Sporty Spice

Two things used to drive me crazy when I was growing up:

1. When relatives would look at my little brother, and remark, “Wow, he is going to be tall.”  This happened at every extended family get together, and I would listen to it seething with rage and think, I’ll show them, I’m going to be tall too!  Jokes on me, though I do feel taller than I used to, I’m still average height.
2. When people would ask me if I played sports like my brother.

My extended family lived far enough away that we only saw some of them once a year. Since my brother was tall, it was assumed that he either did play or would play basketball, so they talked about that, then the conversation would  extend to college or professional sports, and they would talk as equals.  I don’t know if my family was just sports obsessed, or really bad at talking to kids, but they would always ask me if I played sports.  If I did, we would talk awkwardly about it because there really wasn’t much to say, and even in my more athletic days, I wasn’t very athletic, and I didn’t really care about sports; or if I didn’t, I get some kind of mini-lecture about not joining enough things, and then we’d talk about my brother’s sporty endeavors.

As a kid, I was involved with plenty of other things: I was a figure skater, I was a Girl Scout, I took piano lessons and later played flute until junior year (first chair); in high school I was Future business Leaders of America Vice-President, I was yearbook co-editor–there was plenty of “joiny” things for us to talk about, plus I was always an avid reader/movie watcher/story writer.  All this was rendered useless because I hate and am no good at basketball.

I imagine that once of my brother’s major grievances is having to talk about sports all the time as well, cause it’s really bizarre, but I’m finding that it’s still continuing.

When Gentleman Scholar and I moved into our current apartment, the first floor apartment was empty, and Elderly Neighbor lived on the third floor.  He had since moved to the first floor, and Hip Young Couple are in the process of remodeling the third floor getting ready for their move in.  Elderly Neighbor being on the first floor, means that his living room is right above my “home gym” i.e. treadmill and tv in the dusty basement.

I ran into him on the stairs a while ago, and he mentioned that he could hear the tv.  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I told him, “I can turn it down.”

He waved away my concern, “It’s not a problem, I’m usually watching tv, or on the internet, so it doesn’t bother me.  How much do you run a day anyway?”

I told him that I was presently training for a 1/2 marathon, and he practically slapped his knee with glee, “I knew it! I knew when I heard you down there, I told myself ‘that girl is training for something’.”  Then he bombarded me with questions about my daily mileage, how many races run, how I started doing this, etc.  These are all questions I have no problem answering, but it seems to be all he cares about anymore. I’m half expecting him to come scampering down the stairs next time I’m running and monitor my breathing technique.

When I used to run into Elderly Neighbor on the stairs, we would talk about librarianship, or my cat, or just random other stuff–now it’s all running all the time.  What am I training for?  Is usually the big one, and when I say “nothing right now” the look of disappointment on his face is alarming.  I mean, I guess I’m always training for something, but nothing I’ve registered for, and that doesn’t seem to be exciting enough for him.  It seems like he would be unimpressed if I told him that I just like running.

I guess talking about books, movies, travel, librarianship, or anything else that I’m interested in/good at just isn’t going to happen, and I should accept that, and I should avoid him as much as I can.

Is everybody selling something?

When I was in high school, in home ec class (though by that time the name has been changed to the more PC Family and Consumer Sciences), we had lessons in hair, nails, and make-up.  Clearly, the name of the class was the only thing that had changed, the spirit remained firmly stuck in the 1950s.  Because I did not care for make-up, and hate having a fuss made of me, my friends thought it was hilarious to volunteer me to be the “model” for both the make-up day, and the hair day.  In order to prepare for the make-up demonstration, I had to go to the local Mary Kay lady’s house, and sit through two hours of learning how to put on make-up “the Mary Kay way,” then I had to repeat the whole process in front of the class, and spend the remainder of the day feeling like I was wearing a mask and worrying that I was touching my face too much.

This town’s Mary Kay lady was no-nonsense.  She was savvy, all business, and wore a blazer that was decorated with all kinds of epaulets like a military jacket.  She also managed to lobby to have putting on make-up, and doing your nails turned into a two-day lesson for our class–the hair lady only got one.  Since that time, I’ve been forced to go to a dozen Mary Kay parties where a bunch of girls sit around a long table, wash their faces, put on make-up, and then marvel at how shiny our nails are, or how amazing this concealer is.  I half get swept up in the fervor too, but have never actually bought anything.

In college, Baby-Having Best Friend duped me into going to a Mary Kay party with the promise of a free meal and drinks afterward (really a surefire way to get me to do something unpleasant).  She had been guilted into going by the woman who would soon become her sister-in-law, and she wanted moral support.  What neither of us realized was that this was more of a recruitment session than it was a typical Mary Kay party.  Sure, we’d all be putting on make-up together, and gawking at the “new holiday colors,” but after that, we’d all be forced to sit through a lecture about how amazing Mary Kay is, and how much money we can make, and how we’d be foolish not to take this opportunity.  I looked around the room, and listened to the figures that these women were quoting as to how much product each of us would have to move in order to get the good life this presenter was assuring us we could all have, and it just didn’t add up, there aren’t enough consumers to make this scheme into the get-a-pink-cadillac-retire-early-in-the-Caymans life we were promised.

Despite the hard sell, and the groupthink, I did not become a Mary Kay lady that day, but I did write a satirical screenplay about the experience, so it wasn’t a total loss.  I’ve managed to avoid parties of this kind almost successfully since this one (except the Pampered Chef party that the same friend suckered me into going to, again, promising free food), but now it seems even by avoiding these parties, I’m still not able to avoid the stuff.

My mother’s sister used to have some job, I don’t really know the name of her position, but she worked in a clinic in Philadelphia doing brain scans on kids.  She got laid off, unfortunately, but rebounded with a new job as a Creative Memories salesperson!  This meant that my graduation present was a big blank book to put photos in, a bunch of funky stickers, a pair of wacky scissors, and her brochure for when I needed new supplies.  It also meant that at every family event, she would put together a picture college decorated  with funky stickers, and pictures cut in cool shapes with wacky scissors!  I was not happy.

I’ve been invited to Lia Sophia jewelry parties, Party Light candle parties (I’m sorry, what the hell do you do at a candle party?), numerous Pampered Chef parties; and when I refuse invitations to every single one, catalogs still magically appear, and get passed around at work.  Even at stupid Pepsi, when they expressly told us in our week-long training that they do not allow people to solicit on work property (the only thing I heard during training that made me happy), I still got the hard sell from more than one eager woman.

Currently, at my work, there is a whole setup in the staff room from someone (no idea who) selling Wildtree Natural Foods.  There are brochures, samples, a giant crock pot that had I-don’t-know-what in it, and the promise of a party on Saturday!  I understand that people need to make money, I get that, but when you start selling stuff like this, I can’t help but feel like you’re just begging your friends, family, and co-workers for money in exchange for something that no one really wants or needs.  Also, soliciting co-workers, and having parties and your place of employment is just tacky and inappropriate.  I don’t like feeling like a cheap or mean person when I refuse this stuff, but I always do.  I’m trying to get over it.

My holiday plans bum people out

I am not a big holiday fan.  My family is not very good at celebrating christmas, too many years of working retail at christmas time have made me hate christmas music and people who don’t embody the spirit of the season when dealing with retail staff; and it always feels like forced gaity.  When I tell people that I don’t care for christmas–they yell at me, demand to know what’s wrong with me, and tell me that I need to change–hardly the spirit of loving your neighbor.  It’s not that I hate christmas, I’m just indifferent to it, but apparently that is just not okay with people.

When I first moved to Rhode Island, I was incredibly excited to spend christmas by myself.  I had the day off for the first time in five years  (when I worked in television, I volunteered to work christmas every year because it was important to other people to have the day off), and had plans to lounge, eat frozen pizza, watch James Bond movies, read, and have a completely guilt-free no-agenda-of-any-kind day.  I was looking forward to this with tremendous intensity, and made the mistake bragging about my plans when people asked.  The typical reaction was dismay, followed by disappointment, followed by an emphatic disavowal of my plans, sometimes followed by an insistent invitation to spend christmas with whoever I was talking to.  No one was happy for me, even though I was clearly happy for myself.

Eventually, I accepted an invitation from the people I call my Rhode Island parents because they would not let me say no, and and the end of the parental haranguing, I was almost convinced that I would wake up the morning after christmas weeping and regretting missing a family meal and “togetherness.”  It was a lovely time, and a delicious meal, but I also had to drive 90 minutes in quasi-bad weather, and put on nice pants–not what I had planned for my lazy day.

This year, I have planted my feet firmly in “My christmas/my rules” territory much to the dismay of Gentleman Scholar.  Being a native Rhode Islander, he has scads of extended family within driving distance, and holiday traditions that include a ravioli eating contest. I spent Thanksgiving with them, which was lovely, and made lovelier by the fact that his family actually drinks (unlike mine).  As I was getting to know his mom’s cousins, they asked where I was from followed with the, “You’ll be going back there for christmas, I assume.”

“I’m not, actually,” I told them, “I like to spend christmas by myself,and I have a wonderful day planned…”

“Oh no!  Don’t your parents want you to come back and visit? Are they coming here?”

“No, we aren’t a big christmas family…”  I watched their faces fall in the familiar pose of pity, and sadness, and tried to regroup by being flippant, assuring them that it wasn’t a big deal, somehow I managed to mention my dead grandparents.  It was about as awkward as it could have been, and only made them feel sorrier for me.

I cannot figure out a way to sell my type of christmas in a way that makes people really realize that I’m really, really happy with it.  I moved 1,800 miles to escape familial obligations, and I want to celebrate that, but it’s still seen as tragic.  The only way I think I can deal with it in a way that makes everyone feel good is by lying, but that seems like a lot of backstory–not worth it.

This year, my Jewish Friend and I are having what I have dubbed “Jenna and Andria’s low-key xmas of fun!”  We will watch Anthony Bourdain, read, snack, and have a grand old time.  I’m very excited about it, please believe me.

Creamed Spinach and Quinoa

I always buy the giant tub of baby spinach, and always end up throwing away 1/3 of it, but the smaller tub is just not enough!  Bittersweet irony! Finally, one day I noticed that my spinach was looking a bit peaked, and decided to cook something with it, so I wouldn’t end up tossing it.  That was the first time I make creamed spinach, and it changed my life–sounds dramatic, totally true.

Once I untapped my love of quinoa, I decided to marry the two into a beautiful, tastey dinner treat.

The original recipe was Emeril’s, and it took a while to find one online that used fresh spinach instead of frozen.  His also called for nutmeg, shallots, and heavy cream.  I subbed in half and half, and skipped the shallots and nutmeg.

Ingredients:

• 2 pounds spinach (not really measured precisely, I used what I had left) washed.
• generous splash of extra virgin olive oil–Emeril called for 2 tbsp unsalted butter
• 1 tsp minced garlic (the kind in the jar)
• 1/2 cup half & half

Directions:

Bring pot of salted water to a boil, add spinach and cook until bright green (about two minutes).  Dump into fine mesh strainer and press to release as much water as possible.  Chop finely and set aside.

–Note: I rinsed the spinach in cold water before dumping in the strainer so I could squeeze it out with my hands–hard to get all the water out.

Pour olive oil and garlic into sauce pan, and turn heat to medium. swish around until garlic is distributed, then add spinach.  Stir to coat spinach in olive oil garlic mixture, then slowly pour in half & half.  Keep stirring until all or most of the liquid is absorbed.  Add salt and pepper to taste.

Then, dump the creamed spinach into another container–a “holding” container, if you will, and use the same pot to prepare the quinoa.  Fewer large dishes!  What’s better than that?

Ingredients:

• 1/2 cup qunioa to 1 cup water (that’s what it says on my package, anyway)
• 1 cube vegetable bullion (adds salt and flavor to the quinoa, I’m a genius)

Rinse the quinoa thoroughly using french press or other fine sieve, add to saucepan, add water.  Once it’s heated up a bit, add the vegetable bullion cube.  Stir, stir, stir until it’s broken down, then cook until quinoa are uncrunchy.

–Note, I ended up having to add more water than the recipe called for.  That might have something to do with the salt in the bullion (?), either way, be prepared to add more.

Serve delicious spinach on a bed of quinoa, open a beer, and watch LOST season 5.

Things that vex me–people edition

1. When people you’ve just met assume (wrongly) that you know about them and the people in their lives.

I admit, I sometimes don’t feel like explaining every little thing about myself to people in order to share a delightful anecdote, but I make a point to share the essentials.

Example: Years ago I was talking to a new co-worker, someone I had just met, and we discovered we had some friends in common.  This is not unusual, happens all the time, but I had never heard of the person I was speaking to before I met her that day.  I’d never even heard her name.   We were chatting about what a small world it is, and how she knew this other person I know, and she said something like, “I worked there for about six months–that’s how I met Roger.”

Roger was not the person we had been talking about–in fact, I do not know anyone named Roger, but she seemed to think that I knew the details of her life and that this person was her live-in boyfriend (which I only found out because I asked someone else later).  She didn’t explain, just went on talking about Roger like the three of us were old friends–”he did the funniest thing the other day, what’s new, right?”  and all I could do was smile and nod.

2.  When people don’t know what words mean, or say things that make no sense.

I’m not a gullible person, but I take people at face value.  I think everyone has something interesting to say, until I’m proven otherwise.  Sometimes I’m talking to people and they say something completely false, but with so much conviction behind it that I convince myself that I’m the wrong one, and that their string of words isn’t completely contradictory.

Example: I was talking to a former co-worker about the towns we grew up in.  I was complaining that in my small town of 1,500 people, everyone knew everyone else and it was a bit claustrophobic.

She responded with, “Yeah, the town I grew up in was about 20,000 people, so it was significantly larger.  It was really nice because I worked at a local bakery and since the town was so small we had a lot of regular customers and everybody knew everybody.”

Ummm, what?

3. When people are such know-it-alls that they assume they must know what they’re talking about and even if you know they don’t, they tell you you’re stupid.

Example: I used to read more magazine all the time.  It’s a magazine written for women over 40, and when I was 21, I couldn’t get enough of it.  It was a strange phase, but since I was 21, and had no idea what to do with my life, I found solace that these women in their forties had everything figured out, and eventually I would be like them–we’ll see if that’s what actually happens.  What first made me, and a lot of people aware of this magazine, was when Jamie Lee Curtis posed for a photoshoot in ill-fitting boyshorts, with rumpled hair, and no make-up.   This picture was contrasted by another shot of her in full make-up wearing a gown, and airbrushed.

The point of the photo shoot was to show women how fake Hollywood is, and that even though a team of people can make her look flawless–she isn’t.

I ended up (somehow) having a conversation with a friend of a friend about this exact article and the point of it, and she said, “I haven’t read it, but what it is was a before and after picture promoting plastic surgery.”  I was so shocked that I didn’t know how to respond, and by the time I came up with something to say other than, “Ummm, no,” she had already changed the subject to something else, and my bringing the conversation back around would have been odd.

4. When people ask for genuine, personal experience type of advice, and people point them toward a website that they’ve probably already checked.

Example: A friend of mine, and fellow librarian recently asked for book recommendations in the mystery genre.  She was looking for more unique, obscure titles that don’t pop up on every list you see.  A person responded, “Try Novelist,” which is a site that every librarian uses.

Another friend on facebook asked for good butternut squash soup recipes that people had tried and liked, someone else recommended RecipeZaar, which anyone could find with a quick google search.  I appreciate when people are helpful–but this is not helpful, it’s just annoying.

harrumph

A yogurt parfait the size of my head

I am not a super-healthy person.  Anyone who has seen the collection of boxed pasta and ramen noodles in my cupboard would concur, but I do think about what I eat, and try to do my best.  It was challenging last year with three jobs, full-time school, and the occasional internship, but now I’ve got no excuse for not trying.  Plus, now that I’m taking running more seriously, I’m realizing just how sluggish these “bad for me” convenience foods make me, so I’m pushing those out of my diet in favor of stuff that spoils faster, and makes me faster.

I used to have a really hard time finding food to eat when I was out of the house because of my vegetarianism.  I spent many a night at a restaurant eating just french fries or mozzarella sticks because there was nothing else on the menu that didn’t have meat in it, and because I used to be afraid of vegetables.  I rarely complained, just dealt with the fact that I made the choice to not eat meat, and these are the consequences.  Prior to that, I was a picky eater living in a town with two restaurants–I’m used to limited selection.  Now it seems like there are a lot more options for people like me, but a whole new set of problems.

Jewish Friend always talks about the “clean plate club” of which she is not a member.  Her parents are enthusiastic eaters, and she has always been more dainty.  They would encourage her to join them in the clean plate club, but she had no interest.  “You’re a member of the clean plate club,” she told me recently, “I bet your parents never got on your case about not finishing your food.”

The problem, in my case, is that I was not a member of the clean plate club growing up–there was no such club in my family, we all fed ourselves.  I typically finished my whole can of SpaghettiO’s, or half bag of Lipton Rice and Sauce, but not because someone told me to, just because that was enough to fill me up.  I ate until I was full, then stopped.  It wasn’t until I started earning my own money, and paying for my own food while out at a restaurant that I joined the clean plate club.  I want to get my money’s worth, and though I often do take home leftovers, I also nibble and nibble until there’s not much left.  This was fine when portion sizes were smaller, but now when a typical entree lasts me three days–it’s become a problem and a nuisance.

On my recent trip to the Virgin Islands, I had to be at the airport at 7am.  I really don’t eat breakfast even though I know you’re supposed to, because I’m not hungry in the morning.  I haven’t been moving, therefore, just don’t have an appetite until around 10am.  Since I was traveling and didn’t know for sure when or what my next meal would be, I decided to see what TF Green International Airport had to offer me in the way of a small, light breakfast.

Options include Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, assorted dinner places, and the Wolfgang Puck kiosk.  I love Dunkin Donuts, but had already had two large coffees at home, and the thought of a wake-up wrap or hash browns curdled my stomach, so I decided to see what overpriced horrors Wolfgang had to sell me.  Most of the offerings were lunch/dinner stuff, but there was a cold case of salads and fruits, and a delicious-looking yogurt parfait.

Once I got closer, I realized that this yogurt parfait was in a 16oz cup.  16oz– one full pint, 1/2 a quart–that’s a whole lot of yogurt parfait.  According to MIT, the standard size for a serving of yogurt is one cup,  which is half of this giant yogurt that I was staring at.  The typical single-serving yogurt cup that I bring to work is 1/2 a cup.  Is it because it’s “healthy” that it comes in such a giant size?  Is it just because the real expense is packaging and Wolfgang, and everyone else, wants to make their money back?  Do people really want to eat this much yogurt in one sitting?

I stood there staring at it for far longer than I should have, because I was really in the throes of a quandary.  Not knowing for sure when my next meal might be (accounting for delays, possibly running to meet my connection, refusing to overpay for terrible plane food, etc.) and knowing that as soon as I reached my final destination I would immediately start drinking heavily–I needed to eat something.  I could buy it and throw half of it away (which I hate to do), I could force the whole thing into my stomach and feel sick rattling around on the plane.

I pictured myself choking down a warmish glass of yogurt, and did not feel good about it, so I turned to walk away and noticed a basket of what was sure to be overpriced bananas.  Bananas are filling and come in a reasonable package size, so I chose that instead.

“$1.17.” the clerk told me.  Then she mumbled something as I was fishing around for change.

“I’m sorry?” I said.

“I said why don’t you help yourself to another one, these are pretty small.”

Quinoa Squash Gratin

I love squash–love, love, love it.  When I was a kid, my mother tells me, I would eat squash every chance I got until my skin turned orangeish. I also ate pumpkin pie mix straight out of the can when I couldn’t get squash.  Turns out that Gentleman Scholar doesn’t care for squash, but if he told me that before, I didn’t believe him.

“You should cook with different ingredients” he told me.

“I love squash.” I told him.

“You should get some hobbies.” he told me.

“Cooking with squash is my hobby.” I told him.

He was less enthusiastic about this recipe, but I loved it, and I’m excited I used quinoa successfully the first time.  When I’ve had it in the past, I didn’t really care for it  (I didn’t dislike it, but was ambivalent), but it came out really well in this case.

Quinoa Butternut Squash Gratin
1 ½ lb. butternut squash, seeded, peeled, and diced
1 cup organic quinoa
2 cups water
1 tsp. salt
3 eggs, beaten
1 ½ cup Gruyere cheese, shredded– I actually used Jarlsberg because it was on sale.
1 cup Italian Bread Crumbs– I bought a Rosemary and Olive oil loaf and tore it up into chunks rather than buy breadcrumbs.
salt and pepper to taste

• Preheat oven to 400. Spray a 2-quart baking or gratin dish with nonstick cooking spray.

Note: Who the hell has a gratin dish? I used my one casserole dish that I use for everything from baked mac and cheese to Gentleman Scholar’s Apple Crisp.  I don’t know if I could even recognize a gratin dish if I saw one–silly.

• Peel and cube a whole squash, then put in a ziploc plastic bag and seal. Then pierce a few times with a fork and microwave on high for 3-5 minutes until squash is soft and tender.

Note: I just heaped the squash in a bowl and covered with a paper towel.

• Wash the quinoa in a fine sieve thoroughly (about 5 minutes) until water runs clear. This is very important, as quinoa has a bitter protective coating that can linger even after processing.

Note: I used my French Press to accomplish this, and it worked perfectly.  I had been planning to MacGuyver something with paper towels and a colander, but that seemed like a disaster waiting to happen. French Press was exactly what I needed, I didn’t lose a single grain of quinoa (except the stuff that stuck under the filter, which really wasn’t much).

• Transfer squash and quinoa to a large (2 or 3-quart) pot. Add water and salt to pot and bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low and allow to simmer for 15 minutes or until liquid is absorbed and the quinoa blooms into little spirals. Remove from heat and let rest.

• Mix quinoa and squash mixture, egg cheese, and salt and pepper to taste, then transfer into baking or gratin dish. Sprinkle bread crumbs over gratin. Drizzle 1 Tbsp. of olive oil on top and bake for 35-45 minutes or until top is golden brown.

This was seriously delicious, and hearty without being heavy.  I might add a bit more cheese next time–cheese rules, but otherwise no complaints.  The egg and quinoa made a dense but springy kind of texture, which was delightful.  I did notice that about an hour after eating this, I started to feel really, really full.  Perhaps quinoa continues to expand after eating(?)  Either way, pretty happy with the results.

Adventuring in hot climates

I pride myself on being an excellent adventurer for a number of reasons:

1. I am a skilled, light, and efficient packer
2. I am laid-back, have been called unflappable on more than one occasion, and am willing to try anything once
3. I can go for long periods of time without or with very little food or drink
4. When in adventure mode, I don’t require much sleep
5. I have a lot of stamina
6. I carry my passport almost everywhere because you never know when the opportunity for adventure might present itself.

On my recent trip to St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands, I decided to use part of my 48-hour trip to do a little adventuring and seek out Blackbeard’s Castle.  The resort we were staying at was out by the airport, about 1.5 miles from town.  The options to get there were walk (80+ degrees, humid, my leg is still gimpy), taxi (more money than I really want to spend), hotel shuttle (10-minute wait and only goes into town, will not take people back to the hotel, which seems odd), or the local bus.

In the spirit of adventure, I opted for the local bus.  Plus, I had gotten the low-down on how the bus works the night before.

1. The bus stop was about three blocks from the hotel, past the stoplight, near the bright yellow gas station.
2. Approach the bus, which looks a bit like a trolley, and ask the driver, “Are you the dollar bus?”
3. Do not tell the driver where you want to go because they will tell you it costs more than a dollar, which is not true, but if they say that yes, they are the dollar bus, get in.
4. When you arrive at your destination, push the button, get off and pay the driver $1.

Simple stuff.

I found the bus stop, with a bus next to it, and a man half in the cab, half out having a conversation with another person in Spanish.

“Are you the dollar bus?” I asked.

He had a mouth full of sandwich and mumbled something I couldn’t understand.  I waited a bit, he swallowed, and said, “Yes, but I’m not working right now.” Then he pointed at his sandwich.

Then we stared at each other for a bit before another bus pulled up and I got on that.  The only problem with taking the bus versus taking a cab or shuttle, is that I wasn’t precisely sure where I wanted to get off.  I figured once I saw my destination, I would just know.  Then after a little while, some other white people got onto the bus, so I figured that I’d just get off where they did.  After sitting on the bus for more than thirty minutes, I was pretty sure that I had missed my stop, but I was also pretty sure that I was seeing a lot more of the island than most people there for only the weekend, so I sat back and enjoyed the sights and hills.

After getting off at the Red Hook stop, where the other white people got off, I realized that they were going to the ferry, and I was not.  There was nothing in Red Hook except the ferry, a very well-promoted ATM, two restaurants, and a lot of sailboats.  So I got back on the dollar bus, and asked one of the locals which stop was the downtown that I wanted, specifically, where was Blackbeard’s castle.

“Oh, you’ll be able to see it.  I’m getting off a little before then, but once you see the water and all the pretty boats, get off and you should see it up the hill.  I’d take a cab though because you have to go through a rough neighborhood, and with the economy down, and you being alone, I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

Then she got off the bus and went to church.  Wonderful human being.

Except she didn’t count on how cheap I am and how little I worry about my personal safety.  After wandering the length of the downtown area, and quickly discovering that had I not taken the extended bus ride and actually seen the island, I might have mistaken St. Thomas for nothing but jewelry, cigar, and perfume stores, I tried to find the castle.

I could not see it at all.  Finally, I just started climbing the hill in the hopes that once I got a little higher, it would present itself.

No castle.

I stopped at a hotel conveniently (for me) located halfway up the hill, inconveniently (for them) located in the bad neighborhood my bus friend had mentioned, and asked if I was on the right track.  The nice woman at the desk assured me that I was, and once at the top of the hill, I’d just need to cut over to my right. So I climbed, and climbed the steepest hill in the world and once I reached a crossroad, looked around, and still did not see the castle.  I asked two passersby where it was, and they directed me into the parking lot of a hotel.  Finally, I started  walking along the horizontal road, only to find that it gradually sloped downhill and brought me right back to the place I’d started climbing up.

It was then that I glanced up the hill, and actually saw the castle for the first time.

It was also then, that I decided that I did not want to climb the hill again as I was drenched with sweat, extremely thirsty, and my gimpy leg was killing me.  Damn you, Blackbeard.

I went back to the beach.

Reactionary

As I’ve mentioned often, I’ve had a lot of jobs.  Because I’ve also had a variety of positions, I always note how people react when I tell them what I do.  I have this on my mind after coming off a weekend where I met a lot of people, and they asked what I do, and I asked what they do, but it’s something I’ve always noticed and found interesting.  There is always some variance from person to person based on their own perceptions and experiences, but there is a most common reaction for each job.

• Barnes & Noble, the most common reaction was, “Fun! Wow, so you read a lot?  That must be a great job.” This is usually followed by a small sigh of envy.  This was when I was in my early twenties, so I wonder if the reaction would be different if I still worked there.  My friend and co-worker, The Ausausin, and I used to loathe this reaction and do everything we could to convince the person otherwise.  By this point, we were both quite bitter with our circumstances and the job’s luster had been worn away by horrible management, ridiculous customer demands, and crazy, stalking, and just creepy customers.
• Tv station, the most common reaction was a wide-eyed, “Really?  That is so cool.  How did you get that job?”  Then there would be a pause where the person would study my face to see if I looked familiar to which I would reply, “I work in production.”  People were fascinated with that job even though it paid the worst and had the worst hours of any position I’ve ever held.  I did enjoy telling people that I worked there, though, because no one had any idea what the job was.  If I was at Barnes & Noble, people could come in and see me working–no mystique there.  With tv station, no one had any idea, and if I did bring them to work, they’d just see a lot of scary-looking equipment and minor, local celebrities.
• Stupid pepsi–admittedly, when I tell people about this job, I usually say something along the lines of  “I used to work in a call center selling Pepsi products over the phone.” This prompts people to say, “Who doesn’t know about Pepsi that you would have to sell them on it?” Then I explain the situation and how it actually worked, and watch their eyes glaze over.
• Librarian–this is one that I’m still exploring, obviously.  I read yesterday in one of my library blogs that a woman told a used-car salesman that she was a librarian, and the man laughed out loud, then mumbled something about a dying profession (clearly, she did not buy a car from him).   Thankfully, I haven’t had that reaction yet, but I have encountered a certain amount of skepticism, in particular, when I was in grad school for library science.  I was in the Virgin Islands over the weekend, and I got to chatting with a couple guys on the local bus.  One lived in Puerto Rico, and the other on some other small island, and were the kind of people who talk about buying boats as investments and how great it is to live on a small island in the Caribbean.  When they asked what I did for a living, and I said librarian, the more chatty one said, “Good for you!”  That, or something like that, is the reaction that I get most often.  It’s kind of like if I said that I feed the homeless, or rescue animals or something.  It’s not quite what I expected, but I don’t mind either.

Because this is something I’m intrigued with, I asked The Ausausin, who is now a nurse, how people react when she tells then her job.  “If I just say that I’m a nurse, then they usually seem to feel sorry for me, ‘just a nurse, huh?’ kind of thing.  If I tell them what kind of nurse I am, or what my work actually involves, then people think it’s pretty impressive.”  When my friend the Lutheran minister meets people in social settings, she almost always has to reassure them that she’s not there to judge their choices, just to hang out.

It’s all in how you spin it, and in the delivery, but it’s a pretty interesting thing to explore.

Chowdah!

This cooking venture of mine is really starting to take off. A while ago, I mysteriously started getting Shape Magazine in the mail. I’ve given them no money, but it just keeps coming, which is fine with me because free things are awesome. I guess Shape also includes recipes because I found what sounded like a delicious recipe for corn chowder–one of my favorite chowders.

It turned out so well, that Gentleman Scholar looked at me with amazement and said “I hope we can have this again sometime.”

I said, “Of course we can, this is America.”

Since it was in Shape magazine, it may actually be a healthy recipe, but I also added cream cheese, so it may not.

Ingredients:

• 2 tbsp butter 1 tsp minced garlic–the original recipe called for both onion and celery, but as I hate both those ingredients, I left them out.  Also, I think you could sub in olive oil for butter without ruining anything.  I’ll do that next time.
• 2 small Russet or 3 medium red potatoes, cubed small–I used Russet
• 3 cups whole-kernel corn
• 2 cubes vegetable bullion–since I left out the onions and celery, but this definitely made it more flavorful (I imagine)
• 2 cups water
• 1 cup milk–recipe called for whole, I used 1% then added 1 tsp of cream cheese
• Salt and pepper to taste
• Other spices to taste–I used Rosemary, Basil, and Oregano

Melt butter and add garlic, pour in water, and bring to a boil. Once boiling, add vegetable bullion and cubed potatoes, and simmer for fifteen minutes, or until potatoes are tender.  Add corn, and milk, bring back to a boil, add cream cheese (if you like), and stir in.  Reduce heat and let sit for five minutes or so.

Serve with crusty Italian or French bread, or oyster crackers and watch LOST while eating.