The worst thing about summer (and I can list a whole ton of them) is that it really is too hot to eat soup. Sure, we could all go the gazpacho route, but I'll admit here and now that I just cannot do gazpacho. I'm sure there are some perfectly lovely ones out there and I believe I am capable, but every time I think of gazpacho I have some pretty vivid flashbacks to a concoction my mother used to call "gazpacho" which still triggers my gag reflex (think canned tomato juice with chunks of sour cream and raw mushroom floating in it. Blech!) So soup's out. And I like to believe I've come up with some pretty creative replacements.
In the spirit of Olympic multiculturalism, I give you my new summer favorite, tofu banh mi (serves 2 if one of you is willing to make yourself sick):
One package of extra-firm tofu (I used the high protein kind from TJ's pressed between paper towels under a cast iron skillet for about an hour)
1 large carrot shredded
As much cucumber as your husband who hates cucumber will eat (c. 1/3 cuke) sliced into thin ribbons
3T rice vinegar
1 T plus 1/3 c sugar
Salt
1/4 c butter at room temp or mayonnaise
1 T (or to taste) Sriracha sauce
1/3 c soy sauce
1 T fish sauce (optional)
1 large onion thinly sliced
1 1/2 teaspoons black pepper (or to taste)
1 baguette (I went to the bakery but you can make a killer one fairly simply recipe to follow)
1 c fresh cilantro leaves
1 jalapeno seeded and diced
1) Drain, dry and press tofu. Cut into 1/4 inch slices.
2) Combine carrot, cuke, 1 T sugar, 2 T vinegar, and a pinch of salt and allow veg to gently pickle
3) Blend butter or mayo with sriracha and stick back in fridge.
4) (This is the pain in the butt part) put 1/3 c sugar and 1 T water in a large skillet over medium-low heat. cook, shaking pan occasionally (but not stirring) until the sugar is mostly melted and golden brown about 10 minutes. Slowly drizzle in soy and/or fish sauce and remaining vinegar and then add the onion. Cook stirring often until the onion is tender c. 10 minutes. Add tofu and black pepper and cook turning tofu occasionally until it's absorbed most of the sauce.
5) Drain carrot mixture. Split baguette (remove inner part if desired) spread butter/mayo mix on one half add tofu, carrot, cilantro and jalapeno. Close sammich and eat quickly before someone else does.
James Beard's French Bread (which I also don't recommend making on hot days, but which smells amazing and works with any pot of soup you could ever make):
3 1/2 t dried yeast
1 T sugar
2 c warm water (c. 100 degrees)
1 T salt
5-6 c flour
cornmeal
1 egg white beaten gently with 1 T cold water
Combine yeast, sugar and water allow yeast to proof (get foamy) for about 5 minutes. Add salt. Stir in flour 1/2 c at a time until you have a "stiff dough." Knead on floured board about 10 min until no longer sticky. Cover and let rise in a warm place (I use a cold oven) until doubled in size about 1 1/2 hours. Punch down, roll into french style loaves. Place on french bread pan or baking sheet covered in cornmeal. Slash tops of loaves and brush with egg wash. Cook in cold oven set at 400 degrees about 35 minutes. (This recipe is awesome because it only has to rise once and goes into an oven that hasn't been pre-heated.)
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
guilty pleasure
I have a problem. Usually I’m pretty good at looking out for Future J (we’re counting the PhD as a pass and a hard lesson learned), and I’m not usually especially over-indulgent with things like staying out all night, my credit card, or (believe it or not) calorically dense fried potato products. I exercise, brush my teeth, eat vegetables, visit the doctor annually and occasionally call my mother. These are all Grown Up things that I do because Future J (and increasingly Present J) will thank me for them. What neither Past, Present or Future iterations of myself needs is Dear Prudence.
For those of you who don’t read the Washington Post or Slate, Dear Prudence is an advice column. Never having been a “Dear Abby” fan, I’m not sure how it stacks up, but I am desperately, embarrassingly, no-hope-in-sight hooked. I think part of it stems from my epistolary instincts and my deep love of wit—and while I’m confessing—puns (we could call it word-play, but that’s euphemistic at best). Part of it too is that my favorite kind of freude has always been schadenfreude. But deep down I think it’s just that I have a bit of downtime and I’ve succumbed to the age-old satisfaction of other people’s problems being more interesting than mine—and having the rush of having someone snarky tell people what to do about them. I know, I know, I might as well spend my days watching talk shows.
But now that I’m deep into back issues of the column (it will be a sad day when the archive finally runs dry), I think I might be sabotaging Future J a bit. For example I’m so horribly embarrassed about reading this that I keep minimizing it whenever one of my co-workers walks by. It’s wicked conspicuous and they probably think I’m looking at something far worse than I am, but given the hours I sink into this, I *should* be embarrassed. The other problem is, the real news doesn’t seem interesting any more. I get three lines into some rant against Romney’s tax returns or Marcellus Shale or Joe Paterno and SNOOZE. I want the good stuff: the I slept with my daughter’s boyfriend and now I’m racked with guilt but secretly want to leave my husband and run away with him since I’m carrying his love child anyway grade A shit. And then I want a clever pun about quasi-incest and terrible mothers and stifling the selfish urge to elope. And then possibly a pro-choice lecture about how some choices are better than others. I want—no I need—to catch the media high, and the presidential election is not doing it for me; I need socially sanctioned voyeurism.
All the education in the world and it’s come to this.
(Not) Lacking Prudence
For those of you who don’t read the Washington Post or Slate, Dear Prudence is an advice column. Never having been a “Dear Abby” fan, I’m not sure how it stacks up, but I am desperately, embarrassingly, no-hope-in-sight hooked. I think part of it stems from my epistolary instincts and my deep love of wit—and while I’m confessing—puns (we could call it word-play, but that’s euphemistic at best). Part of it too is that my favorite kind of freude has always been schadenfreude. But deep down I think it’s just that I have a bit of downtime and I’ve succumbed to the age-old satisfaction of other people’s problems being more interesting than mine—and having the rush of having someone snarky tell people what to do about them. I know, I know, I might as well spend my days watching talk shows.
But now that I’m deep into back issues of the column (it will be a sad day when the archive finally runs dry), I think I might be sabotaging Future J a bit. For example I’m so horribly embarrassed about reading this that I keep minimizing it whenever one of my co-workers walks by. It’s wicked conspicuous and they probably think I’m looking at something far worse than I am, but given the hours I sink into this, I *should* be embarrassed. The other problem is, the real news doesn’t seem interesting any more. I get three lines into some rant against Romney’s tax returns or Marcellus Shale or Joe Paterno and SNOOZE. I want the good stuff: the I slept with my daughter’s boyfriend and now I’m racked with guilt but secretly want to leave my husband and run away with him since I’m carrying his love child anyway grade A shit. And then I want a clever pun about quasi-incest and terrible mothers and stifling the selfish urge to elope. And then possibly a pro-choice lecture about how some choices are better than others. I want—no I need—to catch the media high, and the presidential election is not doing it for me; I need socially sanctioned voyeurism.
All the education in the world and it’s come to this.
(Not) Lacking Prudence
Monday, July 9, 2012
The Wrath of K--m
Since all the cool kids are updating their blogs, I thought it might be time for me to too. I think you’ll find I’m easily swayed, especially by the likes of WCFC and D’s Unfinished Business. They are so very cool.
So what caused such a hiatus? Such an agonizingly long gap between agonizingly introspective interludes? Well, I’m glad you asked.
I started the Job. It’s a good Job and I like my Employer, but I think that’s as much as I’m willing to post on the internet. It takes a lot of my time and energy and by the time I get home I often ignore the things that used to bring me pleasure—which I guess was the whole point of getting a job in the first place. After four months of work, I am now back down at my pre-unemployment weight because I don’t have the time or energy to bake bread/pie/cake/etc. every day; there’s perpetually a mountain of dishes in the sink (I used to spend at least an hour every day cleaning the kitchen, which didn’t so much bring me pleasure as make me want to punch something, but you get the idea); I only go to Trader Joes once—maybe twice—a week; and I no longer harass my sisters at regular mid-weekday intervals.
I watched the whole Legend of Korra, which had real promise, but ultimately ended up disappointing me. So Bryan Konitzko and Michael Dante DiMartino should be checking their mail for their thanks for nothing cards. And believe me, they're not alone.
I had a student go behind my back and file a formal complaint (my first btws) because I gave her a D. I should also add that the D represented an extremely generous bump because this student failed to take the final and did not turn in a final paper. She based what I felt was an extremely tenuous claim on the fact that I gave my students all of finals week to take the exam any time they pleased and to leave me the papers when they were done and she was confused. In point of fact, I reminded them of this in class (which she did not always attend), I sent email reminders, I sent individualized email reminders to her because I knew she'd be a pain in the ass if something went wrong and I wanted to preserve a written record. It was all for naught. The chair told me I had to let her take the exam a month later and that I should consider changing her grade--because he resists confrontation and she promised to be a relentless pain in his ass if he didn't lean on me. So not going to miss THAT part of teaching.
I also got married—or not. We’re still in limbo on that one since the county clerk can’t find any record of our marriage certificate and has instructed us to send them ours. This makes me very nervous because at best, they are extremely rude and at worst, completely incompetent and Steve and I would very much like to have all this behind us. Some couples like to draw out their engagements without ever making a permanent commitment, but this is getting a little ridiculous. I could go on about how angry the petty, local byzantine bureaucracy makes me in all its stupid, inefficient dimensions, but it would be a boring story that would only serve to beget more resentment against an agency that has already proven that they are only going to help me how and when they are legally obligated to do so.
Finally I lost several weeks to the lords of the health care under-realm. I mean sure, I was celebrating the mandate and all, but where I REALLY lost the time was when I went in to the doctor for a routine checkup with no symptoms, received a confirmation that there was nothing wrong with me, was given an order for a test to confirm this finding and then two weeks and $7200 worth of extra tests (including one very painful and intrusive biopsy) later, my original diagnosis of “nothing” was confirmed. In the meantime none of the doctors I saw bothered to disabuse me of the (never explicitly stated but strongly implied) notion that I had cancer that needed to be addressed immediately, which is, upon reflection, probably why I let them manhandle me so thoroughly when it now seems so wasteful and unnecessary. It is with no small amount of bitterness that I’m handing over my (none too small and rather frivilously computed) deductible, and the sight of the five weeks later still unhealed site where they stuck the GIANT needle in me still acts as a daily reminder of my deeply held resentment and ever-present mortality.
There have been other, smaller battles with other Goliathic (yeah, I made that word) bureaucracies, but they’re stupid, even by the very low bar set by the present entry.
So you see, it was probably in everyone’s best interest that I didn’t regale you with my tales of woe, as there have been precious few victories and several very real temper tantrums. And while I was very happy about getting married, the Powers That Be have managed to sully even that with thick layer of helpless frustration. All of this is obviously compounded by the heat, which Steve has reminded me is not exclusively mine to lament, but has nevertheless kept me from still more of the things I enjoy (namely anything that takes place outdoors) and has microwaved my brain to a gloppy sludge. My Anglo-Saxon stock wins out in the end.
At this point it would seem foolish to encourage any of you to call me, but anyone who feels like embracing their own folly, is welcome to ring.
Things are bound to start seeming funny any moment now.
j
I started the Job. It’s a good Job and I like my Employer, but I think that’s as much as I’m willing to post on the internet. It takes a lot of my time and energy and by the time I get home I often ignore the things that used to bring me pleasure—which I guess was the whole point of getting a job in the first place. After four months of work, I am now back down at my pre-unemployment weight because I don’t have the time or energy to bake bread/pie/cake/etc. every day; there’s perpetually a mountain of dishes in the sink (I used to spend at least an hour every day cleaning the kitchen, which didn’t so much bring me pleasure as make me want to punch something, but you get the idea); I only go to Trader Joes once—maybe twice—a week; and I no longer harass my sisters at regular mid-weekday intervals.
I watched the whole Legend of Korra, which had real promise, but ultimately ended up disappointing me. So Bryan Konitzko and Michael Dante DiMartino should be checking their mail for their thanks for nothing cards. And believe me, they're not alone.
I had a student go behind my back and file a formal complaint (my first btws) because I gave her a D. I should also add that the D represented an extremely generous bump because this student failed to take the final and did not turn in a final paper. She based what I felt was an extremely tenuous claim on the fact that I gave my students all of finals week to take the exam any time they pleased and to leave me the papers when they were done and she was confused. In point of fact, I reminded them of this in class (which she did not always attend), I sent email reminders, I sent individualized email reminders to her because I knew she'd be a pain in the ass if something went wrong and I wanted to preserve a written record. It was all for naught. The chair told me I had to let her take the exam a month later and that I should consider changing her grade--because he resists confrontation and she promised to be a relentless pain in his ass if he didn't lean on me. So not going to miss THAT part of teaching.
I also got married—or not. We’re still in limbo on that one since the county clerk can’t find any record of our marriage certificate and has instructed us to send them ours. This makes me very nervous because at best, they are extremely rude and at worst, completely incompetent and Steve and I would very much like to have all this behind us. Some couples like to draw out their engagements without ever making a permanent commitment, but this is getting a little ridiculous. I could go on about how angry the petty, local byzantine bureaucracy makes me in all its stupid, inefficient dimensions, but it would be a boring story that would only serve to beget more resentment against an agency that has already proven that they are only going to help me how and when they are legally obligated to do so.
Finally I lost several weeks to the lords of the health care under-realm. I mean sure, I was celebrating the mandate and all, but where I REALLY lost the time was when I went in to the doctor for a routine checkup with no symptoms, received a confirmation that there was nothing wrong with me, was given an order for a test to confirm this finding and then two weeks and $7200 worth of extra tests (including one very painful and intrusive biopsy) later, my original diagnosis of “nothing” was confirmed. In the meantime none of the doctors I saw bothered to disabuse me of the (never explicitly stated but strongly implied) notion that I had cancer that needed to be addressed immediately, which is, upon reflection, probably why I let them manhandle me so thoroughly when it now seems so wasteful and unnecessary. It is with no small amount of bitterness that I’m handing over my (none too small and rather frivilously computed) deductible, and the sight of the five weeks later still unhealed site where they stuck the GIANT needle in me still acts as a daily reminder of my deeply held resentment and ever-present mortality.
There have been other, smaller battles with other Goliathic (yeah, I made that word) bureaucracies, but they’re stupid, even by the very low bar set by the present entry.
So you see, it was probably in everyone’s best interest that I didn’t regale you with my tales of woe, as there have been precious few victories and several very real temper tantrums. And while I was very happy about getting married, the Powers That Be have managed to sully even that with thick layer of helpless frustration. All of this is obviously compounded by the heat, which Steve has reminded me is not exclusively mine to lament, but has nevertheless kept me from still more of the things I enjoy (namely anything that takes place outdoors) and has microwaved my brain to a gloppy sludge. My Anglo-Saxon stock wins out in the end.
At this point it would seem foolish to encourage any of you to call me, but anyone who feels like embracing their own folly, is welcome to ring.
Things are bound to start seeming funny any moment now.
j
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