(I know, I know, I'm a shit. BUT on the bright side I've written about 30 pages these past few weeks - really! - and have set up a schedule to religiously post twice a week. Stay tuned...)
Well, I suppose it’s because of a lot of other things I don’t do.
I don’t work out much. I have my fits and spurts like, become a gym fanatic to look good in this dress, or, summer is coming it’s sit-ups time! But I’ve never really made exercise a routine or daily fixture of my life. This is a shame in more ways than one, made bigger by the fact that I do in fact have a dog and should, at the very least, be running around with him every single day.
I snack. Boo. I snack later on in the evening, especially. Bigger boo. And while I don’t snack “bad”, at least for the most part, snacking later is not a good thing in general. Boos all around.
I may not thrive on unhealthy foods but I am a gourmet fanatic, and the lipids count on too many of those items is high, baby high. Rich cheeses, delectable pasta, sumptuous, fruity rich oils. I do try and eat these in moderation but every now and again a puttanesca will look at me longingly, and I’ll oblige by giving it a home. In my stomach.
Salt. Heavens to Betsy, I love salt. I think the sweet tooth I didn’t get is due to the oh-so-savoury taste buds rock ‘n rolling away in my mouth, bossing the sugar wants away. I have four kinds of sugar in my cupboard to fulfill every coffee and baking need; I have 14 different kinds of salt. Among them are kosher and sea salt for everyday, Fleur de Sel and Sel Gris for finishing, black salt for earthiness and truffle salt for everything from hard boiled eggs to popcorn seasoning. Air popped.
I love vegetables but don’t eat them as often as I’d like, especially in the winter months. I never pre-plan my meals, either. I do my best but then sometimes I just get so hungry or tired or both, and with few options before me I usually go for the toasted bagel that’s quick, easy and packed with carbs.
So while it could be said that I try hard, I really don’t try hard enough. But I’m not going to let that get me down.
In spirit of Love and Me, or, Loving Me, I think I’ll stop slapping myself on the wrist all the time. I’m human. I’m doing good but not my best; I’m not going to resolve to try harder because honestly, that mostly accomplishes nothing. I just know I can do better. And the main difference between this year and all the years behind me is, I want to do better.
I’ve been saying I have to I have to I HAVE TO for years now and quite frankly, it’s gotten me nowhere. I’ve been saying I can’t I can’t I CAN’T for even longer, and that’s taken me just as far.
I remember saying I HAD to study hard for this or that exam in university, then ending up going out with friends instead. I also remember my father telling me time and again in high school that I COULD NOT go out with boys, but you know what? I found a way around that. The forbidden fruit is always the sweetest.
What I also know and remember is that when I wanted something that was totally achievable, I would get it. I wanted to learn how to rollerblade, and no matter how many times my ass hit the pavement, I made it happen. I wanted to get into journalism school, I wanted that internship in Europe; I worked my butt off for both, and did it.
It will happen because it will; it will happen because I want it to. It’s when I want something that badly that it stops becoming what it started as: want. It becomes a need, the air that I breathe. That’s when the magic happens.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Hi there! Again, I've taken a lot longer to come back than I thought I would, but something pretty major happened a few weeks ago - something major, and to something I really, really love. Thankfully it was to a "something" and not "someone" (and majorly thankful my dog was not in that category, either) but nevertheless it was poopy all the same. I'll be writing about that in a few weeks time. Cheers :)
I don’t eat candy.
I’ve never really liked the stuff, at least not since the age of 10. The novelty of Halloween only took me so far, I suppose. I don’t even have a yen for sugary products, and can’t stomach anything too sickeningly sweet. I love to bake, but that’s mostly for holidays and special occasions. And, I rarely dig into the finished product because by then, I’ve had my fill of staring at it.
I don’t eat chips or other junk foods, not all that much. A handful of times per year, tops. I never drink soda, except ginger ale when I’m sick. I almost never eat takeout food, and no delivery man knows me by name. I can’t stand breaded foods, and ixnay on anything deep fried.
I’m not a chocoholic, though I do indulge in a good dark when my hormones dictate it. I don’t drink all that much, either. Sandy and I share maybe two bottles of wine per month. I do love coffee, but never more than five cups per week, or even more than one cup per day, except maybe sometimes on weekends. Coffee is more of a fall and winter thing, too; come spring and summer, my consumption of the stuff wanes down to almost nothing. Hot beverages and hot days rarely coincide on my planet, and truth be told, I really don’t like flavoured, iced or whip cream topped caffeine.
When I have parties I don’t spend a mint on ready-made, assembly line foods, I make everything myself, with fresh ingredients, from scratch. For the most part I hate canned food, mixes, overly processed crap, and the chemically-laden. When I do have any of these things I read the labels like a hawk, making sure the nutritional values are acceptable, and the ingredients are all natural.
Good yes, trans fats no. I try as hard as the next girl to put only the best things in my body.
This isn’t how I function when I’m being saintly or super careful; these aren’t my food-fascist ways at their peak. This isn’t me tiptoeing through the aisles of the grocery store, avoiding tasty, fatty products in fear of gaining an ounce. Very truthfully this is my everyday, how I choose and make the foods I eat. This is just me.
So all that said, why the hell am I still fat?
I don’t eat candy.
I’ve never really liked the stuff, at least not since the age of 10. The novelty of Halloween only took me so far, I suppose. I don’t even have a yen for sugary products, and can’t stomach anything too sickeningly sweet. I love to bake, but that’s mostly for holidays and special occasions. And, I rarely dig into the finished product because by then, I’ve had my fill of staring at it.
I don’t eat chips or other junk foods, not all that much. A handful of times per year, tops. I never drink soda, except ginger ale when I’m sick. I almost never eat takeout food, and no delivery man knows me by name. I can’t stand breaded foods, and ixnay on anything deep fried.
I’m not a chocoholic, though I do indulge in a good dark when my hormones dictate it. I don’t drink all that much, either. Sandy and I share maybe two bottles of wine per month. I do love coffee, but never more than five cups per week, or even more than one cup per day, except maybe sometimes on weekends. Coffee is more of a fall and winter thing, too; come spring and summer, my consumption of the stuff wanes down to almost nothing. Hot beverages and hot days rarely coincide on my planet, and truth be told, I really don’t like flavoured, iced or whip cream topped caffeine.
When I have parties I don’t spend a mint on ready-made, assembly line foods, I make everything myself, with fresh ingredients, from scratch. For the most part I hate canned food, mixes, overly processed crap, and the chemically-laden. When I do have any of these things I read the labels like a hawk, making sure the nutritional values are acceptable, and the ingredients are all natural.
Good yes, trans fats no. I try as hard as the next girl to put only the best things in my body.
This isn’t how I function when I’m being saintly or super careful; these aren’t my food-fascist ways at their peak. This isn’t me tiptoeing through the aisles of the grocery store, avoiding tasty, fatty products in fear of gaining an ounce. Very truthfully this is my everyday, how I choose and make the foods I eat. This is just me.
So all that said, why the hell am I still fat?
Monday, January 12, 2009
A New Year's message to You, to You
I’ve been away for a lot longer than I thought I would be, than I said I would be and so forth, and while I’m super tempted to apologize and say that things will be better from here on in, I’ll write more regularly (and so forth), I don’t have to this time.
See, I didn’t want to be away. I wanted to write and I did do a lot of it, but my computer (and all the viruses it contracted) had its own ideas. I’m not totally sure if the matter is cleared up ‘cause I’m just not tech wired like that, but I am positive that current state of said PC is enough for me to continue where I left off.
Besides, it’s time for me to be here, time for me to write and finish what I started so very long ago. It’s the beginning of the end, I can feel it. And while many of you will disagree with the word “end” I’ve never personally had an issue with it. Everything comes to an end in one way or another; childhood, Harry Potter books (and movies); the Gucci 2008 collection.
It’s because ends make way for beginnings, wonderful beginnings. Just like winter snows always thaw into Spring, I’ll always be me, this crazy curly-haired writer trying to find her way one word at a time. But I want an end to the dream just being a dream; I want to capture the Me I envisioned for myself such a long time ago, the Me I gain a little more of, every single day.
It’s the Me I’ll never have if I don’t finish this story of here and now, my story. I want the rest of my story. I’m sure you do, too. So let us start the Beginning of the End, the rest of this story, with a story.
And, a question. Have you ever asked this of yourself: “What am I worth?”
Before I could be old enough to ask myself this question and truly ponder on it, it was asked of me.
My fourth grade teacher, Mr. Vinsanto, was one of the best teachers I’ve ever had. Maybe it was because he was one of the odder choices, I mean, being a man and teaching the fourth grade to begin with was quite an oddity in itself, but throwing pointy shoes and permed hair into the equation made for interesting hallway gossip. Still, Mr. Vinsanto wasn’t one of those teachers who was there for summer months off and a great pension; he taught because he wanted to, because he loved his job and he was great at it.
Even though it was a really long time ago, one of Mr. Vinsanto’s lessons in particular has always stuck with me. Actually it wasn’t even the lesson itself, since I really can’t remember most of it (hey, I was 9), but what he said in it that was so significant.
It was during a Religion class. Being a Catholic school we were subject to religion classes every now and then, where we learned all about the bible, the saints, pain, suffering, guilt, and who was flogged most effectively under Roman rule. Anyway, the subject matter that day was Worth.
How we got to that point is beyond me, but I remember, clear as day, Mr. Vinsanto looking all around the room, pointing his fingers at us and saying, “Tell me, all of you, how much are you worth?”
How much was I worth? I thought and thought, but had no answer. I could see brows furrowed all around me, but not one hand was up. Heavy thinking in a nine-year old universe.
“Think about it, as hard as you can,” Mr. Vinsanto went on. “How much are you worth?”
Hmm. Being young of course I put this down to monetary value, and concentrated. I knew I was definitely worth more than $10, and definitely more than $100! $1000 was a no-brainer too, but $100,000 started to sound steep, I mean, that much money could buy truckloads of Cabbage Patch Kids. A million I didn’t even want to think about, it was far too extravagant. Those types of fortunes were only for people like Queen Elizabeth and Scrooge McDuck.
$10,000 would cut it, I thought, maybe even $50,000 on a good day. I very apprehensively started to put my hand up in the air, noticing that others around me were being shy about the matter as well, when Mr. Vinsanto shook out those gorgeous black curls ever so slightly, flashed his pearly whites and said, “Well, I know how much you’re all worth!”
Hands went down quickety-quick. Fantastic! I thought. I took out a pencil to write the number down and show my family when I got home. Just imagine, my very own price tag! Maybe Oli could draw one up for me, and make it all nice and pretty. In my heart of hearts I secretly hoped I was worth more than Theresa, the teacher’s pet, while I KNEW I was worth more than stupid Bradley, who always threw dirt around at recess.
But Mr. Vinsanto didn’t give out any numbers. Instead he leaned a bit forward and said, most seriously, “You can’t attach a number to how much you are worth. You’re priceless.”
Maybe this would have garnered applause in an eighth grade classroom, but not in our fourth grade world. Most of us just sat there with blank looks on our faces after he said that. Priceless? What did this word mean? I knew what Price meant, and what Less meant, but the two didn’t quite seem to match up. Was I less a price?
Thankfully Mr. Vinsanto was used to dealing with kids our age every day, all the time, and so started to clarify. “Let’s imagine you were kidnapped,” he said, to which the class gasped. We all knew what “kidnapped” meant. “Let’s say you were kidnapped, and the bad people who took you only did it because they wanted money from your parents. How much would your parents give, to get you back?”
I thought and thought. The car? Maybe the house? I didn’t think they would trade Oli in for me, though.
But Mr. Vinsanto had a different answer. “If you were stolen, your parents would give away everything they had. They would give their lives for you. Do you know why?”
I thought I sort of knew why, but kept my hand down. So did everyone else, instead, we just stayed fixated on Mr. Vinsanto. “Because they love you, and because you’re worth everything they have, everything they can give. That is what 'priceless' is, it means, more than money.”
I didn’t look around the class just then, but assumed that everyone’s mouth was as wide open as mine. I was worth more than $10,000 and $50,000? I was worth more than $100,000 and even a million? Or a billion? What was bigger than a billion, anyway? And how crazy was it that I was worth more than that, too?
Mr. Vinsanto, amused and satisfied at our shock, sent his point home. “Each and every single one of you is worth more than money, or jewellery, or stuff. There is only one YOU in this whole entire world. No one else can do what you do, or be who you are. You are unique. You are everything.”
We had a special spring in our steps that day, Mr. Vinsanto’s fourth-grade class. Throughout recess, throughout lunch, throughout the rest of lessons and then going home after the final bell rang, we knew, every last one of us, no diamond on earth shone as brightly as we could.
Then, we grew up. I don’t know how the rest of the class has fared with that lesson but I’ve forgotten it too many times. I’m sure everyone does; other people tell us we’re nothing, we believe them. We read job contracts, mortgages, insurance policies and we believe those, too. Almost everything we have and everything we know can be bought for money and we believe in the metaphorical price tags on our heads too, when the reality of the matter is that no money could ever buy us, duplicate us, or bring us back after we’re gone.
We’re only a few days into 2009, and usually January is a pretty down time for me. It’s a new year, I’m back in the exact same place I was last year, disappointed, not where I want to be in my life, not looking at how I want to look. I pick apart my circumstances, I don’t like what I see. I stand naked in front of mirrors, I don’t like what I see.
Self-loathing, even in its most constructive forms, isn’t the most positive way to start off any year. I haven’t been very good to myself.
But this time, something’s different. Physically I’m not very far from where I was last year at this time, but emotionally, spiritually, something is changing. I feel lighter, happier. I feel free in a way I can’t explain.
So this year, instead of cutting myself up, feeling bad and punishing myself for bad choices, I’m trying something new. I’m going to try and love myself for a change, to forgive myself easier, to be more patient and overall, more understanding. I’ve given a lot more to people who have meant much less, even done less, so why can’t I give more to myself?
I’m worth it. Even if I don’t feel that some of the time, in fact most of the time, I do mean something to those around me. My family loves me, I crack my friends up. My boyfriend, bless his blue-eyed soul, looks at me in that extra special, sparkly way. My dog thinks I’m the bee’s knees. If I am worth nothing else in my own eyes, I am plenty in the eyes of others. I mean something in this world. There is only one Me.
There is only one You, too. You’re worth it, and this world would not be the same without you. So if there’s just one thing you take away from this long, long post today, maybe a little mantra you should carry with you throughout this New Year, even for every year following, let it be this: There is only one YOU in this whole entire world. No one else can do what you do, or be who you are.
You are irreplaceable. You are everything.
See, I didn’t want to be away. I wanted to write and I did do a lot of it, but my computer (and all the viruses it contracted) had its own ideas. I’m not totally sure if the matter is cleared up ‘cause I’m just not tech wired like that, but I am positive that current state of said PC is enough for me to continue where I left off.
Besides, it’s time for me to be here, time for me to write and finish what I started so very long ago. It’s the beginning of the end, I can feel it. And while many of you will disagree with the word “end” I’ve never personally had an issue with it. Everything comes to an end in one way or another; childhood, Harry Potter books (and movies); the Gucci 2008 collection.
It’s because ends make way for beginnings, wonderful beginnings. Just like winter snows always thaw into Spring, I’ll always be me, this crazy curly-haired writer trying to find her way one word at a time. But I want an end to the dream just being a dream; I want to capture the Me I envisioned for myself such a long time ago, the Me I gain a little more of, every single day.
It’s the Me I’ll never have if I don’t finish this story of here and now, my story. I want the rest of my story. I’m sure you do, too. So let us start the Beginning of the End, the rest of this story, with a story.
And, a question. Have you ever asked this of yourself: “What am I worth?”
Before I could be old enough to ask myself this question and truly ponder on it, it was asked of me.
My fourth grade teacher, Mr. Vinsanto, was one of the best teachers I’ve ever had. Maybe it was because he was one of the odder choices, I mean, being a man and teaching the fourth grade to begin with was quite an oddity in itself, but throwing pointy shoes and permed hair into the equation made for interesting hallway gossip. Still, Mr. Vinsanto wasn’t one of those teachers who was there for summer months off and a great pension; he taught because he wanted to, because he loved his job and he was great at it.
Even though it was a really long time ago, one of Mr. Vinsanto’s lessons in particular has always stuck with me. Actually it wasn’t even the lesson itself, since I really can’t remember most of it (hey, I was 9), but what he said in it that was so significant.
It was during a Religion class. Being a Catholic school we were subject to religion classes every now and then, where we learned all about the bible, the saints, pain, suffering, guilt, and who was flogged most effectively under Roman rule. Anyway, the subject matter that day was Worth.
How we got to that point is beyond me, but I remember, clear as day, Mr. Vinsanto looking all around the room, pointing his fingers at us and saying, “Tell me, all of you, how much are you worth?”
How much was I worth? I thought and thought, but had no answer. I could see brows furrowed all around me, but not one hand was up. Heavy thinking in a nine-year old universe.
“Think about it, as hard as you can,” Mr. Vinsanto went on. “How much are you worth?”
Hmm. Being young of course I put this down to monetary value, and concentrated. I knew I was definitely worth more than $10, and definitely more than $100! $1000 was a no-brainer too, but $100,000 started to sound steep, I mean, that much money could buy truckloads of Cabbage Patch Kids. A million I didn’t even want to think about, it was far too extravagant. Those types of fortunes were only for people like Queen Elizabeth and Scrooge McDuck.
$10,000 would cut it, I thought, maybe even $50,000 on a good day. I very apprehensively started to put my hand up in the air, noticing that others around me were being shy about the matter as well, when Mr. Vinsanto shook out those gorgeous black curls ever so slightly, flashed his pearly whites and said, “Well, I know how much you’re all worth!”
Hands went down quickety-quick. Fantastic! I thought. I took out a pencil to write the number down and show my family when I got home. Just imagine, my very own price tag! Maybe Oli could draw one up for me, and make it all nice and pretty. In my heart of hearts I secretly hoped I was worth more than Theresa, the teacher’s pet, while I KNEW I was worth more than stupid Bradley, who always threw dirt around at recess.
But Mr. Vinsanto didn’t give out any numbers. Instead he leaned a bit forward and said, most seriously, “You can’t attach a number to how much you are worth. You’re priceless.”
Maybe this would have garnered applause in an eighth grade classroom, but not in our fourth grade world. Most of us just sat there with blank looks on our faces after he said that. Priceless? What did this word mean? I knew what Price meant, and what Less meant, but the two didn’t quite seem to match up. Was I less a price?
Thankfully Mr. Vinsanto was used to dealing with kids our age every day, all the time, and so started to clarify. “Let’s imagine you were kidnapped,” he said, to which the class gasped. We all knew what “kidnapped” meant. “Let’s say you were kidnapped, and the bad people who took you only did it because they wanted money from your parents. How much would your parents give, to get you back?”
I thought and thought. The car? Maybe the house? I didn’t think they would trade Oli in for me, though.
But Mr. Vinsanto had a different answer. “If you were stolen, your parents would give away everything they had. They would give their lives for you. Do you know why?”
I thought I sort of knew why, but kept my hand down. So did everyone else, instead, we just stayed fixated on Mr. Vinsanto. “Because they love you, and because you’re worth everything they have, everything they can give. That is what 'priceless' is, it means, more than money.”
I didn’t look around the class just then, but assumed that everyone’s mouth was as wide open as mine. I was worth more than $10,000 and $50,000? I was worth more than $100,000 and even a million? Or a billion? What was bigger than a billion, anyway? And how crazy was it that I was worth more than that, too?
Mr. Vinsanto, amused and satisfied at our shock, sent his point home. “Each and every single one of you is worth more than money, or jewellery, or stuff. There is only one YOU in this whole entire world. No one else can do what you do, or be who you are. You are unique. You are everything.”
We had a special spring in our steps that day, Mr. Vinsanto’s fourth-grade class. Throughout recess, throughout lunch, throughout the rest of lessons and then going home after the final bell rang, we knew, every last one of us, no diamond on earth shone as brightly as we could.
Then, we grew up. I don’t know how the rest of the class has fared with that lesson but I’ve forgotten it too many times. I’m sure everyone does; other people tell us we’re nothing, we believe them. We read job contracts, mortgages, insurance policies and we believe those, too. Almost everything we have and everything we know can be bought for money and we believe in the metaphorical price tags on our heads too, when the reality of the matter is that no money could ever buy us, duplicate us, or bring us back after we’re gone.
We’re only a few days into 2009, and usually January is a pretty down time for me. It’s a new year, I’m back in the exact same place I was last year, disappointed, not where I want to be in my life, not looking at how I want to look. I pick apart my circumstances, I don’t like what I see. I stand naked in front of mirrors, I don’t like what I see.
Self-loathing, even in its most constructive forms, isn’t the most positive way to start off any year. I haven’t been very good to myself.
But this time, something’s different. Physically I’m not very far from where I was last year at this time, but emotionally, spiritually, something is changing. I feel lighter, happier. I feel free in a way I can’t explain.
So this year, instead of cutting myself up, feeling bad and punishing myself for bad choices, I’m trying something new. I’m going to try and love myself for a change, to forgive myself easier, to be more patient and overall, more understanding. I’ve given a lot more to people who have meant much less, even done less, so why can’t I give more to myself?
I’m worth it. Even if I don’t feel that some of the time, in fact most of the time, I do mean something to those around me. My family loves me, I crack my friends up. My boyfriend, bless his blue-eyed soul, looks at me in that extra special, sparkly way. My dog thinks I’m the bee’s knees. If I am worth nothing else in my own eyes, I am plenty in the eyes of others. I mean something in this world. There is only one Me.
There is only one You, too. You’re worth it, and this world would not be the same without you. So if there’s just one thing you take away from this long, long post today, maybe a little mantra you should carry with you throughout this New Year, even for every year following, let it be this: There is only one YOU in this whole entire world. No one else can do what you do, or be who you are.
You are irreplaceable. You are everything.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
100% Real Juice: Becoming Jane
Okay, one more quote and then I’ll get back to the real world of writing, promise.
Becoming Jane, starring the ethereally gorgeous, my-eyes-are-freakishly-large Anne Hathaway and that delish piece of Scots man candy James McAvoy, is a historically inaccurate tale of the beginnings of Jane Austen as a writer, and of her first, apparently only, real love.
I’d just started watching the flick and was only a few minutes in when this bit caught me; I had to grab the remote to rewind and pause in all the appropriate places, letting me write it down word for word so I could put it up here for you. Thank you, Video On Demand.
Jane’s father, a pastor, is giving his sermon at Sunday mass, and forms this ditty around his daughter’s unmentionable behaviour; fits of written talent and some brackish piano playing all too early in that 1800s morning.
“The utmost of a woman’s character is expressed in the duties of daughter, sister, and eventually, wife and mother. It is secured by soft attraction, virtuous love, and quiet in the early morning. If a woman happens to have a particular superiority, for example, a profound mind, it is best kept a profound secret. Humour is liked more, but wit; No. It is the most treacherous talent of them all.”
Interesting. Debasing and discriminatory, but still interesting. And, yuck. Wit is the hallmark of a sharp mind, and a sharp mind the key to a universe of knowledge. Sometimes we take for granted that these keys only became available to us women just a couple of generations back.
It’s hard enough to be a woman nowadays; I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like back then. Imagine such an existence, rules rules RULES until you went absolutely insane, or got married, or both. For some it was a good deal, but what if you were smart? Knowing what More is, wanting it, and only in very few cases, having the balls to take it. It was a stiff price for those who dared.
This topic might be seemingly unrelated to anything I ever have to say, but I’m writing about it for two reasons. One: It’s important to pay respects. This woman was one of many who dared and made it possible for all women, to go to work every day, own real estate, drive ourselves wherever the hell we want to just because we can, tell dirty jokes and have lascivious affairs with men of our choosing. It’s because of women like this that I can come here to the internet, to this quirky little planet of mine, and shoot my mouth off all I like, and you can read it.
Two: Thank you, all, for reading my shootings off. It amazed me, after being gone for so very long, that there were still people checking this site often enough to get almost right back to me with a comment, or even call me, to those of you who know me personally. I can’t even begin to tell you what this means to me, or how happy I was that so many of you still believe in me. Through the thick and the thin (especially the thick), you have always been there, and I’m so, so grateful for that.
Kisses.
Becoming Jane, starring the ethereally gorgeous, my-eyes-are-freakishly-large Anne Hathaway and that delish piece of Scots man candy James McAvoy, is a historically inaccurate tale of the beginnings of Jane Austen as a writer, and of her first, apparently only, real love.
I’d just started watching the flick and was only a few minutes in when this bit caught me; I had to grab the remote to rewind and pause in all the appropriate places, letting me write it down word for word so I could put it up here for you. Thank you, Video On Demand.
Jane’s father, a pastor, is giving his sermon at Sunday mass, and forms this ditty around his daughter’s unmentionable behaviour; fits of written talent and some brackish piano playing all too early in that 1800s morning.
“The utmost of a woman’s character is expressed in the duties of daughter, sister, and eventually, wife and mother. It is secured by soft attraction, virtuous love, and quiet in the early morning. If a woman happens to have a particular superiority, for example, a profound mind, it is best kept a profound secret. Humour is liked more, but wit; No. It is the most treacherous talent of them all.”
Interesting. Debasing and discriminatory, but still interesting. And, yuck. Wit is the hallmark of a sharp mind, and a sharp mind the key to a universe of knowledge. Sometimes we take for granted that these keys only became available to us women just a couple of generations back.
It’s hard enough to be a woman nowadays; I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like back then. Imagine such an existence, rules rules RULES until you went absolutely insane, or got married, or both. For some it was a good deal, but what if you were smart? Knowing what More is, wanting it, and only in very few cases, having the balls to take it. It was a stiff price for those who dared.
This topic might be seemingly unrelated to anything I ever have to say, but I’m writing about it for two reasons. One: It’s important to pay respects. This woman was one of many who dared and made it possible for all women, to go to work every day, own real estate, drive ourselves wherever the hell we want to just because we can, tell dirty jokes and have lascivious affairs with men of our choosing. It’s because of women like this that I can come here to the internet, to this quirky little planet of mine, and shoot my mouth off all I like, and you can read it.
Two: Thank you, all, for reading my shootings off. It amazed me, after being gone for so very long, that there were still people checking this site often enough to get almost right back to me with a comment, or even call me, to those of you who know me personally. I can’t even begin to tell you what this means to me, or how happy I was that so many of you still believe in me. Through the thick and the thin (especially the thick), you have always been there, and I’m so, so grateful for that.
Kisses.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Resurgence. For now, anyway.
Starbucks The Way I See It #286
Hypocrisy is annoying, but not evil. Someone who says one thing and does another has doubled their chances of being half right.
- Penn Jillette, Magician
According to this, I’m annoying but not evil. I said one thing and did another, that is, I said I’d be back a long time ago. I didn’t do that.
I suppose in one way, that makes me a hypocrite. My return, my homecoming, my long-awaited, triumphant welcome back – to be most celebrated by myself, believe me – was delayed. Much longer than I would have liked.
At first, I didn’t want to write. I don’t like admitting that, but it’s true. I’ll call it Burnout. I’d written so much, sometimes so often, that ever now and then it felt like I was writing because I had to, not because I wanted to. Many of my posts in the last while were half-ass, which for me, is unacceptable. I didn’t like that and so, I didn’t write at all.
Then I wanted to write again, but stifled myself not to. It was for noble reasons: I spent the better part of my time that I would have spent writing here, trying to get a job. There were successes and there were failures, but there were changes. I’ll get into those later.
The past few months was supposed to be a grand return, signaled by this newer, grander layout. And I wanted it to be that way, but despite my best intentions, that didn’t come to pass. I could bog you down with excuses and reasons and stories alike, that I tried but I couldn’t, blah this and blah that, but I’m here to tell it and not whine, so I’ll be as quick as possible.
It’s been a bitch of a summer. It was supposed to be three months of discovery, of learning, of eating better, of yoga and weekend trips and writing, writing, WRITING, especially here, to keep with the journey that I started, now so long ago, and very desperately want to see finished.
Instead, to sum it up as quickly as possible without turning this into a rant, it went more like this:
My father was sick.
There was an overseas cousin.
A baby was born (not mine).
My dog was sick.
My dog was sick.
I was sick.
My dog was sick.
There was a wedding (not mine).
There was another wedding (really, not mine).
My dog was sick.
The sickness bits, not a one, were attached or intertwined. All new things, crazy things, that led to a lot of panic and stress. That’s all I’m going to say about that.
Usually when I’m gone for such long periods of time I apologize to you all, then I spend weeks or months ridiculously trying to catch you up on what you’ve missed. With the story of my life, that is. I’ll keep to the apologies, I am truly sorry it’s been so long; for the most part, I had really, really good reasons to be away. With some exceptions, I won’t be writing too much about this past year either, and especially not about the past few months. I really don’t want to relive any of it; to be honest, I’m just glad it’s all (hopefully) over.
I’m ready to be here. I’m ready to be back and I’m ready to write, even if it is going to be on a more truncated schedule. Girls digging their heels into their careers have to divide their time among other tasks, too. I’m ready to be here, and I hope you’re ready for me… those of you who are left, that is. Thanks for sticking by me.
And now, if fate will grant me this one kind favour of some quiet time and a perfectly uneventful near future, meaning, nothing like what this past summer has been, then I can start again.
There is still much more to tell.
Hypocrisy is annoying, but not evil. Someone who says one thing and does another has doubled their chances of being half right.
- Penn Jillette, Magician
According to this, I’m annoying but not evil. I said one thing and did another, that is, I said I’d be back a long time ago. I didn’t do that.
I suppose in one way, that makes me a hypocrite. My return, my homecoming, my long-awaited, triumphant welcome back – to be most celebrated by myself, believe me – was delayed. Much longer than I would have liked.
At first, I didn’t want to write. I don’t like admitting that, but it’s true. I’ll call it Burnout. I’d written so much, sometimes so often, that ever now and then it felt like I was writing because I had to, not because I wanted to. Many of my posts in the last while were half-ass, which for me, is unacceptable. I didn’t like that and so, I didn’t write at all.
Then I wanted to write again, but stifled myself not to. It was for noble reasons: I spent the better part of my time that I would have spent writing here, trying to get a job. There were successes and there were failures, but there were changes. I’ll get into those later.
The past few months was supposed to be a grand return, signaled by this newer, grander layout. And I wanted it to be that way, but despite my best intentions, that didn’t come to pass. I could bog you down with excuses and reasons and stories alike, that I tried but I couldn’t, blah this and blah that, but I’m here to tell it and not whine, so I’ll be as quick as possible.
It’s been a bitch of a summer. It was supposed to be three months of discovery, of learning, of eating better, of yoga and weekend trips and writing, writing, WRITING, especially here, to keep with the journey that I started, now so long ago, and very desperately want to see finished.
Instead, to sum it up as quickly as possible without turning this into a rant, it went more like this:
My father was sick.
There was an overseas cousin.
A baby was born (not mine).
My dog was sick.
My dog was sick.
I was sick.
My dog was sick.
There was a wedding (not mine).
There was another wedding (really, not mine).
My dog was sick.
The sickness bits, not a one, were attached or intertwined. All new things, crazy things, that led to a lot of panic and stress. That’s all I’m going to say about that.
Usually when I’m gone for such long periods of time I apologize to you all, then I spend weeks or months ridiculously trying to catch you up on what you’ve missed. With the story of my life, that is. I’ll keep to the apologies, I am truly sorry it’s been so long; for the most part, I had really, really good reasons to be away. With some exceptions, I won’t be writing too much about this past year either, and especially not about the past few months. I really don’t want to relive any of it; to be honest, I’m just glad it’s all (hopefully) over.
I’m ready to be here. I’m ready to be back and I’m ready to write, even if it is going to be on a more truncated schedule. Girls digging their heels into their careers have to divide their time among other tasks, too. I’m ready to be here, and I hope you’re ready for me… those of you who are left, that is. Thanks for sticking by me.
And now, if fate will grant me this one kind favour of some quiet time and a perfectly uneventful near future, meaning, nothing like what this past summer has been, then I can start again.
There is still much more to tell.
Monday, March 17, 2008
The Floating Book Club
Thanks so much for all your kind comments!! After the Easter holidays I plan to get into things, full swing, starting with some much overdue pictures of my almost fully decorated loft.
But for now, there's one more thing I'd like to share with you. I've gone on and started a new blog. I'm not abandoning this space, never fear, and it's not another blog of wall-to-wall writing; it's actually a book club.
I've always wanted to start a book club or at least be a part of one, but then these days, who the heck has the time? So, I've gone a bit Off-the-Hook if you will, and I would dearly love for you all to join me in this mission.
http://www.thefloatingbookclub.blogspot.com
Spread the word, too - the more the merrier!
But for now, there's one more thing I'd like to share with you. I've gone on and started a new blog. I'm not abandoning this space, never fear, and it's not another blog of wall-to-wall writing; it's actually a book club.
I've always wanted to start a book club or at least be a part of one, but then these days, who the heck has the time? So, I've gone a bit Off-the-Hook if you will, and I would dearly love for you all to join me in this mission.
http://www.thefloatingbookclub.blogspot.com
Spread the word, too - the more the merrier!
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
It's been...
... too long. Far, far too long.
I'm not going to give excuses or explain myself or wax philosophical, let's just say that I've really needed it, this time away. As always, everything shall be revealed in due time.
I haven't written anything new or planned a grand comeback, not in any way, so I'm at a loss... for now, though. And, thanks to those of you who messaged me, have been in contact, or just come here to still keep reading. You mean the world to me.
Before I get back onto a regular schedule, to again commence on this journey that isn't yet over, here's some new, unrelated-to-this-blog material, but something funny anyway. I wrote it for a job application, but I'll get to that a little later.
I'm not leaving for long this time, in fact, I'll be back before you know it.
--WLFG
My Strangest Food Experience
Molokhia, pronounced “Mo-lu-heea”, is a leafy green indigenous to the Middle East, and main ingredient of the dish with the same name. Molokhia is a rarity, in the Americas that is, and we were about to try it for the very first time.
“We” are myself and James, or, the self-acclaimed foodie and classically trained chef. James and I are in Jordan on the invitation of our best friend Raj, and today we are going to his family’s house for dinner. It is a special occasion in this country, having guests in one’s home, and so the whole nine yards of delicacy have been stretched.
Arabic hospitality is magnificent to behold. Extra leaves to the mahogany dining table are brought out, along with extra chairs to seat family related to family, related to family. Far more foodstuffs have been provided than anyone could comfortably manage, and the true guest shows proper courtesy by never saying No. To even think of doing otherwise is the gravest of insults, after all, food is love and acceptance. Food is the celebration of life.
Today’s celebration was roast lamb, roast steaks, fish from the Red Sea and scores of barbecue chickens with various herbs and spices. There was bulgur pie, three salads, seven dips, minted yoghurt & babaganouj; oceans of hummus and Everests of pita to mop it up with, bowls of fresh almonds in their fuzzy green shells, to be dipped in salt, and chickpeas harvested just that morning. For something sweet, we were surrounded with dishes of pastries made with the Arabian holy trinity of dessert ingredients: Phyllo, pistachios and honey.
Food was coming at us from all directions, spooned onto our plates by doting aunts, and brothers-in-law carving the choicest cuts of meat. Flying pitas gracefully landed next to our place settings while little cousins kept the glasses full. Raj’s father, generous host, explained every single creation on the table to James and I, and made sure we tasted all of them.
That is, all but one.
In the middle of this smorgasbord was a large porcelain bowl, filled with what looked like a thick, dark green soup. I noticed that everyone was helping themselves to this, yet no one made a move to offer any to James and I, explain what it was, or even suggest it. Raj was sitting next to me so I nudged him and quietly asked, “What’s that?”
While Raj is superbly gifted with flamboyance and a keen sense of fashion, tact is not his greatest asset. He looked at the bowl of green stuff, inhaled dramatically while clutching his hand to his heart and then loudly exclaimed, “Molokhia! Oh, my favourite! This is the one thing at home that I can never have, so Mummy always makes it for me when I’m home!”
Naturally, this outburst achieved the effect I’d been hoping to avoid: Every single person at the table looked up, and stared at me and James. Then, oddly enough, everyone shifted their stares to the Molokhia, grunted, and looked down again.
I know when I’m being mocked. So does James, and he asked Raj, who was by now pouring a generous amount of green over a plate of rice with pine nuts, “And what exactly is Molokhia?”
Raj shrugged. “I don’t know, this herby stuff. It’s not really your thing.”
Not really our thing? Did he know who he was talking to? I was about to retort when Raj’s mother, who had been watching the entire scene, nodded and said, “You Europeans do not like this. We do not expect you to eat it.”
James and I were agog. Were these people aware of who we were? Did they know that I was a Kensington Market junkie, or that I’d celebrated the end of my university career with 20-year old Stilton, Port & Sevruga? Or that James had spent the better part of last year crafting the eighth wonder of the culinary world, Susur Lee’s signature salad? The vinaigrette alone was a three-day process.
We adore food, we adore trying new things, and we’re no neo-phobic wilting blossoms. Simultaneously, James and I held out our plates. We were going to try Molokhia, and we were going to love it.
Raj’s mother listed off the constructional elements of Molokhia as her aunt twice-removed, Fateena, ladled up our servings. “Chicken stock, a little tomato paste, a little onion…”
I studied the Molokhia carefully as Fateena gave it a stir.
“…some coriander, lemon juice…”
It smelled delicious, but something about it was really unnerving me.
“…salt, pepper. Then, a lot of Molokhia leaves. Lots and lots, or…”
I was starting to notice that the ladle didn’t cut through the soup, but that the soup itself acted as an independent entity, following the ladle around in the bowl. I’d never seen anything at a dinner table behave that way.
“…it won’t become like this. You see, the leaves have a special quality, they are… oh, what is that word again…”
As Fateena reached out to my plate, the Molokhia didn’t exactly pour out smoothly from the ladle, so much as fall out with a noisy plop.
“….ah! Mucilaginous.”
Whoa. “I’m sorry?”
Raj’s mother smiled. “Mucilaginous. Thickening property. This is what makes Molokhia special.”
Well, then. I don’t know about Mucilaginous making anything special, but that definitely explained the soup’s autonomous personality. There’s nothing quite like realizing you’ve gone too far when you’re already both feet off the cliff, but it was too late to turn back now. All eyes were on me and James (who was prodding his portion suspiciously with a fork), so I mustered up all my courage, scooped up a huge spoonful and went to town.
Once the Molokhia was in my mouth I quickly assessed the taste, and it was actually quite remarkable. Something like an overdone, minted spinach stew with just a hint of lemon. Very passable. I was starting to wonder what I’d been so silly about. Then, I made the mistake of swishing it over my tongue.
The root of the word Mucilaginous is Mucus, known the world over as the gloppy stuff we constantly hork up when we’re sick. Pseudo mucus is used to great effect in Hollywood, be it grotesquely dripping from the monster’s teeth in Alien, or enslaving Neo in the kiddy pool capsule via The Matrix. However you want to describe it, mucus is thick, it is slimy, and it has no place in my mouth.
Mucilaginous Molokhia. Ugh. Its texture was dense and coagulated, goopy, like having a mouthful of raw egg whites and phlegm. James seemed to be faring no better as everyone continued their observations of us, now in a somewhat bemused manner. I was stuck. It obviously couldn’t come out, but I just didn’t know how to make it go down.
The situation was getting desperate. I forced a gigantic smile on my face and, under the table, pinched my thigh as hard as I could to take my mind off gagging. Then, I swallowed.
Let me tell you that I’ve tried some strange things in my life. I’ve had chicken feet, alligator, ostrich steaks, parsley juice, jellyfish hor d’oeuvres and lamb intestine from a spit built into a home fireplace, but not one of these things could equal the oddity that was Molokhia. In one slick motion it went down my throat, and made itself right at home in my stomach.
I was momentarily triumphant, until I saw the rest of the Middle Eastern Jell-o Jiggler trembling on my plate, beckoning to be devoured. The hardest part was over, though; if I’d done it once, I could do it again. Actually I had no choice but to do it again… and again and again.
After some improvising, I found that there were plenty of ways to make the journey easier. There was washing it down with water, for one. Spreading it along the rim of the plate was great too, gave me just that much less to get through. And, one part Molokhia to four parts rice actually made it tolerable. Of course it was goop-laced rice, but it still helped.
After a good 20 minutes or so I ran across the finish line, and sent the last bite to its reckoning. Spoon down, I was at last victorious. I love Arabic food, but this one definitely wasn’t a repeat.
James finished not long after I did, smearing his last bite, I noticed, over a slice of eggplant. Task accomplished, he looked at me and rolled his eyes, right before Raj’s mother looked at us and piped up, “Well! You’ve both finished? So, what did you think?”
Like a pair of trained monkeys James and I both responded at the exact same time, “It was lovely. Very interesting.”
She motioned towards the bowl. “Would you like some more?”
We looked at the Molokhia and said, perhaps a little too quickly, “No, thank you.”
Smiling coyly Raj’s mother replied, “Ah. We knew you would not like this.”
Defeated by a bowl of phlegm. A worthy opponent. It appeared that I wasn’t the culinary superhero I thought I was, not on Arabic turf, but at least I’d tried the stuff and even finished a whole serving. The experience was always mine.
The final concensus of Molokhia: Taste, wonderful. Texture, not so much.
The meal was winding down, or it was for James and I. Molokhia or not we were still the distinguished guests, and as such had been pampered, served first, and made to eat third, fourth and fifth portions of it all. So it was that we remained in our seats, ungraciously struggling to breathe, and slowly sipping water in the vain attempt of trying to look as normal as possible.
James’ knee suddenly prodded mine, and when I looked at him he very discreetly motioned around the table. I looked around; it seemed as if everyone but us was now having a full dish of Molokhia. Whispering back to James I said, “So?”
He replied, very quietly, “What does it look like they’re eating?”
I looked around again. About a dozen people sat around me, deep bowls in front of them, mopping up Molokhia with torn pieces of pita bread. Thin, white pita bread. Thin, white pita bread that was now oozing green slime, an effect that made it look for all the world like snotty tissues.
I giggled.
I'm not going to give excuses or explain myself or wax philosophical, let's just say that I've really needed it, this time away. As always, everything shall be revealed in due time.
I haven't written anything new or planned a grand comeback, not in any way, so I'm at a loss... for now, though. And, thanks to those of you who messaged me, have been in contact, or just come here to still keep reading. You mean the world to me.
Before I get back onto a regular schedule, to again commence on this journey that isn't yet over, here's some new, unrelated-to-this-blog material, but something funny anyway. I wrote it for a job application, but I'll get to that a little later.
I'm not leaving for long this time, in fact, I'll be back before you know it.
--WLFG
My Strangest Food Experience
Molokhia, pronounced “Mo-lu-heea”, is a leafy green indigenous to the Middle East, and main ingredient of the dish with the same name. Molokhia is a rarity, in the Americas that is, and we were about to try it for the very first time.
“We” are myself and James, or, the self-acclaimed foodie and classically trained chef. James and I are in Jordan on the invitation of our best friend Raj, and today we are going to his family’s house for dinner. It is a special occasion in this country, having guests in one’s home, and so the whole nine yards of delicacy have been stretched.
Arabic hospitality is magnificent to behold. Extra leaves to the mahogany dining table are brought out, along with extra chairs to seat family related to family, related to family. Far more foodstuffs have been provided than anyone could comfortably manage, and the true guest shows proper courtesy by never saying No. To even think of doing otherwise is the gravest of insults, after all, food is love and acceptance. Food is the celebration of life.
Today’s celebration was roast lamb, roast steaks, fish from the Red Sea and scores of barbecue chickens with various herbs and spices. There was bulgur pie, three salads, seven dips, minted yoghurt & babaganouj; oceans of hummus and Everests of pita to mop it up with, bowls of fresh almonds in their fuzzy green shells, to be dipped in salt, and chickpeas harvested just that morning. For something sweet, we were surrounded with dishes of pastries made with the Arabian holy trinity of dessert ingredients: Phyllo, pistachios and honey.
Food was coming at us from all directions, spooned onto our plates by doting aunts, and brothers-in-law carving the choicest cuts of meat. Flying pitas gracefully landed next to our place settings while little cousins kept the glasses full. Raj’s father, generous host, explained every single creation on the table to James and I, and made sure we tasted all of them.
That is, all but one.
In the middle of this smorgasbord was a large porcelain bowl, filled with what looked like a thick, dark green soup. I noticed that everyone was helping themselves to this, yet no one made a move to offer any to James and I, explain what it was, or even suggest it. Raj was sitting next to me so I nudged him and quietly asked, “What’s that?”
While Raj is superbly gifted with flamboyance and a keen sense of fashion, tact is not his greatest asset. He looked at the bowl of green stuff, inhaled dramatically while clutching his hand to his heart and then loudly exclaimed, “Molokhia! Oh, my favourite! This is the one thing at home that I can never have, so Mummy always makes it for me when I’m home!”
Naturally, this outburst achieved the effect I’d been hoping to avoid: Every single person at the table looked up, and stared at me and James. Then, oddly enough, everyone shifted their stares to the Molokhia, grunted, and looked down again.
I know when I’m being mocked. So does James, and he asked Raj, who was by now pouring a generous amount of green over a plate of rice with pine nuts, “And what exactly is Molokhia?”
Raj shrugged. “I don’t know, this herby stuff. It’s not really your thing.”
Not really our thing? Did he know who he was talking to? I was about to retort when Raj’s mother, who had been watching the entire scene, nodded and said, “You Europeans do not like this. We do not expect you to eat it.”
James and I were agog. Were these people aware of who we were? Did they know that I was a Kensington Market junkie, or that I’d celebrated the end of my university career with 20-year old Stilton, Port & Sevruga? Or that James had spent the better part of last year crafting the eighth wonder of the culinary world, Susur Lee’s signature salad? The vinaigrette alone was a three-day process.
We adore food, we adore trying new things, and we’re no neo-phobic wilting blossoms. Simultaneously, James and I held out our plates. We were going to try Molokhia, and we were going to love it.
Raj’s mother listed off the constructional elements of Molokhia as her aunt twice-removed, Fateena, ladled up our servings. “Chicken stock, a little tomato paste, a little onion…”
I studied the Molokhia carefully as Fateena gave it a stir.
“…some coriander, lemon juice…”
It smelled delicious, but something about it was really unnerving me.
“…salt, pepper. Then, a lot of Molokhia leaves. Lots and lots, or…”
I was starting to notice that the ladle didn’t cut through the soup, but that the soup itself acted as an independent entity, following the ladle around in the bowl. I’d never seen anything at a dinner table behave that way.
“…it won’t become like this. You see, the leaves have a special quality, they are… oh, what is that word again…”
As Fateena reached out to my plate, the Molokhia didn’t exactly pour out smoothly from the ladle, so much as fall out with a noisy plop.
“….ah! Mucilaginous.”
Whoa. “I’m sorry?”
Raj’s mother smiled. “Mucilaginous. Thickening property. This is what makes Molokhia special.”
Well, then. I don’t know about Mucilaginous making anything special, but that definitely explained the soup’s autonomous personality. There’s nothing quite like realizing you’ve gone too far when you’re already both feet off the cliff, but it was too late to turn back now. All eyes were on me and James (who was prodding his portion suspiciously with a fork), so I mustered up all my courage, scooped up a huge spoonful and went to town.
Once the Molokhia was in my mouth I quickly assessed the taste, and it was actually quite remarkable. Something like an overdone, minted spinach stew with just a hint of lemon. Very passable. I was starting to wonder what I’d been so silly about. Then, I made the mistake of swishing it over my tongue.
The root of the word Mucilaginous is Mucus, known the world over as the gloppy stuff we constantly hork up when we’re sick. Pseudo mucus is used to great effect in Hollywood, be it grotesquely dripping from the monster’s teeth in Alien, or enslaving Neo in the kiddy pool capsule via The Matrix. However you want to describe it, mucus is thick, it is slimy, and it has no place in my mouth.
Mucilaginous Molokhia. Ugh. Its texture was dense and coagulated, goopy, like having a mouthful of raw egg whites and phlegm. James seemed to be faring no better as everyone continued their observations of us, now in a somewhat bemused manner. I was stuck. It obviously couldn’t come out, but I just didn’t know how to make it go down.
The situation was getting desperate. I forced a gigantic smile on my face and, under the table, pinched my thigh as hard as I could to take my mind off gagging. Then, I swallowed.
Let me tell you that I’ve tried some strange things in my life. I’ve had chicken feet, alligator, ostrich steaks, parsley juice, jellyfish hor d’oeuvres and lamb intestine from a spit built into a home fireplace, but not one of these things could equal the oddity that was Molokhia. In one slick motion it went down my throat, and made itself right at home in my stomach.
I was momentarily triumphant, until I saw the rest of the Middle Eastern Jell-o Jiggler trembling on my plate, beckoning to be devoured. The hardest part was over, though; if I’d done it once, I could do it again. Actually I had no choice but to do it again… and again and again.
After some improvising, I found that there were plenty of ways to make the journey easier. There was washing it down with water, for one. Spreading it along the rim of the plate was great too, gave me just that much less to get through. And, one part Molokhia to four parts rice actually made it tolerable. Of course it was goop-laced rice, but it still helped.
After a good 20 minutes or so I ran across the finish line, and sent the last bite to its reckoning. Spoon down, I was at last victorious. I love Arabic food, but this one definitely wasn’t a repeat.
James finished not long after I did, smearing his last bite, I noticed, over a slice of eggplant. Task accomplished, he looked at me and rolled his eyes, right before Raj’s mother looked at us and piped up, “Well! You’ve both finished? So, what did you think?”
Like a pair of trained monkeys James and I both responded at the exact same time, “It was lovely. Very interesting.”
She motioned towards the bowl. “Would you like some more?”
We looked at the Molokhia and said, perhaps a little too quickly, “No, thank you.”
Smiling coyly Raj’s mother replied, “Ah. We knew you would not like this.”
Defeated by a bowl of phlegm. A worthy opponent. It appeared that I wasn’t the culinary superhero I thought I was, not on Arabic turf, but at least I’d tried the stuff and even finished a whole serving. The experience was always mine.
The final concensus of Molokhia: Taste, wonderful. Texture, not so much.
The meal was winding down, or it was for James and I. Molokhia or not we were still the distinguished guests, and as such had been pampered, served first, and made to eat third, fourth and fifth portions of it all. So it was that we remained in our seats, ungraciously struggling to breathe, and slowly sipping water in the vain attempt of trying to look as normal as possible.
James’ knee suddenly prodded mine, and when I looked at him he very discreetly motioned around the table. I looked around; it seemed as if everyone but us was now having a full dish of Molokhia. Whispering back to James I said, “So?”
He replied, very quietly, “What does it look like they’re eating?”
I looked around again. About a dozen people sat around me, deep bowls in front of them, mopping up Molokhia with torn pieces of pita bread. Thin, white pita bread. Thin, white pita bread that was now oozing green slime, an effect that made it look for all the world like snotty tissues.
I giggled.
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