Ah, fall. When a young girl's (mine, anyways) thoughts turn to cooking cozy stews and pot roasts; when the weather turns crisp and frosty; when the pee turns to purple.
From the beets, you know? I love beets. The only trouble with beets is that all beet recipes on earth seem to begin with the instructions to cook the beets until tender, then slip off their skins. It occurs to me that the latter is likely a step that was originally designed to make one or two lesser cooks feel inferior for being unable to reproduce the feat, that somehow permeated the minds of all recipe mongers thereafter with the ridiculous notion that it is possible to "slip" a beet from its skin, as one might "slip" out of a silk dressing gown or "slip" a litre of Bailey's into their weekend coffee intake. "Slip" in my mind implies a certain amount of ease in doing something - I have hacked, sliced, scalped, dismembered and dismboweled many a beet in my day, but I have never in my life met a beet that willingly gave up its skin.
Slipping beets from their skins is probably one of those things that happens naturally for people for whom everything already happens naturally. Like Heidi Klum. (Heidi Klum is another thing designed specifically to make people feel worse about themselves than they already do.) I'll bet Heidi Klum simply flutters her eyelashes and beets everywhere positively leap out of their skins and slice themselves into perfect rings and never, ever dare turn Heidi Klum's pee purple.
More things designed to make people feel worse about life:
- the person at work who uses precisely three sugar grains in their morning coffee
- BMI charts
- chin hairs
- infant/toddler mittens with thumbs
- Martha Stewart (for reasons very different than Heidi Klum)
- that home gym-slash-clothes hanging equipment in the basement
- Ultimate
- age group check boxes
- passport photos
- dust bunnies
- the line on your income tax return that reminds you that you have contributed only a tiny fraction of a percent of the RRSP amounts that you will soon require to have tucked away in order to avoid dining on Fancy Feast and saltines in your old age, because aren't you 30-34 already? Although you look far older in your passprt photo. And was that a dust bunny that I just saw cavorting under your couch?
It stands to reason that the fact that so many things on earth make people feel worse about themselves is the entire impetus for the reality television industry. If your BMI has got you down, you can watch shows about positively gargantuan humans who haven't moved from their beds in decades and feel better by comparison; if your RRSP balance is pathetic, you can watch shows about people spending themselves into unfathomable credit card debts and feel better by comparison. If you have the IQ of an umbrella stand, you can watch... actually, there are a surprising number of options to help you out with this one.
But if your beets won't slip out of their skins, well, I'm flummoxed. Be grateful the little buggers are only in season for a short while every year, and enjoy the purple pee while it lasts.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
The Soup Gene and the Humble Pie
My esteemed brother once told me I 'must have inherited the soup gene from Dad'. In retrospect, this could have been a polite way of letting me know I had broth in my moustache, but I prefer to think of it as a regular old compliment: Dad makes good soup and, via the glory that is genetic inheritance, I also make good soup.
I'm a big proponent of soup. One of the benefits of soup (aside from its being cheap, nutritious, and delicious) is that it is an excellent way to use up extra vegetables. Today, for instance, I noticed I had some lovely fall veg languishing in the fridge - sweet potatoes, cauliflower, carrots, onions and garlic. Add those to our lovely homemade soup stock, et voila! Soup. M'mm, better still, add a hint of curry flavour and puree the lot for a spicy, fragrant, thick soup that would go just great with some tender, flaky biscuits. Soup gene indeed! Biscuit gene, too! Ol' Dad would surely be proud.
So maybe I've gotten a bit cocky with soup. Really, who needs a recipe when you've got a Soup Gene? Sometimes nature just dominates the hell out of nurture.
I pictured in my mind's eye a soup with a rich, orange hue, subtly hinting at its high nutritional value while simultaneously appealing to children, who, on seeing the soup, would think of friendly things like tabby cats and jack-o-lanterns, and not at all of unfriendly things like fibre (eww!) or antioxidants (ewww!). Such are the pleasures of a well-crafted soup.
After about an hour of chopping, simmering, stirring, and yelling at the kids to play nicely and quit screaming and if you slam the door one more time I'm going to lose my mind! the soup was finally done. (And so was I.) Unfortunately, somehow my carrot-sweet potato-cauliflower-curry blend didn't turn out the anticipated warm orange hue. It turned out... sortof green. And not the sort of green that makes one think of friendly things like gummy bears and leprechauns, or even relatively unfriendly things like green beans or broccoli. Instead, it turned the sort of green that gave me the disturbing sensation I was stirring a giant cauldron of fresh baby crap.
(Bottle, not breast.)
Small Fry took one look at his soup and said, "No way, lady, do I look like I was born yesterday? Get me some pizza."
Medium Fry took one look at her soup and, having been on the earth for 7 1/2 years longer than her little brother and therefore possessing a somewhat greater awareness of the tipping point at which her mother might actually lose her mind, said half-heartedly, "M'mm, this sure looks like good soup, num-num-nums! Eat your soup!"
Honestly, it tasted delicious - spicy and delectable, just like I thought it would. But it looked like such complete swill that even I couldn't stomach it.
We snacked on jam and biscuits until the pizza arrived.
I'm a big proponent of soup. One of the benefits of soup (aside from its being cheap, nutritious, and delicious) is that it is an excellent way to use up extra vegetables. Today, for instance, I noticed I had some lovely fall veg languishing in the fridge - sweet potatoes, cauliflower, carrots, onions and garlic. Add those to our lovely homemade soup stock, et voila! Soup. M'mm, better still, add a hint of curry flavour and puree the lot for a spicy, fragrant, thick soup that would go just great with some tender, flaky biscuits. Soup gene indeed! Biscuit gene, too! Ol' Dad would surely be proud.
So maybe I've gotten a bit cocky with soup. Really, who needs a recipe when you've got a Soup Gene? Sometimes nature just dominates the hell out of nurture.
I pictured in my mind's eye a soup with a rich, orange hue, subtly hinting at its high nutritional value while simultaneously appealing to children, who, on seeing the soup, would think of friendly things like tabby cats and jack-o-lanterns, and not at all of unfriendly things like fibre (eww!) or antioxidants (ewww!). Such are the pleasures of a well-crafted soup.
After about an hour of chopping, simmering, stirring, and yelling at the kids to play nicely and quit screaming and if you slam the door one more time I'm going to lose my mind! the soup was finally done. (And so was I.) Unfortunately, somehow my carrot-sweet potato-cauliflower-curry blend didn't turn out the anticipated warm orange hue. It turned out... sortof green. And not the sort of green that makes one think of friendly things like gummy bears and leprechauns, or even relatively unfriendly things like green beans or broccoli. Instead, it turned the sort of green that gave me the disturbing sensation I was stirring a giant cauldron of fresh baby crap.
(Bottle, not breast.)
Small Fry took one look at his soup and said, "No way, lady, do I look like I was born yesterday? Get me some pizza."
Medium Fry took one look at her soup and, having been on the earth for 7 1/2 years longer than her little brother and therefore possessing a somewhat greater awareness of the tipping point at which her mother might actually lose her mind, said half-heartedly, "M'mm, this sure looks like good soup, num-num-nums! Eat your soup!"
Honestly, it tasted delicious - spicy and delectable, just like I thought it would. But it looked like such complete swill that even I couldn't stomach it.
We snacked on jam and biscuits until the pizza arrived.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Doctor's Orders
"Good morning, Ms. Frecklepelt. Thank you for coming in."
"Thanks for seeing me, Doctor. Is everything okay?"
"Well, your test results are in - it looks as if we may have an explanation for the, er, lack of energy you've been experiencing recently."
"Hey, that's great. Wait a minute - is it great? What's going on?"
"As you're aware, we did some standard blood work, plus some additional testing based on your description of the symptoms you've been experiencing - utter blah-ness, blogging deadbeat, fantasies about becoming ill just so you can take a vacation - I believe you referred to it as 'Augxhausted'?"
"Yep, that sounds like something I'd say."
"Ms. Frecklepelt, the good news is that most of your results - cholesterol, fasting blood sugar, TSH - came back normal. Which is good - overall, you're healthy. However, it does appear as if your GAS-F levels are dangerously low."
"GAS-F?"
"My apologies - that's medical lingo for Give-A-Shit Factor."
"Oh my goodness - that sounds just like me! It sounds pretty serious, Doc, but at the same time I'm almost relieved to finally have a name for how I've been feeling all this time."
"It's perfectly normal to feel that way, Ms. Frecklepelt - in fact, most patients who are diagnosed with this condition say more or less the same thing when they hear the news."
"Most - most patients? You mean there are more people out there like me?"
"Of course. It's a surprisingly common disorder, but it does seem to carry some stigma in a society that encourages a very 'Type-A' personality, which is likely why you haven't heard of it before."
"Will I need medication? Is there some sort of support group I could join?"
"You could always try amphetamines and Red Bull for a little pick-me-up if you wish, but frankly I prefer a less traditional approach - more holistic, you might say."
"Hmm, I am trying to cut back on my street drug usage - let's try holistic."
"Excellent. Some studies have implicated prolonged high stress levels in diminishing GAS-F levels. In someone like yourself, whose levels appear to be naturally, er, reduced, my feeling is that it wouldn't take much to push you over the edge."
"So they key is to reduce stress? Do you have any idea how busy I am? What kind of bullshit prescription is that?!"
"Frankly Ms. Frecklepelt, it's not really a viable option for most people. As such, I recommend a combination of weekly bitch sessions with a trusted friend or colleague, and to increase your therapeutic wine intake. Aim for two, maybe three, bottles per week. You're likely to see the greatest benefit from this treatment if you consume the wine while bitching. I suspect that, even among your peer group, you will find others who are similarly afflicted with low GAS-F; they may offer the greatest insight and support to you as you embark on your treatment."
"Doctor, thank you so much for all your advice - I can't wait to start my treatment. I just have one more question."
"Certainly - go ahead."
"Why did I need to be naked for this consultation?"
"No reason at all. I simply enjoy seeing people in those little backless robes. Good day."
"Thanks for seeing me, Doctor. Is everything okay?"
"Well, your test results are in - it looks as if we may have an explanation for the, er, lack of energy you've been experiencing recently."
"Hey, that's great. Wait a minute - is it great? What's going on?"
"As you're aware, we did some standard blood work, plus some additional testing based on your description of the symptoms you've been experiencing - utter blah-ness, blogging deadbeat, fantasies about becoming ill just so you can take a vacation - I believe you referred to it as 'Augxhausted'?"
"Yep, that sounds like something I'd say."
"Ms. Frecklepelt, the good news is that most of your results - cholesterol, fasting blood sugar, TSH - came back normal. Which is good - overall, you're healthy. However, it does appear as if your GAS-F levels are dangerously low."
"GAS-F?"
"My apologies - that's medical lingo for Give-A-Shit Factor."
"Oh my goodness - that sounds just like me! It sounds pretty serious, Doc, but at the same time I'm almost relieved to finally have a name for how I've been feeling all this time."
"It's perfectly normal to feel that way, Ms. Frecklepelt - in fact, most patients who are diagnosed with this condition say more or less the same thing when they hear the news."
"Most - most patients? You mean there are more people out there like me?"
"Of course. It's a surprisingly common disorder, but it does seem to carry some stigma in a society that encourages a very 'Type-A' personality, which is likely why you haven't heard of it before."
"Will I need medication? Is there some sort of support group I could join?"
"You could always try amphetamines and Red Bull for a little pick-me-up if you wish, but frankly I prefer a less traditional approach - more holistic, you might say."
"Hmm, I am trying to cut back on my street drug usage - let's try holistic."
"Excellent. Some studies have implicated prolonged high stress levels in diminishing GAS-F levels. In someone like yourself, whose levels appear to be naturally, er, reduced, my feeling is that it wouldn't take much to push you over the edge."
"So they key is to reduce stress? Do you have any idea how busy I am? What kind of bullshit prescription is that?!"
"Frankly Ms. Frecklepelt, it's not really a viable option for most people. As such, I recommend a combination of weekly bitch sessions with a trusted friend or colleague, and to increase your therapeutic wine intake. Aim for two, maybe three, bottles per week. You're likely to see the greatest benefit from this treatment if you consume the wine while bitching. I suspect that, even among your peer group, you will find others who are similarly afflicted with low GAS-F; they may offer the greatest insight and support to you as you embark on your treatment."
"Doctor, thank you so much for all your advice - I can't wait to start my treatment. I just have one more question."
"Certainly - go ahead."
"Why did I need to be naked for this consultation?"
"No reason at all. I simply enjoy seeing people in those little backless robes. Good day."
Friday, September 10, 2010
Spoonful of Sugar
It's been one of those weeks. One of those weeks. You know the ones I mean - the ones where you buy 42 extra lotto tickets, and when they don't pay off you begin to fantasize in earnest about other means by which you wouldn't have to go back to work on Monday.
But I'm a woman of high standards, and I'm not going to give up massage therapy and name-brand ketchup just so I don't have to go out and get a paycheque. I'm not particularly fond of nausea or vomiting, so illness is out. And, while an "accidental" pregnancy would guarantee me a year off at some future date, a) I'd still have to go to work on Monday, and b) DH has been fixed, so he's likely to frown upon any extracurricular measures I'd have to undertake just for the sake of a maternity leave down the road.
Oh, yeah, and c) more stretch marks?;
d) more children?;
e) my poor vuvuzela!
Pregnancy is definitely out.
A non-fatal injury would be nice. Ideally this injury could occur at work, resulting in some sort of paid leave, but I haven't been able to muster more than a paper cut since I quit doing field work. I don't want anything too serious - I mean, I want to enjoy my hospital stay, right? - but no shitty minor flesh wounds that wouldn't preclude my sitting at a desk, either. That would be just my luck. Hey, maybe I could arrange for an emergency surgery of some sort - I know this dude who got six weeks off work, over a measly burst appendix! Let's see, I'll need something that won't result in permanent dismemberment, disfigurement or disability... something that will require me to be waited on hand and foot, for at least a couple of weeks... something for which I can be prescribed opiates... and Jell-O...
But I'm a woman of high standards, and I'm not going to give up massage therapy and name-brand ketchup just so I don't have to go out and get a paycheque. I'm not particularly fond of nausea or vomiting, so illness is out. And, while an "accidental" pregnancy would guarantee me a year off at some future date, a) I'd still have to go to work on Monday, and b) DH has been fixed, so he's likely to frown upon any extracurricular measures I'd have to undertake just for the sake of a maternity leave down the road.
Oh, yeah, and c) more stretch marks?;
d) more children?;
e) my poor vuvuzela!
Pregnancy is definitely out.
A non-fatal injury would be nice. Ideally this injury could occur at work, resulting in some sort of paid leave, but I haven't been able to muster more than a paper cut since I quit doing field work. I don't want anything too serious - I mean, I want to enjoy my hospital stay, right? - but no shitty minor flesh wounds that wouldn't preclude my sitting at a desk, either. That would be just my luck. Hey, maybe I could arrange for an emergency surgery of some sort - I know this dude who got six weeks off work, over a measly burst appendix! Let's see, I'll need something that won't result in permanent dismemberment, disfigurement or disability... something that will require me to be waited on hand and foot, for at least a couple of weeks... something for which I can be prescribed opiates... and Jell-O...
Good day. I am out of the office on medical leave for an emergency abdominoplasty and eyelash tint, returning in approximately six weeks' time. If your need is urgent, please contact someone else to deal with it; if it can wait until my return, it's clearly not all that important and will be duly ignored on my return.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Village Idiom
Yahoo! News tells me 2,000 new words and phrases have been added to the Oxford Dictionary this year, including such modern classics as 'staycation', 'chillax' (retch) and 'vuvuzela'. Whatever the hell that is.
And frankly, I'm a little pissed. I have coined some excellent terms in the past year and a half, and I didn't even get an honourable mention. Freakundity; jam bong; the Force of Grabbity; and, perhaps most disappointingly, Casual Hump Day. I mean, everyone likes Casual Hump Day, but suggesting that someone chillax is enough to warrant a punch in the head. Come on, people. Vuvuzela?! I just barely got used to calling it a va jay jay!
Damn lexicographers.
Well, one of the many joys of the interweb is that I can start my own dictionary if I darn well please. Ladies and gentlemen, in addition to the super sweet words and phrases listed above, I take great pleasure in presenting the following meritorious additions to the English language:
Frecklicious (fre-ku-LISH-us) (adj.): no definition required - my profile pic says it all.
Pantanglement (pan-TAN-gul-mint) (n.): the inextricable knot of g-strings formed in the delicates bag in the laundry.
Fox Creek (FUX-kreek) (interj.): a family-friendly version of some popular profanity. E.g., "For Fox Creek!" Coined after visiting the eponymous shit town in central Alberta.
Oblication (ob-li-CAY-shun) (n.): "vacation time" spent visiting relatives, or nursing your family through the flu because you ran out of sick days for the year back in March, and even though you are also dying your spouse has entered the Ninth Circle of Helplessness and you have to take care of him too.
Bonus entry! Ninth Circle of Helplessness: where men go when they are ill. Located directly adjacent to the better-known Ninth Circle of Hell, which is where women go when their men are ill.
And frankly, I'm a little pissed. I have coined some excellent terms in the past year and a half, and I didn't even get an honourable mention. Freakundity; jam bong; the Force of Grabbity; and, perhaps most disappointingly, Casual Hump Day. I mean, everyone likes Casual Hump Day, but suggesting that someone chillax is enough to warrant a punch in the head. Come on, people. Vuvuzela?! I just barely got used to calling it a va jay jay!
Damn lexicographers.
Well, one of the many joys of the interweb is that I can start my own dictionary if I darn well please. Ladies and gentlemen, in addition to the super sweet words and phrases listed above, I take great pleasure in presenting the following meritorious additions to the English language:
Frecklicious (fre-ku-LISH-us) (adj.): no definition required - my profile pic says it all.
Pantanglement (pan-TAN-gul-mint) (n.): the inextricable knot of g-strings formed in the delicates bag in the laundry.
Fox Creek (FUX-kreek) (interj.): a family-friendly version of some popular profanity. E.g., "For Fox Creek!" Coined after visiting the eponymous shit town in central Alberta.
Oblication (ob-li-CAY-shun) (n.): "vacation time" spent visiting relatives, or nursing your family through the flu because you ran out of sick days for the year back in March, and even though you are also dying your spouse has entered the Ninth Circle of Helplessness and you have to take care of him too.
Bonus entry! Ninth Circle of Helplessness: where men go when they are ill. Located directly adjacent to the better-known Ninth Circle of Hell, which is where women go when their men are ill.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
If March is the Hungry Month...
Then August is the Tired Month.
Work is busy in August. Life is busy in August. I'm Augxhausted. If I sat down to type all that would come out is incoherent whining. So don't fret, I'm still here, I'm just on a little blogging hiatus.
Talk soon,
FP
Work is busy in August. Life is busy in August. I'm Augxhausted. If I sat down to type all that would come out is incoherent whining. So don't fret, I'm still here, I'm just on a little blogging hiatus.
Talk soon,
FP
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Cheese With That?
DH and I just spent our first day alone (like, together, and without kids) in approximately two and a half years. That's like, a seriously long time. Long enough that at first, I think we sortof both looked at each other and thought, 'Who are you?' But we ended up having a super-duper awesome time. DH even humoured me enough to go on several winery tours and endure wine tasting after wine tasting. How sweet is that? I mean, he doesn't even like wine!
is it time? is it time?
Or at least, he never did before. But on our little getaway, between the swishings and the gurglings, DH arrived at something of an epiphany: it's not that he doesn't like wine. It's that he only likes really good wine. Any wines he happened to have tasted earlier on in life simply didn't live up to his - heretofore undiscovered - exacting standards.
it's time?! don't worry sweetie, you're going to be amazing
I almost couldn't believe my luck. I dropped hundreds of dollars on wine, and he didn't even bat an eye.
come on, you can do it honey
At first I thought - alright! Something we'll have in common, aside from a mortgage and, you know, some offspring. We can drink wine together. It'll be fun!
just a little more, you're doing great
And then this transpired:
DH: *gasp!* You can't drink pinot noir out of a mug!
Me: But it holds more than a glass.
DH: Oh. My. God. Is that all it's about for you? What about the colour? The clarity? The viscosity?! It's like I don't even know you anymore. (flounces off)
Me: Jeez, relax, it's not like I was going to dunk cookies in it or anything.
push! puuuuuuush!
Omigod omigod, you did it, it's here, it's a...
Which probably should have set off some alarm bells for me, but as mentioned there was a mug of wine involved at the time. So it took me a few more incidences of a similar nature before I really cottoned on to the fact there might be a problem:
"You can't open that yet, it needs to be cellared!"
"No no, dear, that doesn't really pair with taco salad. I'll just tuck it safely back in the fridge and pour you a nice glass of water instead."
"Why don't we have a proper decanter in this godforsaken house?"
"You're holding your glass incorrectly - grasp it by the stem. The stem!"
... it's a wine snob?
Now in a case like this, the natural response would be to throw the hubby out with the bathwater. Instead, I just held his head under it for a few moments while I collected my thoughts. Because, in the grand scheme of marital issues, this was nothing a good old-fashioned heart-to-heart couldn't fix.
Me: Darling, you know how, after all these years together, we're comfortable enough that we are truly free to be ourselves with one another?
DH: Like how you laugh at me all the time?
Me: With, dear. Laugh with.
DH: Okay...
Me: Well, that's what it's like with me and wine. Wine and I are tight. Wine doesn't mind if I drink it through a straw, or pair it with a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast - that's just how our relationship works. I respect that you're not at that place yet, but you have to understand that I am, and all your rules are seriously cork-blocking things for me.
DH: I'm sorry, dear. This is just all so new to me.
Me: I know, but with time you'll get there. Until then, I'm here to help. Merlot?
is it time? is it time?
Or at least, he never did before. But on our little getaway, between the swishings and the gurglings, DH arrived at something of an epiphany: it's not that he doesn't like wine. It's that he only likes really good wine. Any wines he happened to have tasted earlier on in life simply didn't live up to his - heretofore undiscovered - exacting standards.
it's time?! don't worry sweetie, you're going to be amazing
I almost couldn't believe my luck. I dropped hundreds of dollars on wine, and he didn't even bat an eye.
come on, you can do it honey
At first I thought - alright! Something we'll have in common, aside from a mortgage and, you know, some offspring. We can drink wine together. It'll be fun!
just a little more, you're doing great
And then this transpired:
DH: *gasp!* You can't drink pinot noir out of a mug!
Me: But it holds more than a glass.
DH: Oh. My. God. Is that all it's about for you? What about the colour? The clarity? The viscosity?! It's like I don't even know you anymore. (flounces off)
Me: Jeez, relax, it's not like I was going to dunk cookies in it or anything.
push! puuuuuuush!
Omigod omigod, you did it, it's here, it's a...
Which probably should have set off some alarm bells for me, but as mentioned there was a mug of wine involved at the time. So it took me a few more incidences of a similar nature before I really cottoned on to the fact there might be a problem:
"You can't open that yet, it needs to be cellared!"
"No no, dear, that doesn't really pair with taco salad. I'll just tuck it safely back in the fridge and pour you a nice glass of water instead."
"Why don't we have a proper decanter in this godforsaken house?"
"You're holding your glass incorrectly - grasp it by the stem. The stem!"
... it's a wine snob?
Now in a case like this, the natural response would be to throw the hubby out with the bathwater. Instead, I just held his head under it for a few moments while I collected my thoughts. Because, in the grand scheme of marital issues, this was nothing a good old-fashioned heart-to-heart couldn't fix.
Me: Darling, you know how, after all these years together, we're comfortable enough that we are truly free to be ourselves with one another?
DH: Like how you laugh at me all the time?
Me: With, dear. Laugh with.
DH: Okay...
Me: Well, that's what it's like with me and wine. Wine and I are tight. Wine doesn't mind if I drink it through a straw, or pair it with a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast - that's just how our relationship works. I respect that you're not at that place yet, but you have to understand that I am, and all your rules are seriously cork-blocking things for me.
DH: I'm sorry, dear. This is just all so new to me.
Me: I know, but with time you'll get there. Until then, I'm here to help. Merlot?
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