character-building

(after a brief fascination with fish, I decided it was so not my thing)

I'm a master at avoiding things I don't want to do.  I'll walk the 2 miles to work instead of taking the 5 minute bus ride, because really, who wants to go to work? I'll walk a mile extra to avoid switching metro lines (DC residents might be the only people not wearing a puzzled expression at this one), I will take the train or drive to prevent Miami airport-esque breakdowns.  


One thing I've been wholly unable to avoid during this Lent adventure is touching raw meat.  I've never been interested in vegetarianism (I already don't get enough protein), but raw meat freaks me out in a very visceral way.  I just really, seriously do not like touching it. If I can get it from container to skillet without actual meat contact, I do a bit of a victory dance. 


Add that to my general disdain for seafood, and it's just plain torture.  So when Allie and I settled on fish tacos for our last Friday night dinner, I was clearly not thinking rationally.  This would involve me...gulp...touching RAW FISH.  


Seeing me barely touching the edge of the flounder fillets and wrinkling my nose as I seasoned them, Allie laughed and said "I'd offer to do this for you, but I think it's character building" and offered me a fork.  


The tacos turned out so-so, but I don't exactly blame my light touch with the flounder.  My heart just wasn't in cooking Friday dinner, and the lack of enthusiasm led to a passable, but not remarkable, taco bar.  I didn't even take any pictures of it (or of the lemon pound cake I made, and consumed mostly by myself, which isn't at all embarrassing to admit).  


But as unexcited as I've been about cooking some days during Lent, it's been a character-building experience (in the least formal sense of the phrase).  I can avoid touching gross raw meat now and then.  I can get around legitimate cooking once and a while.  But most of the time, I just have to man up and put on the apron.  I think we can classify that as progress from my days of Kraft mac n cheese and peas for dinner.


Now excuse me while I go reserve a cab to avoid the miserable weather tonight...

the saran wrap dress incident

Well, I promised my sister just yesterday that I'd knock it off with the baby pictures for a while.  But then I made bacon and peanut butter toast for dinner, and that just doesn't lend itself well to photographs. 


So instead I offer you yet another picture capturing the suspenders trend that apparently seized Atlanta around 1988. I can't decide if my mom just really like the matching accessories thing or if my little pants wouldn't stay up without some assistance (feel free to weigh in, mom).  


Anyways, I have a point, I promise.  


Today I had a similarly embarrassing wardrobe issue.  In my typical morning sprint from bed to bus, I failed to notice the saran wrap phenomenon my work dress had going. I don't know how, because it was really quite bad.


I think something funky happened to my tights in the wash (yes, I know tights probably shouldn't even go in the washer, but I'm lazy), and it turned them in to dress magnets.  The static cling was so bad that it was literally as if my dress were made of saran wrap.  


Walking around peeling your dress off your tights all day is, well, just plain awkward.  And to think...I own not one but four slips that could have negated this little issue (mom, aren't you proud?). 


The saran wrap effect was easily the most unfortunate aspect of the day, but I think it just threw me off all around.  I tried to drink my coffee sideways (yeah, that went about as well as you could imagine it might).  I dropped just about everything I tried to pick up.  I was a litttttle snippier than I should have been to a particularly frustrating coworker. 


So now I'm just being intentionally antisocial (I mean, the kind of attention you'd get at a happy hour with a saran wrap dress is not the kind I go for) and planning on wearing pants tomorrow.  

cooking class

At my sister's behest, I'm giving the baby photos a rest (she's convinced I resembled a gerber baby while she resembled a monkey alien baby--until I can talk her out of this, I'll stick with photos of food {or cropped baby photos}).  


And anyways, how could I not show you the deliciousness that my coworker whipped up for me tonight? Normally I'm just relieved that I've turned out edible food that looks passable in photos.  This dinner experience, on the other hand, was well beyond just "passable."  


My coworker Moizza was based in our Cairo office until it was evacuated (I trust that I don't need to explain why), and now she's back in DC until the evacuation orders are lifted. Selfishly, I'm happy she's back--there aren't many young people in my office, and we hadn't had the chance to get to know each other well because she deployed to Cairo shortly after I started.  But my cruel bosses decided her skills were in much higher demand overseas than in DC, so she's on her way to Dulles right now, and I won't see her for at least three weeks.  


Yesterday she generously offered to leave her spices in my care while she was away, and even suggested cooking dinner for me with said spices.  That'd be a resounding yes.  


Today after work, we came back to the LKTC, and first assessed the protein situation. My inability to walk away from a grocery store special means that my freezer is well stocked.  After recovering from her slight shock at my excessive supply, Moizza selected enough chicken for tonight and some leftover for the week.  Next she said all she needed was sour cream or heavy cream and lemon juice.  I'm sure she thought that any woman with several pounds of protein in her freezer would keep a variety of dairy in the fridge. My fridge, however, is currently full of bacon, beer, and a britta (the essentials in life, I would argue).  We popped down to the basement convenience store (convenient? yes.  priced accordingly? heck yes) and bought sour cream and dessert.  


Back up in the LKTC, my spice lesson began as she started our meal of chicken korma.  Moizza explained that every family has their own unique spice mix, tailored to individual tastes.  She taught me hers, and then started the heavy lifting.  First the onions were sautéed until translucent (a process she called "sweating"), then the spices were added (aka "toasted").  This part of the preparation essentially calls for constant stirring, which Moizza faithfully did until a blob of spice paste flew up on her shirt. The turmeric, she warned me, will stain pretty much anything it touches a bright highlighter yellow, so she tried to wash it off immediately.  Of course I had thought about offering her an apron at the onset, but forgot.  Luckily she was wearing black, and general crisis was averted (and an apron was then offered).  


Next the chicken went in and got seared a bit before the sour cream and water were added.  The whole pot gets covered for a bit to help the chicken cook, then it can simmer uncovered to help the water absorb more.  At this point, the LKTC started to smell like some kind of heaven.  Fortunately I had boiled edamame to snack on, which is possibly the only thing that kept me from diving head first into the pot of chicken korma.  But I digress.  Once the chicken is cooked and the sauce has thickened, the finished product gets ladled over rice.  


Yep, it's that easy.  Or so Moizza made it look.  I fully intend to try it myself, and I imagine there's a decent chance of it falling more in to the "disasters" category than that of "success stories," but it was so amazing that it's worth a shot (and either way, it'll make for a good story). 


ps-any time I feel like writing, but can't think of anything good or interesting that has happened lately, I'm suddenly in a totally LKTC-worthy situation.  Like the day I came home to a bowl of rotten potatoes.  Hello inspiration.  Or today, when the best thing I had going for me was the discovery that women in their 20s have huge pupils and never need their eyes dilated (thanks Dr. Weiss).  Then Moizza graced the LKTC with chicken korma.  I like this pattern.  

busted

So, before I delve into the (more recent) meaning behind the title, let me just say I love my sister.  I realize this picture, in which I'm clearly attempting to thwart her attempts to crawl, might lead you to believe otherwise, but I promise, it's all good these days.  I'm not really sure what was up in this particular shot...maybe I was just mad that my parents were dressing me in suspenders (no, really, guys...what was up with this wardrobe choice?).  But obviously I was busted, on film nonetheless, trying to keep my sister down back in the day, so, that's a little embarrassing.  


My rebellious streak continued well in to kindergarten, when I was busted for my monopoly on the play doh "restaurant" in my classroom.  I have apparently never been a fan of delegation. 


After my otherwise kind kindergarten teacher chastised me, I kept much more on the straight and narrow (if you think I'm joking, you obviously don't know that I went to an all girls' high school and lived in fear of our headmistress and her propensity for dispensing demerits). 


So in the spirit of full disclosure, this past Thursday, I bucked my long-standing trend of relatively upstanding behavior and I ate out.  Yes, I tumbled right off the proverbial Lent wagon.  It was far from glamorous.  No, I fell hard.  Right in to a big old plate of Paolo's spaghetti alla bolognese (yes, I actually make a mean bolognese myself).


I could make excuses (there was a lot of wine involved, I was still traumatized from the rotten potato incident, I've been punishingly stringent with the rules up until now, etc), but there's no getting around the rapid descent from the original Lenten guidelines.  


Listen, I'm not proud of it, but, it happened and I have spent plenty of time feeling guilty over it.  More importantly, I can't take it back, so I see no point in apologizing excessively or trying to explain it away.  


I still know why I decided to try this adventure in the first place, and I've clamored back up onto the wagon.  


PS--I actually did some time-consuming cooking this weekend, maybe in an attempt to clear my conscience(?).  I made spaghetti and meatballs for a friend's birthday Friday, and baked what turned out to be a tasty blueberry buttermilk cake for girls' dinner Sunday. 

the shutdown showdown

This is the picture I was hoping to find when I was having a particularly grumpy day last Friday. I think it is hilarious.  No one quite remembers why my sister and I looked so ticked (although maybe it was those shoes?), but we look like someone just told us we had to give up all our barbies or something.  

I'm glad I didn't find it last week, because it's a far more appropriate photographic summary of my feelings on the government shutdown showdown than anything that was going on last week.  

I don't know how many of you live outside of DC/VA/MD, and subsequently how much news coverage the potential government shutdown received in your town (although I'd love to know--comment!).  In the news (print, radio, tv) here, it was ALL ANYONE TALKED ABOUT FOR DAYS.  

It was also all anyone talked about at work (and away from work). Nothing productive was accomplished--it was like the day before summer break around my office for at least a week.  

Will it happen? How long will it last?  If they don't introduce the new budget by Tuesday, they won't have time to vote on it...  Will I be deemed "essential?"  How will I pay my rent?  What will I do if I can't work and all the museums are shut down? (ok, maybe it was just me asking that one)

I think the significance of a shutdown was/is lost on a lot of people outside of Washington.  

Setting aside your political opinions, your ideas that all federal government employees are lazy and overpaid, think about what you would do if you unexpectedly lost your income indefinitely, and with very little prospect of backpay?

Just because Congress can't compromise, life, and more importantly, expenses, go on.  To know that you have to sit on your hands at home, and eventually dip in to your savings to pay the rent and the bills, is frightening.  I know that I personally had a "danger zone"--the point at which I'd no longer be able to pay rent if the government was shut down.  And compared to most people I work with, my bills are practically non-existent.  I have no debt, no kids, no real responsibilities. 

I remember watching the news and seeing some slightly extremist congressman surrounded by supporters with crazy signs.  At the end of his speech, he said "if the other side doesn't want to compromise, I SAY SHUT IT DOWN" and everyone behind him cheered wildly.  I would be shocked if those people were anything but tourists.  

No one I know in the government, Republican or Democrat, wanted it to shut down. It is, simply put, a massive undertaking full of uncertainty and questions.  

Can you imagine all the things you would need to wrap up if you knew that as of midnight, it would become illegal for you to touch your work Blackberry?  email? any work at all? (note: it is illegal for one to incur any expense while in a non-pay status) What in the world should your out-of-office say?  (one coworker suggested "I will be back in the office when Congress passes the budget and successfully completes the ONE task they are legally bound to undertake each year")

Friday was one of the busiest days I've had in recent memory. I left work later than I normally ever do (and especially late for a Friday).  I had guests coming over to celebrate a friend's birthday, so I didn't really have much time to process my impending "unemployment."  We all talked about it a bit at dinner, but everyone here is pretty weary of it, so we quickly moved on to birthday celebrations. 

Later that night, sitting at a booth at a bar, one of my friends said "so, how do you know that it's officially shut down?" and it just so happened to have just struck midnight.  We decided to check the news to make it official.  

I nearly dropped my Blackberry when I saw the headline that a deal had been struck.  

Not that I was over the moon about an indefinite break from work... But I had spent the entire past week hearing of nothing but the shutdown.  I had spent Wednesday and Thursday trying to concentrate on work as we received conflicting guidance that put everyone in a tizzy.  I spent Friday frantically wrapping things up. By the time midnight rolled around, I was no longer in denial about the situation, and had gotten to the point that I was optimistic about what I could accomplish in my personal life while it was illegal for me to touch work. 

The total 180 by congress threw us all for a loop, but it was a welcome last-minute compromise (although I will be singing a very different tune if we're facing yet another shut down next Friday)

Naturally we celebrated the news by dancing the rest of the night.  

last one to clean her kitchen is a rotten potato

(proof that I was not always put off by raw meat {it's a tiny little fish, i promise})

No, I did not learn the wrong childhood metaphors.  I found a rotten potato in my kitchen today.  I'm not sure if you've ever encountered a rotten potato before, but it is possibly one of the more disgusting things I've ever come across in a kitchen before (and that's coming from a girl who avoids touching raw meat at all costs).  


So, I remembered to defrost my last steak this morning (despite my post-girls' night tequila haze), and planned on having it with mashed red potatoes and garlic.  I have little baby red potatoes on my counter, but intended to cut up the slightly older, larger red potatoes and use those before they went bad. 


Way too late for that, friends. 


I took the first potato off the pile and it felt fine.  I smelled it to be sure, and then I noticed the OTHER two potatoes.  I couldn't even really see the one at the bottom of the bowl, because the middle potato apparently decided enough was enough.  Either he was going to be used, or he was going to mutiny.  And mutiny he did.  (Note: I don't really normally think of food as having a personality.  This traumatizing experience has convinced me otherwise).


The middle potato was lying belly up with a jagged, gaping hole in it.  There was a pool of black goo at the bottom of the bowl, and the hole in the potato exposed yellow liquified grossness.  I just stood there for a minute staring at this huge, disgusting mess (seriously, I couldn't even bring myself to make you look at a picture to prove that I'm not exaggerating, it was that gross).  Then the smell hit me like a brick wall, and I couldn't get that bowl of rotten potatoes into the trash fast enough.  Yeah, the bowl was sacrificed.  


Don't judge me until you've confronted a similarly traumatizing rogue potato incident. 

captain grumpy pants

It's Friday.  I got to wear jeans to work today.  All the bosses were out of the office.  It's Allie's turn to cook Friday dinner.  I have friends in town this weekend and next.  My family descends on DC in a couple weeks.  


And yet I am captain grumpy pants lately (not, sadly, an April Fools joke).  I can't decide if I need a little vacation from work (possibly I told a coworker "use your WORDS" today...) or if it's the weather (I swear, for the past three or four days, it looks like the same [indeterminate] time all day long because of the non-stop clouds and drizzle).  Either way, I'm hoping Allie's risotto and a little bit of wine will snap me out of this rut.  


Until then, I leave you with the evidence that I was destined to be a messy cook.