So, brethren, now let us sing Alleluia,
not in the enjoyment of heavenly rest,
but to sweeten our toil.
Sing as travellers sing along the road:
but keep on walking.
Solace your toil by singing
- do not yield to idleness.
Sing but keep on walking.
...
Go forward then in virtue,
in true faith and right conduct.
Sing up
- but keep on walking.
9.21.2006
9.13.2006
I Find this Funny
Me: Have you ever read the story about Tikitiki-tembo-no-sa-rembo-chari-bari-ruchie-pip-peri-pembo?
Him: Is that the one about the mongoose and the snake?
Me: ...no.......
Him: Oh sorry. That's Riki-tiki-tavi .
In other news, I hate cheesy names on food menus. I was in line at Greenfields with a professor the other day, trying to give the impression I'm a devoted student who avoids wearing sweatpants and studies for the GRE in my freetime. He handed me a menu. Unfortunately my palate that day was rooting for something called the Mamasita Fajita Salad. Now, it's bad enough that Mamasita and Fajita rhyme, but if we really want to phenomenologize this further, what are we supposed to do with the word mamasita? I have never heard this word in a good context before, and it conjures an image of a large Mexican woman, barefoot, at the door of a small hut, holding a bowl of some kind of floury dough. I imagine this woman is standing over my shoulder while I order, rattling away in Spanish and kneading her dough as I eat. Despair.
"Anything look good?" the professor asks.
"Why yes, professor. I Myself, being a big 'ol fan of mamasitas, will be eating this fajita salad."
"....Yeah." I point. "I...really like curry. I think I'm gonna get the chicken."
The same thing happened to me the other day at Reckers. A strawberry smoothie sounded pretty good. Too bad the most preferable option for extra vitamins was called a 'Femme boost'. There's something really uncomfortable about saying 'femme boost.' Try it. Femme boost femme boost femme boost. See? I feel I need to make some kind of excuse for ordering something so silly. People understand immune boosts. People understand protein boosts. People understand femme boosts like they understand Halle Berry in Catwoman. When I say the phrase "Femme boost" in public I feel like I might as well shake my hair out, stand on the counter and sing "I am Woman, Hear me Roar." I've bought this same smoothie three times, and every time it goes something like this.
"Hi, can I have a number 11 strawberry smoothie with...[bites lip, leans on counter, looks around a little come on Sloan you're never going to see these people again] a Femme boost? What a silly name. Pretty dumb, huh? Yeah. Femme boost. [cringes as cashier yells order to the cooks, look around to see who possibly could have overhead and may now think unassuming girl in sweatpants with a GRE book is a dominatrix]."
Fun names for stuff are fine. I'm not saying we should always call a spade a spade. I am saying we shouldn't call a spade an Esperanza Spade, a Sufferin' Spadecotash, a Spoony Balooney Spade, or a Spadetacular. I would appreciate culinary names that don't allude to cultural awkwardities, bodily functions, or feminists. My fajita salad and my smoothie need not go to war in my stomach in the forms of a gordita and Wonder Woman. They can digest peacefully, thank you. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Mt. Bagelhorn with Avalanche Cream Cheese. Yo-Yogurt. Ho Chi Minh Stir Fry. Water. With a Femme boost.
Him: Is that the one about the mongoose and the snake?
Me: ...no.......
Him: Oh sorry. That's Riki-tiki-tavi .
In other news, I hate cheesy names on food menus. I was in line at Greenfields with a professor the other day, trying to give the impression I'm a devoted student who avoids wearing sweatpants and studies for the GRE in my freetime. He handed me a menu. Unfortunately my palate that day was rooting for something called the Mamasita Fajita Salad. Now, it's bad enough that Mamasita and Fajita rhyme, but if we really want to phenomenologize this further, what are we supposed to do with the word mamasita? I have never heard this word in a good context before, and it conjures an image of a large Mexican woman, barefoot, at the door of a small hut, holding a bowl of some kind of floury dough. I imagine this woman is standing over my shoulder while I order, rattling away in Spanish and kneading her dough as I eat. Despair.
"Anything look good?" the professor asks.
"Why yes, professor. I Myself, being a big 'ol fan of mamasitas, will be eating this fajita salad."
"....Yeah." I point. "I...really like curry. I think I'm gonna get the chicken."
The same thing happened to me the other day at Reckers. A strawberry smoothie sounded pretty good. Too bad the most preferable option for extra vitamins was called a 'Femme boost'. There's something really uncomfortable about saying 'femme boost.' Try it. Femme boost femme boost femme boost. See? I feel I need to make some kind of excuse for ordering something so silly. People understand immune boosts. People understand protein boosts. People understand femme boosts like they understand Halle Berry in Catwoman. When I say the phrase "Femme boost" in public I feel like I might as well shake my hair out, stand on the counter and sing "I am Woman, Hear me Roar." I've bought this same smoothie three times, and every time it goes something like this.
"Hi, can I have a number 11 strawberry smoothie with...[bites lip, leans on counter, looks around a little come on Sloan you're never going to see these people again] a Femme boost? What a silly name. Pretty dumb, huh? Yeah. Femme boost. [cringes as cashier yells order to the cooks, look around to see who possibly could have overhead and may now think unassuming girl in sweatpants with a GRE book is a dominatrix]."
Fun names for stuff are fine. I'm not saying we should always call a spade a spade. I am saying we shouldn't call a spade an Esperanza Spade, a Sufferin' Spadecotash, a Spoony Balooney Spade, or a Spadetacular. I would appreciate culinary names that don't allude to cultural awkwardities, bodily functions, or feminists. My fajita salad and my smoothie need not go to war in my stomach in the forms of a gordita and Wonder Woman. They can digest peacefully, thank you. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Mt. Bagelhorn with Avalanche Cream Cheese. Yo-Yogurt. Ho Chi Minh Stir Fry. Water. With a Femme boost.
9.05.2006
Chicken Pot Pie--a saga of memories
I was eating lunch with Blair Mancini last Friday. At one point we found ourselves abandoning thoughts of the sdh food before us for the sake of remembering chicken pot pies. I promised him I'd write about it. This will undoubtedly be more dramatic and detailed than needed for something like a chicken pot pie.
My First Memory of a Chicken Pot Pie
I was six years old and we were living at 383 Love Court. It was a wintry day and my dad had popped a frozen pie in the oven. I was curious. Whenever I saw a pie crust I thought sweet apples, or pumpkins, or pecans. "Do you want a bite?" my dad said. "It's not like a normal pie." I was confused by this. I took a bite. There was a too-hot potato involved. Gross. I'll take the sweet apples, thanks.
Falling in Love with the Pot Pie
When mom worked at O'Malias she sometimes didn't have enough time to fix us a real dinner like tacos or meatloaf or something out of the crock-pot. So we'd resort to the chicken pot pie. I loved that dream within a dream, the tender crispy crust, the stewey warmth of chicken and potatoes and peas and carrots. I had a system. I'd take off the crust from the circumference at eat it, then I'd spoon a crevace into the middle of the pie and start eating the filling, being careful not to scrape the dough off the bottom. I saved that part for last, when all the filling was gone. It was like dessert. It was a delight. Sometimes Rees wouldn't finish his and I'd sneak into the kitchen and take his extra crust.
The Bitter Demise of the Pot Pie
I was fourteen years old. I went out to the freezer to get dinner and happened to turn the box around to read the nutrition facts. Have you ever read the nutrition facts on a chicken pot pie box? They are really bad for you. I was taking a freshman year health class. These two things did not agree with one another. I gingerly placed the box back in the fridge for my brother to find. Thus began a long, tumultuous relationship with Lean Cuisines of many flavors; my favorites included chicken enchilada suiza, swedish meatballs, turkey with stuffing, and teryaki chicken. On to bigger and better things, I forgot the value of the chicken pot pie.
My Last Memory of a Chicken Pot Pie
I was 16 years old and we were having dinner at 14830 Senator Blvd. I was a runner and incredibly skinny, always concerned that what I ate would slow me down. My grandpa was trying to find something to fix me for dinner. He pulled a chicken pot pie box from the freezer. Auntie Somebody's Flaky Crust. "Do you want one of these, Barbie? They're good for you. Fat free."
"No thanks grandpa."
I haven't had a pot pie since. If I could do it all over again, I would eat it.
The end.
My First Memory of a Chicken Pot Pie
I was six years old and we were living at 383 Love Court. It was a wintry day and my dad had popped a frozen pie in the oven. I was curious. Whenever I saw a pie crust I thought sweet apples, or pumpkins, or pecans. "Do you want a bite?" my dad said. "It's not like a normal pie." I was confused by this. I took a bite. There was a too-hot potato involved. Gross. I'll take the sweet apples, thanks.
Falling in Love with the Pot Pie
When mom worked at O'Malias she sometimes didn't have enough time to fix us a real dinner like tacos or meatloaf or something out of the crock-pot. So we'd resort to the chicken pot pie. I loved that dream within a dream, the tender crispy crust, the stewey warmth of chicken and potatoes and peas and carrots. I had a system. I'd take off the crust from the circumference at eat it, then I'd spoon a crevace into the middle of the pie and start eating the filling, being careful not to scrape the dough off the bottom. I saved that part for last, when all the filling was gone. It was like dessert. It was a delight. Sometimes Rees wouldn't finish his and I'd sneak into the kitchen and take his extra crust.
The Bitter Demise of the Pot Pie
I was fourteen years old. I went out to the freezer to get dinner and happened to turn the box around to read the nutrition facts. Have you ever read the nutrition facts on a chicken pot pie box? They are really bad for you. I was taking a freshman year health class. These two things did not agree with one another. I gingerly placed the box back in the fridge for my brother to find. Thus began a long, tumultuous relationship with Lean Cuisines of many flavors; my favorites included chicken enchilada suiza, swedish meatballs, turkey with stuffing, and teryaki chicken. On to bigger and better things, I forgot the value of the chicken pot pie.
My Last Memory of a Chicken Pot Pie
I was 16 years old and we were having dinner at 14830 Senator Blvd. I was a runner and incredibly skinny, always concerned that what I ate would slow me down. My grandpa was trying to find something to fix me for dinner. He pulled a chicken pot pie box from the freezer. Auntie Somebody's Flaky Crust. "Do you want one of these, Barbie? They're good for you. Fat free."
"No thanks grandpa."
I haven't had a pot pie since. If I could do it all over again, I would eat it.
The end.
9.03.2006
05.31.06 Feast of the Visitation
Christ, be with me in the eveningtime
amidst the fainting of the day,
amidst the echoes of glory's falling.
Let shine your ever constant light,
as deepest thoughts and troubles come
from cool recesses, shadows grown.
Bring the peace of sleep's best promise
to awaken once in a day not our own
the horizonless dawning
that is yours alone.
Amen.
amidst the fainting of the day,
amidst the echoes of glory's falling.
Let shine your ever constant light,
as deepest thoughts and troubles come
from cool recesses, shadows grown.
Bring the peace of sleep's best promise
to awaken once in a day not our own
the horizonless dawning
that is yours alone.
Amen.
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