I tell you, this daylight savings thing is messing me up. I like to eat my dinner very early, so I have Sufficient Digestion Time before sleeping.
I keep getting home from work and getting distracted by all the sunlight into doing thinks like CHORES, which are clearly inappropriate after work when I should be (a) eating dinner and then (b) falling to the floor until my (c) elementary school–appropriate bedtime.
Dinner at 7! What do I think I am, European?
One morning in Denver last month, two of my dearest friends and I found ourselves stranded outside a poetry bookstore that was supposed to be open, wondering what to do with ourselves. As we sat and pondered our cruel separation from poetry, the door of Aion Cafe kept opening and throwing out delicious smells.
Finally we could resist no longer and went to breakfast. Among us we had baked eggs, quinoa with greens and merguez sausage, and soft polenta topped with tomato ragu and an egg.
Check me out:
Isn’t that nice? I can’t eat many tomatoes, because I am a hideously delicate flower (hate), so I tossed a bunch of peppers, leeks, and garlic in some olive oil and cooked them into submission.
I ate plenty of this over the polenta with a bit of goat cheese on top, and that is no slouch. But that soft-fried egg, oozing into all the crevices. Recommend x20.
Do you know the old rhyme behind Groundhog Day?
“If Candlemas Day be fair and bright, winter will have another flight. But if it be dark with clouds and rain, winter is gone and will not come again.”
“I hope the rhyme is true,” I said then, “because it it HOT. Gross.”
Spring tried to come around here:
(See the tender little plants growing in our neighbor’s gutter? I love those things. Also, it makes me feel better about our indifferent gutter work.)
But now all that heat is over. All the Yoostonyuns who pulled out their shorts will have to wear socks again. We are having rain and rain — even a bit of hail earlier — and what passes around here for cold (but was miniskirt weather when I lived in Chicago).
I am not sad. February is not sundress season in the northern hemisphere. Also, I am currently knitting a beautiful sweater that I would Ike to wear within 8 months.
I wish I were a dedicated enough runner to run in the rain. I bet I will be someday, but I’m not yet.
Misophonia! It is a thing, and I have it.
Eating noises, man. They make me want to scream words unbecoming of a lady. Or leave the room. Or possibly stab myself in the ear.
Chewing is SO BAD. Gulping is pretty awful too.
Worst of all is teeth meeting utensil. Why do people chew their forks? Stainless steel has no nutritional value!
WHY DO PEOPLE CHEW THEIR FORKS?
This is one reason why I like restaurants: they are loud enough to drown out the horrible and gross sounds of mastication. (Also: no dishes to wash.)
(Thanks, extinction, for making sure I never have to hear a mastodon masticate.)
On the other hand, I like crunchy snacks.
This is my current to-be-read pile:
I’m not complaining, but this may have a negative effect on my knitting output for a while.
“If you want to do ‘Virginia in a nutshell,’ it would have to be a pretty big nut. Maybe a coo-coo nut.”
Several years ago, I received a package from my sister that included the following:
I waited an appropriate period and sent it back to her.
We visited Vermont, and it was in my suitcase when I returned.
I visited NC and put it in her car.
She snuck it into a box from Mom.
I put it inside a handbag that I sent her.
She wrapped it up with my Christmas present.
Neither of us will stop until one of us wins.
We will live FOREVER.
My Big Plans of Blogging Regularly were derailed last week by the arrival of that flu virus that snuck in after this year’s vaccine went to market. Holy moly, have I been ill. I had to drag myself into the office all week last week, no thanks to deadlines, and by Friday night I was ready to entertain the notion of voluntarily going to the doctor.
Saturday was a day of tears, baritones, and Theraflu. My 14-year-old goth self would’ve been so proud of my pallor.
Yesterday I consented to eat an egg. Then I got back in bed, and by the end of the day, I was ready to make some soup. I also threw together a crazy pasta sauce involving Brussels sprouts, chard stems, red peppers, and Greek yogurt, but I can’t tell you whether it’s any good, because I can’t taste it. I am eating it, however, because I figure all those ingredients are probably good for my immune system and my pale, shivery body.
As post-holiday diets go, the flu is effective but not recommended.
What I can recommend, however, is the soup I made: Ham & Black-Eyed Pea Soup with Greens.
I usually make this soup for New Year’s Day, but I’m glad I waited so I had it around for recovering. Mine was made with ham stock from the New Year’s Ham and a big bunch of Swiss chard (see above, re: stems). It’s unctuous and full of protein, and with a heavy dash or three of Tabasco Chipotle, it even has enough flavor that I can taste it through the illness fog.
I don’t remember how old I was when I asked my mother whether Santa was real.
“Of course Santa is real,” she said. “Santa is the spirit of love and giving at Christmas time.”
“But does Santa really bring the presents?” I asked.
She looked at me for a minute, and her eyes were a little sad.
“You have a choice,” she said. “You can believe that there’s no such thing as Santa, that your dad and I buy the presents for you and none of it is true. Or you can believe that anyone who gives an anonymous gift out of love can be Santa. You can believe that Santa is everywhere, whether he’s me or your dad or even yourself when you want to give someone a present without needing to be thanked for it. You can believe that the Christmas spirit is bigger than who did what and how much it cost.”
I asked her whether she believed in Santa.
“Yes I do,” she said.
So do I.
I hope it was a merry Christmahanakwanzayule, my darlings.