... I Walk the Line is the sweetest love song ever written.
... there are times when nothing will do, quite like a glass of red.
... there are times when nothing will do, quite like a glass of red, unless it's a cosmo.
... Mr. Bon is freaking hot when he wears a black turtleneck.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Friday, November 10, 2006
Entanglement
Why I choose to tangle with the written word,
I'll never know.
Its sticky web entraps me so.
Just as I inhale,
all the clever and apt words,
line up,
letter
by
letter,
and march right
out of my brain
through some secret portal
probably located just behind my ear.
Waiting in the wings
are the replacement words:
the evil twins.
Have you met it's and know and there?
I have.
And even so,
every time
their ticklish ways lure me in.
I'll never know.
Its sticky web entraps me so.
Just as I inhale,
all the clever and apt words,
line up,
letter
by
letter,
and march right
out of my brain
through some secret portal
probably located just behind my ear.
Waiting in the wings
are the replacement words:
the evil twins.
Have you met it's and know and there?
I have.
And even so,
every time
their ticklish ways lure me in.
Wednesday, November 8, 2006
Hot Dog!
Foodies. I love them.
I embrace them.
Why, I count many of their ranks among best friends.
In fact, I consider myself a bit of a foodie too; if I do say so myself.
Food, and the art behind it's preparation and consumption, has been a passion of mine since I was the summer of 6th grade. While reading Better Homes & Gardens one day, I stumbled upon a recipe for Rosemary Chicken that I couldn't pass up. What in the world I was doing reading that 'zine, I can't tell you. But while my friends were reading Tiger Beat, I was serving a delicate breast of chicken to my parents for dinner, and a chocolate mousse cake for dessert.
I am happy to report to you that the concept of foodies transcends cultural boundaries and is one of the better, and definitely unexpected, perks of my new job. Nearly every weekday morning I am the lucky recipient of some of the best Asian comfort food you can imagine; or breakfast, as the twenty-some Chinese woman who take turns preparing these delights refer to my midmorning snack.
According to some elaborate (and probably not so complicated if you speak chinese) schedule, these woman take turns making what is their first meal of the day. They are at their sewing machines making tote bags, aprons and duffels so early they don't have time to eat at home. So, ingeniously, they've pooled their efforts and have breakfast at 9:30 every morning. Yes, you could set your watch by it.
My first encounter with their collaboration was my second day of work. Shing, who normally puts zipper pulls on bags was tending to "something" in the kitchen. First, I noticed the incredible aroma that filled the whole building with the warm, comforting smell of rice cooking in chicken broth. Then, when I went to get some tea, I saw the chicken, cilantro and peanuts awaiting their opportunity to contribute. If it weren't for my status as a foodie, I would have been suspicious. Instead, I waited patiently, properly and silently for my invitation to partake.
I had to wait two, long weeks before Elaine brought me a bowl of "congee." Each morning before that, I had to endure the fantastic smell and smile quietly at the women as they passed to the kitchen to get their breakfast. The only thing holding them back from inviting me to join them was language. The only thing keeping me away, was my good manners.
When Elaine (the best English speaker among the women), finally summoned the courage to approach me with a bowl of "their" food, she offered it gingerly. It was all I could do not to pounce. The look on my face gave way to the fact that I, like them, was a food person. Didn't matter what culture it came from. I was eager to try the "soup" and she could tell. Her mission was a success, and I was accepted.
Congee, it turns out, is a rice soup. The Chinese version of a hearty porridge. The rice is cooked in an excess of broth to an almost mush state, then the chicken is added and allowed to simmer. At the very end, add the cilantro and raw peanuts. Have this for breakfast, and you won't need much for lunch. Needless to say, it is both delicious and satisfying.
From that day on, I have been treated to fantastic gingery humbow, a noodle version of the congee and an deliciously odd cake sort of thing. Think: agar- but with both sweet and savory flavors. It is tasty, but extremely rich; I can never eat more than a couple of bites.
Breakfast took a little twist this morning.
I chuckled to myself when I saw Mei, a grandmother among the sewers, walking to her work station with a catsup smothered hot dog smothered in her hand. Amused by the image, I wondered where in the heck she got that thing and why she wasn't eating with the others. After a quick trip to the fax, I came back through the sewing room and saw that each and every sewer was sitting at her machine chomping on a dog. I couldn't help but laugh out loud.
Soon, Carmen brought one to my boss, a self proclaimed, fellow hot dog lover. Before I knew it, I too, was gobbling down a dog at 9:30in the morning. And guess what? It was a delicious, foodie approved dog!
"Po-rish sau-rage I got from Safeway," Carmen told me as I munched away.
I embrace them.
Why, I count many of their ranks among best friends.
In fact, I consider myself a bit of a foodie too; if I do say so myself.
Food, and the art behind it's preparation and consumption, has been a passion of mine since I was the summer of 6th grade. While reading Better Homes & Gardens one day, I stumbled upon a recipe for Rosemary Chicken that I couldn't pass up. What in the world I was doing reading that 'zine, I can't tell you. But while my friends were reading Tiger Beat, I was serving a delicate breast of chicken to my parents for dinner, and a chocolate mousse cake for dessert.
I am happy to report to you that the concept of foodies transcends cultural boundaries and is one of the better, and definitely unexpected, perks of my new job. Nearly every weekday morning I am the lucky recipient of some of the best Asian comfort food you can imagine; or breakfast, as the twenty-some Chinese woman who take turns preparing these delights refer to my midmorning snack.
According to some elaborate (and probably not so complicated if you speak chinese) schedule, these woman take turns making what is their first meal of the day. They are at their sewing machines making tote bags, aprons and duffels so early they don't have time to eat at home. So, ingeniously, they've pooled their efforts and have breakfast at 9:30 every morning. Yes, you could set your watch by it.
My first encounter with their collaboration was my second day of work. Shing, who normally puts zipper pulls on bags was tending to "something" in the kitchen. First, I noticed the incredible aroma that filled the whole building with the warm, comforting smell of rice cooking in chicken broth. Then, when I went to get some tea, I saw the chicken, cilantro and peanuts awaiting their opportunity to contribute. If it weren't for my status as a foodie, I would have been suspicious. Instead, I waited patiently, properly and silently for my invitation to partake.
I had to wait two, long weeks before Elaine brought me a bowl of "congee." Each morning before that, I had to endure the fantastic smell and smile quietly at the women as they passed to the kitchen to get their breakfast. The only thing holding them back from inviting me to join them was language. The only thing keeping me away, was my good manners.
When Elaine (the best English speaker among the women), finally summoned the courage to approach me with a bowl of "their" food, she offered it gingerly. It was all I could do not to pounce. The look on my face gave way to the fact that I, like them, was a food person. Didn't matter what culture it came from. I was eager to try the "soup" and she could tell. Her mission was a success, and I was accepted.
Congee, it turns out, is a rice soup. The Chinese version of a hearty porridge. The rice is cooked in an excess of broth to an almost mush state, then the chicken is added and allowed to simmer. At the very end, add the cilantro and raw peanuts. Have this for breakfast, and you won't need much for lunch. Needless to say, it is both delicious and satisfying.
From that day on, I have been treated to fantastic gingery humbow, a noodle version of the congee and an deliciously odd cake sort of thing. Think: agar- but with both sweet and savory flavors. It is tasty, but extremely rich; I can never eat more than a couple of bites.
Breakfast took a little twist this morning.
I chuckled to myself when I saw Mei, a grandmother among the sewers, walking to her work station with a catsup smothered hot dog smothered in her hand. Amused by the image, I wondered where in the heck she got that thing and why she wasn't eating with the others. After a quick trip to the fax, I came back through the sewing room and saw that each and every sewer was sitting at her machine chomping on a dog. I couldn't help but laugh out loud.
Soon, Carmen brought one to my boss, a self proclaimed, fellow hot dog lover. Before I knew it, I too, was gobbling down a dog at 9:30in the morning. And guess what? It was a delicious, foodie approved dog!
"Po-rish sau-rage I got from Safeway," Carmen told me as I munched away.
Tuesday, November 7, 2006
Needless to Say...
... Dubya is an embarassment.
... the GOP frightens me.
... you should V O T E today.
... the GOP frightens me.
... you should V O T E today.
Sunday, November 5, 2006
Shadows
I looked for you in
Portland last weekend,
but you were nowhere to be found.
I was certain you'd be at Powell's,
in the dark aisles of the Blue Room.
I pictured you mingling
with Proust and Updike,
maybe Angelou.
I wondered how it would be
to spend the afternoon strolling,
the leaf-strewn sidewalks of 23rd,
holding hands, getting close,
snuggling under autumn's cloak.
Then later, I thought, after a show,
we could stop by Elephant Deli
for a bottle of red and a late night sup,
to share back in our room
along the riverside.
I looked for you in Portland,
though you were nowhere to be found.
Portland last weekend,
but you were nowhere to be found.
I was certain you'd be at Powell's,
in the dark aisles of the Blue Room.
I pictured you mingling
with Proust and Updike,
maybe Angelou.
I wondered how it would be
to spend the afternoon strolling,
the leaf-strewn sidewalks of 23rd,
holding hands, getting close,
snuggling under autumn's cloak.
Then later, I thought, after a show,
we could stop by Elephant Deli
for a bottle of red and a late night sup,
to share back in our room
along the riverside.
I looked for you in Portland,
though you were nowhere to be found.
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