Spurred on by this delightful post from Leanne, I’ve been thinking a lot about cooking and eating habits, specifically my curiosity about the food that other people buy and the meals they make.
It seems like a particularly personal, intimate topic; only when you have gotten to know someone very well do you begin to learn much about their eating habits and the groceries they stock their kitchens with. When I am in line at the supermarket, I find myself checking out the items other people are buying and wondering how often they buy them. There are some things Brian and I run out of constantly, like milk, bread, cheese, eggs, and creamer. There are other things we purchase less often, but still like to have on hand because we use them a lot in recipes; onions, garlic, fresh spinach, pasta and olive oil, to name a very few.
It’s made me look back at my eating habits and the things I used to cook often in various stages of my life. In college I used to steal greens and sliced vegetables from the cafeteria and add them to my hot-pot ramen back at the dorm. I made a lot of chicken quesadillas and drank gallons of frozen, canned juice when I lived in Honolulu. When I first moved to Boston I made a lot of those Goya boxes of beans & rice, to which I would add more canned beans, fresh vegetables, and meat when I had it on hand. Now, Brian and I take turns cooking each other large breakfasts on the weekends; scrambled eggs, bacon and egg sandwiches; eggs Benedict and breakfast burritos. For dinner we like to bake frozen pizzas and top them with chicken or vegetables and more cheese to make them more filling.
I sometimes wonder what my friends and coworkers eat at home. Do they dine out at restaurants often? Where are their favorite take-out places? Do they have standard meals they prepare together if they live with significant others; if they live alone, do they cook smaller portions more frequently, or do they make bigger meals for the leftovers? If they have roommates, do they share meals with them, or is everyone on their own in the kitchen? I wonder what their pantries and fridges contain. Do they go through a lot of orange juice? Are their freezers filled with ice, or frozen meals, or frozen vegetables? Do they buy oreos?
I suppose a lot of one’s eating habits as an adult were learned in childhood. At least half of the meals on my rotating list are on there because I ate them all the time growing up. We had sit-down dinners every night; sometimes I wonder how my mother managed to have dinner on the table every evening after working all day. Only now do I realize how impressive that is, and how much preparation and tactical planning-ahead that must have taken.
Cooking and eating is a big part of life, and yet it is a part of life which to me seems shrouded in mystery, even for many of those I am closest to. There are a plethora of cooking-based blogs on the internet, but I’m not interested in the cooking habits of strangers. I feel somehow that knowing what my friends and loved ones do in the kitchen, will help me to know them better.
Dear reader, what are your favorite weekday meals to make? What do you like to cook when you have the leisure time and the money? What are the groceries you buy most often? I’m listening!
For the latest installment of the Perpetual Post, I wrote a defense of the reality-television genius that is So You Think You Can Dance, vs the falseness of American Idol. Read the other side of the story, and the newest issue of the PP here.
So You Think You Can Dance proves that people still do things on tv for reasons other than fame and fortune.
I was not immediately sold on the concept of So You Think You Can Dance. The inexplicable popularity of American Idol had left me wary of this type of cheesy, ‘call-in-to-vote for your favorite contestant’ variety show. The snide British judge, the wince-worthy audition episodes; I’d seen it all before, and I knew it wasn’t my thing.
Still, when I learned that friends of mine were getting together each week to order takeout and watch what they referred to as “Silly Dance Show”, I began to join them—for the company and the food, I told myself. Not the sexy dancing or the tear-away pants. It only took a few viewings before I gave in to my skepticism, did a victory dance on my dignity, and fully embraced the spirit of So You Think You Can Dance. I soon found myself watching the weekly episodes with my eyes shining and my hands clasped together beneath my chin. Some of the most well-performed and choreographed dance numbers even gave me chills. I was hooked.
It wasn’t hard for me to figure out what it was that drew me to this show when American Idol had for so long failed to gain my loyalty. It wasn’t just that it featured dancing instead of singing, although that was certainly a factor. Not to badmouth singing; I know singing is hard, especially on stage in front of millions—but so is doing three back flips in a row, or fox-trotting in stilettos and a fringed bikini…and guess which of those I find more entertaining?
It’s true that if all you’re after is a fringed bikini, you might do just as well by watching Dancing with the Stars (or, come to think of it, the Winter Olympics). However, part of the appeal of SYTYCD is the humble roots of the contestants. They are not celebrities. Many have little to no formal training in dance, and yet they still manage to be strong competitors. Since the first rule of SYTYCD is that a dancer has to be able to pick up and become reasonably proficient in many different styles of dance with lightning speed, extreme proficiency in one discipline is not necessarily a formula for success in others. The process of discovering who has what it takes and who doesn’t is fascinating. There’s a certain thrill in watching a montage where a guy whose background is in breakdancing learns ballroom, or in observing a trained ballerina’s first attempts at shimmying. While these contestants already have an enviable amount of rhythm and control over their own bodies (although to me, any amount of rhythm is enviable), it’s fascinating to discover whether this translates into a passable Charleston from a tap dancer, or a decent Worm from a student of modern dance– though I’ll be the first to admit that my standards for The Worm are all but unattainable. The challenges that these dancers take on, and their subsequent successes, can be thrilling.
Not only that, but unlike the winners of American Idol, the winners of SYTYCD are not promised any particular fame or fortune. Frequently, visits from past winners of the show reveal that their careers in dance were boosted only faintly from their participation on the show. (“Good to see everyone again! Since I won SYTYCD last year I’ve starred as a back-up dancing peanut in a Skippy commercial, and I have a small part in an upcoming PBS special about the history of Jazz Hands.”) An awareness of these less-than-mighty expectations fosters the appealing concept that these dancers are on the show simply because they love to dance. Who can resist that?
Even the title of So You Think You Can Dance, with its hokey bravado, manages to evoke a more playful, irreverent era in pop culture and entertainment than does the humorless title of American Idol, which oozes with mocking self-importance. Idol is ultimately putting one over on you. Pick your prepackaged Idol, America, from these limited options. But on So You Think You Can Dance, everyone is in on the joke. Things never get too serious; one can almost picture the cast of Grease circling each other in a dance hall, snapping their fingers in theatrical menace as they prepare to demonstrate their unrivaled prowess in the art of getting down. These dance contestants are covered in bruises, have dirty bare feet and are frequently dressed in acid-washed denim and sequins. They know how to keep things light.
Granted, I still don’t particularly enjoy the show’s initial ‘audition’ episodes, perhaps because I am not an authority on the subject of dance (despite my behavior on certain inebriated late nights when AC/DC comes on the jukebox at the bar). Also, while it’s pretty easy to tell the genuinely talented from the tragically misguided on American Idol auditions, a really great audition for So You Think You Can Dance looks suspiciously similar to a really terrible audition, particularly once you’ve had a few beers. “Oh man, that girl dances like my six year old niece when she thinks no one is watching,” I’ve commented on occasion, only to have the judges fall all over each other, post audition, to praise the girl and hand her a plane ticket to LA. I suppose that’s why I’m a fan instead of a judge. Watch a couple of episodes this next season, and see if you can’t say the same thing.
It’s not easy finding an audience in the vast, chaotic world of the internet. Particularly if you’re a blogger, you know how difficult it can be to call attention to your work and gain consistent readers. There’s so much else out there, jostling for attention with pictures and video and flashy ads clamoring to help you raise your credit score, satisfy her and earn big bucks working from home. It’s also more difficult at this point to find and carve out a unique niche that hasn’t already been done a hundred different ways. (Way to get there first, AlpacaNation.net).
I only recently began to explore the world of web content popularity-ranking sites like Digg.com and Technorati (I know, I’m old fashioned, yet sassy-kind of like The Golden Girls). I now know exactly what I’m up against in the fame game of the internet, and it’s a little disheartening. The last time I checked, the highest-ranked link on one site was a picture of a sleeping baby, wearing a party hat, with a bottle of Jose Cuervo nestled under its arm.
How can I possibly compete with that?! I don’t have any kids, or know anyone who would trust me with alcohol around theirs. I don’t even have a digital camera. Also, after gazing at that image, and considering its popularity, I am out of tequila.
I’ve realized that I’m ultimately doomed, because my blog is made up of words, which are on the way out. After all, why bother reading when instead you can watch a video of a guy getting a cake to the face, or a cat attacking a printer? (Oh man. The cat! The printer! Comic gold.) I predict that before too long, written communication will be reduced to an exchange of funny and shocking pictures and videos with universally understood meanings. Your boss will email you a link to a short film of a monkey falling out of a tree, and it will mean “You’re fired”. Your best friend will send you a camera-phone picture of a drunk guy eating plastic fruit, and it’ll mean “I’m going to be late to the movie tonight”. A picture of a puppy standing on its hind legs in an attempt reach a dangling hot dog will mean, “Please pick up milk on your way home.” We’re swiftly working our way back to pictograms. Extremely advanced and frequently moving versions of pictograms, but pictograms all the same.
After all, what percentage of the silly e-mail forwards you receive these days are simply an endless scroll of images; sunsets, children hugging, peace marches, galloping horses? (Or perhaps you have different acquaintances than I do.) E-mails don’t have to contain messages or even written content any more to be endlessly forwarded, as long as they include pictures of baby animals and/or unintentionally hilarious misspelled signs.
Some day soon my blog will be replaced with an image depicting a stick-figure wearing a hat on its butt. It’s the new universal sign of ‘if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em’.
President Bush held a brief press conference at the White House this afternoon to introduce what he called “a bold new proposal” that he believes “will greatly simplify and improve the lives of the American people.”
The President prefaced his announcement with a call for understanding.
“We are living in troubled times,” he began. “I have found myself looking to the past to find the strength and inspiration to lead this great country. The modern world has much to learn from the wisdom of olden times. There are many great men of history, in many nations, whose ideas and values remain relevant and useful. ”
The President cleared his throat. “One of these men in particular, an eighteenth-century novelist, wrote an essay whose clear and brilliant message resonates just as strongly today as it did when it was first published in 1729. To his credit, this obscure Irish author has helped lay the framework for what my administration believes is a groundbreaking, yet simple and effective solution to one of the leading evils facing the American people today: the problem of hunger.”
“Listen to me,” President Bush continued. “Due to the failure of our schools to properly teach abstinence, teenage pregnancy rates are soaring, with no end in sight. The threat of overpopulation in this country grows more imminent every day.
“America’s dependence on foreign oil and labor has left us scrambling to meet our basic needs for food and shelter. It’s time we utilized an abundant resource that can be found right here, in most of our very own homes.”
“Children are wonderful,” the President declared. “But we have more than enough of them right now. Let us acknowledge that they are also wholesome and nutritious. Difficult times call for difficult measures, and I think the American people understand what I’m talking about.”
The President went on to describe the tax breaks that would be granted to couples who chose to view their offspring as what he called ‘deliciously non-renewable resources’.
“It is true that these progressive, ‘energy-efficient’ families will be missing out on the economic incentives that are available through our current program, which rewards parents with a $5,000.00 tax credit for each child they raise,” Bush admitted. “However, once the incentives of our new program are in place, parents will be rewarded with a hefty tax cut for making the kinds of practical and intelligent choices that are crucial for survival in the difficult and dog-eat-dog — or man-eat-baby– world of today.”
“Not only that,” he added, “but by offering the American people this choice, I am not only encouraging family togetherness, but also promoting an increase in home-cooked meals.”
“Think about it, my fellow citizens,” he concluded. “I believe that this is going to be a turning point in this history of our country. By looking to the past for inspiration, we are moving forward into a new era of succulence.”
Dear incandescently famous and attractive actor or pop star,
I don’t care what you like to eat.
I don’t care that you were plain in highschool, and also the biggest dork.
I don’t want to hear how exciting it is to be a parent.
I don’t care what you think about politics.
I don’t care what your relationship is ‘really’ like.
I don’t care what you learned from your family growing up.
DO NOT CARE!
Unless you have became famous for your searing wit and lively intellectualism, do us all a favor and stop doing so many dull, horrible magazine interviews.
(Dear insipid tabloid magazines, please do your part and stop encouraging celebrities to think that they are interesting).
Dictionary.com, I have had about enough. I’m not not paying you to make me feel dumb.
When I started my new job, I didn’t get very many work-related emails. To get some emails coming in, and yes I know how sad this is, I signed up to receive the Word of the Day email from Dictionary.com.
Of course, as I knew would happen, things picked up at work, and I started getting actual work-related emails. The Dictionary.com emails became superfluous (adj: more than enough; overabundant) and annoying (adj: causing vexation or irritation; troublesome).
Too lazy (adj: averse or disinclined to work; indolent) to actually go back to the website and opt-out of the list, and too meticulous (adj: finicky; fussy; showing extreme care about minute details) to simply delete the emails without reading them, I was reduced to scanning them quickly, nodding sagely to myself, and then filing them away in a folder entitled “Word of Day” in my Outlook email. You know, because I was totally going to read them again later.
One thing I’ve enjoyed about receiving these emails is that the word of the day is usually a word I already know. It isn’t I know that many words; it’s more that Word of the Day tends to aim for the low-hanging fruit. So it gives you pseudo intellectual words like “gesticulate” and “acrid”. Still, knowing them already makes me feel smart. And I love that rush of smartness. It’s like a drug to me. Especially since I started this new job, where it sometimes feels like my learning curve is in the shape of me crouching under my desk.
So the Word of the Day email has held an respected place in my working life-until this morning. On Monday I usually receive three word emails. (I am not sure why Dictionary.com doesn’t take the weekend off. I’m sure it could stand to blow off some steam, dangle its participles, and contemplate the following week’s Word selection. Also, doesn’t it know that no one cares what words mean on the weekend? Apparently not.)
In any event, the first word that greeted me this morning was “Yegg”.
That’s right. Yegg. Apparently it’s a word. Apparently it’s a freaking noun. Its definition SHOULD be “the sound you make when someone grabs the hood on your sweatshirt as you run away”. But instead it means “burglar or safecracker”. Word of the Day, are you trying to mess with me?
And the second word? Oh, you know- “Xanthous”. Xanthous! Which should be a newly approved, doctor-recommended over the counter drug, but according to Dictionary.com it means “yellowish”.
I can’t imagine using that word in casual conversation.
“Please pass me that glass of Mountain Dew,” I’d say, drolly. “Oh, which one? It’s the glass with the xanthous glow. Hurry-don’t make me gesticulate acridly.”
The third word was “Abstinant”, which I could handle, although it’s not my favorite word ever. But come on! Yegg?
I am hoping this is not the beginning of a new trend. Please keep pitching me literary softballs, Word of the Day email! You don’t understand! I NEED this.
I would like to that the latest version of Microsoft Word does NOT recognize the either ‘xanthous’ or ‘yegg’. Dicitonary.com, you best be ready. Paperclip is gunning for you.
Because every damn time I signed on to Facebook, my feed went like this:
[Girl you found distasteful in high school]: Has posted pictures from her wedding!
Click here to view her photos, while wondering if perhaps you misjudged her, back in the day. Find photos distasteful, even for wedding photos. Feel slightly depressed, if also vindicated.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is home from work!
[Guy you had several ill-advised hookups with three years ago]: Has compared you to his other friends!
Click here if you find this somehow enraging. Click around some more, trying to figure out whom you have been compared with, but give up after a few minutes. Feel somehow violated.
[Girl you know through an ex-boyfriend]: Is a fan of “Bill Withers”.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is cooking dinner!
[Girl you were good friends with in 7th grade and haven’t talked to since then]: Has sent you a friend request!
Click here to accept her request with enthusiasm.
Click here to send a message to this girl, summarizing what you have been up to for the last fifteen years, and asking what she is up to in return. Wait weeks, but never receive a response. Wonder why you even bothered. Feel slightly irritated every time you notice that she is constantly on Facebook.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Hates morning commutes!
[Ex Boyfriend you are no longer in touch with]: Has left a comment on the photo of [some girl you don’t know].
Click here, despite your better judgment, to read the comment and look at the photo of the girl, so you can see if she is prettier than you. Decide that she looks kind of dull and is probably not as funny as you either. Wonder why you even care? Feel animosity towards Ex Boyfriend for no definable reason.
[Girl you like but haven’t talked to in years]: Has thrown an apple at you!
Click here to pointlessly ‘throw’ a random object back at her in lieu of meaningful communication.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is listening to a great album!
[Hipster you are vaguely acquainted with and were always a little scornful of]: Has posted pictures from the album “Amazing Wild New Year’s Blowout Party that was Full of Sexy Hipsters Who Are Cooler than You”.
Click here to view the album. Judge all of the people in it because they are mugging at the camera and attempting to look sexy. Also, everyone is drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and wearing trucker hats. Tell yourself you would rather have spent New Year’s Eve at home on your couch, which is good because that’s what happened. Feel slightly bad about yourself for unexplainable reason.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is a fan of “Pastrami”.
Click here if you are also a fan of “Pastrami”, because the zany, eclectic things we express fondness for help define us to others.
[Random dude you worked with two jobs ago]: Has given you a Martini!
Click here to ‘give’ a ‘drink’ to [Random Dude you worked with two jobs ago], because that constitutes rewarding social interaction or something.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Loves Grey’s Anatomy!
[Girl whom you vaguely recall got married right out of college]: Is now listed as ‘Single’.
Feel overwhelmingly curious and slightly appalled that this information was posted on Facebook and now as a result you are pointlessly aware of it.
[Girl who you shared some classes with in college]: Has tagged herself in a photo!
Click here to view the photo and note that while it is flattering, it also looks very little like how you remember the girl actually looking.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: Is hungry!
[Person you don’t know]: Has left a comment on the status of [Girl whom you vaguely recall got married right out of college and is now apparently single]: “Hey! What happened?”
Feel even more appalled that someone would publicly post a brief, impersonal question like that; do they really expect an answer? Well, maybe. After all, what does [Girl who used to be married] expect, after announcing her singleness on Facebook? Begin feeling ill about the whole scenario.
[Guy you are vaguely acquainted with]: is listed as “In a Relationship” with [Girl you have met twice].
Feel faintly surprised at the match, but mostly indifferent. Wonder how [Guy] and [Girl] decided that their relationship had reached the critical “Change Your Facebook Status” level. Speculate as to whether they discussed whether or not to change their Facebook statuses at the same time, and, if not, wonder which of them did it first, and if the one who did it first worried that the other one would feel that it had been done prematurely. Feel slightly depressed by this train of thought.
[Guy you were close to in college but haven’t seen in five years]: Has sent you an invitation!
Click here for details on this invitation to “An Awesome Show I’m in that is Happening in a City You Haven’t Lived in Since 1999.”
Feel flattered by the invitation, but also confused. You’re probably not going to hop on a plane to see the show of a friend you haven’t spoken with since college. But you still feel too guilty to respond to the invitation with a “No”, so you absurdly put “Maybe”.
[Person you barely talk to who lives in a different city]: is beginning to depress you with their constant updates.
Click here to scan through your Facebook friends and realize that very few of them represent actual, current friendships or even associations that you remotely value. In fact your list of contacts feels like an eerie social graveyard of expired friendships, badly ended relationships, and vague, past acquaintances you care very little about. Begin to feel depressed by the fact that so many people have passed in and out of your life without leaving much of an impression on you. Wonder how a website that is so meaningless, vacuous and shallow has become so overwhelmingly popular (particularly with younger generations), and what that means about how we view social interaction today and the direction in which it is going.
Pour yourself a real, actual drink. Note that you have a closer relationship with Jim Beam than with most of your so-called Facebook friends.
Leave Facebook.
Brian really likes to watch the Discovery Channel.
I will admit that he’s gotten me hooked on more than a few of the Discovery Channel’s offerings. I enjoy watching the likeable nerds on Mythbusters get drunk and run on treadmills in the name of science. I don’t mind watching Dirty Jobs, either (Mike Rowe is a tall drink of water, even when he’s standing knee-deep in maggots). There’s a new show on right now called Time Warp that is a stoner’s dream come true—all they do is film things and then play them back in extreme slow motion. In the last episode, they took all of the safety guards off of a table buzz saw and then threw dead fish and piñatas at it, also in the name of science. It’s brilliant, in a way.
The show I can’t really get behind as much is Storm Chasers. It’s about a ragtag band of…weather enthusiasts, who…well…ok, see? I lost me already.
No, but seriously. Here is the plot of every episode of this show: “We’ve been watching the weather, and it looks like there’s some tornados a brewin’ in this area over here, so we’re going to go find the tornados. Here we are, right near some big huge tornados. We’re going to film— AAAH!!! Oh My God! Tornados! They’re coming right toward us! AAAA! OH NO WE ARE IN TROUBLE!!! RUN FROM THE TORNADOS!!! AAAA!!!” Eventually, they escape the tornados, and live to chase after, and then run away from, other tornados another day.
Does anyone else understand the appeal of this show?
Why is it that whenever you go to the drug store to buy certain items, the last person you’d want ringing you up for them is always the only one behind the counter?
Granted, I don’t have a lot of shame; if I need to buy something I’ll damn well buy it, no matter what kind of smocked employee gives me the side-eye. Still, I can’t help but notice this unfailing trend. Buying condoms in college, it was always the disapproving grandma type ringing me up. Unfailingly when I buy tampons, it’s from an awkward teenage boy.
This evening was a particularly bad example of this phenomenon. I needed to buy a certain item that I don’t feel like discussing. Of course, the requisite teenager was behind the counter. All right, fine.
“How are you ma’am?”
“I’m good.”
When I’m buying certain items, I always have the impulse to answer truthfully. “How am I? Ahem. I clearly could be better.” Anyway, the transaction went fairly smoothly, and I escaped out the front door with a sigh of relief– until the theft detectors went off.
I gave that sheepish “you don’t really think I’m stealing anything, right? Can I just keep on going here?” shrug-and-smile combo, but to no avail. For the first time in recorded history, I was called back to the counter– and this time the disapproving grandma clerks (two of them!) got in on the action. They rifled through my bag and pulled out the last box I wanted them to pull out.
“Is it this? I think it’s this,” they chorused, and handed it back to the teenage boy. “Rub it on the desensitizing mat,” they ordered him, then added, “No, harder– you really have to rub it on there.”
I stood there. “Of course it’s that,” I said, and was ignored. My face burned.
Finally they put it back in the bag and passed it to me. “You’re free to go,” they said.
I got the hell out of there before I could start giggling hysterically. Next time I’m going to CVS.
I Heard Tell 