This time last year, the husband and I were weeks from marriage. It was all in front of us. And we were ready to take it on, still waters or not. Not is what we got. But we rode the waves in, what turned out to be, a really comfortable boat(complete with a boat-sized kitchen indeed). I'm grateful for many things - amongst the obvious is gainful employment, family and friends and of course, the amazing hubs.
But it's the small gifts we tend to gloss over in retrospective thankfulness. If you'll indulge me...my gratitude list.
Cast iron skillets
Maintenance men
Under eye concealer
Butter
Spanx (also related to butter)
Overdraft protection
Top Chef
BYOB restaurants
The prospect of more counter space someday
Sunless tanner
Spellcheck
Elevators
Most cream-based sauces
I don't have to cook tomorrow. Or I was banned. Either way, really...
And lastly, for you. For validating the ridiculousness that is this blog. Happy Thanksgiving.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
How to pick up women
I moved back to Chicago about three years ago, after enduring the infinite grayness and death-of-my-soul atmosphere in Detroit, Michigan for most of my 20's. Sorry, Detroiters. Like that maverick presidential candidate John McCain, I only drive the Straight Talk Express.
When I moved here, I had about 1.5 friends leftover from the carefree, post-college era who didn't get married and move to a much larger residence near an expressway and a Super Target. These days, I have a few more friends and of course, the blessed husband but to me, variety is the spice of life. I need a little girl action. I need a dinner club.
Recently, the husband and I attended a few gatherings of friends of friends...of friends. In situations where the crowd is comprised of more than what I call the "trunk," and extends to "branches," women tend to do one of two things. Talk to only those they know and stare a little too long at your slightly stained cashmere sweater that you may or may not have pulled out of the dirty laundry before you arrived....or, smile and introduce themselves. Recently, the latter happened. And it was ON.
I met someone. And it was magical. And I'm now in a DINNER CLUB. At first, a bit nervous. What will I bring to the dinner club? Can I slide under the radar and just be a side dish? Will I have to debut as an entree? Sweet Jesus, will I be dessert? Hiding my dirty clothing is one thing, but the cooking disability cannot be outed this early. These details are vital to the success of any first date with a woman.
Turns out, it's a restaurant dinner club. I knew it was meant to be.
When I moved here, I had about 1.5 friends leftover from the carefree, post-college era who didn't get married and move to a much larger residence near an expressway and a Super Target. These days, I have a few more friends and of course, the blessed husband but to me, variety is the spice of life. I need a little girl action. I need a dinner club.
Recently, the husband and I attended a few gatherings of friends of friends...of friends. In situations where the crowd is comprised of more than what I call the "trunk," and extends to "branches," women tend to do one of two things. Talk to only those they know and stare a little too long at your slightly stained cashmere sweater that you may or may not have pulled out of the dirty laundry before you arrived....or, smile and introduce themselves. Recently, the latter happened. And it was ON.
I met someone. And it was magical. And I'm now in a DINNER CLUB. At first, a bit nervous. What will I bring to the dinner club? Can I slide under the radar and just be a side dish? Will I have to debut as an entree? Sweet Jesus, will I be dessert? Hiding my dirty clothing is one thing, but the cooking disability cannot be outed this early. These details are vital to the success of any first date with a woman.
Turns out, it's a restaurant dinner club. I knew it was meant to be.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Unlovin' the Oven
It's no secret there's no love lost between our kitchen and myself. But it's nothing compared to how much I loathe the oven. I've been burned too many times. If the kitchen is the guy in high school that I overheard calling me "Casper" because of my tanless, corpse-like skin, the oven is the guy I caught kissing the blond girl in the coatroom when he was supposed to be my date for the Valentine's Dance. All hypothetical of course. A-hem.
It's surely the oven's fault that I have burns up and down my arms from pulling out the black food it produces. Not only must the temperature be inaccurate, the design is such that makes me certain I have freakishly long, circus arms. Recently, when a few stray, roasted brussel sprouts were left behind during my awkward pull-out, the whole apartment smelled like them for days. I probably should have taken them out before cooking again, right? Solid point. I'll take it into consideration.
I found a solution. Forget the oven. Accept that there is no chemistry there. Move on and give another appliance a chance.
Cook in the dishwasher.
This recipe for Dishwasher Salmon, courtesy of Real Simple, is the answer to my oven issues and the cure to what could appear to strangers to be a teenage "cutting" addiction. This recipe made me believe again. Believe that we can all escape convention and find success in our own unique methods. Believe that even though I really hate salmon, I'm going to dump a whole lot of it in my dishwasher tonight and turn it on permanent press (the husband does the dishes) and when I open it, I will have a lovely, omega 3-rich meal and zero burns on my incredibly pasty white arms.
So long, Oven. Real love doesn't hurt.
It's surely the oven's fault that I have burns up and down my arms from pulling out the black food it produces. Not only must the temperature be inaccurate, the design is such that makes me certain I have freakishly long, circus arms. Recently, when a few stray, roasted brussel sprouts were left behind during my awkward pull-out, the whole apartment smelled like them for days. I probably should have taken them out before cooking again, right? Solid point. I'll take it into consideration.
I found a solution. Forget the oven. Accept that there is no chemistry there. Move on and give another appliance a chance.
Cook in the dishwasher.
This recipe for Dishwasher Salmon, courtesy of Real Simple, is the answer to my oven issues and the cure to what could appear to strangers to be a teenage "cutting" addiction. This recipe made me believe again. Believe that we can all escape convention and find success in our own unique methods. Believe that even though I really hate salmon, I'm going to dump a whole lot of it in my dishwasher tonight and turn it on permanent press (the husband does the dishes) and when I open it, I will have a lovely, omega 3-rich meal and zero burns on my incredibly pasty white arms.
So long, Oven. Real love doesn't hurt.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Identity of a Woman
After 10 months of marriage, I have officially changed my name. It wasn't anything personal. I was too lazy to go downtown and change it. It was hesitation purely based on my strong feminist beliefs.
As a child, I often quoted Gloria Steinem and planned to burn my bras. Not that I wore a bra as a child. I was more of an adolescent. A feminist one. One who would sooner cut off her toes than take some silly man's name. It was fortunate that I never had a boyfriend - or wore a bra - until I was already past my feminist phase. Which I'm sure was a relief to my mom, who would have lost on any investment in bras for me, considering my intentions to burn them.
Though I carry the crumbs of my early adolescent feminist passion with me today, I'm an entirely new woman. I'll do anything for my husband. Obey, honor, protect. I'll care for him when he's sick, build him up when he feels down.
But ask me schlep downtown to a cold, sterile government building to stand in line in that room with a number machine that clearly only belongs at the deli? I think that's a little excessive. There are security guards there. Mean ones.
The husband assured me that if the shoe were on the other foot, he would have been downtown immediately following our blessed nuptials. He would have pulled number ONE from the deli machine. So, as Gloria Steinem said, "Become the man you want to marry."
Today, I'm proud I made the trip, enduring stare-downs from overworked, underpaid security guards, repeatedly explaining to the man behind the counter that there is not one, but two Z's in my last name. I am a new woman, who belongs to a very good man.
I still burn stuff though.
As a child, I often quoted Gloria Steinem and planned to burn my bras. Not that I wore a bra as a child. I was more of an adolescent. A feminist one. One who would sooner cut off her toes than take some silly man's name. It was fortunate that I never had a boyfriend - or wore a bra - until I was already past my feminist phase. Which I'm sure was a relief to my mom, who would have lost on any investment in bras for me, considering my intentions to burn them.
Though I carry the crumbs of my early adolescent feminist passion with me today, I'm an entirely new woman. I'll do anything for my husband. Obey, honor, protect. I'll care for him when he's sick, build him up when he feels down.
But ask me schlep downtown to a cold, sterile government building to stand in line in that room with a number machine that clearly only belongs at the deli? I think that's a little excessive. There are security guards there. Mean ones.
The husband assured me that if the shoe were on the other foot, he would have been downtown immediately following our blessed nuptials. He would have pulled number ONE from the deli machine. So, as Gloria Steinem said, "Become the man you want to marry."
Today, I'm proud I made the trip, enduring stare-downs from overworked, underpaid security guards, repeatedly explaining to the man behind the counter that there is not one, but two Z's in my last name. I am a new woman, who belongs to a very good man.
I still burn stuff though.
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