Took a mental health day. Sort of. I didn't get much sleep last night. And then I realized that I never bought the book I had reading in for my class. So I went out and bought the book instead of going to class. And now I'm going to read it. Skipping class makes me feel like crap most of the time. But I went back to sleep and it was great.
I have to review my resume and update it. And then compose cover letters. Great.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Stress
I've been all kinds of stressed out. I've been treating stress with fun, monetary and alcoholic releases (though those could all be considered one thing). I have been neglecting the healing power of music. Recently I've been listening to stimulating music. Bursts, explosions. I recently recompiled all my music into a library using the Mozilla program Songbird (like iTunes, but better, kind of).
I took a shower and my mind raced. I turned off the lights in my room, plugged in my headphones, turned up the volume and listened to "Glósóli" by Sigur Rós. Try it. I think Carmen will agree that the song is one of the best ever.
I'm not kidding.
Listen
I took a shower and my mind raced. I turned off the lights in my room, plugged in my headphones, turned up the volume and listened to "Glósóli" by Sigur Rós. Try it. I think Carmen will agree that the song is one of the best ever.
I'm not kidding.
Listen
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Pizza
A friend organized a "pizza throwdown" in the style of the TV show Throwdown with Bobby Flay. I'm becoming disillusioned about the Food Network but that's besides the point.
I came up with the idea of making a pesto, arugala, goat cheese pizza. It was great. Cooking is a selfish art. I made this pizza because I wanted to eat it.
Garlic and herb pizza dough from TJs - $1
Pesto - $3
2 4oz logs of goat cheese from East Village Cheese - $2!
bag of arugala - $2
$8. I will make this again sometime.
I came up with the idea of making a pesto, arugala, goat cheese pizza. It was great. Cooking is a selfish art. I made this pizza because I wanted to eat it.
Garlic and herb pizza dough from TJs - $1
Pesto - $3
2 4oz logs of goat cheese from East Village Cheese - $2!
bag of arugala - $2
$8. I will make this again sometime.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Mashed Potatoes
My mom's mashed potatoes were like glue; paste for construction paper cutouts. A consistency just barely appealing enough to fool one's mind into mistaking it for pudding; the trickery so powerful that one could forget they were eating an entree's side dish and instead thought they were eating dessert. Mother's magic. Aside from this minor setback (Elmer's glue as a side dish), the potatoes were still potatoes, meaning they tasted like potatoes-- earthy and starchy.
For the longest time, I didn't question the confusing potato product. My family rarely ate at many places where mashed potatoes would be an overwhelming, necessary option. In a household where Cheerios were, albeit briefly, considered "junk food" due to the microscopic amount of sugar listed in its nutrition facts, a dish so intent on being liberally fattened up with gravy, butter, cream or any combination therein, was myth in my family's kitchen.
We trust our mothers because they taught us the concept of trust and they made us, through all the attempted teenage lies, understand it. I trusted my mom's culinary abilities. She cooked from scratch and with intense love. The only foreseeable issue was that she improvised. Her improvisation stemmed from a desire for low-fat, healthy food. Substitutions were made all over the place. Chocolate cake made with apricot jam. She was stagnantly opposed to frying; every fat was used in moderation.
For some reason she never used meat thermometers. Often, the meat she worked so hard on preparing, would be dry. This was because my parents were, and still are, strong advocates of the counterproductive method of cutting open meat to see its doneness, the method that no professional, no matter what level of inebriation or apathy, would ever recommend. It's a sin comparable to the burger K.O. of a firm, machismo spatula press that releases the steaming screams of the meat juice that so badly wanted to ride a human's intestinal tract. I'm pretty positive my parents were once victims of the viral, spatula press concept.
I developed a passion for cooking watching my mom so delicately prepare meals. I learned how to boil pasta. I learned how to brown garlic (a hue likely too brown for most people's taste). I learned how to bake. Stick a toothpick in to see if it's done. With a TV in the kitchen, I had access to the Food Network which helped me immerse myself, for those saturated moments, in a world of food totality.
Though I enjoyed my newfound food knowledge, I had one selfish goal in mind: to learn how to make mashed potatoes the real way, in other words, better than my mom's. The possibility of being better at something than my mom, let alone an adult was a thrilling pubescent prospect.
My mom bought, and fell into a state of infatuation with, a hand blender. Salad dressing and banana milkshakes. It was becoming clear, to my mom, that the gadget had many preparatory uses. With this enlightenment came the inadvertent defiling of mashed potatoes. She boiled the potatoes, a good first step. Then, she poured too much 2% milk in, a fairly forgivable step. The last step is almost too horrifying to mention. My mom massacred the potatoes, commanding the blender with her strong right hand, until what was left resembled pale, impotent porridge.
I had to put an end to the monstrosity. For Thanksgiving one year, I found a recipe for roasted garlic mashed potatoes. I found a potato masher hidden deep in one of the scary drawers of kitchen miscellany. I washed the potatoes, cut them into small pieces, placed them into a pot and covered the chunks with cold water. I rubbed a bulbous head of garlic with olive oil, wrapped it in aluminum foil, and placed the silvery package into the hot oven.
After paying close attention, adding a mother-unapproved plop of butter, squeezing the fragrant, whiskey colored garlic cloves out of their paper cocoons to their pillowy demise, tossing in seasonings and gently mixing the potatoes together, I found myself staring at a heap of textured potato mass that resembled the impossibly, and curiously, delicious mashed potatoes from Boston Market that we used to eat at my grandmother's house. I had found a hobby.
The guests attached to the perimeter of the mahogany dining room table that night thought the mashed potatoes were delicious. My mom liked them. I think she understood my subtle, passive-aggressive suggestion that she should prepare her mashed potatoes the proper way. My mom may not have known how to make appealing mashed potatoes but, to be honest, mom, I would eat those potatoes every second if I knew they were made by you. If you had any butter. No, a stick. Just saying.
For the longest time, I didn't question the confusing potato product. My family rarely ate at many places where mashed potatoes would be an overwhelming, necessary option. In a household where Cheerios were, albeit briefly, considered "junk food" due to the microscopic amount of sugar listed in its nutrition facts, a dish so intent on being liberally fattened up with gravy, butter, cream or any combination therein, was myth in my family's kitchen.
We trust our mothers because they taught us the concept of trust and they made us, through all the attempted teenage lies, understand it. I trusted my mom's culinary abilities. She cooked from scratch and with intense love. The only foreseeable issue was that she improvised. Her improvisation stemmed from a desire for low-fat, healthy food. Substitutions were made all over the place. Chocolate cake made with apricot jam. She was stagnantly opposed to frying; every fat was used in moderation.
For some reason she never used meat thermometers. Often, the meat she worked so hard on preparing, would be dry. This was because my parents were, and still are, strong advocates of the counterproductive method of cutting open meat to see its doneness, the method that no professional, no matter what level of inebriation or apathy, would ever recommend. It's a sin comparable to the burger K.O. of a firm, machismo spatula press that releases the steaming screams of the meat juice that so badly wanted to ride a human's intestinal tract. I'm pretty positive my parents were once victims of the viral, spatula press concept.
I developed a passion for cooking watching my mom so delicately prepare meals. I learned how to boil pasta. I learned how to brown garlic (a hue likely too brown for most people's taste). I learned how to bake. Stick a toothpick in to see if it's done. With a TV in the kitchen, I had access to the Food Network which helped me immerse myself, for those saturated moments, in a world of food totality.
Though I enjoyed my newfound food knowledge, I had one selfish goal in mind: to learn how to make mashed potatoes the real way, in other words, better than my mom's. The possibility of being better at something than my mom, let alone an adult was a thrilling pubescent prospect.
My mom bought, and fell into a state of infatuation with, a hand blender. Salad dressing and banana milkshakes. It was becoming clear, to my mom, that the gadget had many preparatory uses. With this enlightenment came the inadvertent defiling of mashed potatoes. She boiled the potatoes, a good first step. Then, she poured too much 2% milk in, a fairly forgivable step. The last step is almost too horrifying to mention. My mom massacred the potatoes, commanding the blender with her strong right hand, until what was left resembled pale, impotent porridge.
I had to put an end to the monstrosity. For Thanksgiving one year, I found a recipe for roasted garlic mashed potatoes. I found a potato masher hidden deep in one of the scary drawers of kitchen miscellany. I washed the potatoes, cut them into small pieces, placed them into a pot and covered the chunks with cold water. I rubbed a bulbous head of garlic with olive oil, wrapped it in aluminum foil, and placed the silvery package into the hot oven.
After paying close attention, adding a mother-unapproved plop of butter, squeezing the fragrant, whiskey colored garlic cloves out of their paper cocoons to their pillowy demise, tossing in seasonings and gently mixing the potatoes together, I found myself staring at a heap of textured potato mass that resembled the impossibly, and curiously, delicious mashed potatoes from Boston Market that we used to eat at my grandmother's house. I had found a hobby.
The guests attached to the perimeter of the mahogany dining room table that night thought the mashed potatoes were delicious. My mom liked them. I think she understood my subtle, passive-aggressive suggestion that she should prepare her mashed potatoes the proper way. My mom may not have known how to make appealing mashed potatoes but, to be honest, mom, I would eat those potatoes every second if I knew they were made by you. If you had any butter. No, a stick. Just saying.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
For Carmen (and T) (and Genesar) (and Ausar) (and Bfly) (etc.)
Something happened yesterday and its simple significance wasn't particularly clear until this moment: the one where I woke up with a dire need to urinate and now, against all better judgments, I decided to defer returning to sleep. And now to wake me up further, judg(e)ment has two spellings?!
My brother Justin and I have had a long history of disagreeing on music. I remember trying particularly hard to make him like Green Day's Dookie in the live backseat of a '92 station wagon. It was probably 1995. Maybe 1996. A melange of music was starting to make me interested. The main vehicle for discovering music was MTV. After that came VH1 and the radio. I became very interested in singles, mainly by one-hit wonders; there were a lot of them. The Presidents of the United States of America were one of these bands though they did have a couple big songs, "Lump" and "Peaches", and they also recorded the Drew Carey Show theme ("Cleveland Rocks") and the theme for the Disney Channel original movie, "My Date With The President's Daughter." (Meet the unbelievably, surprisingly, stupid and useless pop-culture proficiency I hold in my head.) I fell in love, hard and fast, with Oasis' "Wonderwall". I'm not sure why exactly, but the song is just staggering. Random bus kids and I would sing it on the way to school. After my purchase of Dookie, I picked up Oasis' "What's The Story Morning Glory" I tried to get Justin interested in it; he just wasn't.
The reason why this is important is that, to me, music, as with all art, means nothing unless it can be shared. I could dig into this and try to explain it but I think it rings truer if left alone. Art is meant to be shared. Liking a song is not nearly as great as playing it for someone and seeing their positive reaction.
My brother wasn't having it. He had his own interests (I think). Video games being one. I kept trying through middle school, attempting to get him to listen to Blink-182 and various other pop-punk bands. Why this bothered me was that he didn't really listen to any music. He had played the viola because my mom thought he was sensitive (don't get me started) and quit because it very plainly sucked. I was wrapped up in music and I felt bad he wasn't.
Something happened in high school and he started developing a taste for music. And for some reason, the reverse of what I initially set out for happened: I didn't really have any intense interest in listening to his favorite bands. We were individuals and we listened to different music. I suppose this was to be blamed on development. So very slowly would I go to my brother and ask what it was he was listening to. Neutral Milk Hotel, Pavement, Sonic Youth, Built To Spill, Modest Mouse. All bands I had some peripheral recognition of, but never felt an urge to listen to. Needless to say these bands make some incredible music which I eventually found out. I still take longer than necessary to listen to bands my brother really likes but at least it's not just me; it works in reverse.
Why is this important? Last night I recommended that my brother listen to Kevin Devine's new album. It leaked, unfortunately for Kevin, but fortunately for the point of this writing. After one friend told me she didn't really like it and another said it was amazing, I sent Justin a link to it. I could see in his iChat status that he was progressing through the songs. Every once in a while he made a comment about one of the tracks. At the end he said, "that's one of the best albums i've heard in a long time." It was slightly surreal, like two parallel lines somehow crossing, if only for a brief second of inflated importance.
My brother and I connect on many things on a regular basis but our music interests have remained largely parallel. I don't know what to think exactly but for the first time in a while, the power of music feels stronger.
My brother Justin and I have had a long history of disagreeing on music. I remember trying particularly hard to make him like Green Day's Dookie in the live backseat of a '92 station wagon. It was probably 1995. Maybe 1996. A melange of music was starting to make me interested. The main vehicle for discovering music was MTV. After that came VH1 and the radio. I became very interested in singles, mainly by one-hit wonders; there were a lot of them. The Presidents of the United States of America were one of these bands though they did have a couple big songs, "Lump" and "Peaches", and they also recorded the Drew Carey Show theme ("Cleveland Rocks") and the theme for the Disney Channel original movie, "My Date With The President's Daughter." (Meet the unbelievably, surprisingly, stupid and useless pop-culture proficiency I hold in my head.) I fell in love, hard and fast, with Oasis' "Wonderwall". I'm not sure why exactly, but the song is just staggering. Random bus kids and I would sing it on the way to school. After my purchase of Dookie, I picked up Oasis' "What's The Story Morning Glory" I tried to get Justin interested in it; he just wasn't.
The reason why this is important is that, to me, music, as with all art, means nothing unless it can be shared. I could dig into this and try to explain it but I think it rings truer if left alone. Art is meant to be shared. Liking a song is not nearly as great as playing it for someone and seeing their positive reaction.
My brother wasn't having it. He had his own interests (I think). Video games being one. I kept trying through middle school, attempting to get him to listen to Blink-182 and various other pop-punk bands. Why this bothered me was that he didn't really listen to any music. He had played the viola because my mom thought he was sensitive (don't get me started) and quit because it very plainly sucked. I was wrapped up in music and I felt bad he wasn't.
Something happened in high school and he started developing a taste for music. And for some reason, the reverse of what I initially set out for happened: I didn't really have any intense interest in listening to his favorite bands. We were individuals and we listened to different music. I suppose this was to be blamed on development. So very slowly would I go to my brother and ask what it was he was listening to. Neutral Milk Hotel, Pavement, Sonic Youth, Built To Spill, Modest Mouse. All bands I had some peripheral recognition of, but never felt an urge to listen to. Needless to say these bands make some incredible music which I eventually found out. I still take longer than necessary to listen to bands my brother really likes but at least it's not just me; it works in reverse.
Why is this important? Last night I recommended that my brother listen to Kevin Devine's new album. It leaked, unfortunately for Kevin, but fortunately for the point of this writing. After one friend told me she didn't really like it and another said it was amazing, I sent Justin a link to it. I could see in his iChat status that he was progressing through the songs. Every once in a while he made a comment about one of the tracks. At the end he said, "that's one of the best albums i've heard in a long time." It was slightly surreal, like two parallel lines somehow crossing, if only for a brief second of inflated importance.
My brother and I connect on many things on a regular basis but our music interests have remained largely parallel. I don't know what to think exactly but for the first time in a while, the power of music feels stronger.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Also
This just came into my head in the shower. I'll post all the lyrics to this song. "The Poison" by Pedro The Lion.
the poison makes its way through my body slowly
into the pleasure centers of my brain
if you were here i would admit that i'm an asshole
but now it's over and i can't stay sober
though it isn't like i've tried
on the front porch or on an airplane on vacation
or out for dinner in a nearby town
i was so proud just to have you sitting with me
but now it's over and i can't stay sober
pour and swallow follow one drink with another
i'll keep on til you agree to come back over
or until there are x's on my eyes
my old man always swore that hell would have no flame
just a front row seat to watch you true love pack her things and drive away
Can't find the mp3, sorry. Those last two lines. THOSE LAST TWO LINES.
the poison makes its way through my body slowly
into the pleasure centers of my brain
if you were here i would admit that i'm an asshole
but now it's over and i can't stay sober
though it isn't like i've tried
on the front porch or on an airplane on vacation
or out for dinner in a nearby town
i was so proud just to have you sitting with me
but now it's over and i can't stay sober
pour and swallow follow one drink with another
i'll keep on til you agree to come back over
or until there are x's on my eyes
my old man always swore that hell would have no flame
just a front row seat to watch you true love pack her things and drive away
Can't find the mp3, sorry. Those last two lines. THOSE LAST TWO LINES.
Sorry guys
This blog sucks. However, the good news is that after reading David Foster Wallace's "Big Red Son" I am motivated to write some essays. I also just remembered the moment that sparked my interest in cooking. There will be writing.
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