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Monday, August 16, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
I Have A Confession
Singing is agony.
Singing is ecstasy.
Here's the thing, I love singing. There is little that I love more than hitting the perfect note at the perfect time in perfect pitch. But 98% of the time I fail utterly. I know I am capable of so much more. I can do better!
For me, music is like air. I crave it, need it. But it's a double edged sword. It cuts me. Makes me feel...everything. On top of the world. Like I could do anything. And in the same breath, insignificant. An utter failure.
Sometimes when I hear a song, I just know that I could sing it better, with more passion, more heart, more...just more.
And sometimes (most of the time) I hear a song and I know deep down that I'm wasting dreams. I may as well pretend that someday, if I wish and pray hard enough, I'll grow fins and meet King Triton. And it makes me sick, physically sick to my stomach. I could never rival, even remotely come close, to...I don't know. This idea. This...beauty. This bittersweet agony. There are some voices that make your heart break in the most beautiful and exquisite delight. And let's face it. That just ain't me.
But I want it so much to be! It's like wishing for the moon. No matter how fast you run at the horizon, no matter far you reach, it's always just out of grasp. A whole world away. I wish I could convey to you how much I long for more talent, more direction, more control. Like a starving child at the window of a bakery.
Maybe someday I'll find the guts to do something about. I just wish I knew what that something was.
Sometimes your greatest ecstasy is your deepest agony.
Singing is ecstasy.
Here's the thing, I love singing. There is little that I love more than hitting the perfect note at the perfect time in perfect pitch. But 98% of the time I fail utterly. I know I am capable of so much more. I can do better!
For me, music is like air. I crave it, need it. But it's a double edged sword. It cuts me. Makes me feel...everything. On top of the world. Like I could do anything. And in the same breath, insignificant. An utter failure.
Sometimes when I hear a song, I just know that I could sing it better, with more passion, more heart, more...just more.
And sometimes (most of the time) I hear a song and I know deep down that I'm wasting dreams. I may as well pretend that someday, if I wish and pray hard enough, I'll grow fins and meet King Triton. And it makes me sick, physically sick to my stomach. I could never rival, even remotely come close, to...I don't know. This idea. This...beauty. This bittersweet agony. There are some voices that make your heart break in the most beautiful and exquisite delight. And let's face it. That just ain't me.
But I want it so much to be! It's like wishing for the moon. No matter how fast you run at the horizon, no matter far you reach, it's always just out of grasp. A whole world away. I wish I could convey to you how much I long for more talent, more direction, more control. Like a starving child at the window of a bakery.
Maybe someday I'll find the guts to do something about. I just wish I knew what that something was.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Call a Spade, a Spade and a Bean, a Bean.
I'm 98% certain that I have just made the best bean soup in existence! I mean, really. It's sublime! (Can you tell that I am excited about this?)
I'm especially excited because, number one, I'm not a huge fan of beans (unless they are baked or refried) and number two, I have never, I mean never, ever, cooked with beans.
Like in my entire life.
But we're tight on money and beans are cheap. And high in protein and a bunch of other junk. Blah, blah, blah. They're beans. A gross, but necessary, evil in these dark(ish) days.
So I went to my local farmer's market (woohoo!) and bough a few pounds of mixed beans. I have no idea what kinds of beans are that bag. I loath beans, remember. Some are red (kidney?), some are small and white ( err...beans??) and the others are definitely pintos (Hey these are named after a horse. Of course I know what they're called).
Anyway, I love soup. And figure it's pretty hard to make a bad soup. Why not try and ruin one with beans? Ugh. Now the only thing I know about cooking beans is that ham is supposed to make them more palatable. I don't really like ham either. But if it makes the beans 'better,' well, ok then. So I also bought a package of smoked ham shanks for $3.92.
Beans: check
Ham: check
Just enough desperation to eat both of them: check
This morning I started the soup.
I grudgingly put in on the stove at 10am. By noon I was hovering over the pot, salivating. Oh. My. GOSH! If this stuff tastes half as good as it smells...
It didn't. It was BETTER! Now I'm sitting in the other room diligently waiting for my husband to get home so we can eat it. And I am struggling.
Over ham and bean soup? Really?!
The moral of my story is this: Thin times will stretch you. But sometimes you stumble on to something you will love.
Edit: Ernie's now home and we just finished dinner. It was amazing! Except for one thing. A bean, no matter what you do to it, is still a bean. And while the flavor was out of this world, the beans still felt like - beans, oddly enough. It's a texture thing. But let's just say that didn't keep me from coming back for more...
Here's the recipe:
Beans (I have no idea how much. I just put them in my pan by the handful. Enough to cover the bottom of my large (but not huge) pan)
1 Ham Shank
9 cups Chicken Broth (or nine cups of water with 3Tbs of chicken bullion.)
2 Bay Leaves.
Note: Do NOT add salt!
To start, pick over your dry beans. Pull out and tiny rocks, bits of stalk, and bad or split beans. Then rinse them very well. It doesn't hurt to wash them a few times. Drain all the water off of them and place the pan on the stove.
Pour 9 cups of chicken broth over your beans and turn the stove on high. Drop the whole ham shank in the pot and add the 2 bay leaves.
Bring it to a boil. Then turn it down to LOW and cover. Let it cook all day, at least 8 hours. About an hour or so before you eat, pull the ham shank out and let it cool for a few minutes. When it's cool enough to handle, pick the meat off the bone and put it back in the pan. I also tossed the bone back in the pan and just threw away the extra fat.
That's all. No really. That's all. No other seasoning or ingredients. Not even salt, as the ham will provide all the salt you need.
My beans were fresh, meaning from the last year, so they didn't need to soak over night. However, most beans that you get from a grocery store are 5 years or older. There's nothing wrong with this per say. It's just means they really need to rehydrate. But you'll have to find someone who know how to deal with all that shananigans.
I'm no bean chef, remember?
I'm especially excited because, number one, I'm not a huge fan of beans (unless they are baked or refried) and number two, I have never, I mean never, ever, cooked with beans.
Like in my entire life.
But we're tight on money and beans are cheap. And high in protein and a bunch of other junk. Blah, blah, blah. They're beans. A gross, but necessary, evil in these dark(ish) days.
So I went to my local farmer's market (woohoo!) and bough a few pounds of mixed beans. I have no idea what kinds of beans are that bag. I loath beans, remember. Some are red (kidney?), some are small and white ( err...beans??) and the others are definitely pintos (Hey these are named after a horse. Of course I know what they're called).
Anyway, I love soup. And figure it's pretty hard to make a bad soup. Why not try and ruin one with beans? Ugh. Now the only thing I know about cooking beans is that ham is supposed to make them more palatable. I don't really like ham either. But if it makes the beans 'better,' well, ok then. So I also bought a package of smoked ham shanks for $3.92.
Beans: check
Ham: check
Just enough desperation to eat both of them: check
This morning I started the soup.
I grudgingly put in on the stove at 10am. By noon I was hovering over the pot, salivating. Oh. My. GOSH! If this stuff tastes half as good as it smells...
It didn't. It was BETTER! Now I'm sitting in the other room diligently waiting for my husband to get home so we can eat it. And I am struggling.
Over ham and bean soup? Really?!
The moral of my story is this: Thin times will stretch you. But sometimes you stumble on to something you will love.
Edit: Ernie's now home and we just finished dinner. It was amazing! Except for one thing. A bean, no matter what you do to it, is still a bean. And while the flavor was out of this world, the beans still felt like - beans, oddly enough. It's a texture thing. But let's just say that didn't keep me from coming back for more...
Here's the recipe:
Beans (I have no idea how much. I just put them in my pan by the handful. Enough to cover the bottom of my large (but not huge) pan)
1 Ham Shank
9 cups Chicken Broth (or nine cups of water with 3Tbs of chicken bullion.)
2 Bay Leaves.
Note: Do NOT add salt!
To start, pick over your dry beans. Pull out and tiny rocks, bits of stalk, and bad or split beans. Then rinse them very well. It doesn't hurt to wash them a few times. Drain all the water off of them and place the pan on the stove.
Pour 9 cups of chicken broth over your beans and turn the stove on high. Drop the whole ham shank in the pot and add the 2 bay leaves.
Bring it to a boil. Then turn it down to LOW and cover. Let it cook all day, at least 8 hours. About an hour or so before you eat, pull the ham shank out and let it cool for a few minutes. When it's cool enough to handle, pick the meat off the bone and put it back in the pan. I also tossed the bone back in the pan and just threw away the extra fat.
That's all. No really. That's all. No other seasoning or ingredients. Not even salt, as the ham will provide all the salt you need.
My beans were fresh, meaning from the last year, so they didn't need to soak over night. However, most beans that you get from a grocery store are 5 years or older. There's nothing wrong with this per say. It's just means they really need to rehydrate. But you'll have to find someone who know how to deal with all that shananigans.
I'm no bean chef, remember?
Thursday, August 5, 2010
T-t-t-t-IGH!
Money is tight. Tighter then than a pop tart’s booty shorts. Yeah. That’s tight, I know.
To help make ends meet while I wait for an opening at Trader Joe’s (somebody quit, already!), I have started working from home at Amazon's Mechanical Turk. My last job was transcribing an interview. Let me just say, if I EVER say “Um,” “You know,” or something along those lines – just SLAP ME! I’m fairly certain that out of the 2,129 words I typed, over half of them were “uh, you know, “and “um.”
Re
Dic
U
LOUS!
Anyway. Back to your regularly scheduled blog.
Uh, were was I? Oh! Uh, I know. You know, I just love, uh, Top Ramen. {snickers} I’m done. For now. ;0)
Ok, money. It’s pretty tight right now. That might sound pretty terrifying to most people. But I have to say, I’m kind of enjoying it. It means we’re doing it on our own. Like real adults. It's also nice to watch God take care of us on daily basis. And He totally does. J I like that feeling.
Living on an extremely tight budget isn’t as bad as it might sound. Like I said, I’ve been picking up some work at Mechanical Turk to fill in the gaps and yesterday I made my first mini wad of money ( I stress "mini"). So I decided to take Ernie out for dinner. Now when you’re in a killer cash crunch, there’s only a few places at which you can afford to eat.
I swallowed my pride and took my husband out to the only place we could afford.
P.F. Changs.
Yeah. I know, I know. Who wants to eat at a swank Chinese restaurant when you can eat off the dollar menu at McDonald’s? It’s a rough life, but somebody’s got to do it.
I know your sitting there with raised eyebrows. “Tough finances? Really? And you’re eating dinner at P.F. Changs? And you're not using credit cards? Riiiight.” But it’s true – I swear!
Here’s how we did it. We showed up during Happy Hour (and oh happy it was after a week of Top Ramen!) and ordered these delicious chicken salad wraps. Not one order, oh no. We were splurging. (And pretty dang hungry.) We each got our own order. Yeeeeeeeeeah! Here’s the other secret to eating out on a budget – skip the drinks. I’m not just talking about those zippy little drinks that make the room (and your date) just a little bit prettier. I’m talking about soda. Tea. Coffee. That’s usually an additional $2.50 a person – an extra FIVE FREAKING DOLLARS FOR SUGAR WATER FOR TWO PEOPLE?! I think not. Hold the sugar (and the calories, thank you) and I’ll just have water.
Our grand total, for feeding two hungry people dinner – at P.F. CHANGS – was, are you ready for this?
$10. Ten whole smackers. BOOAYH!! Did I mention that included a decent tip?
I can so do this tight budget junk.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Self Control
I'm forever lecturing myself.
Fine, I talk to myself in general. Hey, it who can be better for conversation? You can only argue as long as you can keep coming up with rebuttals. And no matter what, you always win. It's a pretty sweet deal, really.
Anyway, as I was saying, I lecture myself quite a bit. Like when I open the freezer and the music swells as a perfect halo of light frames the seductive curve of the ice cream carton.
I will have self control. I will have self control.
Or maybe when I launch Lord of the Rings Online and there's a high end raid about to start. It's going to take a few hours to complete. I will have self control. The raid goes well, very well in fact. And they want to know if I am up for another run. Glancing at the clock, I tell myself that I will have self control. I will have self control. I will have - "OK! Just a quick Bio break and I'll be ready to go!!"
{-_-}
I will have self control.
I will have self control when I look at that lovely, golden, smooth stick of butter.
I will have self control when I want to sit on the couch and stare at Facebook whilst my brain and body rot together in wretched happiness and loathing.
My point is, I'm always telling myself that I will have self control. But the reality is, I've already got self control. It's not something that I have to get. I'm not a slave to my will or lack thereof. I already have bucket loads of it. You want to know how I know?
Paul told me so. Mmmhmm. We're good friends, Paul and I. At least he talks a lot and I try my best to tune him out. Usually what he has to say hits a little too close to home. Like this:
Did you catch that? "But the fruit of the Spirit is..."
Not "will be."
Not "you'll someday get______."
Not even "if you pray really, really hard maybe someday you can be like a monk in Tibet and have super human self control."
It is. The fruit of the Spirit is self control. And I've already got that. So, by the same token, I already have all the self control I need.
How beautiful. Another gift. You know, the more I dig into scripture, the less I feel like a victim and the more I feel like a bit of spoiled brat. A princess, if you will.
And that's really cool since I have always loved princesses.
Fine, I talk to myself in general. Hey, it who can be better for conversation? You can only argue as long as you can keep coming up with rebuttals. And no matter what, you always win. It's a pretty sweet deal, really.
Anyway, as I was saying, I lecture myself quite a bit. Like when I open the freezer and the music swells as a perfect halo of light frames the seductive curve of the ice cream carton.
I will have self control. I will have self control.
Or maybe when I launch Lord of the Rings Online and there's a high end raid about to start. It's going to take a few hours to complete. I will have self control. The raid goes well, very well in fact. And they want to know if I am up for another run. Glancing at the clock, I tell myself that I will have self control. I will have self control. I will have - "OK! Just a quick Bio break and I'll be ready to go!!"
{-_-}
I will have self control.
I will have self control when I look at that lovely, golden, smooth stick of butter.
I will have self control when I want to sit on the couch and stare at Facebook whilst my brain and body rot together in wretched happiness and loathing.
My point is, I'm always telling myself that I will have self control. But the reality is, I've already got self control. It's not something that I have to get. I'm not a slave to my will or lack thereof. I already have bucket loads of it. You want to know how I know?
Paul told me so. Mmmhmm. We're good friends, Paul and I. At least he talks a lot and I try my best to tune him out. Usually what he has to say hits a little too close to home. Like this:
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness,
faithfulness,gentleness and self‑control. Against such things there is no law
Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the sinful nature with its passions
and desires. Since we live by the Spirit, let us keep in step with the Spirit.
and desires. Since we live by the Spirit, let us keep in step with the Spirit.
Galatians 5:22-25
Not "will be."
Not "you'll someday get______."
Not even "if you pray really, really hard maybe someday you can be like a monk in Tibet and have super human self control."
It is. The fruit of the Spirit is self control. And I've already got that. So, by the same token, I already have all the self control I need.
How beautiful. Another gift. You know, the more I dig into scripture, the less I feel like a victim and the more I feel like a bit of spoiled brat. A princess, if you will.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Here's to Knocking on Mordor's Gates
I'm always thinking that I want an epic adventure. (Because pain and starvation and facing all the odds would be fun? 0.o I know, I'm weird.)
Today I had this idea that following Christ is like an epic adventure. Like Frodo Baggins leaving the Shire, we have to separate ourselves from the world. Not because the world is horrible and evil (ok, it is - just read the news) and we are better than it, but rather that we might save it. (Well, Jesus has already saved it, but most people don't know it. They keep walking towards death and despair.) My point is, God does not call us to something comfortable. He calls us to the narrow path, the uncomfortable path.
And like Frodo, we cannot carry our faith and not be changed. The Shire, though he loved it, held little joy for Frodo when he returned from Mordor. All his hope became wrapped up in the Undying Lands to the West.
The truth is, I'm already living an epic adventure. I just have to remind myself of that sometimes. My little hobbit hole can get pretty comfortable and I forget that all of Middle Earth still needs saving.
So to speak, of course.
Today I had this idea that following Christ is like an epic adventure. Like Frodo Baggins leaving the Shire, we have to separate ourselves from the world. Not because the world is horrible and evil (ok, it is - just read the news) and we are better than it, but rather that we might save it. (Well, Jesus has already saved it, but most people don't know it. They keep walking towards death and despair.) My point is, God does not call us to something comfortable. He calls us to the narrow path, the uncomfortable path.
And like Frodo, we cannot carry our faith and not be changed. The Shire, though he loved it, held little joy for Frodo when he returned from Mordor. All his hope became wrapped up in the Undying Lands to the West.
The truth is, I'm already living an epic adventure. I just have to remind myself of that sometimes. My little hobbit hole can get pretty comfortable and I forget that all of Middle Earth still needs saving.
So to speak, of course.
Edit: Please try not to judge my theology on this post, nor the fact that I just compared my faith in Christ to ring bent on destroying its barer. It's just an incomplete thought that I felt rather intriguing.
Mushy Rice
Last night I made dinner. And not to toot my own horn, but it's actually pretty rare that I make something that doesn't turn out fairly well.
Last night was one of those nights.
I'm not sure if I just added too much water, or if my rice cooker (bless its little pot belly) doesn't do well with Trader Joe's Basmati Rice Medley. Whatever the case, it came out mushy - not unlike oatmeal, or even cream of wheat. So here I was with a rice cooker full of glop that really wasn't...well, it was gross.
I just couldn't throw it away. All that lovely rice, carrots, onions and orange peal! I hemmed and hawwed for a little bit before suddenly remember one of my grandmother's more delicious, if not altogether healthier, breakfast foods. Fried cream of wheat. I sat there on my bouncy little kitchen stool, intrigued.
Why not? It's gloppy enough to stick together. It's got a good flavor. So...why not?
I got so excited at the thought that I rushed through the rest of my dinner, burning my tongue on my mushy rice. I love a good experiment in the kitchen! Or anywhere for that matter. So after we washed and put away the dishes, we got down to business. I just had to rescue this poor rice medley - it deserved so much better.
I rolled the rice out into little balls, then pressed them into patties while my sous-chef cut squares of butcher's paper to stack them on. (On a side not, I know I'm very lucky. Some people have to settle for bland pool boys while I get a sexy sous-chef. Be jealous, ladies. Be very jealous.) Anyway, we got everything mashed, smashed, stacked and stashed and called it good. I still wasn't sure about it all, but i figured, fry anything in enough butter and it will taste like heaven! (You know when the Bible talks about the streets of Heaven being paved in gold? I'm not entirely convinced that it's not butter.)
I even had dreams about it.
I got up this morning, doused the pan in butter, carefully placed my precious patties in the pan and waited. And waited. Annnnd waited.
Finally the moment arrived. I slid the golden rice cakes onto my plate, the crisp edges crackling merrily.
Oh.
My.
GOODNESS!
The flavor, the texture, all of it was sublime.
So there's my tip of the day - if it's terrible, fry it in copious amounts of butter. :)
Edit: I just had a funny thought - I've redeemed my rice! I took something gross and made it into something oh so tasty. And God is doing the same with me. :) I started out pretty gross, and right now I'm not too terribly delicious, but God is currently mashing and reshaping me (I think Paul used the analogy of clay but rice is more applicable to me). Someday, He'll be finished with me and I'll be positively exquisite.
Until that day, I'll be content to be the rice in His hands.
Last night was one of those nights.
I'm not sure if I just added too much water, or if my rice cooker (bless its little pot belly) doesn't do well with Trader Joe's Basmati Rice Medley. Whatever the case, it came out mushy - not unlike oatmeal, or even cream of wheat. So here I was with a rice cooker full of glop that really wasn't...well, it was gross.
I just couldn't throw it away. All that lovely rice, carrots, onions and orange peal! I hemmed and hawwed for a little bit before suddenly remember one of my grandmother's more delicious, if not altogether healthier, breakfast foods. Fried cream of wheat. I sat there on my bouncy little kitchen stool, intrigued.
Why not? It's gloppy enough to stick together. It's got a good flavor. So...why not?
I got so excited at the thought that I rushed through the rest of my dinner, burning my tongue on my mushy rice. I love a good experiment in the kitchen! Or anywhere for that matter. So after we washed and put away the dishes, we got down to business. I just had to rescue this poor rice medley - it deserved so much better.
I rolled the rice out into little balls, then pressed them into patties while my sous-chef cut squares of butcher's paper to stack them on. (On a side not, I know I'm very lucky. Some people have to settle for bland pool boys while I get a sexy sous-chef. Be jealous, ladies. Be very jealous.) Anyway, we got everything mashed, smashed, stacked and stashed and called it good. I still wasn't sure about it all, but i figured, fry anything in enough butter and it will taste like heaven! (You know when the Bible talks about the streets of Heaven being paved in gold? I'm not entirely convinced that it's not butter.)
I even had dreams about it.
I got up this morning, doused the pan in butter, carefully placed my precious patties in the pan and waited. And waited. Annnnd waited.
Finally the moment arrived. I slid the golden rice cakes onto my plate, the crisp edges crackling merrily.
Oh.
My.
GOODNESS!
The flavor, the texture, all of it was sublime.
So there's my tip of the day - if it's terrible, fry it in copious amounts of butter. :)
Edit: I just had a funny thought - I've redeemed my rice! I took something gross and made it into something oh so tasty. And God is doing the same with me. :) I started out pretty gross, and right now I'm not too terribly delicious, but God is currently mashing and reshaping me (I think Paul used the analogy of clay but rice is more applicable to me). Someday, He'll be finished with me and I'll be positively exquisite.
Until that day, I'll be content to be the rice in His hands.
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