peace and love and all the good stuff, but instead are running around like headless chickens trying to get everything finished. It all seems so critical in the days leading up to Christmas, but so unimportant when it's all over.
In these last few days of the season, temember who you are to be, and let someone else do the yelling.
Here we come a-wassailing
Among the leaves so green,
Here we come a-wand'ring
So fair to be seen.
Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail, too,
And God bless you, and send you
A Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year.
We are not daily beggers
That beg from door to door,
But we are neighbors' children
Whom you have seen before
Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail, too,
And God bless you, and send you
A Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year.
Good master and good mistress,
As you sit beside the fire,
Pray think of us poor children
Who wander in the mire.
Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail, too,
And God bless you, and send you
A Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year
Friday, December 14, 2007
Another note to self
Buy Deep Dark Chocolate Cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory instead of making it.6 measuring cups and spoons, 5 bowls, 4 pans, 3 knives, 2 cutting boards, and a mixer in a partridge tree later...
The cake is cooked. The topping is not.
The back, she is broken.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Small world, big difference
Bungi has a meme on her blog today that sheds some interesting light on cultural differences. I commented that I had most of the material items her living space is missing. Is missing really the right word? Probably not. Maybe "free of" is a better word...she doesn't have to clean a bathtub or oven! But durnit, where's my househelper? ;-)
Bungi seems like she has higher financial status than I would guess a lot of her fellow citizens in India have, and yet, these things we take for granted in even the majority of the poorest homes in the U.S. are "extras" there. (Oven, bathtub, porch, for example.) On the other hand, here, mostly the wealthy are the ones with house help, although I think it's more common when both parents in a household have to work. (To support their multiple bathtub habit. Heh.)
And, wow, I am put to shame when she says her floors are swept five days a week. But, Bungi, I want to know--is it you or your helper doing all that sweeping!?
My favorite is the "Comet or Soft Scrub?" question. Or rather, her answer. "Uh?" Heh!
Bungi seems like she has higher financial status than I would guess a lot of her fellow citizens in India have, and yet, these things we take for granted in even the majority of the poorest homes in the U.S. are "extras" there. (Oven, bathtub, porch, for example.) On the other hand, here, mostly the wealthy are the ones with house help, although I think it's more common when both parents in a household have to work. (To support their multiple bathtub habit. Heh.)
And, wow, I am put to shame when she says her floors are swept five days a week. But, Bungi, I want to know--is it you or your helper doing all that sweeping!?
My favorite is the "Comet or Soft Scrub?" question. Or rather, her answer. "Uh?" Heh!
Monday, November 05, 2007
These are a few of my favorite things
Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens,
Movies and music and Ryan with mittens ... (I mean mocassins ... lalala )
Cheeseburger tacos with onnnion strings...
1) Todd and I saw Martian Child Saturday night. I really loved it. Me and only 22% of the movie reviewer population on rottentomatoes.com. Those people. What is so wrong with a movie full of schmaltz (read: people learning to love each other)? Who freakin' cares? If it makes you happy, it must be bad, they say.
John and Joan Cusack are full 'o fun, and this was quite a serious movie, but still fun. It had some (not-so-sly) political messages that kind of cracked me up. We've come a long way since the Dixie Chicks scandal of not so many years ago. I wonder if Hollywood could have gotten away then with panning into sharp focus--not once, but twice--a picture of George W behind a school principal explaining to David (John Cusack) "We're just not equipped to handle a child as different as Dennis here in our school." Whatever your politics, it was quite an overt message, I thought. Todd gives me a hard time and says I read too much into movies or music sometimes, but I dunno ... I kind of enjoy looking for the subtle and not-so-subtle messages sent through media.
2) Annual trek to see my fav-o-rite musician, singer/songwriter David Wilcox tonight. This year, I might add, I am proud to say I recommended to Dave's manager that he try to book him at the Bend Studio, and he did. I'm positively famous now, obviously. He was supposed to play their Ft. Worth venue, but ended up doing two Dallas shows instead at a place called Rock House Films. It was a smaller setting than we've seen him in the last few years, which was cool. He sang a hysterical new song I'm absolutely sure will lead to a new nickname spoken under the breath around the house (not in front of the children, of course) at certain times when people are acting like ... well, like Captain Wanker. :-O
3) Ryan joined us for a pre-birthday celebration at the concert. We were devastated to find that Tin Star, which was only a few short blocks from Rock House, and where we were going to enjoy the best ever cheesburger tacos, was gone. It's been replaced by a restaurant called Mooyah, which sounds suspiciously like Hooyah!, one of our favorite Denton restaurants, only it serves burgers instead of burritos. What is the world coming to when Tin Star goes away from Uptown Dallas? I almost cried. Instead, we had some pretty good pizza from I Fratelli, and luckily, there are four other Tin Star locations in the Metroplex.
Ryan is making his way toward the last stretch of his first semester in college. He mentioned it's interesting that he's the only one of his friends with a job, and also the only one who always owes his friends money. What's up with that?
Anyway, we enjoyed his hole-y mocassined company to celebrate another year of Ryan, and another year of David Wilcox. He sat in awe and got real excited when Dave sang "Leave it like it is," one of his favorites. I told him I'd start calling him Kitchen Blue if he'd like, because he is definitely "a unique." (Ten bucks for the reader who can identify the movie that line comes from.)
Now when the paint jar tipped
Off of the table
You watched as it started to fall
Glass popped, shattered and splattered
And paint spray hit the wall
Bright, blue glossy enamel
Across the kitchen floor
You said, "Good God, look at that pattern
I've never seen that before"
Leave it like it is
Never mind the turpentine
Leave it like it is
Its fine
Now when the paint dried
You gave it a title
You called it "Kitchen Blue"
A white frame painted around it
And gallery lighting, too
Rich folks come over to dinner
They all want one of their own
They say "How much? Who's the artist"
And, "My what a beautiful home"
Now most folks suffer in sorrow
Thinking they're just no good
They don't match the magazine model
As close as they think they should
They live just like the "paint by numbers"
The teacher would be impressed
A life-time of follow the lines
So it's just like all of the rest
Leave it like it is
Never mind the turpentine
Leave it like it is
Its fine
Wow, this is getting way too long, and I think it's because even though the clock says it's 12:41, a few days ago, it would have been 1:41. I think I'd best be going now.
Movies and music and Ryan with mittens ... (I mean mocassins ... lalala )
Cheeseburger tacos with onnnion strings...
1) Todd and I saw Martian Child Saturday night. I really loved it. Me and only 22% of the movie reviewer population on rottentomatoes.com. Those people. What is so wrong with a movie full of schmaltz (read: people learning to love each other)? Who freakin' cares? If it makes you happy, it must be bad, they say.
John and Joan Cusack are full 'o fun, and this was quite a serious movie, but still fun. It had some (not-so-sly) political messages that kind of cracked me up. We've come a long way since the Dixie Chicks scandal of not so many years ago. I wonder if Hollywood could have gotten away then with panning into sharp focus--not once, but twice--a picture of George W behind a school principal explaining to David (John Cusack) "We're just not equipped to handle a child as different as Dennis here in our school." Whatever your politics, it was quite an overt message, I thought. Todd gives me a hard time and says I read too much into movies or music sometimes, but I dunno ... I kind of enjoy looking for the subtle and not-so-subtle messages sent through media.
2) Annual trek to see my fav-o-rite musician, singer/songwriter David Wilcox tonight. This year, I might add, I am proud to say I recommended to Dave's manager that he try to book him at the Bend Studio, and he did. I'm positively famous now, obviously. He was supposed to play their Ft. Worth venue, but ended up doing two Dallas shows instead at a place called Rock House Films. It was a smaller setting than we've seen him in the last few years, which was cool. He sang a hysterical new song I'm absolutely sure will lead to a new nickname spoken under the breath around the house (not in front of the children, of course) at certain times when people are acting like ... well, like Captain Wanker. :-O
3) Ryan joined us for a pre-birthday celebration at the concert. We were devastated to find that Tin Star, which was only a few short blocks from Rock House, and where we were going to enjoy the best ever cheesburger tacos, was gone. It's been replaced by a restaurant called Mooyah, which sounds suspiciously like Hooyah!, one of our favorite Denton restaurants, only it serves burgers instead of burritos. What is the world coming to when Tin Star goes away from Uptown Dallas? I almost cried. Instead, we had some pretty good pizza from I Fratelli, and luckily, there are four other Tin Star locations in the Metroplex.
Ryan is making his way toward the last stretch of his first semester in college. He mentioned it's interesting that he's the only one of his friends with a job, and also the only one who always owes his friends money. What's up with that?
Anyway, we enjoyed his hole-y mocassined company to celebrate another year of Ryan, and another year of David Wilcox. He sat in awe and got real excited when Dave sang "Leave it like it is," one of his favorites. I told him I'd start calling him Kitchen Blue if he'd like, because he is definitely "a unique." (Ten bucks for the reader who can identify the movie that line comes from.)
Now when the paint jar tipped
Off of the table
You watched as it started to fall
Glass popped, shattered and splattered
And paint spray hit the wall
Bright, blue glossy enamel
Across the kitchen floor
You said, "Good God, look at that pattern
I've never seen that before"
Leave it like it is
Never mind the turpentine
Leave it like it is
Its fine
Now when the paint dried
You gave it a title
You called it "Kitchen Blue"
A white frame painted around it
And gallery lighting, too
Rich folks come over to dinner
They all want one of their own
They say "How much? Who's the artist"
And, "My what a beautiful home"
Now most folks suffer in sorrow
Thinking they're just no good
They don't match the magazine model
As close as they think they should
They live just like the "paint by numbers"
The teacher would be impressed
A life-time of follow the lines
So it's just like all of the rest
Leave it like it is
Never mind the turpentine
Leave it like it is
Its fine
Wow, this is getting way too long, and I think it's because even though the clock says it's 12:41, a few days ago, it would have been 1:41. I think I'd best be going now.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Gosh, a food and a soapbox 2-fer
I'm going out on a limb tonight and visiting both of my recent ruts. Food and a soapbox, for your reading entertainment. And maybe something to think about.
Does anyone remember my post about my o/c tendencies and Salad Day from many moons ago? Well. We have carried on that tradition, my mother and I. Mom still picks up Southwest Chicken salads most Tuesdays for our lunches. We've expanded a bit. Some weeks, like this one, she gets it on other days. I know, it just doesn't seem right, but it does happen. Like today.
We've also expanded our menu a bit, and sometimes she gets the salads from McDonald's instead of Jack in the Box. They are enough different that it mixes things up a little.
So, today it was Jack in the Box. And I was thinking, as I finished off my salad and began to load up all the trash items and throw them out, of how they've changed in the last several months and how they've kind of let me down, to tell the truth. (It's okay, you can cry.)
Only a few months ago, that salad came in a plastic container with everything edible inside it except the dressing and some chip-type things. Some extra packaging there, but you can maybe understand how you might want to keep those things separate and fresh until you eat them. A fork and napkin came wrapped in a plastic sleeve, too. Then there's the plastic bag it all gets dropped in before it's handed to the customer. A lot of packaging and trash. Already. Container (2 pieces), fork, napkin, wrapper, plastic squishy dressing and chip holders, bag. Yep, that's 9 items. (And I'm gonna try to do the math right this time, Heather, but I might mess up. Heh.)
Now, if you know me well, you know I'm kind of Johnny-come-lately to all this green stuff, so please don't think I'm trying to act like someone I'm not. But yeah, I'm trying. Todd's got me trained on the recycling thing pretty well now. I panicked just a little this morning when I realized it was recycle day and my bag of plastic bottles hadn't gone out the door. But, phew, I got them out there before the truck came. (And yeah, I do have a lot of plastic bottles. Texas water and all, you know.)
But now Jack in the Box is having to keep up with the Joneses (a/k/a McDonald's SW Chicken Salad), and somehow they've decided to do that, they need to have the grilled chicken breast freshly cooked and in one piece instead of chopped up and thrown on top of the salad, and that it needs to be in its own separate container. Which, of course, necessitates tossing a plastic knife in the mix as well.
So, we've moved from 9 disposable items to 11. For one little (well, not that little) salad. It is tasty, for sure, but I have a few problems with that.
First, if you're buying a salad in a drive-through, chances are, you want to eat fast, and you don't really want to have to cut up your own chicken. Hence, the title "Fast Food." Call me lazy, but dudes.
Second, McDonald's has managed to convey their equally tasty, yet slightly different, SW Chicken Salad in a two-piece plastic container, with the wrapped napkin, knife, and fork, and the dressing in its plastic squishy thing, bag, and that's it. Sliced chicken and chips are thrown on top of salad in the container (still fresh and warm). So, they've managed to keep it at a still high, but certainly lower, 8 disposable items.
Now, I'm probably not going to stop eating these salads, nor is my mom going to stop buying them (crossing my fingers, anyway), but just maybe there's a better way for them to do this.
In a recent post, Paul from Colorado (who is also the super green husband of a friend I've known since high school in Denver, by the way) suggested taking your own plastic cups to fast food restaurants. I'm probably not going to take my own bowl for the salad (I think they'd look askance and throw me out on my ear right after they called the health department to report an unruly consumer.)
But, for my part, perhaps I can ask Mom to have them leave the plasticware out, and just maybe I will write Jack in the Box a nice, friendly email asking them why they didn't leave the chicken alone.
Does anyone remember my post about my o/c tendencies and Salad Day from many moons ago? Well. We have carried on that tradition, my mother and I. Mom still picks up Southwest Chicken salads most Tuesdays for our lunches. We've expanded a bit. Some weeks, like this one, she gets it on other days. I know, it just doesn't seem right, but it does happen. Like today.
We've also expanded our menu a bit, and sometimes she gets the salads from McDonald's instead of Jack in the Box. They are enough different that it mixes things up a little.
So, today it was Jack in the Box. And I was thinking, as I finished off my salad and began to load up all the trash items and throw them out, of how they've changed in the last several months and how they've kind of let me down, to tell the truth. (It's okay, you can cry.)
Only a few months ago, that salad came in a plastic container with everything edible inside it except the dressing and some chip-type things. Some extra packaging there, but you can maybe understand how you might want to keep those things separate and fresh until you eat them. A fork and napkin came wrapped in a plastic sleeve, too. Then there's the plastic bag it all gets dropped in before it's handed to the customer. A lot of packaging and trash. Already. Container (2 pieces), fork, napkin, wrapper, plastic squishy dressing and chip holders, bag. Yep, that's 9 items. (And I'm gonna try to do the math right this time, Heather, but I might mess up. Heh.)
Now, if you know me well, you know I'm kind of Johnny-come-lately to all this green stuff, so please don't think I'm trying to act like someone I'm not. But yeah, I'm trying. Todd's got me trained on the recycling thing pretty well now. I panicked just a little this morning when I realized it was recycle day and my bag of plastic bottles hadn't gone out the door. But, phew, I got them out there before the truck came. (And yeah, I do have a lot of plastic bottles. Texas water and all, you know.)
But now Jack in the Box is having to keep up with the Joneses (a/k/a McDonald's SW Chicken Salad), and somehow they've decided to do that, they need to have the grilled chicken breast freshly cooked and in one piece instead of chopped up and thrown on top of the salad, and that it needs to be in its own separate container. Which, of course, necessitates tossing a plastic knife in the mix as well.
So, we've moved from 9 disposable items to 11. For one little (well, not that little) salad. It is tasty, for sure, but I have a few problems with that.
First, if you're buying a salad in a drive-through, chances are, you want to eat fast, and you don't really want to have to cut up your own chicken. Hence, the title "Fast Food." Call me lazy, but dudes.
Second, McDonald's has managed to convey their equally tasty, yet slightly different, SW Chicken Salad in a two-piece plastic container, with the wrapped napkin, knife, and fork, and the dressing in its plastic squishy thing, bag, and that's it. Sliced chicken and chips are thrown on top of salad in the container (still fresh and warm). So, they've managed to keep it at a still high, but certainly lower, 8 disposable items.
Now, I'm probably not going to stop eating these salads, nor is my mom going to stop buying them (crossing my fingers, anyway), but just maybe there's a better way for them to do this.
In a recent post, Paul from Colorado (who is also the super green husband of a friend I've known since high school in Denver, by the way) suggested taking your own plastic cups to fast food restaurants. I'm probably not going to take my own bowl for the salad (I think they'd look askance and throw me out on my ear right after they called the health department to report an unruly consumer.)
But, for my part, perhaps I can ask Mom to have them leave the plasticware out, and just maybe I will write Jack in the Box a nice, friendly email asking them why they didn't leave the chicken alone.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Four things about food
Taking a break from home improvement for a few days, so I thought I'd talk about another favorite topic.1) I discovered this week that Albertson's brand semi-sweet chocolate chips taste almost exactly like Dove Dark Chocolate. Oh, my. I snack on a few chocolate chips to keep the junk-food monster at bay sometimes, and I might have to make this my "brand" of choice.
s and I've always thought he was growing zuchinni, and that the ones that ended up over our fence had simply gone to seed. Turns out they are bitter melon. Who knew? He gave me one and showed me how to prepare it. Said many Asian and Indian people eat it or use it for tea, and have for centuries, and it controls blood sugar, which is why so few people of that ethnicity are diabetic. He told me to be sure NOT to let my mom eat any, because she is diabetic, and somehow a person who is taking medicine for diabetes can get sick from it. Maybe it lowers the blood sugar too much? Anyway, I took it in the house and sliced it up, added salt and lemon juice, as Sam told me, and ate a few bites. At this point, I can tell you it is definitely an acquired taste.
3) Speaking of trying different things, this summer while I was visiting my brother in California, I tried Indian food for the first time ever. I have to say I wasn't crazy about what I had, but I probably need to try something else. I had chicken tikka masala, and it didn't taste bad at all, but just didn't overwhelm me as it obviously did my brother and my five-year-old nephew. I have never seen that kid eat so much food! He was just shoveling the chicken into his mouth and sopping up the sauce with naan bread. This reminded me of pita bread, or flat bread, and I liked
the taste, but each piece was a bit scorched on one side. Is it supposed to be like that? I'm the one who always guards the rolls in the oven and the pancakes on the griddle 
to keep them from getting very brown. They also brought something before the meal that kind of reminded me of a chips in a Mexican restaurant, but it tasted a little like fish to me, and I'm not a fish eater. At all. No, not at all. Anyway, my brother did comment that it wasn't the best Indian restaurant he'd been to, so someday, I'll have to try again. (Bungi, if you read this, you'll have to let me know about the bread. Is it supposed to be like that?)4) Tomorrow, I'm doing a copy cat meal for dinner in the crock pot. When we were in Chicago last summer, we went to an Italian restaurant and had one of the best meals I've ever had. They called it "Mama's Gravy." It was basically pot roast cooked in red sauce and served over pasta with a little of either asiago or gorgonzola cheese melted over the top.
Todd and I split it, and it was served in this huge bowl and could have fed four or five easily. I was sad because we had to leave some behind as we didn't have a fridge in the hotel room. So, I made it (or something like it...I'll never achieve the quality of that sauce, let me tell you) a few months ago, and I'm trying again tomorrow. Everyone liked it, and it's a fun twist on the traditional slow cooker pot roast.You'd think I was a foodie and actually liked to cook or something, huh? I think it's growing on me.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Is that a pancake your wearing?
We had breakfast for dinner tonight, always a favorite around our house. What's something you like to eat for dinner that's not quite the normal thing?
Barbara Samuel got me started thinking about family food traditions because of reading her fun post tonight about biscuits and wonderful home-cooked breakfasts.
Weird family food story--
Last Friday night I found a mix I bought on clearance at Target a month or so ago. Krusteez scones. Sounded like a good dessert with a handful of chocolate chips squished in on the kneading part. They were quite delicious, if I do say so myself. Light and fluffy and melt in your mouth good.
Well, my mom talked to my brother a few days later, and it turns out he took his little boy to a family potluck dinner at school one night last week. They were supposed to take an ethnic dish representing their family roots. Guess what he baked and took? Chocolate chip scones. From a mix, no less. How weird is that? I'm not sure either of us has ever eaten chocolate chip scones at the same time or in the same place, so it was a little eerie.
I guess those Scottish roots run deeper than I thought. (And being cooking-from-scratch challenged is hereditary as well, obviously.)
Barbara Samuel got me started thinking about family food traditions because of reading her fun post tonight about biscuits and wonderful home-cooked breakfasts.
Weird family food story--
Last Friday night I found a mix I bought on clearance at Target a month or so ago. Krusteez scones. Sounded like a good dessert with a handful of chocolate chips squished in on the kneading part. They were quite delicious, if I do say so myself. Light and fluffy and melt in your mouth good.
Well, my mom talked to my brother a few days later, and it turns out he took his little boy to a family potluck dinner at school one night last week. They were supposed to take an ethnic dish representing their family roots. Guess what he baked and took? Chocolate chip scones. From a mix, no less. How weird is that? I'm not sure either of us has ever eaten chocolate chip scones at the same time or in the same place, so it was a little eerie.
I guess those Scottish roots run deeper than I thought. (And being cooking-from-scratch challenged is hereditary as well, obviously.)
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