Do Not Forget About Your Education
I had great intentions, this morning. After going on a long run all around the “Witch’s Hat,” neighborhood last evening, I was all pumped and ready to get up bright and early, and go on an invigorating morning run. My plans were thwarted by my nearly nocturnal sleeping schedule that I have slipped into. Having a job with irregular hours does not help, of course. I woke up at 9am, and then decided to take another 2 hour nap. After I had a bowl of oatmeal (using a packet that I had scavenged from work) and realized that there really wasn’t much of anything else for me to do, so I finally got up and ready for the day around the crack of noon. I spent a little time doing my hair, putting on some makeup… you know, looking presentable for my thrilling closing shift at work tonight. Can’t wait for all the regulars to see me in my cute little overalls…. bet’cha they’ll all go ape shit. Anyways, I needed to go to the pharmacy to pick up my brand, spanking new “Nuva Ring.’ I am slightly hesitant about using it – those commercials seem too good to be true. One little vaginally inserted gummi bracelet ended up costing me a cool $60! Not having health insurance sucks. Fuck this. Anyways, the pharmacy that I went to was a little, old-fashioned corner store in an old brick building on University Ave. It is easy to overlook, at first, until you start reading all of the hand-lettered signs and murals in every available window reading, “Healthcare for All!” “The Secret to Democracy is Eduacation for All Citizens!” “We Are Citizens of the World!” “Working Together, we can Create the Great, American Renaissance!” I got the feeling that I would like this place. I walk in, and it sort of reminded me of Olivander’s Wand Shop in Harry Potter. Only, instead of wand-boxes being crammed into every available space, there were boxes upon boxes upon boxes of band-aids, bandages, notecards, cold medicines, homeopathic remedies, incense, an impressive collection of vintage, wind-up tin soldiers and robots, Hindu calendars, and much, much more. I could barely tell where the merchandise ended, and where the countertops began. From behind a large stack of Ace Bandages, I could barely spot a shock of frizzy, white hair that I soon identified as the pharmacist. His name was Paul, and he spoke with a lovely, vaguely Indian accent. He had hair like Doc Brown in Back to the Future, tanned skin, and was wearing a pin-striped, Oxford shirt and a large pair of black, horn-rimmed spectacles that made his eyes seem two sizes too big for the rest of his face. After he got done ringing me up, he asked me what I was up to. I explained that I had just moved here from Chicago, and that my fiancé was starting graduate school at the U of M this fall, so I had gotten a job and moved in with him. He asked me (very pointedly) if I was thinking about graduate school. I told him that I wasn’t looking at graduate programs at the moment, and that I had just graduated from college, so I was planning on working for a little while before I figured out what to do with my life. He told me that there were a great many institutions of higher learning in the area, and then he said, “Do not forget about your own education.” I was a bit perplexed, because he knew that I had just graduated from college. Did he mean for me to be looking at professional programs? Was he telling me that I shouldn’t stop now, that I should be trying to get into a graduate program? I wonder if he could read my mind – that I was finding it tempting to just hang out and work for a few years, not having to worry about school, higher degrees, or much of anything else. His demeanor reminded me of an Indian mystic – I could just as easily picture him in a Hare-Krishna robe as in his lab-coat. I said goodbye to him, as I was leaving, and he said again, “Do not forget about your education.” Huh… weird. Now the big question is, ‘What do I want to get educated in??’ (Cue life crisis!!!)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
A Note on the Liberal Use of Butter:
My grandparents visited me and Chris this weekend at our new apartment, on their way north to visit some old friends in Fergus Falls, Minnesota. While Chris was at work on Friday afternoon, my grandparents and I went out to see the much acclaimed movie, “Julie & Julia.” I absolutely adored the movie – call me cheesy, but the combination of the story of a small-time blogger who struck gold, Meryl Streep, and butter, seemed to wrap me up in a feeling of comfort that only a good meal can provide. After watching the movie on Friday, I was at home by myself on Sunday afternoon, folding some laundry. I turned on the tube, and flipped to PBS, where what should be on but, “The French Chef, with Julia Child”?
As I sat there in utter awe, watching her cook flawless omelet after flawless omelet, I wondered; ‘What is her secret??’ And then I saw it – next to her copper (not Teflon!) frying pan, I saw a plate – no, a trough, of butter. Before each omelet-to-be went to meet its delicious fate in the pan, she would take an ENITRE SPATULAS WORTH of butter, and lovingly dollop it into the simmering, attendant heat of the concave, copper surface. After the omelet was completed, she would then remind her audience of the importance of brushing the top of the creation with yet MORE butter, before pronouncing it ‘ready to eat.’ I thought I had died, and gone to heaven.
Here is a woman who shared the same belief that my Oma (God rest her soul) did:
You can never have too much butter.
Now, I have often had people claim, after eating one of my culinary creations, that I was trying to kill them. And I have to admit, if I were to ever attempt my plan regarding world domination, it would probably center around me opening up a pastry shop. Sure, all of my hapless victims would most likely perish of massive coronaries, but I can bet you they would all die happy. I felt vindicated, after seeing the Grande Dame herself tell her t.v. audience with the utmost sincerity in her eyes, that no recipe will work, *ever*, if you attempt to skimp on the butter. It is a sin, people!!! Substituting yogurt for milk-fat in a banana-bread recipe?? Never! Using olive oil when frying a chicken? Sin!! And I am not even going to mention the worst of all offenders by name… but, I will give you a hint. It starts with an “M,” and ends with “-argarine.” *Shudder.*
I consider it a crime when I flip through the pages of my latest edition of The Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook, and see that every single recipe has cut back, or even eliminated, things like butter, flour, sugar, whole milk, (and no, just so you know, the recipe does NOT taste perfectly fine when you substitute skim) and even eggs! What are these people thinking??! I’m not gonna make a casserole because I’m planning on entering a swimsuit competiton. Every single recipe for baked goods features a cute, 220 to 300 calories per serving. 200 calories for a piece of pound cake? Are you fucking kidding me??? In its original incarnation, pound cake featured one pound, that’s right, you heard me, one pound of butter. Not “1/3 stick of butter, or margarine, if you prefer.” Those people should burn for this. The lies – the recipes in that book are bad, and wrong, and every time a pie is made with a butter-substitute crust instead of LARD, like God intended, a baby dolphin dies.
I, meanwhile, intend to honor the memory of Julia Child, my Oma, and all of the brave men and women who have gone before me, and bake only with REAL BUTTER, REAL FAT, and make REAL GOOD FOOD. Okay – enough of the sermon. Who wants pie? ^__^
My grandparents visited me and Chris this weekend at our new apartment, on their way north to visit some old friends in Fergus Falls, Minnesota. While Chris was at work on Friday afternoon, my grandparents and I went out to see the much acclaimed movie, “Julie & Julia.” I absolutely adored the movie – call me cheesy, but the combination of the story of a small-time blogger who struck gold, Meryl Streep, and butter, seemed to wrap me up in a feeling of comfort that only a good meal can provide. After watching the movie on Friday, I was at home by myself on Sunday afternoon, folding some laundry. I turned on the tube, and flipped to PBS, where what should be on but, “The French Chef, with Julia Child”?
As I sat there in utter awe, watching her cook flawless omelet after flawless omelet, I wondered; ‘What is her secret??’ And then I saw it – next to her copper (not Teflon!) frying pan, I saw a plate – no, a trough, of butter. Before each omelet-to-be went to meet its delicious fate in the pan, she would take an ENITRE SPATULAS WORTH of butter, and lovingly dollop it into the simmering, attendant heat of the concave, copper surface. After the omelet was completed, she would then remind her audience of the importance of brushing the top of the creation with yet MORE butter, before pronouncing it ‘ready to eat.’ I thought I had died, and gone to heaven.
Here is a woman who shared the same belief that my Oma (God rest her soul) did:
You can never have too much butter.
Now, I have often had people claim, after eating one of my culinary creations, that I was trying to kill them. And I have to admit, if I were to ever attempt my plan regarding world domination, it would probably center around me opening up a pastry shop. Sure, all of my hapless victims would most likely perish of massive coronaries, but I can bet you they would all die happy. I felt vindicated, after seeing the Grande Dame herself tell her t.v. audience with the utmost sincerity in her eyes, that no recipe will work, *ever*, if you attempt to skimp on the butter. It is a sin, people!!! Substituting yogurt for milk-fat in a banana-bread recipe?? Never! Using olive oil when frying a chicken? Sin!! And I am not even going to mention the worst of all offenders by name… but, I will give you a hint. It starts with an “M,” and ends with “-argarine.” *Shudder.*
I consider it a crime when I flip through the pages of my latest edition of The Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook, and see that every single recipe has cut back, or even eliminated, things like butter, flour, sugar, whole milk, (and no, just so you know, the recipe does NOT taste perfectly fine when you substitute skim) and even eggs! What are these people thinking??! I’m not gonna make a casserole because I’m planning on entering a swimsuit competiton. Every single recipe for baked goods features a cute, 220 to 300 calories per serving. 200 calories for a piece of pound cake? Are you fucking kidding me??? In its original incarnation, pound cake featured one pound, that’s right, you heard me, one pound of butter. Not “1/3 stick of butter, or margarine, if you prefer.” Those people should burn for this. The lies – the recipes in that book are bad, and wrong, and every time a pie is made with a butter-substitute crust instead of LARD, like God intended, a baby dolphin dies.
I, meanwhile, intend to honor the memory of Julia Child, my Oma, and all of the brave men and women who have gone before me, and bake only with REAL BUTTER, REAL FAT, and make REAL GOOD FOOD. Okay – enough of the sermon. Who wants pie? ^__^
The Trials and Tribulations of a West Coast Imposter
So, as I'm sure you all know ("you" being the people I know in real life who might actually take interest in reading this blogospheric masterpiece) I spent the first two months of my summer in Seattle, WA. I drove all the way out there, and I drove all the fuck way back. On the return trip, it only took me two days, as I was driving like a woman possessed (Anyone remember that story about the crazy ex-astronaut lady who drove from Houston to Florida to kill off her supposed "rival"?). I basically lived off of 5-hour energy shots, and Visine drops to keep my eyes from crusting over 'cuz I stopped blinking after a while. Anywayzzzzz..... I'm really only including this chunk because Elaine thought that my stay in Billings, MT *shudder* had some entertainment value.
So, to set the scene: It was just after dusk, as I was nearing my 14th straight hour of driving, going 75 miles an hour over the last few dips, dives, and hairpin turns that the Rocky Mountains had to offer. The sky was at that horrible, in-between sunset and night-time phase, where you can't see a damn thing. My palms were sweaty and I was chewing my lip like a smack addict, as I tried not to hit one of the thousands of pronghorn antelope that were hanging around. I prayed to God that I would get to Billings, MT soon..... I was tired, delirious, and I was starting to talk to myself. I called ahead to the Best Western, Billings, to confirm my room for the night. They assured me that everything was all fine and dandy, and I thought that that was all there would be of it.......
So I finally reach Billings at about 10 o'clock at night. The Best Western was right off the highway, and seemed a paradisaical oasis in the long, flat, black nothingness that was Montana at night. The hotel was huge, and had leather furniture and a chandelier in the lobby - pretty swanky for a Best Western, I thought. I asked the rather rotund woman at the front desk if I could check in, and my heart sank as she informed me that I did not have a reservation at her hotel. She said, "Well, there's TWO Best Westerns in town, yah know." The only thing hse had to offer me was a king-sized, whirlpool suite. Looking back on it, I should have said "yes," and paid the $180 for the stupid room. Little did I know that the "other" Best Western was quite possibly the absolute black hole of the universe.
I got into downtown Billings at about 11pm, after being completely turned around in an industrial park, because all of the city streets were ripped up, due to construction (figures.) I should have been tipped off while I was driving there - I was going through town when I saw a bright, green sign behind a razor-wire fence, advertising the "Billings MT. Women's Correctional Facility." The sad thing was, it was probably the best-kept piece of real-estate for a mile around. I had a hard time finding the hotel, at first, because as it turned out, the hotel shared a wall with an auto-parts store, and was basically built underneath a parking garage. Nice. As it turns out, there was absolutely no place to park, so I had to hunt for the next 20 minutes for a parking space before checking in for the night. I thought I had found a nice location, kind-of tucked away into a dark alleyway, until I looked over my shoulder and saw that the alleyway adjoined to a food-pantry slash mission, that looked kinda like the halfway house in the Blues Brothers that Elwood shacked up in. Thinking better of my decisions, before I became a feature of the evening news, I looked once again for a parking spot. Luckily, a man pulled out of a space in front of the hotel in his Lexus, with a startlingly blonde woman who most certainly did not look like his wife. I headed to the front door of the hotel, and happened to glance across the street, where I was greeted by the sight of the Billings, MT. women's shelter and soup kitchen, this time around. Gritting my teeth, and close to tears, I finally got my room key, and was almost to my bed for the night before being accosted by an unkempt, 5 foot tall woman in her fifties demanding to know where her mother was, and if she was mad at her. At this point, I just gave this last person in my day a blank stare, and scurried into my hotel room, where I slept amidst ominous thuds and yells from the walls around me.
So...... to wrap up, don't go to Billings, MT. And if you do have to stay there, for whatever reason, stay at the Best Western that is 5 miles outside of town.
So, to set the scene: It was just after dusk, as I was nearing my 14th straight hour of driving, going 75 miles an hour over the last few dips, dives, and hairpin turns that the Rocky Mountains had to offer. The sky was at that horrible, in-between sunset and night-time phase, where you can't see a damn thing. My palms were sweaty and I was chewing my lip like a smack addict, as I tried not to hit one of the thousands of pronghorn antelope that were hanging around. I prayed to God that I would get to Billings, MT soon..... I was tired, delirious, and I was starting to talk to myself. I called ahead to the Best Western, Billings, to confirm my room for the night. They assured me that everything was all fine and dandy, and I thought that that was all there would be of it.......
So I finally reach Billings at about 10 o'clock at night. The Best Western was right off the highway, and seemed a paradisaical oasis in the long, flat, black nothingness that was Montana at night. The hotel was huge, and had leather furniture and a chandelier in the lobby - pretty swanky for a Best Western, I thought. I asked the rather rotund woman at the front desk if I could check in, and my heart sank as she informed me that I did not have a reservation at her hotel. She said, "Well, there's TWO Best Westerns in town, yah know." The only thing hse had to offer me was a king-sized, whirlpool suite. Looking back on it, I should have said "yes," and paid the $180 for the stupid room. Little did I know that the "other" Best Western was quite possibly the absolute black hole of the universe.
I got into downtown Billings at about 11pm, after being completely turned around in an industrial park, because all of the city streets were ripped up, due to construction (figures.) I should have been tipped off while I was driving there - I was going through town when I saw a bright, green sign behind a razor-wire fence, advertising the "Billings MT. Women's Correctional Facility." The sad thing was, it was probably the best-kept piece of real-estate for a mile around. I had a hard time finding the hotel, at first, because as it turned out, the hotel shared a wall with an auto-parts store, and was basically built underneath a parking garage. Nice. As it turns out, there was absolutely no place to park, so I had to hunt for the next 20 minutes for a parking space before checking in for the night. I thought I had found a nice location, kind-of tucked away into a dark alleyway, until I looked over my shoulder and saw that the alleyway adjoined to a food-pantry slash mission, that looked kinda like the halfway house in the Blues Brothers that Elwood shacked up in. Thinking better of my decisions, before I became a feature of the evening news, I looked once again for a parking spot. Luckily, a man pulled out of a space in front of the hotel in his Lexus, with a startlingly blonde woman who most certainly did not look like his wife. I headed to the front door of the hotel, and happened to glance across the street, where I was greeted by the sight of the Billings, MT. women's shelter and soup kitchen, this time around. Gritting my teeth, and close to tears, I finally got my room key, and was almost to my bed for the night before being accosted by an unkempt, 5 foot tall woman in her fifties demanding to know where her mother was, and if she was mad at her. At this point, I just gave this last person in my day a blank stare, and scurried into my hotel room, where I slept amidst ominous thuds and yells from the walls around me.
So...... to wrap up, don't go to Billings, MT. And if you do have to stay there, for whatever reason, stay at the Best Western that is 5 miles outside of town.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Welcome to the Rest of Your Life!
You know, I have half a mind to punch my undergraduate adviser in the nose.
All through undergrad, we students are cuddled, coddled, and encouraged all through the process of obtaining a bachelor's degree. A degree that, we are all assured, will land us some wonderful job in some wonderful city, where we will all become wonderful, worldly, important members of society, who will also happen to donate regualarly to the alumni annual fund. Gee, sounds great, doesn't it? I mean, who wouldn't want that? And, after putting down a cool $35,000 in tuition to a private institution for four years, that seems like something you could come to expect, right?
Well, not really. Now, I don't mean to sound bitter, but our college president's farewell address to the graduating seniors this May didn't exactly leave me feeling all too inspired. He basically told us that we were entering the toughest job market that our country had seen for decades, and that most of us could thank our lucky stars if we so much as got an interview for a plum job. He then went on to say that even though things were in the proverbial shitter, that the exemplary education that we had recieved from our fine institution would allow us to somehow prevail, pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, blah blah blah. And that we, of course, should remeber our fair alma mater once we had achieved our respective goals of becoming gainfully employed, and donate liberally to all of their various fund raisers and endowments, etc. Now, I know that the speech wasn't quite as bleak as I painted it, but I don't think you could blame me for feeling a little bitter. I do, however, feel justified in the fact that Chris and I stole a full set of engraved drinking glasses from the event in retailiation. (We hope to someday fill them all with fancy, imported beer, and serve all of our fellow, post-grad classmates with them. When we can afford fancy, imported beer, that is.)
As for my advisor, I love Richard dearly, but I can't help but feel that maybe these wonderful individuals did us a bit of a disservice by filling our head with fantasies of salaried jobs, and sure-fure entry into noteworthy master's programs. First off, no one wants to hire people with an arts background. (Does Starbuck's count??) Of course, being an art major, I saw that one coming a mile away. I was already prepped and ready to be living out of a refridgerator box on the street, as all of my friends enjoyed telling me. So I guess the dashed prospects of having a"real job" after college graduation don't sting quite as much as they would for someone with, say, an accounting degree. It's just a new fact of life, I suppose. One thing that Sonja and I talked about was that we feel lucky to be just starting out in this shit economy, rather than being someone who graduated 10 years ago, started a family, and just got fired from a job that they thought would be a sure bet. (All of the accountants that are getting laid off, anyone?) We're still young, flexible, used to living in rat-hole apartments, and have no families or professional prospects at the moment. Hey, the nice thing about lowered expecations is that you don't get disappointed as often, right? After all, who needs air-conditioning and functional plumbing?? : ) As for a career, I intend to follow that coffeeshop route as far as it will take me. It hasn't let me down so far!
All through undergrad, we students are cuddled, coddled, and encouraged all through the process of obtaining a bachelor's degree. A degree that, we are all assured, will land us some wonderful job in some wonderful city, where we will all become wonderful, worldly, important members of society, who will also happen to donate regualarly to the alumni annual fund. Gee, sounds great, doesn't it? I mean, who wouldn't want that? And, after putting down a cool $35,000 in tuition to a private institution for four years, that seems like something you could come to expect, right?
Well, not really. Now, I don't mean to sound bitter, but our college president's farewell address to the graduating seniors this May didn't exactly leave me feeling all too inspired. He basically told us that we were entering the toughest job market that our country had seen for decades, and that most of us could thank our lucky stars if we so much as got an interview for a plum job. He then went on to say that even though things were in the proverbial shitter, that the exemplary education that we had recieved from our fine institution would allow us to somehow prevail, pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, blah blah blah. And that we, of course, should remeber our fair alma mater once we had achieved our respective goals of becoming gainfully employed, and donate liberally to all of their various fund raisers and endowments, etc. Now, I know that the speech wasn't quite as bleak as I painted it, but I don't think you could blame me for feeling a little bitter. I do, however, feel justified in the fact that Chris and I stole a full set of engraved drinking glasses from the event in retailiation. (We hope to someday fill them all with fancy, imported beer, and serve all of our fellow, post-grad classmates with them. When we can afford fancy, imported beer, that is.)
As for my advisor, I love Richard dearly, but I can't help but feel that maybe these wonderful individuals did us a bit of a disservice by filling our head with fantasies of salaried jobs, and sure-fure entry into noteworthy master's programs. First off, no one wants to hire people with an arts background. (Does Starbuck's count??) Of course, being an art major, I saw that one coming a mile away. I was already prepped and ready to be living out of a refridgerator box on the street, as all of my friends enjoyed telling me. So I guess the dashed prospects of having a"real job" after college graduation don't sting quite as much as they would for someone with, say, an accounting degree. It's just a new fact of life, I suppose. One thing that Sonja and I talked about was that we feel lucky to be just starting out in this shit economy, rather than being someone who graduated 10 years ago, started a family, and just got fired from a job that they thought would be a sure bet. (All of the accountants that are getting laid off, anyone?) We're still young, flexible, used to living in rat-hole apartments, and have no families or professional prospects at the moment. Hey, the nice thing about lowered expecations is that you don't get disappointed as often, right? After all, who needs air-conditioning and functional plumbing?? : ) As for a career, I intend to follow that coffeeshop route as far as it will take me. It hasn't let me down so far!
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