There are only 68 days left until NaNoWriMo! Write a novel in 30 days! Anyone out there joining me this year? Pre-NaNo workshops will arrive in October on Write Anything!!
Here's why you should do it:
1) You sign up for a local NaNo chapter via the NaNo website, and you get to meet lots of fellow writers during the month and you will drink many gallons of coffee with them.
2) You get pep talks from famous writers delivered to your inbox every week.
3) You will write 45,000 words of garbage and 5,000 words of absolute brilliance.
I have hope and dread about this year's attempt. Dread because the project is sort of like this past May's NaBloPoMo. Of course I like blogging and there is no limit to stuff to write about, but it's unpleasant to have an obligation to do it daily, even if it was a self-imposed rule. I have plenty of free time even without cutting much of my reading and cooking and internet time, but it is still difficult to make myself sit down and type every night- whether it's a blog or a novel. But I have hope, because this year's novel can't possibly be worse than last year's novel! And I learned so much last year, about writing and myself.
My plan for this year is to write something that has a beginning, a middle, and an end. (Last year was a beginning and then a lot of meandering.) The rules of NaNoWriMo state that one cannot spend more than seven days planning the novel (plot timelines, character sketches, maps of fantasy lands, etc), and these seven days must be October 25-31. (Otherwise one may become too enamored with the idea of the book that one is too frightened to actually write the thing.) So until then, I am going to let the possibilities bounce around my head and stay disconnected and ghostly. I am sure of only one thing: no science fiction this year.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
How I Met My Stranger
I used to do blog prompts often, at least once per week. I stopped. I'm not sure why, but I think that NaNoWriMo had something to do with it, as well as the writing group, and being impatient with not finding perfect prompts anywhere. Now Writers Island's beaches are closed, I can't help but feel a faint twinge of guilt for that. I make no promises for being faithful to any particular prompt (especially with NaNo looming close again), but I will make an effort to try again. So here we go, a Sunday Scribblings. It's a story that I needed to get out there.
#125 -- How I met my [fill in blank]
How did you meet your significant other, your best friend, your dog, your nemesis? On the flip side of that, are there any people in your life you have lost touch with who you wonder about?
#125 -- How I met my [fill in blank]
How did you meet your significant other, your best friend, your dog, your nemesis? On the flip side of that, are there any people in your life you have lost touch with who you wonder about?
How I Met My Stranger
There was no way to overlook him. He wore perfectly tailored suits. He never had a hair out of place. He had expensive and prominent glasses frames, the kind that trendy urban people have. He wore silk shirts that were lavender or pink and fragile enough to show off his sculpted torso. He might not have been so noticeable in an office, but this was college. The rest of us wore pajamas or t-shirts and track pants that swished when we moved. I thought he was beautiful.
I thought he was a snob. He never spoke in classes. I only saw him speak to one other person, his girlfriend. They were never apart. They never noticed happenings beyond themselves or the professors’ words. We had unofficially assigned seats in school. The two of them always sat several rows ahead of me and across the auditorium. It was pharmacy school and so he was in every one of my classes. He might have recognized my face but I was sure that he didn’t know my name. He didn’t have the opportunity to observe me the way that I watched him.
He and his girlfriend ended the relationship during our third year of school. He started talking. One day nobody knew him and the next day he was everyone’s acquaintance. Everyone seemed to find him infinitely charismatic and fascinating. I avoided him.
He moved into my apartment complex. His place wasn’t near mine, but sometimes I saw him unloading groceries from his car, wearing his designer casual wear. I saw him once or twice in the fitness room. It was a small room; I had little choice but to acknowledge strangers. I expected a nod and hello. I nearly tripped in surprise when he greeted me by name, asked how I was, commented on the midterm exams, and seemed genuinely and warmly interested in my responses. I peeked over his shoulder at his treadmill settings and saw that he was running a six-minute mile. He waved as he left.
My pharmacy class wasn’t exactly close-knit, but everyone knew everyone’s business. There were two types of romantic attachments which were allowed. You either never dated anyone, ever, or else you dated the same person for years and years, having met this special someone in high school or college freshman year. No one had isolated dates or month-long attachments. My stranger was the exception. After ending things with his long-term limb, he dated widely and comprehensively. He even dated the women who worked in our apartment complex office. None of the rest of us really knew anybody outside of pharmacy school whom we might date.
I heard rumors about him. I heard rumors about ways to efficiently make lots of money, adventures on Saturday nights, and hospitals on Sunday mornings. I figured that they were idle gossip, expanded out of a small seed of reality.
The last year of pharmacy school was a year of internships. I didn’t see him and I forgot about him. I lost contact with most of my classmates. I wish I could say that we met later and became co-workers or best friends or he did something great or he started buying clothes from Target, but it wasn’t to be. He died during the last year of school. The official word was an accidental cocaine overdose, but the general suspicion was that it was intentional. I wonder if he was anyone else’s stranger. I wonder what might have been.
There was no way to overlook him. He wore perfectly tailored suits. He never had a hair out of place. He had expensive and prominent glasses frames, the kind that trendy urban people have. He wore silk shirts that were lavender or pink and fragile enough to show off his sculpted torso. He might not have been so noticeable in an office, but this was college. The rest of us wore pajamas or t-shirts and track pants that swished when we moved. I thought he was beautiful.
I thought he was a snob. He never spoke in classes. I only saw him speak to one other person, his girlfriend. They were never apart. They never noticed happenings beyond themselves or the professors’ words. We had unofficially assigned seats in school. The two of them always sat several rows ahead of me and across the auditorium. It was pharmacy school and so he was in every one of my classes. He might have recognized my face but I was sure that he didn’t know my name. He didn’t have the opportunity to observe me the way that I watched him.
He and his girlfriend ended the relationship during our third year of school. He started talking. One day nobody knew him and the next day he was everyone’s acquaintance. Everyone seemed to find him infinitely charismatic and fascinating. I avoided him.
He moved into my apartment complex. His place wasn’t near mine, but sometimes I saw him unloading groceries from his car, wearing his designer casual wear. I saw him once or twice in the fitness room. It was a small room; I had little choice but to acknowledge strangers. I expected a nod and hello. I nearly tripped in surprise when he greeted me by name, asked how I was, commented on the midterm exams, and seemed genuinely and warmly interested in my responses. I peeked over his shoulder at his treadmill settings and saw that he was running a six-minute mile. He waved as he left.
My pharmacy class wasn’t exactly close-knit, but everyone knew everyone’s business. There were two types of romantic attachments which were allowed. You either never dated anyone, ever, or else you dated the same person for years and years, having met this special someone in high school or college freshman year. No one had isolated dates or month-long attachments. My stranger was the exception. After ending things with his long-term limb, he dated widely and comprehensively. He even dated the women who worked in our apartment complex office. None of the rest of us really knew anybody outside of pharmacy school whom we might date.
I heard rumors about him. I heard rumors about ways to efficiently make lots of money, adventures on Saturday nights, and hospitals on Sunday mornings. I figured that they were idle gossip, expanded out of a small seed of reality.
The last year of pharmacy school was a year of internships. I didn’t see him and I forgot about him. I lost contact with most of my classmates. I wish I could say that we met later and became co-workers or best friends or he did something great or he started buying clothes from Target, but it wasn’t to be. He died during the last year of school. The official word was an accidental cocaine overdose, but the general suspicion was that it was intentional. I wonder if he was anyone else’s stranger. I wonder what might have been.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
The Likeness
The Likeness by Tana French is a follow-up to In the Woods. You could read it alone and get by without knowing its predecessor, but I don't recommend it. There are too many references to past events which would be unappreciated.
The basics: Cassie Maddox is still reeling from the disastrous chain of circumstances from In the Woods when she is called to the scene of a murder. The victim looks eerily similar to Cassie and the name on her ID, Lexie Madison, is the same name that Cassie used as an undercover agent years ago. Cassie reluctantly agrees to pose as Lexie to investigate the crime while the murder is reported to the public as a near-death experience. Who was the murderer really after--Lexie? The woman's identity before she called herself Lexie? Cassie when she was Lexie many years ago as an undercover agent? Or Cassie herself?
My take: I absolutely loved this book. This is suspense fiction at its best. I did not breathe during the last 200 pages. I will admit that the idea of an unrelated identical twin can be hard to believe. But it was deliciously hard to swallow, like an oversized sushi roll.
My armchair sleuthing was worthless. I thought I would have learned something about how French writes from the first book. Nope. I didn't learn who did it until I was told who did it.
The setting of these two books feels real. I have no doubt that I could travel to Dublin and look up Cassie and Rob and introduce myself. And I think I will. Like I noted before, I feel like I AM one of them. I am tempted to take up unfiltered cigarettes and whiskeyed coffee.
A downside of The Likeness is that Rob Ryan (the protagonist of the first book) was occasionally referred to but was conspicuously absent. I found the mentions of him to be heartwrenching. Let me try to state this in a way that you'll comiserate with me. Remember when Sirius went beyond the veil in Book #5? Did it not make your shoulders slump whenever he was mentioned in Books 6 and 7? Remember when Ron deserted Harry and Hermione in Book #7? Didn't the narrative seem desperately lonely for a long time? What if Harry did not appear at all in Book #7? What if he hunkered down somewhere safe while Ron and Hermione took over the searching, occasionally checking in for updates via floo powder? Wouldn't that just break your heart? Well. That's how I felt with Rob Ryan being absent from The Likeness. Miserable.
I end this review with a quote from the book, Cassie's first impression of Lexie's home:
"Then the drive gave a little twist and opened up into a great semicircular carriage sweep, white pebbles speckled through with weeds and daisies, and I saw Whitethorn House for the first time. The photos hadn't done it justice. You see Georgian houses all over Dublin, mostly turned into offices and undermined by the depressing fluorescents you can see through the windows, but this one was special. Every proportion was balanced so perfectly that the house looked like it had grown there, nested in with its back to the mountains and all Wicklow dropping away rich and gentle in front of it, poised between the pale arc of the carriage sweep and the blurred dark-and-green curves of the hills like a treasure held out in a cupped palm....
....They were waiting for me outside the door, ranged at the top of the steps. In my mind I still see them like that, lacquered gold by the evening sun and glowing vivid as a vision, every fold of their clothes and curve of their faces pristine and achingly clear." (p. 107)
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Run
Three items have lately occupied my time.
1) The writing group, evidence recently posted. Next month's project is three-fold and I'm hoping not to need to dash it all off the night before.
2) The Likeness by Tana French, which will be reviewed fully once I finish. I just have to say that it is refreshing to be back to books where one has to pay attention to each paragraph to follow the plot and where no one swoons or smolders or pines or hyperventilates on each page. Not that I don't enjoy that stuff. But I'm done with cake and I'm eating steak now. Read In the Woods now while you can because The Likeness is a sort-of sequel to that and you are going to have to salivate in vain once you hear how great it is, unless you are prepared to read it immediately.
3) The exercise calendar, which has been only vaguely referred to up until this point.
Confession: I have never in my life run for a mile non-stop. A quarter-mile, maybe.
Background: I loathed the running units throughout school P.E. I thought they were the most dull and physically painful and psychologically damaging events ever.
Current Goal: Run a mile non-stop.
Fears:
1) My knees hurt when I run. I'm afraid things will get worse and I will need knee replacements very soon. I realize that lots of people run safely and happily for long intervals, but deep down I suspect that all that high-impact stuff is not good.
2) I'm afraid that running will turn me into a thin boyish stick of a girl with no curves whatsoever. I like my hips. I would like to designate which regions of flesh to lose.
3) I worry that I will collapse at the 0.99 mile mark. I feel that one mile is a mystical and insurmountable barrier. I'm not being self-defeatish. I'm telling you that one-mile is a doorway into a magical dimension and I might not have the password.
Hopes:
1) I have stocky legs and I want them to slenderize.
2) Running saves me time because it is an efficient way of burning calories. I like to spend the rest of my free time cooking and eating.
3) Running has clear goals. I like goals.
Hence, the running calendar. I have been running five days per week, gradually reducing the walking time and increasing the running time. I rest on Mondays and I lift weights on Fridays (in hopes of retaining meat in the right places). Currently I can jog for four minutes at a time. I am on the threshold of entering week 4 out of my 8-week program. Eep.
1) The writing group, evidence recently posted. Next month's project is three-fold and I'm hoping not to need to dash it all off the night before.
2) The Likeness by Tana French, which will be reviewed fully once I finish. I just have to say that it is refreshing to be back to books where one has to pay attention to each paragraph to follow the plot and where no one swoons or smolders or pines or hyperventilates on each page. Not that I don't enjoy that stuff. But I'm done with cake and I'm eating steak now. Read In the Woods now while you can because The Likeness is a sort-of sequel to that and you are going to have to salivate in vain once you hear how great it is, unless you are prepared to read it immediately.
3) The exercise calendar, which has been only vaguely referred to up until this point.
Confession: I have never in my life run for a mile non-stop. A quarter-mile, maybe.
Background: I loathed the running units throughout school P.E. I thought they were the most dull and physically painful and psychologically damaging events ever.
Current Goal: Run a mile non-stop.
Fears:
1) My knees hurt when I run. I'm afraid things will get worse and I will need knee replacements very soon. I realize that lots of people run safely and happily for long intervals, but deep down I suspect that all that high-impact stuff is not good.
2) I'm afraid that running will turn me into a thin boyish stick of a girl with no curves whatsoever. I like my hips. I would like to designate which regions of flesh to lose.
3) I worry that I will collapse at the 0.99 mile mark. I feel that one mile is a mystical and insurmountable barrier. I'm not being self-defeatish. I'm telling you that one-mile is a doorway into a magical dimension and I might not have the password.
Hopes:
1) I have stocky legs and I want them to slenderize.
2) Running saves me time because it is an efficient way of burning calories. I like to spend the rest of my free time cooking and eating.
3) Running has clear goals. I like goals.
Hence, the running calendar. I have been running five days per week, gradually reducing the walking time and increasing the running time. I rest on Mondays and I lift weights on Fridays (in hopes of retaining meat in the right places). Currently I can jog for four minutes at a time. I am on the threshold of entering week 4 out of my 8-week program. Eep.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Jenny
Note: This is a fiction fragment. I am practicing dialogue, which my writing group is working on, and I'm creating a few characters and scenes that may be picked up again during moments of desperation for this year's NaNoWriMo.
Chapter 1: Arrival
Colin looked like a large pink ham stuffed into a sweater. He watched me approach with his round face pressed solemnly against the screen door. I used my brave smile.
“You must be Colin!” I announced, unnecessarily loudly. “I’m Jenny. I’m glad to finally meet you.”
Colin stared, noting my insincerity.
“May I come in?”
He turned and walked away deeper into the house, out of sight in the poorly lit interior. I tucked my hair behind my ears and chewed my lip. I waited and heard no approaching adult footsteps. I considered my options, pushed the doorbell, and jumped at the sonorous chime. The neighborhood was in no doubt of my arrival.
A pale face appeared and the screen door clattered open quickly. I had been watched. A thin snake of a girl studied me from the sides of her eyes. She was formally dressed in an outfit that resembled fluffy meringue. I attempted to evoke a friendly competence.
“Hello, I’m Jenny, your new babysitter. You must be Alexandra,” I asserted smoothly.
“Come in, then,” was the grudging response. “And it’s Lex. Mom doesn’t like people ringing the doorbell.”
The girl held the door open just wide enough for me to slip by. I stood awkwardly in the dim foyer, blinking at the dusty clutter of figurines on shelves and the massive chandelier above my head. The entry was overcrowded with hulking, massive furniture, thick-piled carpet, and mahogany paneling. The air was too viscous for comfort. Colin had returned, or more likely, had never strayed far. The children stood next to each other. They did not seem to blink often enough as they watched me.
“We don’t need a babysitter,” said Colin. “We aren’t babies.”
“You are absolutely right.” I was prepared for this one. “Babysitter was the wrong word to use. I can see that you are old enough to take care of yourselves! I am only here to help your mom around the house and play games with you.”
Lex scowled at the mention of her mother. “Mom doesn’t need any more help. Dad helps.”
“And I am going to help too,” I finished, lamely.
I was saved from the children’s further scrutiny by the sound of adult footfalls. A man arrived in the foyer doorway, tall, heavy-browed, and solid. His expression displayed interest but little warmth.
“Jennifer Anderson, is it? Pleased to meet you in person. I’m Michael Fielding.” He shook my hand, businesslike. “I see that you have met the children.”
“Yes, I have.”
“I would like to give you a few instructions and a tour of the house before I leave, if you don’t mind,” said Mr. Fielding, beckoning with one hand as he turned toward the doorway.
“Of course.”
“And I’m afraid that you won’t be able to meet my wife, Alice, this evening. She is feeling especially worn out today and doesn’t feel up to meeting guests. But of course, if you need anything in particular she will be home to help.”
I nodded and tried not to look curious or alarmed. I was here because of Mrs. Fielding’s illness but did not know what the diagnosis or manifestations were, aside from unrelenting fatigue. Mr. Fielding had been very careful not to provide details on our telephone call and I was too polite to ask. I wondered if I could lure it out of the children later.
“The kitchen is here, and help yourself to anything you like,” he said, carelessly gesturing towards a spotless and modern kitchen. “The children have had dinner, and they may have popcorn later if they like. The dining room is through here, and the living room is across the hall.”
The Fieldings had an attachment to antique furniture, most of it mismatched and dangerously in need of refurbishing. The updated electronics in the kitchen and family room gave evidence of wealth here and there, but the rest of the house seemed to be buried under dust and mold and memories of better times. I followed Mr. Fielding through room after room, parlors and bedrooms and studies and guest rooms with dizzying contrasts in ceiling heights and bright paints. The children trailed behind us, disappearing and then reappearing behind cabinets and closets to sneak glimpses at me. The master bedroom was shut and no light peeped from beneath. Mr. Fielding noted endless lists of household rules as we walked.
“The children may play the piano between 10:00 and 4:00 only, so as not to disturb Alice’s rest. They may watch television any time but the volume should not exceed twelve. The children may have friends over to visit, but we ask that you limit them to one friend per day on one day per week to limit the noise. Lex may have a friend on Tuesdays and Colin on Wednesdays. They can play outside but they need to change into outside shoes.”
I nodded and tried not to sound out of breath as I kept up with his long strides.
“Our tour is almost finished; this is the last room.”
The door was closed, the end of a row of guest rooms, play rooms, and sewing rooms. Mr. Fielding produced a set of keys from his pocket. He watched my face closely now while he spoke, making me feel self-conscious from the undivided attention.
“No one is to enter this room without my permission. The children are aware of this rule. The room is locked at all times and I have the only key.”
He fit a key to the lock and clicked it open smoothly. I held my breath.
“I am showing this room to you to dispel any curiosity you might have about it. I know that I, personally, would not be able to resist a glimpse.”
He gestured at me to proceed, and I pushed the door open on noiseless hinges. The room was utterly empty and white. White walls, white carpet, and white sunlight greeted me, in sharp contrast to the dull brown and gray motif of the rest of the house. There was no furniture or decorations. I turned to question Mr. Fielding.
“We just want to keep the traffic out of here for now, until we decide what to do with the room. White carpet, you see.”
“You must be Colin!” I announced, unnecessarily loudly. “I’m Jenny. I’m glad to finally meet you.”
Colin stared, noting my insincerity.
“May I come in?”
He turned and walked away deeper into the house, out of sight in the poorly lit interior. I tucked my hair behind my ears and chewed my lip. I waited and heard no approaching adult footsteps. I considered my options, pushed the doorbell, and jumped at the sonorous chime. The neighborhood was in no doubt of my arrival.
A pale face appeared and the screen door clattered open quickly. I had been watched. A thin snake of a girl studied me from the sides of her eyes. She was formally dressed in an outfit that resembled fluffy meringue. I attempted to evoke a friendly competence.
“Hello, I’m Jenny, your new babysitter. You must be Alexandra,” I asserted smoothly.
“Come in, then,” was the grudging response. “And it’s Lex. Mom doesn’t like people ringing the doorbell.”
The girl held the door open just wide enough for me to slip by. I stood awkwardly in the dim foyer, blinking at the dusty clutter of figurines on shelves and the massive chandelier above my head. The entry was overcrowded with hulking, massive furniture, thick-piled carpet, and mahogany paneling. The air was too viscous for comfort. Colin had returned, or more likely, had never strayed far. The children stood next to each other. They did not seem to blink often enough as they watched me.
“We don’t need a babysitter,” said Colin. “We aren’t babies.”
“You are absolutely right.” I was prepared for this one. “Babysitter was the wrong word to use. I can see that you are old enough to take care of yourselves! I am only here to help your mom around the house and play games with you.”
Lex scowled at the mention of her mother. “Mom doesn’t need any more help. Dad helps.”
“And I am going to help too,” I finished, lamely.
I was saved from the children’s further scrutiny by the sound of adult footfalls. A man arrived in the foyer doorway, tall, heavy-browed, and solid. His expression displayed interest but little warmth.
“Jennifer Anderson, is it? Pleased to meet you in person. I’m Michael Fielding.” He shook my hand, businesslike. “I see that you have met the children.”
“Yes, I have.”
“I would like to give you a few instructions and a tour of the house before I leave, if you don’t mind,” said Mr. Fielding, beckoning with one hand as he turned toward the doorway.
“Of course.”
“And I’m afraid that you won’t be able to meet my wife, Alice, this evening. She is feeling especially worn out today and doesn’t feel up to meeting guests. But of course, if you need anything in particular she will be home to help.”
I nodded and tried not to look curious or alarmed. I was here because of Mrs. Fielding’s illness but did not know what the diagnosis or manifestations were, aside from unrelenting fatigue. Mr. Fielding had been very careful not to provide details on our telephone call and I was too polite to ask. I wondered if I could lure it out of the children later.
“The kitchen is here, and help yourself to anything you like,” he said, carelessly gesturing towards a spotless and modern kitchen. “The children have had dinner, and they may have popcorn later if they like. The dining room is through here, and the living room is across the hall.”
The Fieldings had an attachment to antique furniture, most of it mismatched and dangerously in need of refurbishing. The updated electronics in the kitchen and family room gave evidence of wealth here and there, but the rest of the house seemed to be buried under dust and mold and memories of better times. I followed Mr. Fielding through room after room, parlors and bedrooms and studies and guest rooms with dizzying contrasts in ceiling heights and bright paints. The children trailed behind us, disappearing and then reappearing behind cabinets and closets to sneak glimpses at me. The master bedroom was shut and no light peeped from beneath. Mr. Fielding noted endless lists of household rules as we walked.
“The children may play the piano between 10:00 and 4:00 only, so as not to disturb Alice’s rest. They may watch television any time but the volume should not exceed twelve. The children may have friends over to visit, but we ask that you limit them to one friend per day on one day per week to limit the noise. Lex may have a friend on Tuesdays and Colin on Wednesdays. They can play outside but they need to change into outside shoes.”
I nodded and tried not to sound out of breath as I kept up with his long strides.
“Our tour is almost finished; this is the last room.”
The door was closed, the end of a row of guest rooms, play rooms, and sewing rooms. Mr. Fielding produced a set of keys from his pocket. He watched my face closely now while he spoke, making me feel self-conscious from the undivided attention.
“No one is to enter this room without my permission. The children are aware of this rule. The room is locked at all times and I have the only key.”
He fit a key to the lock and clicked it open smoothly. I held my breath.
“I am showing this room to you to dispel any curiosity you might have about it. I know that I, personally, would not be able to resist a glimpse.”
He gestured at me to proceed, and I pushed the door open on noiseless hinges. The room was utterly empty and white. White walls, white carpet, and white sunlight greeted me, in sharp contrast to the dull brown and gray motif of the rest of the house. There was no furniture or decorations. I turned to question Mr. Fielding.
“We just want to keep the traffic out of here for now, until we decide what to do with the room. White carpet, you see.”
Fall Preview
Do you remember the part of Farmer Boy (yes, you read it) when the Wilder family tucks into a heaping platter of apples 'n onions? Do you still dream about that like I do? Well, wish fulfilled.
Lately I have been eating slices of heirloom tomato interlaced with half-moons of fresh mozzarella, drizzled with balsamic vinegar and sprinkled with basil from the front porch. That's it. Summer saps my appetite. And my hummus. But this week it has become dark in the mornings and chilly at night and I have entertained heartier thoughts.
So yesterday I made a glorious fake feast. OK, it was real, but it was carb-moderated. I made no-bread stuffing out of onions, celery, apples, and kale which were sauteed in butter and olive oil and seasoned with nutmeg, salt, and pepper. I made turkey cutlets and then made gravy from the drippings. I made mashed cauliflower with garlic-herb cheese mixed in. It was incredible! Why don't I do this more often? Why do I neglect the nutmeg? I have made some decent gravy now and then, but this batch was as good as Mom's! I can't wait for fall.
The menu was from Rachael Ray's 30-Minute Get-Real Meals. It took me more like 45 minutes, but that's good timing for me when concentrating on three pots on the stove.
Lately I have been eating slices of heirloom tomato interlaced with half-moons of fresh mozzarella, drizzled with balsamic vinegar and sprinkled with basil from the front porch. That's it. Summer saps my appetite. And my hummus. But this week it has become dark in the mornings and chilly at night and I have entertained heartier thoughts.
So yesterday I made a glorious fake feast. OK, it was real, but it was carb-moderated. I made no-bread stuffing out of onions, celery, apples, and kale which were sauteed in butter and olive oil and seasoned with nutmeg, salt, and pepper. I made turkey cutlets and then made gravy from the drippings. I made mashed cauliflower with garlic-herb cheese mixed in. It was incredible! Why don't I do this more often? Why do I neglect the nutmeg? I have made some decent gravy now and then, but this batch was as good as Mom's! I can't wait for fall.
The menu was from Rachael Ray's 30-Minute Get-Real Meals. It took me more like 45 minutes, but that's good timing for me when concentrating on three pots on the stove.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Morning
I finished Breaking Dawn. My mind is fuzzy and I am conflicted as usual. But I had a good time and I won't ruin it for the rest of you. My vague impressions:
-Vampires have elegant and antiquated names--Carlisle, Laurent, Esme, and the like. It must be tough to come up with more and more of those as the cast expanded. I nearly spit water across the page when I encountered the vampire named after a laxative. Senna.
-I changed my mind about Jacob for two reasons. 1) He has some cool sidekicks after all. One, anyway. 2) Book II of Breaking Dawn sealed the deal. Edward's voice could not have replaced Jacob's in this section. Edward is humorless. Even the chapter titles would have been dull with Edward's input. A favorite non-spoilery Jacob thought:
"Crazy how easy it was, walking through the dark with a vampire right beside me. It didn't feel unsafe, or even uncomfortable, really. It felt like walking next to anybody. Well, anybody who smelled bad."
-New Moon is still my favorite of the series. I liked the morose parts best, I think. I liked Bella by herself.
-Vampires have elegant and antiquated names--Carlisle, Laurent, Esme, and the like. It must be tough to come up with more and more of those as the cast expanded. I nearly spit water across the page when I encountered the vampire named after a laxative. Senna.
-I changed my mind about Jacob for two reasons. 1) He has some cool sidekicks after all. One, anyway. 2) Book II of Breaking Dawn sealed the deal. Edward's voice could not have replaced Jacob's in this section. Edward is humorless. Even the chapter titles would have been dull with Edward's input. A favorite non-spoilery Jacob thought:
"Crazy how easy it was, walking through the dark with a vampire right beside me. It didn't feel unsafe, or even uncomfortable, really. It felt like walking next to anybody. Well, anybody who smelled bad."
-New Moon is still my favorite of the series. I liked the morose parts best, I think. I liked Bella by herself.
The Status is not Quo
Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog is still online at Hulu. Let Joss Whedon to grasp you in his guyish grip. Watch it now before it goes away! Watch it!
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Break Time
I still have 300 pages left to go of Breaking Dawn. I'm giving my bleary eyes something different to look at. But it is painful to be away. It is heartwrenching to put it down but it is frustrating to pick it up, because I'm reading it too fast. I am reading so rapidly that I get angry at myself for not dwelling on the details and savoring the moments and cherishing this final volume. I can't just re-read it in the near future. I've got too many other books on the agenda.
Anyway. No spoilery. I just want to say that I retract my previous statements. As of right now I am on Team Jacob, and not because of any actions taken by either party. Elaboration later.
I did not go to the midnight release party. I had to wake up at 4:30 a.m. for work on Saturday and I am too old for that kind of strain. So I bought the book on Saturday afternoon. I was panicked on my way to Borders. I had been too distracted to reserve a copy beforehand because I had been spending all my hours reading Eclipse. No time for errands then. I was fearful that it might be sold out. What then? Of course, there are other bookstores in town. What if they were sold out? I would have to waste time finding all the stores in a phone book. I might have to drive to Milwaukee. A day of reading time, gone. My irrationalism spiraled and it is a good thing that Borders is only three minutes away from work. I was dizzy with relief when I met the Breaking Dawn display at the front entrance.
So I dived in, only pausing to make this one-pot wonder* and giving thanks that it isn't so crazy to make stew in August in Wisconsin. This is no time for arranging salads or choosing between recipes or matching side dishes or getting take-out for every meal during the interval. Occasions like these require an unending supply of microwavable food that can be eaten with one hand.
My bedroom is dimly lit with only a small bedside lamp. This is OK, because I only use my bedroom for sleeping. There is no reason to read in there. But the last three nights, I have found myself propped on my elbows uncomfortably in bed and straining to read Breaking Dawn in my bedroom for an hour or so before sleeping. This reminds me vividly of when I was little and was so enraptured in whatever I was reading that I would creep out of bed and read crouched on the floor around my nightlight, trapped in The Secret Garden or The Borrowers or The Phantom Tollbooth or something like that. My mom often caught me at it--I don't know how, because I wouldn't have made any noise. It is refreshing to see that some of my childhood habits are alive and return to visit once in a while. I certainly am not attracted to the sweets that I used to find so compelling.
OK, back to the armchair.
*I should work with eggplant more often. I omitted one of the potatoes and added a can of cannelini beans to increase the protein. Next time I make it, I will start off the pot with some bacon and use fresh rosemary instead of basil.
Anyway. No spoilery. I just want to say that I retract my previous statements. As of right now I am on Team Jacob, and not because of any actions taken by either party. Elaboration later.
I did not go to the midnight release party. I had to wake up at 4:30 a.m. for work on Saturday and I am too old for that kind of strain. So I bought the book on Saturday afternoon. I was panicked on my way to Borders. I had been too distracted to reserve a copy beforehand because I had been spending all my hours reading Eclipse. No time for errands then. I was fearful that it might be sold out. What then? Of course, there are other bookstores in town. What if they were sold out? I would have to waste time finding all the stores in a phone book. I might have to drive to Milwaukee. A day of reading time, gone. My irrationalism spiraled and it is a good thing that Borders is only three minutes away from work. I was dizzy with relief when I met the Breaking Dawn display at the front entrance.
So I dived in, only pausing to make this one-pot wonder* and giving thanks that it isn't so crazy to make stew in August in Wisconsin. This is no time for arranging salads or choosing between recipes or matching side dishes or getting take-out for every meal during the interval. Occasions like these require an unending supply of microwavable food that can be eaten with one hand.
My bedroom is dimly lit with only a small bedside lamp. This is OK, because I only use my bedroom for sleeping. There is no reason to read in there. But the last three nights, I have found myself propped on my elbows uncomfortably in bed and straining to read Breaking Dawn in my bedroom for an hour or so before sleeping. This reminds me vividly of when I was little and was so enraptured in whatever I was reading that I would creep out of bed and read crouched on the floor around my nightlight, trapped in The Secret Garden or The Borrowers or The Phantom Tollbooth or something like that. My mom often caught me at it--I don't know how, because I wouldn't have made any noise. It is refreshing to see that some of my childhood habits are alive and return to visit once in a while. I certainly am not attracted to the sweets that I used to find so compelling.
OK, back to the armchair.
*I should work with eggplant more often. I omitted one of the potatoes and added a can of cannelini beans to increase the protein. Next time I make it, I will start off the pot with some bacon and use fresh rosemary instead of basil.
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