internet yoga

Have I mentioned lately how much I am over getting old? I mean in some respects it's nice to have an excuse to want to go to bed at 10:00 and wear sensible shoes and deliberately seek out a high fiber diet and do all the other things I've been doing for the better part of a decade while my friends mocked me while eating white bread at midnight wearing stilettos. But for the most part, I'm over it. I'm tired of having to subsist on a mean and meager 2000 calories a day to keep from exploding like the Hindenburg. I'm tired of hoisting increasingly sagging boobs into increasingly strained undergarments. And I'm tired of the constant stream of minor injuries that have been interfering with my two favorite activities: running and sleeping. Last month it was my knee, likely the result of old shoes. That said, it still took me three solid weeks to recover from that one--three weeks after I replaced my running shoes. This week it's been my back/hip, which has really turned me into a cranky old lady. Seriously, the only silver lining would be to end up with a walker that I could shake while I yelled at those damn kids. What I did to my back is beyond me, since I have yet to break a six mile long run building up from the last injury--and very seldom do I do more three or four. But it wakes me up at night and in fact seems extra aggravated by our bed.

To alleviate some of strain on my old and battered body I've been seeking out alternative ways of keeping active (I mean as active as a lazy, slightly agoraphobic old person with few friends, an unreliable car, and no job can truly be). And this is how I've stumbled upon internet yoga. I've never been in love with yoga. I'm neither strong nor flexible enough for it to be truly relaxing (most of what I think when I'm supposed to be concentrating on my breath is fuck, fuck, fuckity ouch!) and I find nothing natural or centering about "downward dog." Running is intuitive and simple--one simply goes until one can go no more; yoga is messy and requires turning oneself into a human curly fry (and to some degree requires a level of smugness about one's wholeness with the universe that I just can't quite pull off.) But I do enjoy this (and only this) video. I find the woman's voice soothing and she makes the whole process nice and repetitive (not unlike running) so that even if I mess up the first time, I'm sure to catch it on the third or fourth. She also breaks all the poses down into individual components so that I don't have to be even twistier to keep one eye on the TV while the teacher goes about her business "flowing" through the poses like I know what the hell she's talking about. In short, it's been nice to stretch a bit. My favorites are the cat and the tree, but I also enjoy the pigeon and the extended child pose. Before you know it, I'll have ditched the internet to join forces with the legions of old ladies who fill up the library parking spaces descending upon the Saturday morning classes. Or maybe I'll just start speed dialing the police to complain about my neighbors. Namaste.

another food post

Today is Steve's birthday (happy birthday Steve!). In some ways I think I enjoy his birthday more than my own. For example, I didn't bother making myself a birthday cake (even though I LOVE cake) because it seemed silly and a little wasteful to make a whole cake for just the two of us. But by his birthday, we realized the folly of this thinking: that his coworkers will eat anything (ANYTHING) that sits in the departmental office long enough. As evidence of this I can personally attest to the truly disgusting, cold, congealed take out that was left over from some departmental function that I, myself have eaten...because it was there. So out with the old plan (the two of us eating with exponentially increasing self loathing equally increasingly stale cake until one of us finally dumps some portion of it in the garbage) and in with the new: birthday cake for everyone! Some of you have eaten my cakes--I decided to abandon mixes once I realized it's nearly as easy to make them from scratch and much, much more delicious--so you know that as often as not, they turn out pretty well. Last year, when we were still on the Old Plan but with the scale-tipping addition of my sister (no love handle pun intended--really) I made this:

It was an orange chocolate cake with a lovely ganache (recipe available here: http://smittenkitchen.com/2006/09/this-cake-has-a-hole-in-it/) Sure her ganache was a little ganachier than the one I ended up making, but pain that this was to make, it tasted amazing. It was also perfect for my Stephen (aka Dr. Poopjoke) since it required the purchase of a bundt pan, which was almost immediately rechristened the butt pan.

This year we know each other even better and Steve finally felt comfortable confiding in me that he doesn't really like frosting in the traditional sense. Ganaches and glazes are fine but butter cream really isn't his thing. In a less perfect union this might have be cause for alarm. Indeed in my younger, singler, more care-free days I largely considered the point of making cake the opportunity to also make large quantities of frosting, sometimes to the exclusion of the actual cake, putting the frosting directly in a tupperware container so that I could eat it on fruit--strawberries, bananas--or sometimes as a meal in itself with a spoon. But Steve and I are meant to be, and I've taken his honesty as a bit of a challenge--to make the most delicious frosting free cake ever! So this year I whipped together this (recipe available at http://www.joyofbaking.com/LemonCranberryPoundCake.html):

Yes, it's a bit like last year's. Indeed, if you substitute the orange for lemon and the chocolate chunks for dried cranberries soaked in brandy, you'd have the general gist of it. But the added bonus of this year's is that it's a pound cake. Yes, this airy, six egg, three cups of sugar, full pound of butter, four and a half lemon confection was so big it nearly spilled out of the butt pan and took a good heave-ho to get out of the oven. (I recently learned--and then promptly forgot--that a pound cake gets its name from the vast magnitude of its ingredients, namely a pound each of butter, sugar, flour, and eggs.) Steve and I had two pieces each and the rest was gone by lunch time. To wit, I must say, good job Steve's coworkers, good job.

Tonight we head to the hibachi to continue Steve's tradition of celebrating his birthday (which also happens to be Pearl Harbor Day) with the consumption of theatrically prepared Japanese food. Some coincidences are too perfect to let pass by.

smells like soup

I'm taking it as a sign of my improving health that all I've been able to think about today is taking an entire extra large pizza with the works and shoving it down my gullet as quickly as possible. Fortunately I've been living with my brain long enough that I know that it seldom has the best interests of my stomach in mind and that doing what it wants would likely send me back to moaning and writhing on the floor (this is also true when it becomes fixated on eating an entire carton of ice cream without breathing). So instead I had a bowl of soup for lunch. I really love soup. And it's really hard to make oneself sick eating soup. My mother can be quite obstinate about acknowledging that it's about the best food ever, but I offer as evidence the following three recipes. They're delicious, easy, and might I say once more, unlikely to induce vomiting.

Hot and Sour Soup

5-7 shiitake mushrooms

5-7 woodear mushrooms (I use fresh but you could probably use dried and re-hydrate them)

1 carton (c. 4 cups) vegetable broth

2 1/4 cups water divided

1 tablespoon minced ginger

1 teaspoon minced garlic

1/4 c. plus 2 tablespoons rice vinegar (or more to taste)

2 tablespoons soy sauce

1/2 teaspoon black pepper

1/2 cup bamboo shoot slivers

1 package extra firm tofu cut into small cubes

2 1/2 tablespoons cornstarch

2 lightly beaten eggs

1/2 c. chopped green onions

1/4 c. minced cilantro

1 teaspoon dark sesame oil

chili oil (optional)

squirt of sriracha (optional)

Combine broth, 2 c. water, garlic and ginger in pot and bring to a boil. Add mushrooms and simmer 5 minutes. Add vinegar, soy sauce, pepper, bamboo and tofu and simmer 5 more minutes. Whisk cornstarch with 1/4 c. water until dissolved, add to soup. Bring to a full boil and then back to a simmer for about 3 minutes or until soup thickens slightly. Stirring constantly, slowly pour eggs into hot soup egg drop soup style. Remove from heat, add onions, cilantro, and oils. Tastes great with sticky rice and a little seasoned nori.

Coconut Curry Chicken Soup (courtesy of cooking light)

4 cups water
3 cups fresh spinach leaves
1/2 pound snow peas, trimmed and cut in half crosswise
1 (5 3/4-ounce) package pad thai noodles (wide rice stick noodles)
1 tablespoon canola oil
1/4 cup thinly sliced shallots
2 teaspoons red curry paste
1 1/2 teaspoons curry powder
1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
1/2 teaspoon ground coriander
2 garlic cloves, minced
6 cups fat-free, less-sodium chicken broth
1 (13.5-ounce) can light coconut milk
2 1/2 cups shredded cooked chicken breast (about 1 pound)
1/2 cup chopped green onions
1/2 tablespoon brown sugar
2 tablespoons fish sauce
1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper
lime wedges

Bring water to boil. Add spinach and peas and blanch about 30 seconds. Remove with a slotted spoon and put aside in a bowl. Add noodles to boiling water for about 3 minutes or until just cooked (and it's better if they're still firm). Drain and add to the bowl with the veg. Heat oil in a pot. Add shallots and next 5 ingredients (through garlic) and saute 1 minute. Add broth and coconut milk and bring to a boil. Reduce to a simmer and add chicken, onions, red pepper, sugar and fish sauce. Cook 2 minutes. Turn off heat. Return cooked veg and rice noodles to soup. Stir in cilantro and serve with lime.

Leftover Chicken (or Turkey) Soup

2 teaspoons olive oil

1 cup chopped onion
1 cup diced carrots
1 cup sliced celery
1 garlic clove, minced
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
1/4 teaspoon dried thyme
1/4 teaspoon poultry seasoning
6 cups low-salt chicken broth
1 teaspoon salt
2 cups diced leftover roasted chicken
1/4 cup heavy cream
4 ounces (2 cups) uncooked wide egg noodles

Heat olive oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add chopped onion, carrots, celery, and garlic clove; sauté 5 minutes. Sprinkle flour, oregano, thyme, and poultry seasoning over vegetables, and cook 1 minute. Stir in broth and salt. Bring to a boil; reduce heat, and simmer, partially covered, about 10 minutes. Add roasted chicken, cream, and noodles, and cook 10 minutes or until noodles are tender.

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the lost weekend

If one accepts the premise that a successful day is one in which an individual (or couple) spends absolutely no time on the floor of the bathroom, then Steve's and my Thanksgiving was an Epic Failure. Indeed, if one gives oneself a point for every hour not spent on the bathroom floor, our collective score for the weekend would have been about negative sixteen. While on the one hand I pretty conclusively cracked the code to avoiding overindulging on our national holiday of gluttony (this is also a useful tool if you've ever struggled with your sincerity in begging for the end of days), on the other I desperately wish I could tell you that our misery was a direct result of overindulgence and gluttony. But it wasn't. I'm guessing the more likely suspect was e. coli or some other nasty, easily communicable infectious disease that effectively made the thought of turkey repugnant and severely limited my capacity for pie. Ultimately we payed it forward and left the microbes in Michigan in enough time to come home with a cooler full of leftovers, but we also returned with a rather empty feeling that was the duel result of our inability to ingest food and the fact that we were kind of cheated out of a relaxing vacation.

In other news I got a "job" for next semester. I say it's a "job" because all it really is is the local community college "paying" me to adjunct for them, but nevertheless, it is employment if one chooses to be truly technical about the whole thing. And as I've learned over the last year, with a degree like mine, beggars truly cannot be choosers. I am genuinely excited to get back to teaching, although I was really hoping my near or below minimum wage days were behind me. And that, I suppose, is all I will say about that.

Well I'm tired now. I may be over the worst of the illness, but it still doesn't take much. I think it might be time for a little snooze and a peanut butter cookie that Trader Joe's has cleverly disguised as a healthy whole grain snack bar.

legacy

As a former resident of State College, Pennsylvania and an avid (one might almost say fanatical) football fan, I've obviously been deeply preoccupied with the recent scandal. (For a concise summary of these events, I direct you to the Will Cooley Fan Club.) I've come to very few conclusions; indeed, I think it is primarily questions that have come to light. I do, however, have some thoughts.

They should have canceled the football game this week. I think a call to end the season is extreme, and I would love as much as anyone for the Big Ten to redeem itself on and off the field. But it's not about that. Nor should such a move have been seen as punitive--against a team that bears no responsibility for this situation nor even against the student body, members of whom managed to make an unbearably difficult situation even worse. (I desperately hope that Nebraska's athletic director's call for increased security to ensure the safety of its fans and players is unnecessary, but, even if they go so far as to administer breathalizer tests at the gate, I share his fear.) But time to reflect is necessary, particularly given the height of the emotions over so many aspects of this situation, and I think this is all the more true given the fact that football is so central to State College's identity. I think taking some time to decide what Penn State stands for outside of what Joe Paterno stands for (and indeed what he claims to stand for) is the only way to move forward.

I reserve judgement on Mike McQueary, the graduate assistant and now receivers coach who witnessed Sandusky raping a ten year old child. Obviously he could and should have done more. But the central issue in every aspect of this case is the disparity of power between individuals: not just between Sandusky and his victims, but between witnesses (there was a janitor who witnessed a similar incident who was equally hesitant to break the chain of command) and the people to whom they reported. The issue of power is also pivotal in the decision not to include the police. We may never know who, ultimately, had the last word on whether this investigation would move forward; I suspect the former leaders of Penn State will soon be eagerly throwing each other under the bus, with the result that anything resembling objective truth on this issue will be obscured. However, I do have a question that I hope will be answered as this case goes to trial: this indictment was two years in the making--why? Why did it take so long to level charges, and what kind of evidence was Tom Corbett (then state attorney general and now governor) amassing, and was it worth the risk of Sandusky remaining at large? I understand that these are very serious allegations, and the victims deserve to not have Sandusky set free on a mistake or a technicality, but I suspect there is more to this case and its cover up that we haven't yet seen.

Finally, I think that the primary question need not be how could this have happened? The answer is simple: there are truly horrible people who do truly horrible things. This may smack of cynicism, but it's true. I think the real question is why? Why did this happen? Why the closing of ranks? The deliberate ignorance? The University law unto itself? One might suggest that this is what we get for deifying sports icons (there was an eerily posthumous--even beatified--quality to the revery surrounding Paterno, even as he was still coaching), and there's probably some truth to this, although, despite all his actions and inactions, I believe Paterno loves Penn State. One could also say that this was a simple matter of greed or pride; we've made major universities into institutions like every other, where money begets power and power begets hubris. I suspect that Paterno and the other top leadership at the university (not unlike the Catholic Church) believed that their alternate, self-serving morality was potent enough to supersede that of the outside world. But neither of these explanations accounts for the full story. Which leads me to, yet again, wonder what's left and whether we'll ever truly know why these men failed so deeply.

reflections on turning thirty

I know some of you are older than I am, so I'll try to keep the whining to a minimum, but somehow without any effort on my part, I have become very, VERY old. My half marathon a few weeks back was a complete success--and not just because it was my last race in the 25-29 age bracket. But I went to the doctor for a physical and a flu shot last week and had the unsettling experience of the doctor being younger than me. I mean, there's the off chance she was exactly the same age, but she mentioned that her training only took six years (to my eight), so doing the maths, puts her between 0 and 2 years younger. She also mentioned that she has a brother who's still in college with an undeclared major (just like my Bruizer) so there was alarming parity there as well. It was weird.

On the whole though, I seem to be doing fairly well on the "goals before I turn 30" front. When I first started grad school I made a promise to myself that if I hadn't finished by the time I turned 30, a PhD just wasn't in the cards. So check. And that's pretty much it. I've never been a particularly goal oriented person, which I guess makes them easy to fulfill. (I'm saving "career" for 40 since that's obviously not going to happen in the next fifteen hours.) I also did my marathon, which wasn't really on a timeline, but nevertheless a success. I haven't invented any breakfast cereals or had sex while playing frogger, but I'm more or less married, and happily so. All that's left is a technicality and a bit of dancing and maybe the sacrifice of a goat. We don't have a house yet, but I hate our apartment enough that we're truly committed to finding a place, so it's likely we'll be in a better home by the end of 30. So here I am: slower and fatter and more educated than I was a year ago, with no particular fear of dying alone and comically crappy living arrangements. I guess on the whole, not too bad.

fiddy-fiddy

Great news! I've decided to expand my commentary on life beyond food and housewivery and not having a job and food and the suckage of the academic market and the folly of becoming a historian and ice cream! I am going to now include film reviews! Today's selection, 50/50. First off, you should know that if you have cancer, or have ever had cancer, or know anyone who has cancer, this is probably not the movie for you. It is a SAD movie, despite it being billed as a heartwarming comedrama. I've never written a real movie review before (despite writing about film all the time in my professional life) so I'm going to try very hard to keep my impressions from giving too much away--but I make no promises, so read on at your own spoilage alert. First up, Joseph Gordon-Levitt. I love me some JGL. Since Heath Ledger went on that big walkabout in the sky, Joesph Gordon-Levitt has become one of the cutest patooties on the silver screen (and believe me the similarities between them don't hurt). And he can act! This is one of the primary reasons I wanted to see this movie. I thought he was genius in 500 Days of Summer and he didn't disappoint here either. Unfortunately the fact that he remains gorgeous was probably a bad thing in this movie. I totally bought the emotional despair, but physically, he still looked like JGL. His losing weight was a matter of personal/directorial interpretation (we can't all be Natalie Portman) and sure they shaved his head, but I think they should have done his eyebrows too. It bothered me through the whole movie. A stocking cap and some dark under-eye circles seemed unfair given the magnitude of what this movie was trying to convey. Second, Seth Rogan totally nailed his part and gets double kudos for delivering the movie's best line with consummate panache ("here's what I like to call Exhibit WHORE!") The rest of the acting was also good, although the writing fell apart in other places. For example JGL's therapist, a grad student named Katherine (played by Anna Kendrick) was simultaneously spot on and completely unbelievable. Kendrick did a great job of conveying that not-so-rare academic combo of book-smarts and cluelessness. She also captured that look of being young and frail and awkward and earnest and herself just a little crazy that I've seen on many a grad student. But the rest of her character was just nonsense. Who lets a 24 year old grad student see patients by herself? (No one, that's who!) And how does someone who at best had only three years of training get an office in a hospital, not to mention an office that's bigger than my apartment?) And well, there's more that I truly hated, but I don't want to ruin the movie. Speaking of, I hate, hate, HATED the way the movie ended. Not the part where we find out whether JGL lives or dies--that part I was totally fine with. No, I hated the very end, which was some of the dumbest, campiest, most cliched writing I've seen in a long time, which threatened to ruin what was to that point a perfectly reasonable, if dead-depressing movie. I'm a big fan of endings, and I don't mind sacrificing characters for the sake of the narrative. But this was, to use the German, total quatch. I'll leave it at that. I'm going to give it a 7/10, a generous assessment, not because I'd ever want to see 50/50 again, but because I can't stop thinking about it. In fact, Steve and I have been celebrating Halloween by working our way through the Bela Lugosi collection (with heavy help from Boris Karloff), and yet four days later, this remains the movie giving me nightmares. I'm not sure what that says, but it certainly says something.

fenugreek

After a relatively fruitless morning trying to describe my 300 page dissertation in as few words as possible (I hit a rather ineffectual low of 274 before yo-yoing back up to an equally ineffectual 295) in my admittedly vain and increasingly half-hearted attempt to find a tenure track job in the greater metro area I now call home, I've decided to pause and tell you about my new favorite spice: fenugreek. You may know all about it, but it's new to me, which has made it, well, the flavor of the week. For those of you have yet to be initiated into the fold, fenugreek is mostly used in Indian food, and I've heard (but can't confirm--and possibly made up) that it's what makes curry taste like curry. I bought it in powdered form, but I think one can also buy the seeds. It's more or less white--like pollen--and has a sharp planty taste. It also has a unique, but unoffensive smell that may be reminiscent of a combination of celery salt, fish, old cheese, and something else I'm clearly missing. I know I'm not selling it super hard, but I used it to make the most lovely lentils! I started with this recipe that I found on the internets: http://vegeyum.wordpress.com/2008/06/23/dalmakhani/ but I won't bother to print it here, since I'm not really sure that what I made in any way resembles this dish. I always forget that one of the problems with searching for and then bookmarking Indian recipes is that outside of not always being able to find the ingredients, they're always in British and I have no real way of knowing if what I'm using is 10g of ginger etc. The easy solution would be to buy a scale, but instead I started throwing random measurements into a pot, with surprisingly wonderful results. So, for the "ingredients" I used 3/4 of a cup of tiny dark green French lentils from the co-op (they weren't the Indian black kind but they looked like them), one can of dark red kidney beans, 1 T of ginger, 3 cloves of garlic, 2 jalapenos finely minced, and enough beef broth to cover the lot (hey, I never made any claims about authenticity or religious sensitivity). For the tadka I used 1 T butter, 1 tsp cumin seeds, a pinch of celery salt (since I couldn't find any asafoetida), a full tsp of fenugreek and a small can of tomato paste. Then I added as much butter and cream as I wanted. I also used the masala and the chili to taste and added a couple tablespoons of fresh cilantro. It was freaking amazing. (I get it that my four friends probably aren't going to run out and make this, but I'm also trying to document my changes so that someday I can make this again. But seriously guys, this was totally delicious, you should run out and make it.)

Steve and I also went to see a truly horrendous bit of performance art at the Reputable Modern Art Museum, but since it was too bad for words, I'm sort of hoping someone will post a copy of it on youtube so you all can see for yourselves. If not, I'll tell you about it the next time I reach the breaking point on my job letter.

hack

It does not pay to do the right thing. At least where my stupid body is concerned. Sure, I signed up for my race (another half marathon) next Sunday rather late and with very little training--but you could even consider that doing the right thing since I had no particular inclination to push myself on speed or distance while the heat index was still over 80. But this was a conscious choice and one I don't tend to regret. However, I was left with little time and less stamina--and I really could have used a long run on Monday, the one that was scheduled to be my last before pre-race tapering. But I have a chest cold (yeah, I know it sounds a bit Victorian, but there's really no other way to describe it), and I've made myself run with a cough before and it doesn't end well, so I relaxed instead. I even took yesterday off: plenty of fluids, lots of sleep, a nice healthy dinner, and even a very short walk in the sunshine to keep the circulation going and the dry rot from setting in. I did all of this because I would like to get healthier in the shortest possible amount of time. But doing the right thing is bullshit. I don't feel better; I feel worse! I should have just run on Monday if I was going to end up convalescing all week anyway. So on that note I decided that if I were going to have a shot of Theraflu expectorant (the color and the bottle may indicate orange flavor, but truly, it tastes more like gasoline) for breakfast, by gum I was going to have a chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream sandwich too. And sure, my stomach threatened to reject this unholy alliance, but I powered through and now I have the pleasurable sensation of having eaten ice cream for breakfast and that floating feeling from whatever the active ingredient in Theraflu might be. This reinforces what I've been thinking all along: doing the right thing is wrong. Ice cream is right.

high art

I watch too much TV. This is a given. Up until recently there wasn't much else to do shy of prolonged communion with nature or making myself sick through overenthusiastic consumption of my own cooking. But now it's made its final transformation from tool-for-winding-down to daily distraction to guilty pleasure to disturbing addiction. I offer as proof of this that I have seen the pilots of BOTH Pan Am and The Playboy Club. I'd love to say that this is because I'm indulging Steve's penchant for boobs, but deep down, we all know it's because reruns of The Office on the CW and hilariously neutered versions of movies like Sideways on the local classic movie channel will only get a girl so far towards that digitally induced high. (I mention Sideways because it is in almost no way a movie that instinctively lends itself to prime time television: by the time they've muted all of the sex, gloss over the alcoholism, cut the male frontal nudity and changed all the creative cussing to less offensive terms that make absolutely no sense--my favorite was the substitution "ashcroft" for "asshole"--the movie's four minutes long and sounds more or less like a long string of gibberish.) So we've been partaking of this year's crop of new well-endowed if largely ill-conceived dramas.

However, having seen Pan Am and Playboy Club, (and perhaps in a desperate attempts to intellectualize a particularly low point in my cerebral trajectory) I'd like to offer my thoughts. At first glance, one might assume that these two shows were more or less the same--and they are! Both are set in the late 50s/early 60s, so both are fairly unabashed Mad Men knock offs. Both feature rebelliously independent fun and flirty women who are on their own and loving it, (with well chiseled, muscle-bound co-stars) and both glamorize occupations that most normal people would find at very best completely exhausting. In terms of acting, photography and narrative structure, Playboy Club is far superior--and indeed Pan Am will be very lucky to get a second viewing. But what I find fascinating, if also completely horrifying, is that both have decided to depict the latter part of the women's movement as coming not from any grassroots feminism but from highly sexualized corporate structures that "allowed" women to break free from previous constraints of hearth and home and see the world, have their own careers and (if you believe Playboy Club) single-handedly triumph over discrimination. All a girl needs to be (indeed best!) Betty Friedan is a 20 inch waist, a corset and a generous C cup. And my question is, why? Why is this how we've chosen to remember this particular past? Sure, NBC could really use a gyno-triumphalist narrative to justify those crazy bunny suits, but why need we suggest that the key to opening up opportunities and remedying inequality is abject objectification? Why not just call a spade a spade and say this is the closest thing to soft-core porn the FCC will let us air on network television and cut out the shots of the cute little girls looking up in rapturous awe to our high heeled heroines? (People would still watch it--and I for one would feel much less guilty about doing so!) And (I think this is the real question), why do I let these shows and their inherent flaws to occupy so much of my attention, when, as previously mentioned, it's quite intentionally a very fine veneer of historical fiction that's hiding a story with all the sophistication of an unpeeled potato?

house guest

I've never been much of a dog person. At least, I've always fallen squarely in the group of people who believes dogs are dogs and not people. I also feel that if a dog knocks over the garbage can, spreads trash everywhere and then eats enough to coat most of that trash with vomit (or conversely jumps up on the kitchen table and eats my breakfast while my back is turned) he is a Bad Dog and not terribly fun to have around. It was with some trepidation then that I agreed to have our current house guest stay with us for four days this week.

(It's not the babysitting I was worried about, I just felt that it might be better that if Sadie the Labradoodle was going to destroy a house, it should be her house and not my house.) There was little trauma (and even less instruction) when Steve's coworker dropped her off yesterday. Because I had to head immediately to the dentist, I moved all the food off of our second shelf, picked up any shoes I had genuine attachment to, set the dog treats on the back of the counter and shut the bedroom door. When I came back, I found Sadie lying more or less where I left her. In fact I've never seen an animal with such singular lack of curiosity. She did light up like a Christmas tree when Steve came home--and cried when he left to go get milk (I'm not sure what that means)--but otherwise she seems completely content to lie with me on the sofa, making her more or less the perfect couch potato's companion, despite the special bond she and Steve seem to have formed. I'm fairly certain they conspired last night to get her into bed with us because despite my firm decision that there wasn't the space, the very nice dog bed we set up for her on the floor and the sofa to which we offered her free reign, I still woke this morning spooning not with my fella but with a twenty pound fur ball that had wedged herself between us during the night. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, but I feel this whole experience acts as evidence that Steve and I are well on our way to becoming (much nerdier versions of) Phil and Claire Dunphy from Modern Family. In fact, my sister drew this conclusion well over a year ago and thinks it's hilarious. But he being fun loving and me being uptight seem to be working, especially with regard to our very pleasant house guest (slash labradoodle).

j

soft pretzel rolls

I made these this weekend. Actually, I make these all the time. I think they're partially responsible for my marathon weight gain. I suppose they're vaguely German in origin, but I like mine far better than anything I had in Germany, even first thing in the morning from the bakery across the street. They're best while still a little warm with some gouda tucked in the middle, but they keep fairly well and can be revived by a few minutes in the toaster oven. (Toaster Oven is also the name of Steve and my hypothetical, as of yet unconceived offspring, but that deserves more explanation than I feel like providing at this juncture.) So all ye with time to kill and calories to consume, I offer this as a recommendation. I think I found this recipe on the internet on the blog of someone who modified it from Alton Brown or some such thing. It doesn't really matter, but still, credit where ambiguous, largely indifferent credit's due. Try them. They're wonderful.

Ingredients

• 1 1/2 cups warm water
• 1 tablespoon sugar
• 2 teaspoons kosher salt
• 2 1/4 teaspoons (1 package) instant yeast
• 22 ounces all-purpose flour, approximately 4 1/2 cups
• 2 ounces unsalted butter, melted
• 5 cups water
• 1/3 cup baking soda
• 1 large egg yolk beaten with 1 tablespoon water
• Pretzel salt (optional)

Directions

1. Proof yeast with water and sugar in a large bowl. (c. 5 minutes)
2. Add salt,and butter.
3. Stir in flour 1/2 cup at a time until the dough is smooth and pulls away from the side of the bowl. (You might not need all the flour.)
4. Transfer the dough to a buttered bowl, cover and let rise for 1 hour or until the dough has doubled in size.
5. Preheat the oven to 450ºF. Prep a cookie sheet with cooking spray or parchment paper.
6. Bring the 5 cups of water and the baking soda to a rolling boil in a large stock pot.
7. In the meantime, turn the dough out onto a slightly oiled work surface and divide into 10 equal pieces. Form each piece into a small, oval loaf.
8. Place the loaves into the boiling water, topside down, one at a time, for 30 seconds. Remove them from the water using a large flat spatula to the cookie sheet.
9. Brush the top of each pretzel with the beaten egg yolk and water mixture and sprinkle with the pretzel salt. Slash with a sharp bread knife once or twice. Bake until dark golden brown in color, approximately 14 minutes.

means to an end

I suspect that at my age/weight/position in life, I should somehow be flattered or appreciative of the odd catcall as I’m walking down the street. It’s really hard to say because we spent the last year and a half in the Middle Of Nowhere where I could literally walk for miles without running into another person, let alone a street. My copious television consumption has led me to believe that women who are about to turn thirty like being objectified, even if they know they’re not supposed to. But now the issue is more than purely academic since in the last two days I’ve had multiple men in cars honking at me while on my way to the dentist, grocery store etc., and I have to say I’m a little conflicted. Mostly it just scares the crap out of me. I’ve learned that city life in general and city driving in particular involves a good deal of honking—and on the whole very little of it has to do with me. For example, yesterday I saw a person take an admittedly close (but nevertheless successful) right turn at a red light. The oncoming driver honked at the turning driver, so the turning driver honked at the person now behind him. This induced the oncoming driver to honk more, which then precipitated the same in response. They continued this for about a block and a half until (I can only assume) it was no longer fun. This isn’t my favorite way of life, but I’ve been told to get used to it. The Big City has very little in the way of functional mass transit, and while there are those like me who prefer to limit ourselves to walking distance to avoid being stopped at a traffic light every fifteen feet and paying $3/hour for parking (in quarters, no exceptions) or those who brave bicycles to save the environment, almost everyone drives. And because this is a relatively Old City with no particular plan, the sidewalks and the streets more or less run into one another with no truly discernable separation. This is why when a man feels in necessary to honk and shout as he passes me, it’s fairly terrifying. It’s loud, sure, but I’m also not certain whether he’s expressing his appreciation for my ample backside (or equally ample frontside) or if he’s warning me to jump into the nearest topiary because he’s planning to mount the curb and drive where I had been walking for a while. Sure, my previously held notions on feminism and its meaning for my life have been called into severe question lately. But more on that another time. For now, suffice it to say that all this exuberant goodwill towards my lady parts is eventually going to make me pee my pants.

j

New Blog

I've decided to start a new blog for the following reasons:

1) my old blog was (ostensibly) about being a history grad student. I'm no longer a grad student--and it would be a stretch to call me a historian. I don't know what I am exactly, but I'm pretty sure it's a really well educated housewife.

2) I've been watching too much TV and writing too little. I'm going to try to write more, even if it is to note the minutia of my life--like my fear of Rick Perry's hair or my experiments in homemade cheese. These are the things over educated housewives think about so I'm going to share them with you.

3) it makes Steve upset when I complain too much in my mass emails, because it makes me seem unhappy all the time. I'm not unhappy all the time; I just have A LOT of time and the things I think about are often obscure, unrelated, and boring (especially insomuch as unemployment is often very, very boring). I feel like a blog is the place for these sorts of thoughts.

4) we've moved five times in the last two years. Making friends exhausts me under normal circumstances, so instead I think I'll just make a better effort to communicate with the old and the imaginary of my friends.

So that's that. Be excellent to each other--and party on dudes.

j