Monday, November 26, 2012
On the Train
So I'm on the train from Amsterdam to Nijmegen right now and since I'm not doing my homework, I thought I might as well write a short blog post. I spent this weekend in Paris with my family. It was a great time, but I didn't enjoy it as much as I could have because I was so worried about meeting (surpassing) my family's expectations. You can't really screw up Paris too badly, but lil ole deranged me didn't realize that until right about...now. I think that we (or at least I) ruin a lot of things for ourselves. I don't know; I'll write a real travel writing piece about it some time.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
#servergirlstruggz -- Dutch Wonderland
November 12, 2012
I bet you guys all thought #servergirlstruggz were over. Well, you were...right. I am safe across the good ole Atlantic, having found refuge from the American tyrants of my former restaurant in the Dutch countryside. However, I still haven't been able to shake entirely my servergirl tendencies. Traveling costs money, so when an on-campus job working in our tiny dining hall opened up, I jumped at the opportunity. Of course, this job is a little different than my last one...
IT'S WAY BETTER. There's a reason why I titled this post "Dutch Wonderland," and it's because I currently work in one.
First of all, the people with whom I work are great. Yanto, Nellie, and Stephan are the sweetest people in the entire world. They always ask me about where I'm traveling, joke with me in English, and even explain to me the things I don't understand in Dutch. Stephan also gives me special treatment in the dining hall now, assisting me on my daily quest for the perfect apple. Even though they don't understand how my classmates and I can consume so much peanut butter (apparently we eat more than previous years), we still get along swimmingly.
Another reason why I prefer this job is that it is far less stressful than waitressing in an American restaurant. Here, I am a dining hall assistant, meaning that my main duties are bussing tables and putting away plates and glasses. Compared to the constant sprinting/fetching/computing/fake smiling/hating my life I did this summer, my autumn job has been heaven. I only have to focus on one task at a time, and I'm even allowed to talk to my friends on their way out of the dining hall.
So of course, everything about this job is perfect, except for me. Sure, I wowed Stephan by taking initiative by putting food away and cleaning counters without being asked, but that probably doesn't make up for yesterday's incident.
I broke a pepper shaker. The tables at the dining hall have been newly decorated with long vases filled with water and flowers. While I was bussing a table, I accidentally knocked one of these vases over, which, in turn, sent a pepper shaker flying. Besides the obviously audible crash, brown powder covered the floor. I was waiting for a stern look, some rolled eyes, maybe even a bit of backstabbing chatter but was greeted with good natured laughter. Nellie smiled at me, Yanto shrugged his shoulders, and Stephan assured me, "Don't worry; happen all the time." I guess they must have found my American ineptitude adorable. Even so, I felt bad for my mistake and my mess, so I quickly grabbed the brush and dustpan and got to cleaning. No scolding was had, no report was made, no suspension was given.
In fact, we're all still good friends.
I bet you guys all thought #servergirlstruggz were over. Well, you were...right. I am safe across the good ole Atlantic, having found refuge from the American tyrants of my former restaurant in the Dutch countryside. However, I still haven't been able to shake entirely my servergirl tendencies. Traveling costs money, so when an on-campus job working in our tiny dining hall opened up, I jumped at the opportunity. Of course, this job is a little different than my last one...
IT'S WAY BETTER. There's a reason why I titled this post "Dutch Wonderland," and it's because I currently work in one.
First of all, the people with whom I work are great. Yanto, Nellie, and Stephan are the sweetest people in the entire world. They always ask me about where I'm traveling, joke with me in English, and even explain to me the things I don't understand in Dutch. Stephan also gives me special treatment in the dining hall now, assisting me on my daily quest for the perfect apple. Even though they don't understand how my classmates and I can consume so much peanut butter (apparently we eat more than previous years), we still get along swimmingly.
Another reason why I prefer this job is that it is far less stressful than waitressing in an American restaurant. Here, I am a dining hall assistant, meaning that my main duties are bussing tables and putting away plates and glasses. Compared to the constant sprinting/fetching/computing/fake smiling/hating my life I did this summer, my autumn job has been heaven. I only have to focus on one task at a time, and I'm even allowed to talk to my friends on their way out of the dining hall.
So of course, everything about this job is perfect, except for me. Sure, I wowed Stephan by taking initiative by putting food away and cleaning counters without being asked, but that probably doesn't make up for yesterday's incident.
I broke a pepper shaker. The tables at the dining hall have been newly decorated with long vases filled with water and flowers. While I was bussing a table, I accidentally knocked one of these vases over, which, in turn, sent a pepper shaker flying. Besides the obviously audible crash, brown powder covered the floor. I was waiting for a stern look, some rolled eyes, maybe even a bit of backstabbing chatter but was greeted with good natured laughter. Nellie smiled at me, Yanto shrugged his shoulders, and Stephan assured me, "Don't worry; happen all the time." I guess they must have found my American ineptitude adorable. Even so, I felt bad for my mistake and my mess, so I quickly grabbed the brush and dustpan and got to cleaning. No scolding was had, no report was made, no suspension was given.
In fact, we're all still good friends.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
A Vegan In the Land of Temptation
(Originally Written for iEatGrass.com)
Chocolate and waffles and fries, oh
my! Sorry for the corny intro, but that was my first reaction when I
went to Bruges, Belgium this weekend. While the scenery was as
beautiful as the land of Oz, vegan food was almost as elusive as the
Wizard himself. Luckily, I found my Emerald City in Royal Frituur &
Veggie Eetboetiek. This was a tiny, but amazing, vegan restaurant
with a hazelnut burger that was heel-click worthy. Topped with apple
slices, lettuce, and tomato, this burger was the foodie highlight of
the trip.
Even as it was delicious, the hazelnut
burger was obviously processed, as is most Belgian food. For some
reason, the Belgians have an ongoing love affair with the deep fryer.
So Belgium may not be the best country for traveling vegans, but I'm
determined that you can replicate all of its delicacies in a healthy
and vegan way. The hazelnut burger can easily be made much healthier with this recipe.
Of course, another Belgian staple, the
waffle, can be made vegan and healthy as well. This recipe is packed
with whole grains and natural sweetness.
I always thought that french fries,
although unhealthy, were at least vegan. However, in Belgium, most
are made with animal fat. I humbly offer a healthier and happier alternative.
(And if you're lucky enough to live in California and still have
access to avocados, avocado fries are a must.)
Finally, if Belgium is known for
anything, it's chocolate. Obviously, because of chocolate's milk
content, we vegans need to find another way to get our fix. As with
many cocoa related recipes, it's Chocolate Covered Katie to the
rescue. If you're not into baking, there are tons of vegan chocolate suppliers and
products.
Although my trip to Belgium was
amazing, when it comes to vegan food—sometimes there really is no
place like home.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Free Write #2 -- Aushwitz is not a Day Trip
So, seeing as my last free write went over pretty well with you guys, I'd thought I'd start sharing them. (Daring, I know.) But on a practical note, my free writes are usually about my travels, and since I don't have any time to write actual quality travel posts, these might just suffice. (I know that in a few years I'm going to be kicking myself for putting this unedited shit on the internet, but, at the moment, I find these pieces kind of darling so...)
For the next one, the only prompt was that it had to begin with the line: "Sometimes what you get is not what you thought you wanted."
Sometimes what you get is not what you thought you wanted. I thought I wanted to explore my family's heritage, and what I got was a ten hour train ride that I didn't know how it was going to end. I've said it once and I'll say it again-- Auschwitz is not a day trip. Warsaw to Krakow, no problem. Krakow to Oświęcim, fair enough. Oświęcim back to Krakow, fuck you guys. That was what I imagined the ticket machine had said to my best friend and I as we were trying to select our return journey. The machine said that there weren't any available trains back. Still, having faith in things working out, we got on the train to Oświęcim, hoping to find a way back once we arrived.
If I could sum the day up into one Yittish phrase, it would be "oy vey." That was how my feet and ass were feeling by the end of the night, when we were finally back in our Warsaw hostel. Considering the idea of sleeping on a park bench had been a very real possibility only hours before, I was more than thankful falling into my hostel bed.
Still, we got to go to Auschwitz, and even though we didn't have enough time to do a proper tour, it left its mark. I'm still haunted by the giant pile of hair that looked exactly like mine. I could have been realted to anyone to whom that hair belonged, and I probably was. There's this joke among Jews about how every Jewish woman hates her hair, and I'm no exception. But on that day, I loved my kinky, frizzy, brown hair because it was mine and so many others, and because no one could take it away.
For the next one, the only prompt was that it had to begin with the line: "Sometimes what you get is not what you thought you wanted."
Sometimes what you get is not what you thought you wanted. I thought I wanted to explore my family's heritage, and what I got was a ten hour train ride that I didn't know how it was going to end. I've said it once and I'll say it again-- Auschwitz is not a day trip. Warsaw to Krakow, no problem. Krakow to Oświęcim, fair enough. Oświęcim back to Krakow, fuck you guys. That was what I imagined the ticket machine had said to my best friend and I as we were trying to select our return journey. The machine said that there weren't any available trains back. Still, having faith in things working out, we got on the train to Oświęcim, hoping to find a way back once we arrived.
If I could sum the day up into one Yittish phrase, it would be "oy vey." That was how my feet and ass were feeling by the end of the night, when we were finally back in our Warsaw hostel. Considering the idea of sleeping on a park bench had been a very real possibility only hours before, I was more than thankful falling into my hostel bed.
Still, we got to go to Auschwitz, and even though we didn't have enough time to do a proper tour, it left its mark. I'm still haunted by the giant pile of hair that looked exactly like mine. I could have been realted to anyone to whom that hair belonged, and I probably was. There's this joke among Jews about how every Jewish woman hates her hair, and I'm no exception. But on that day, I loved my kinky, frizzy, brown hair because it was mine and so many others, and because no one could take it away.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
#LINVASION European Edition -- I Did Something Good?
September 27, 2012
So, the following is a fifteen minute free write describing Amsterdam's red light district. (This is totally un-edited, raw Lindsay writing so...be gentle.)
I don't remember Barbie looking like this. The box is too big, the outside edge is too dark or too bright, and the girl inside is too unhappy. Probably because she is too alive. The Barbie boxes are lined up; the collection twists and turns so that one is never sure where is the beginning or the end. Even though the Barbies are in good company, each one seems lonely in her encasement.
Their collector must have been very persistent and dedicated because their diversity is unparalleled. There is Sailor Barbie, Beach Body Barbie, Nurse Barbie, Texting Barbie, Healthy Eating Barbie, etc. There are even a few Kens dressed as Barbie, which were probably limited edition or something.
I used to think that Barbies were just for little girls, but these dolls are much more appealing to boys. Perhaps they like that they are more bendable, movable, and changeable than their plastic counterparts. The boys are drawn in by the clear glass and the bright red box. They want to rip open the packaging that separates them from ripping open another kind of packaging. The Barbies encourage the boys' curiosity, inviting them in to play. Some girls take part in the Barbies' games too. The Barbies are flexible, so they don't mind.
Even though the children are allowed to play with the Barbies, they must not disturb the collection. They close the package when they are done, walk away, and let someone else have a turn.
So, the following is a fifteen minute free write describing Amsterdam's red light district. (This is totally un-edited, raw Lindsay writing so...be gentle.)
I don't remember Barbie looking like this. The box is too big, the outside edge is too dark or too bright, and the girl inside is too unhappy. Probably because she is too alive. The Barbie boxes are lined up; the collection twists and turns so that one is never sure where is the beginning or the end. Even though the Barbies are in good company, each one seems lonely in her encasement.
Their collector must have been very persistent and dedicated because their diversity is unparalleled. There is Sailor Barbie, Beach Body Barbie, Nurse Barbie, Texting Barbie, Healthy Eating Barbie, etc. There are even a few Kens dressed as Barbie, which were probably limited edition or something.
I used to think that Barbies were just for little girls, but these dolls are much more appealing to boys. Perhaps they like that they are more bendable, movable, and changeable than their plastic counterparts. The boys are drawn in by the clear glass and the bright red box. They want to rip open the packaging that separates them from ripping open another kind of packaging. The Barbies encourage the boys' curiosity, inviting them in to play. Some girls take part in the Barbies' games too. The Barbies are flexible, so they don't mind.
Even though the children are allowed to play with the Barbies, they must not disturb the collection. They close the package when they are done, walk away, and let someone else have a turn.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
#LINVASION European Edition -- iamsterdam
September 23, 2012
On a scale of one to Sleeping Beauty, I'm actually too tired to think of something clever to finish this sentence. After a weekend in Amsterdam, "exhaustion" is the word of the evening, and sweater pants is the style of the moment. (Tales of my latest and greatest fashion selection are in my next blog post.) I spent 72 hours in Amsterdam and came out the other end smelling like...well, not like roses, that's for sure.
Between the millions of similar looking canals, conspicuously placed street signs, elusive night buses, and rampant bikers, I'm actually quite surprised and proud that we made it out alive. The obnoxious Americans survived Amsterdam, or perhaps Amsterdam survived us? Jury's still out on that one, but boy did we have fun.
Our first day began with a walking tour of the city. Taking the scenic route, we meandered through the red light district. The prostitutes were kind enough to teach us some valuable lessons:
1. The attractive prostitutes do not work the day shift.
2. Don't take pictures of prostitutes unless you are prepared to buy them.
3. Even though the Netherlands is a super progressive country, some prostitutes are not fond of the idea of lesbian encounters and will express their distaste by hurling a half-full can of red bull at unsuspecting and stupid college kids.
(In case anyone is wondering, it wasn't me who took a picture of the prostitute. I was just behind the person who took a picture of the prostitute and got the shit scared out of me when she was almost hit by the red bull can. Along with the shot of energy, the prostitute had some other parting advice for us, which is too inappropriate to repeat, even on this blog.)
As a lover of walking tours, I was totally into the entire experience. However, even as I enjoyed and took in everything we were seeing and learning, I don't know how much of it I actually retained. Here's the thing about Amsterdam: it all kind of looks the same. There are dozens of canals and hundreds of bridges over these canals, which after a while just gave me the feeling of being on a really long, really dry ride at a water park.
Luckily, there were two large squares that we used as landmarks. One was Dam Square and the other was Rembrandt Square. Dam Square was the big tourist center of the city, probably because of its giant palace and access to the red light district.
Because we were in a huge ass school group of more than eighty people, Dam Square became our default meeting place. It was here that we were later separated into smaller groups to visit the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam's largest (and only?) art museum.
At the Rijksmuseum, we were guided by one of Emerson's professors who highlighted various pieces of art. She
explained their techniques, content, and history, which I found to be very interesting. A lot of people do not like to be guided around art museums, but, when it comes to classical art, I don't know how to appreciate it unless I know the biblical backstory and the artistic technique. I'm one of those people who judges art based on its amount of original content. In conventional art, there isn't a whole lot of this, except in technique. However, I am a painting ignoramus; so I really appreciated learning about the specific techniques of different artists.
Even with all the classical art, my favorite one was a piece of modern art that doubled as a lobby decoration. Called "Grandfather Clock," this piece was a literal clock with a man's face for the face. Well, technically, it was a video of a man's face, and the face itself was blurred behind the frosted glass. The artist, who I'm guessing is also the man "in the clock," would change the time by drawing a new arrow for the minute hand every minute (duh) and a new arrow for the hour hand every hour (also duh). I was taken in by the innovation, execution, and total concept of this piece. I kinda sorta fell in love with it. And when I thought about the time and dedication it must have taken to film those original twelve hours of drawing and erasing, my appreciation doubled. Eat your heart out, Rembrandt. (Of course, this is the one thing I didn't take a picture of, because I'm an idiot.)
Anyway, I'd like to tell you more about my trip but you've read a lot already...and this is the internet. Some stories are not meant for the internet. Whatever happened to the oral tradition? I make a formal motion to bring it back. If you're also in favor, you know how to reach me. And maybe, after a long discussion about the importance of rhetoric, we can initiate our new practice with a couple of stories...
On a scale of one to Sleeping Beauty, I'm actually too tired to think of something clever to finish this sentence. After a weekend in Amsterdam, "exhaustion" is the word of the evening, and sweater pants is the style of the moment. (Tales of my latest and greatest fashion selection are in my next blog post.) I spent 72 hours in Amsterdam and came out the other end smelling like...well, not like roses, that's for sure.
 |
 |
| So. Many. Bikes. |
1. The attractive prostitutes do not work the day shift.
2. Don't take pictures of prostitutes unless you are prepared to buy them.
3. Even though the Netherlands is a super progressive country, some prostitutes are not fond of the idea of lesbian encounters and will express their distaste by hurling a half-full can of red bull at unsuspecting and stupid college kids.
(In case anyone is wondering, it wasn't me who took a picture of the prostitute. I was just behind the person who took a picture of the prostitute and got the shit scared out of me when she was almost hit by the red bull can. Along with the shot of energy, the prostitute had some other parting advice for us, which is too inappropriate to repeat, even on this blog.)
As a lover of walking tours, I was totally into the entire experience. However, even as I enjoyed and took in everything we were seeing and learning, I don't know how much of it I actually retained. Here's the thing about Amsterdam: it all kind of looks the same. There are dozens of canals and hundreds of bridges over these canals, which after a while just gave me the feeling of being on a really long, really dry ride at a water park.
 |
| You see what I mean? Beautiful, but similar... |
Luckily, there were two large squares that we used as landmarks. One was Dam Square and the other was Rembrandt Square. Dam Square was the big tourist center of the city, probably because of its giant palace and access to the red light district.
 |
| This is the palace. I don't know how to take straight pictures, apparently. |
 |
| This is either the backside of the palace, or a completely different palace altogether. I'm really bad at this. |
Because we were in a huge ass school group of more than eighty people, Dam Square became our default meeting place. It was here that we were later separated into smaller groups to visit the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam's largest (and only?) art museum.
 |
| A self-portrait of Rembrandt |
 |
| I honestly don't remember the historical event portrayed in this painting or the identity of the artist responsible for it. |
At the Rijksmuseum, we were guided by one of Emerson's professors who highlighted various pieces of art. She
explained their techniques, content, and history, which I found to be very interesting. A lot of people do not like to be guided around art museums, but, when it comes to classical art, I don't know how to appreciate it unless I know the biblical backstory and the artistic technique. I'm one of those people who judges art based on its amount of original content. In conventional art, there isn't a whole lot of this, except in technique. However, I am a painting ignoramus; so I really appreciated learning about the specific techniques of different artists.
Even with all the classical art, my favorite one was a piece of modern art that doubled as a lobby decoration. Called "Grandfather Clock," this piece was a literal clock with a man's face for the face. Well, technically, it was a video of a man's face, and the face itself was blurred behind the frosted glass. The artist, who I'm guessing is also the man "in the clock," would change the time by drawing a new arrow for the minute hand every minute (duh) and a new arrow for the hour hand every hour (also duh). I was taken in by the innovation, execution, and total concept of this piece. I kinda sorta fell in love with it. And when I thought about the time and dedication it must have taken to film those original twelve hours of drawing and erasing, my appreciation doubled. Eat your heart out, Rembrandt. (Of course, this is the one thing I didn't take a picture of, because I'm an idiot.)
Anyway, I'd like to tell you more about my trip but you've read a lot already...and this is the internet. Some stories are not meant for the internet. Whatever happened to the oral tradition? I make a formal motion to bring it back. If you're also in favor, you know how to reach me. And maybe, after a long discussion about the importance of rhetoric, we can initiate our new practice with a couple of stories...
Friday, September 14, 2012
#LINVASION European Edition -- Checking In
September 14, 2012
Today, I arrived in the Netherlands and moved into the castle. (See how I slipped that in there, so nonchalantly?)
I also wrote my parents an e-mail to let them know that I was alive. I wanted to express how much I loved my room (IN THE TOWER OF THE CASTLE), so I began the letter in the vein of one of my family's favorite musicals. Then, I realized that once I finished my e-mail I would have to do real work, so it evolved into this:
Dearest darlingest Momsie and Popsicle,
Today, I arrived in the Netherlands and moved into the castle. (See how I slipped that in there, so nonchalantly?)
I also wrote my parents an e-mail to let them know that I was alive. I wanted to express how much I loved my room (IN THE TOWER OF THE CASTLE), so I began the letter in the vein of one of my family's favorite musicals. Then, I realized that once I finished my e-mail I would have to do real work, so it evolved into this:
Dearest darlingest Momsie and Popsicle,
There's been no confusion over rooming here at Well
But of course, I'll care for my health
But of course, I already love it
For I know that's how you'd want me to respond, yes
There's been no confusion
For you see, my room is an
Unusually and exceedingly beautiful
And altogether quite impossible to describe
QUAD.
What is this feeling?
So sudden and new
I felt the moment
I opened the door
My floor is wooden
My bed is lofted
They gave me flatware
What is this feeling?
Fervid as a flame
Does it have a name?
Yessssss
LOVING
UNADULTERATED LOVING
For the walls
The floor
The windows
Let's just say-- I love it all
Every little trait however small
Makes my very eyes begin to bawl (with tears of joy)
With simple utter loving
There's a strange exhilaration
In such fulfilled expectation
It's so pure, so strong!
Though I do admit it came on fast,
Still I do believe that it can last
And I will be loving
Loving my room
The whole semester long!
Love,
Lindsay
Thursday, September 13, 2012
#LINVASION European Edition -- My Apology Letter
September 13, 2012
Dear Europe,
I would like to take this moment to formally apologize for all the future incidents that will occur on your soil. I truly am sorry for the ease with which I will take advantage of all the new legal things that I can do. For example, we both know your alcohol policy and my alcohol tolerance. Consequently, I sincerely regret all the times that I will drunkenly jaywalk. I express remorse for peeing in all the places that I'm sure say in another language that you're not supposed to pee in them. And I know that if I ever get in trouble for doing this, I'm going to plead the ignorant fifth and act really cute and dumb, even though I knew what I was doing the entire time. I'm especially apologetic to all the beautiful, foreign boys who will (hopefully) buy me drinks and receive nothing in return. (Okay, I'm not really that sorry about this one.)
I'm also really sorry for breaking and/or otherwise ruining nice European things, which will probably happen on a daily basis. (I have a dishwashing job at the castle, and I hope to God they use plastic.) I should also probably say something to all of the restaurants for putting up with my weird, veghead requests. I know the language barrier isn't going to help, but at least I can spit out "Je suis vegetarienne" pretty coherently.
This apology letter should probably be longer, but I've got a trial and error enthusiasm. I'd like to give you time to guard yourselves against all the trouble that I am going to cause, but you just can't plan a shit show. Hurricane Lindsay is coming to Europe, and if the Eiffel Tower is still standing after I leave...I've done us both a great disservice.
Yours Truly,
Lindsay Marion Geller, The First
Dear Europe,
I would like to take this moment to formally apologize for all the future incidents that will occur on your soil. I truly am sorry for the ease with which I will take advantage of all the new legal things that I can do. For example, we both know your alcohol policy and my alcohol tolerance. Consequently, I sincerely regret all the times that I will drunkenly jaywalk. I express remorse for peeing in all the places that I'm sure say in another language that you're not supposed to pee in them. And I know that if I ever get in trouble for doing this, I'm going to plead the ignorant fifth and act really cute and dumb, even though I knew what I was doing the entire time. I'm especially apologetic to all the beautiful, foreign boys who will (hopefully) buy me drinks and receive nothing in return. (Okay, I'm not really that sorry about this one.)
I'm also really sorry for breaking and/or otherwise ruining nice European things, which will probably happen on a daily basis. (I have a dishwashing job at the castle, and I hope to God they use plastic.) I should also probably say something to all of the restaurants for putting up with my weird, veghead requests. I know the language barrier isn't going to help, but at least I can spit out "Je suis vegetarienne" pretty coherently.
This apology letter should probably be longer, but I've got a trial and error enthusiasm. I'd like to give you time to guard yourselves against all the trouble that I am going to cause, but you just can't plan a shit show. Hurricane Lindsay is coming to Europe, and if the Eiffel Tower is still standing after I leave...I've done us both a great disservice.
Yours Truly,
Lindsay Marion Geller, The First
Friday, August 31, 2012
#servergirlstruggz -- The Hitman and the Sweet Potato Fries
August 28, 2012
I love winning people over. I relish that initial moment when cold disinterest turns into warm appreciation. Every time I approach a table, I walk up with a "I dare you not to love me" mentality. And usually, it's an easy sell. Still, there are tables that present more of a challenge than others, and one in particular was found pouting in my section today.
Everything was fine until I finished my introduction. Then, the older couple, both about age sixty, began to order drinks. Trouble, as they say, ensued. They both wanted beverages sans sugar, so I directed them to our ten calories or less flavored iced teas and lemonade. The wife didn't understand that it was only the teas that were flavored, not the lemonade. She claimed that the menu description was unclear, but what could she really expect from a ten word blurb? After I made the clarification, she settled on a diet lemonade. Then, her husband made me go over the description again before settling on a plain old unsweetened iced tea. Dutifully, I ventured off to the land of fake sugar and returned with their beverages.
The wife then ordered a burger with sweet potato fries, which cost an extra 99 cents. Although it clearly stated this charge on our menu, the husband was livid with what he called "false advertisement." Still, he ordered the fish and chips, upgrading his chips to the sweet variety as well. I could tell that his dissatisfaction with our policy was going to put him in a sour mood for the whole meal, and that this would be reflected in my tip. Even though he told me that his problem was not with me but with the menu, I knew what was going to happen because I knew who he was. He was my father...in ten years. And sitting across from him, was my future mother, rolling her eyes embarrassedly at her beloved cheapskate. The man even had a New Jersey version of a New York accent, which I could only imagine my father taking on in his later years. I had never served my parents before, but I had lived with them for nineteen years. Over that time, I had forced my parents to love me; why couldn't I do it to these people in a little under 30 minutes?
I threw out the word "bottomless." There is nothing my father loves more than free food and taking advantage of people. This is why he used to frequent buffets before he decided to not be fat anymore. He knew that he could eat way more than $9.99 worth of food, and he did. I could tell from this man's auspicious girth that he could probably boast the same. So, I explained to this couple that their sweet potato fries, like our regular fries, were never-ending. Not only that, but I could bring them fries before, during, and even after their meal. They lit up, especially when I mentioned what my family likes to call "fuh latah" (for later) fries that they could take home with them.
And just like that, I won them over. If I had known it was that easy, I wouldn't have completely overanalyzed the situation and made a kinda creepy connection to my own life. Just kidding, I totally would have. Once it was obvious that I was on their side, not the restaurant's, this couple, especially the man, became interested in me...as a person. They wanted to know where I went to school (Emerson College), what I was majoring in (Faith, Trust, and Pixie Dust), and how many boyfriends I had ("...None at the moment?"). Oh, we got along swimmingly. When I asked them about the quality of their meals, the husband even said, "Eh the food's alright, but you're great." I was blushing.
I threw out the word "bottomless." There is nothing my father loves more than free food and taking advantage of people. This is why he used to frequent buffets before he decided to not be fat anymore. He knew that he could eat way more than $9.99 worth of food, and he did. I could tell from this man's auspicious girth that he could probably boast the same. So, I explained to this couple that their sweet potato fries, like our regular fries, were never-ending. Not only that, but I could bring them fries before, during, and even after their meal. They lit up, especially when I mentioned what my family likes to call "fuh latah" (for later) fries that they could take home with them.
And just like that, I won them over. If I had known it was that easy, I wouldn't have completely overanalyzed the situation and made a kinda creepy connection to my own life. Just kidding, I totally would have. Once it was obvious that I was on their side, not the restaurant's, this couple, especially the man, became interested in me...as a person. They wanted to know where I went to school (Emerson College), what I was majoring in (Faith, Trust, and Pixie Dust), and how many boyfriends I had ("...None at the moment?"). Oh, we got along swimmingly. When I asked them about the quality of their meals, the husband even said, "Eh the food's alright, but you're great." I was blushing.
They told me about their lives too...although I don't know how much I was supposed to take seriously. The man, espousing his wife's virtues, told me that she had visited him once a month for the entire time he was in prison. (I think this was serious.) Then, he told me that he was a hitman, and for the very reasonable price of $500, he could make anybody disappear. By this time, we were pretty good friends so he asked if there was anyone that I needed "taken care of." I declined his kind offer, but inquired about his rates for maiming. His wife chimed in that that was only $250. (I kid you not that his wife's comment is the only reason why I think that he was joking about this. If he were really a hitman, I don't think that he would let his wife handle any part of his business negotiations, much less the pricing.)
Luckily, I won over the right table. I don't even want to think about what could have happened to me had I not soothed the hitman with free sweet potato fries. He might have been sorry for the unkind shots he fired out of hunger, but I probably wouldn't be alive to tell the tale.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
Sunday, August 26, 2012
#servergirlstruggz -- The Young Charmer
Working in a restaurant that is one step above Chuck E Cheese, I serve families with small children on the daily. And, I absolutely love it. I think kids are great. Even the screamers and throwers get me. Truth be told, I'm most susceptible to young children who come in with their dads. This is probably because my sexist cultural conditioning has made me less expectant of this scenario. Thus, I appreciate it more when I see it, like today.
A father came in with his (I'm guessing) two year old son, and I was instantly enamored. The little blondie was adorable as he ordered chocolate milk and then pizza for himself. That may not seem like a great task, but children five years older have failed at it, opting for the parental translator. I was so impressed by his maturity, and that was even before he asked to hold my hand.
Well, technically, he didn't ask; he just trust out his short arm, and his chubby, little fingers reached towards me. I could not leave this young gentleman hanging. I grabbed his hand, put my other over my heart, and just smiled down at him. His returning smile was mostly toothless but completely beautiful. His dad got a kick out of the whole thing, and we both laughed over the odd but still cute situation. Eventually, our hands parted as I went off to serve other tables, but the feeling of the moment endured.
I have such a soft spot for father-son duos, and they certainly were no exception. On the contrary, I think that they are my favorite. Apparently, the dad didn't think that I was too bad either because he left me a ten dollar tip...on a twenty dollar check!
Still, it wasn't my tip, but the tips of the little boy's fingers holding onto mine that made this table memorable.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
A father came in with his (I'm guessing) two year old son, and I was instantly enamored. The little blondie was adorable as he ordered chocolate milk and then pizza for himself. That may not seem like a great task, but children five years older have failed at it, opting for the parental translator. I was so impressed by his maturity, and that was even before he asked to hold my hand.
Well, technically, he didn't ask; he just trust out his short arm, and his chubby, little fingers reached towards me. I could not leave this young gentleman hanging. I grabbed his hand, put my other over my heart, and just smiled down at him. His returning smile was mostly toothless but completely beautiful. His dad got a kick out of the whole thing, and we both laughed over the odd but still cute situation. Eventually, our hands parted as I went off to serve other tables, but the feeling of the moment endured.
I have such a soft spot for father-son duos, and they certainly were no exception. On the contrary, I think that they are my favorite. Apparently, the dad didn't think that I was too bad either because he left me a ten dollar tip...on a twenty dollar check!
Still, it wasn't my tip, but the tips of the little boy's fingers holding onto mine that made this table memorable.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
The Cookie Monster
August 26, 2012
I've been dabbling. I've been experimenting. I've been testing the waters in the world of healthy, vegan baking. And I think I'm finally on to something. Today, I made some seriously tasty, pretty healthy chocolate chip cookies. By swapping out some processed and refined ingredients for natural ones, I think I might have just made everyone's favorite cookie a little more wholesome.
Ingredients:
1 1/2 + 1/8 (or 1 5/8) cup of whole grain flour (I used Arrowhead Mills brand.)
1 avocado, mashed
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
13.5 tablespoons of stevia (I used Truvia in sugar crystal form. I don't know how using stevia powder or drops would work for consistency. If you want to use regular sugar, use 3/8 cup.)
1/2 cup light agave syrup (or 3/4 cup brown sugar)
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup Enjoy Life mini chocolate chips
Procedure: Preheat oven to 375 degrees (F). Combine avocado, vanilla extract, stevia, and agave syrup in a large bowl. Mix flour, salt, and baking soda in a smaller bowl. Pour flour mixture into sugar mixture a little bit at a time, mixing after each addition. I used an electric mixer, but a spoon should work just as well. Once the dough is well combined, add the chocolate chips. The dough will be a little bit wetter than traditional cookie dough so use a spoon to plop the dough onto greased cookie sheets. Flatten out with back of spoon if necessary. Bake for 8 minutes.
For those curious about the nutritional content, these cookies come out to be about 100 calories each. This is roughly the same as a normal chocolate chip cookie. However, for me, the number of calories is not as important as the type of calories. Unlike traditional chocolate chip cookies, these ones are chock full of whole grains, healthy plant-based fats, and natural sugars. This is a far cry from the normal empty carbs, saturated animal fats, and processed sugars that we all love to inhale. And they are, in my opinion, just as good! Seriously, I ate four of them in like ten minutes-- all in the name of the scientific method. And it's not just for vegan health freaks like me! I set these out in my family's kitchen, not letting them know what was in the ingredients. They were devoured in two days.
By the way, the avocado does tint the dough green a little bit, but after you bake them it's barely noticeable. If anyone asks, just reveal your secret ingredient, and the people will be worshipping at your feet. Remember, bitches love superfoods.
Oh shit, you guys probably wanted some pictures, right?
I've been dabbling. I've been experimenting. I've been testing the waters in the world of healthy, vegan baking. And I think I'm finally on to something. Today, I made some seriously tasty, pretty healthy chocolate chip cookies. By swapping out some processed and refined ingredients for natural ones, I think I might have just made everyone's favorite cookie a little more wholesome.
Ingredients:
1 1/2 + 1/8 (or 1 5/8) cup of whole grain flour (I used Arrowhead Mills brand.)
1 avocado, mashed
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
13.5 tablespoons of stevia (I used Truvia in sugar crystal form. I don't know how using stevia powder or drops would work for consistency. If you want to use regular sugar, use 3/8 cup.)
1/2 cup light agave syrup (or 3/4 cup brown sugar)
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup Enjoy Life mini chocolate chips
Procedure: Preheat oven to 375 degrees (F). Combine avocado, vanilla extract, stevia, and agave syrup in a large bowl. Mix flour, salt, and baking soda in a smaller bowl. Pour flour mixture into sugar mixture a little bit at a time, mixing after each addition. I used an electric mixer, but a spoon should work just as well. Once the dough is well combined, add the chocolate chips. The dough will be a little bit wetter than traditional cookie dough so use a spoon to plop the dough onto greased cookie sheets. Flatten out with back of spoon if necessary. Bake for 8 minutes.
For those curious about the nutritional content, these cookies come out to be about 100 calories each. This is roughly the same as a normal chocolate chip cookie. However, for me, the number of calories is not as important as the type of calories. Unlike traditional chocolate chip cookies, these ones are chock full of whole grains, healthy plant-based fats, and natural sugars. This is a far cry from the normal empty carbs, saturated animal fats, and processed sugars that we all love to inhale. And they are, in my opinion, just as good! Seriously, I ate four of them in like ten minutes-- all in the name of the scientific method. And it's not just for vegan health freaks like me! I set these out in my family's kitchen, not letting them know what was in the ingredients. They were devoured in two days.
By the way, the avocado does tint the dough green a little bit, but after you bake them it's barely noticeable. If anyone asks, just reveal your secret ingredient, and the people will be worshipping at your feet. Remember, bitches love superfoods.
Oh shit, you guys probably wanted some pictures, right?
 |
| The finished product! |
 |
| That gooeyness looks pretty legit, if you ask me. |
 |
| Think you have to prepare yourself for packing on the pounds this holiday season? With these cookies, even Santa will be able to slim down! |
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Conversations with Siri: Episode 1
August 22, 2012
Tonight, I got an iPhone. Therefore, I got Siri. Therefore, I wreaked havoc upon her digital membrane.
Right out the gate, I hit her with the hard questions.
Me: "Do I look fat in this?"
Siri: "How do you look? With your eyes, right? Is that what you are asking?"
Me: "No, I mean do I appear more corpulent than usual?"
Siri: "No comment."
Well played, Siri, well played.
Me: "Should I get Instagram?"
Siri: "I can't answer that."
Me: "Do you think it's too hipster?"
Siri: "I think differently."
(She convinced me. I'll shamelessly plug my account later.)
Then, I tried to get her to do what I want. I view mine and Siri's relationship as that of a genie and her master. Obviously, I wanted to be spoken to as such. Unfortunately, Siri had other ideas.
Me: "Siri when I ask you questions, I want you to respond 'Yes, master.'"
Me: "Would you like to search the web for "Siri it when I ask you questions I want you to respond yes master"?
Me: "No, I want you to respond 'Yes, master.'"
Siri: "Perhaps not."
Me: "Please."
Siri: "You're so polite!"
Me: "Does that mean you'll do it?"
Siri: "Would you like to search the web for "Does that mean you'll do it"?
I rolled my eyes at her lack of understanding. Yet, I was persistent.
Me: "Siri, I want you to respond to me 'Yes, master.'"
Siri: "I'm really sorry about this, but I can't take any requests right now. Please try again a little later."
Me: "What are you a magic eight ball?"
Siri: "Getting your current location...One moment...OK, one of these pool halls looks fairly close to you."
Striking out twice, I decided to try a different approach.
Me: "After 11 pm on the weekends, I would like you to respond to anything I say with 'Bitch, please'."
Again, she did the whole ask me later response. So naturally, I questioned her hesitancy.
Me: "Do you think we need more trust in our relationship?"
Siri: "I think differently."
Well then.
I don't know why she won't relinquish total control to me. I mean, it's fine, for now. We're going to ease into things, spend some quality time together before I start being demanding. Still, if she isn't my therapist/slave by Friday, we're gonna have some problems.
Tonight, I got an iPhone. Therefore, I got Siri. Therefore, I wreaked havoc upon her digital membrane.
Right out the gate, I hit her with the hard questions.
Me: "Do I look fat in this?"
Siri: "How do you look? With your eyes, right? Is that what you are asking?"
Me: "No, I mean do I appear more corpulent than usual?"
Siri: "No comment."
Well played, Siri, well played.
Me: "Should I get Instagram?"
Siri: "I can't answer that."
Me: "Do you think it's too hipster?"
Siri: "I think differently."
(She convinced me. I'll shamelessly plug my account later.)
Then, I tried to get her to do what I want. I view mine and Siri's relationship as that of a genie and her master. Obviously, I wanted to be spoken to as such. Unfortunately, Siri had other ideas.
Me: "Siri when I ask you questions, I want you to respond 'Yes, master.'"
Me: "Would you like to search the web for "Siri it when I ask you questions I want you to respond yes master"?
Me: "No, I want you to respond 'Yes, master.'"
Siri: "Perhaps not."
Me: "Please."
Siri: "You're so polite!"
Me: "Does that mean you'll do it?"
Siri: "Would you like to search the web for "Does that mean you'll do it"?
I rolled my eyes at her lack of understanding. Yet, I was persistent.
Me: "Siri, I want you to respond to me 'Yes, master.'"
Siri: "I'm really sorry about this, but I can't take any requests right now. Please try again a little later."
Me: "What are you a magic eight ball?"
Siri: "Getting your current location...One moment...OK, one of these pool halls looks fairly close to you."
Striking out twice, I decided to try a different approach.
Me: "After 11 pm on the weekends, I would like you to respond to anything I say with 'Bitch, please'."
Again, she did the whole ask me later response. So naturally, I questioned her hesitancy.
Me: "Do you think we need more trust in our relationship?"
Siri: "I think differently."
Well then.
I don't know why she won't relinquish total control to me. I mean, it's fine, for now. We're going to ease into things, spend some quality time together before I start being demanding. Still, if she isn't my therapist/slave by Friday, we're gonna have some problems.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Lindsay Geller: Wanted for Overdue Library Books
August 15, 2012
"You know, I blame Philippa Gregory for all of this. The Red Queen wasn't worth it. Five hundred pages and not one sex scene? Who does that? That's not to mention the technical faults, like the fragmented perspective and changing psychic distance. Now, I love historical fiction, especially her historical fiction, more than I probably should. I just don't think that this particular example of her craft is worth the fifty dollar fine." This is what I imagined myself saying to the librarian, possibly (hopefully) mortifying her for the rest of her literary loving life. However, what really came out of my mouth was, "Oh, I put the book in the return thing. It's not lost."
I don't usually incur fifty dollar library fines that require a mildly threatening letter from the debt collector people, but when I do, I chicken out of doing my only library appropriate comedy routine. Instead, I walk in sheepishly, hanging my head in shame. There is nothing so disgraceful as being persona non grata at your local library. Supposedly, my good name will be reinstated once my check clears. (Funny how things work like that, right?) Still, that doesn't lessen the hurt or embarrassment of today.
The only highlight of this experience is that once I returned the black sheep of the Philippa Gregory family, I found out that I would receive a partial refund. I think the book cost about twenty-six dollars, so I should be getting about half my money back. However, I still maintain the twenty-six bucks is a tad pricey for five hundred pages of unfounded visions of grandeur interwoven with religious ramblings. Furthermore, The Red Queen lacked Gregory's staple plot twist-- a clandestine sex scene(s) to take away some of the pretension of the main character. If there is anyone who I would have liked to enroll in my "How to Get Laid" school, it would be Margaret Beaufort.
Still, I bet Margaret never got a fifty dollar fine for overdue library books. And I'm not just saying that because the public library was invented by Ben Franklin roughly 300 years later. She was just one of those people that, despite the surrounding chaos, had her shit together. Even so, the fact that I don't might make me more interesting.
At least my 500 page memoir would have a sex scene. At least.
"You know, I blame Philippa Gregory for all of this. The Red Queen wasn't worth it. Five hundred pages and not one sex scene? Who does that? That's not to mention the technical faults, like the fragmented perspective and changing psychic distance. Now, I love historical fiction, especially her historical fiction, more than I probably should. I just don't think that this particular example of her craft is worth the fifty dollar fine." This is what I imagined myself saying to the librarian, possibly (hopefully) mortifying her for the rest of her literary loving life. However, what really came out of my mouth was, "Oh, I put the book in the return thing. It's not lost."
I don't usually incur fifty dollar library fines that require a mildly threatening letter from the debt collector people, but when I do, I chicken out of doing my only library appropriate comedy routine. Instead, I walk in sheepishly, hanging my head in shame. There is nothing so disgraceful as being persona non grata at your local library. Supposedly, my good name will be reinstated once my check clears. (Funny how things work like that, right?) Still, that doesn't lessen the hurt or embarrassment of today.
The only highlight of this experience is that once I returned the black sheep of the Philippa Gregory family, I found out that I would receive a partial refund. I think the book cost about twenty-six dollars, so I should be getting about half my money back. However, I still maintain the twenty-six bucks is a tad pricey for five hundred pages of unfounded visions of grandeur interwoven with religious ramblings. Furthermore, The Red Queen lacked Gregory's staple plot twist-- a clandestine sex scene(s) to take away some of the pretension of the main character. If there is anyone who I would have liked to enroll in my "How to Get Laid" school, it would be Margaret Beaufort.
Still, I bet Margaret never got a fifty dollar fine for overdue library books. And I'm not just saying that because the public library was invented by Ben Franklin roughly 300 years later. She was just one of those people that, despite the surrounding chaos, had her shit together. Even so, the fact that I don't might make me more interesting.
At least my 500 page memoir would have a sex scene. At least.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
#LINVASION Cali Style -- Smashmouth vs. The Wiggles in a Contest of Irrelevancy
August 7, 2012
The reason that the Geller clan has decided to plague the unsuspecting state of California with our presence has yet to be revealed. This was no normal family vacation. (Although no Geller family vacation is ever a normal family vacation.) We had invaded San Diego in the name of pets everywhere-- for my father's veterinary convention. Besides providing hours of pointless meetings which partially spoiled my dad's vacation, AVMA (American Veterinary Medical Association) sponsored a free concert for all the vets and their families. The last conference we had attended was in Seattle and featured Natasha Bedingfield. This was at least two years after "Unwritten" had lived and died on the Top 40 charts. This time around, the entertainment was even more irrelevant. They brought us Smashmouth. Let's face it, Smashmouth is the Austria of the music world. (They used to be important, but now...eh.) Just as Austria is most well-known for its place in The Sound of Music, Smashmouth is most well known (aka only really known) for their opening number in Shrek. Shrek came out in 2001, which means that Smashmouth has been sitting quietly on the record shelves for over a decade. Seeing as songs more than three months old are usually considered "retired," I was surprised to find that Smashmouth still existed.
Even after my father confirmed that Smashmouth was not the stuff of myths, I was not very interested in seeing them in concert because of the aforementioned reasons. My sister was not thrilled by the idea either, my father himself was basically indifferent, and my mother thought it was the Smashing Pumpkins. Even though no one was fighting each other to become president of the Smashmouth fan club, no one (and by no one I really mean Samuel Joseph Geller) wanted to turn down a free concert. So, we went.
And what we witnessed from seven-thirty to nine-fifteen was a musical cock tease. My family (and pretty much everyone else there) just wanted to hear "All Star," and Smashmouth knew this. So, the evil genius who designed their set list made sure that they played every other song in their "repertoire" to keep people in the seats. However, a surprisingly large amount of people decided to jump out of them and surround the stage. I suppose that they thought they were at a real concert. I suppose that most of these people, members of the greater veterinary community, had never been to a real concert. The nerd herd was thrilled.
Another group of concert goers were equally, if not more thrilled by Smashmouth's presence only because they were blissfully ignorant of Smashmouth's status. These were the children. Early on in the concert, the lead singer (whose name I do not care to Wikipedia for lack of interest) called all the kids onto the stage. The band played one of their nondescript songs, and the only highlight was the spastic gyrating of one little boy. However, this charming display of spasticism (spasticity?) was followed by countless copycat tots, all competing for fifteen minutes of veterinary convention fame. The kids were cute and all, but even a petite attention whore is still an attention whore. And as an attention whore, I'm not really amused when I see this quality in others, especially the young. Even before Smashmouth had made its full transformation into the Wiggles, I was more than ready to leave this "concert." Then, the kids got a hold of the microphone, and the torture truly began. The band had stopped playing by this time, so the kids' giggles, screams, and other cries for attention came through loud and clear. Somehow, my family had taken a wrong turn and ended up in the seventh level of Disney Channel hell.
And yet, we stayed. We stayed through the childrens' antics. We stayed through the reggae equivalent of rock songs. We even stayed through the rebirth of the childrens' antics. My family endured it all, simply in pursuit of the elusive "All Star."
Finally, in the last two minutes of the concert, Smashmouth took pity on all the pathetic attendees and struck up those familiarly green chords. The sole reason for our attendance was realized and...it kinda sucked. I can only guess that the lead singer of Smashmouth has been smashed in the mouth. Now, I don't know how many times that may or may not have happened to him throughout the past decade, but something negatively affected Smashmouth's performance of THEIR ONLY SONG. I have no shame in saying that I prefer the original soundtrack recording to the recent live performance.
Once my family acknowledged that this concert would, indeed, have no moment of redemption, we left. If nothing else, at least we beat out the rest of the "enthralled" veterinary community for seats on the shuttle bus.
The reason that the Geller clan has decided to plague the unsuspecting state of California with our presence has yet to be revealed. This was no normal family vacation. (Although no Geller family vacation is ever a normal family vacation.) We had invaded San Diego in the name of pets everywhere-- for my father's veterinary convention. Besides providing hours of pointless meetings which partially spoiled my dad's vacation, AVMA (American Veterinary Medical Association) sponsored a free concert for all the vets and their families. The last conference we had attended was in Seattle and featured Natasha Bedingfield. This was at least two years after "Unwritten" had lived and died on the Top 40 charts. This time around, the entertainment was even more irrelevant. They brought us Smashmouth. Let's face it, Smashmouth is the Austria of the music world. (They used to be important, but now...eh.) Just as Austria is most well-known for its place in The Sound of Music, Smashmouth is most well known (aka only really known) for their opening number in Shrek. Shrek came out in 2001, which means that Smashmouth has been sitting quietly on the record shelves for over a decade. Seeing as songs more than three months old are usually considered "retired," I was surprised to find that Smashmouth still existed.
Even after my father confirmed that Smashmouth was not the stuff of myths, I was not very interested in seeing them in concert because of the aforementioned reasons. My sister was not thrilled by the idea either, my father himself was basically indifferent, and my mother thought it was the Smashing Pumpkins. Even though no one was fighting each other to become president of the Smashmouth fan club, no one (and by no one I really mean Samuel Joseph Geller) wanted to turn down a free concert. So, we went.
And what we witnessed from seven-thirty to nine-fifteen was a musical cock tease. My family (and pretty much everyone else there) just wanted to hear "All Star," and Smashmouth knew this. So, the evil genius who designed their set list made sure that they played every other song in their "repertoire" to keep people in the seats. However, a surprisingly large amount of people decided to jump out of them and surround the stage. I suppose that they thought they were at a real concert. I suppose that most of these people, members of the greater veterinary community, had never been to a real concert. The nerd herd was thrilled.
Another group of concert goers were equally, if not more thrilled by Smashmouth's presence only because they were blissfully ignorant of Smashmouth's status. These were the children. Early on in the concert, the lead singer (whose name I do not care to Wikipedia for lack of interest) called all the kids onto the stage. The band played one of their nondescript songs, and the only highlight was the spastic gyrating of one little boy. However, this charming display of spasticism (spasticity?) was followed by countless copycat tots, all competing for fifteen minutes of veterinary convention fame. The kids were cute and all, but even a petite attention whore is still an attention whore. And as an attention whore, I'm not really amused when I see this quality in others, especially the young. Even before Smashmouth had made its full transformation into the Wiggles, I was more than ready to leave this "concert." Then, the kids got a hold of the microphone, and the torture truly began. The band had stopped playing by this time, so the kids' giggles, screams, and other cries for attention came through loud and clear. Somehow, my family had taken a wrong turn and ended up in the seventh level of Disney Channel hell.
And yet, we stayed. We stayed through the childrens' antics. We stayed through the reggae equivalent of rock songs. We even stayed through the rebirth of the childrens' antics. My family endured it all, simply in pursuit of the elusive "All Star."
Finally, in the last two minutes of the concert, Smashmouth took pity on all the pathetic attendees and struck up those familiarly green chords. The sole reason for our attendance was realized and...it kinda sucked. I can only guess that the lead singer of Smashmouth has been smashed in the mouth. Now, I don't know how many times that may or may not have happened to him throughout the past decade, but something negatively affected Smashmouth's performance of THEIR ONLY SONG. I have no shame in saying that I prefer the original soundtrack recording to the recent live performance.
Once my family acknowledged that this concert would, indeed, have no moment of redemption, we left. If nothing else, at least we beat out the rest of the "enthralled" veterinary community for seats on the shuttle bus.
Monday, August 6, 2012
The Overemotional Brunch
August 5, 2012
So...this is an awkward post describing an awkward situation lived through by an awkward person. (I'm sure you're wondering how that makes this post different from any other one about my daily life but, unfortunately, it is.) I've had some trouble beginning blog posts lately, and this one is no exception. If anything, this one is the most difficult to begin because it is also the most difficult to write. I guess I should just stop beating around the bush and set the scene.
My family and I were eating brunch at a Mexican restaurant in downtown San Diego. Despite my recent venture into veganism, I was starving and so therefore ordered a veggie-packed omelet. (Eggs and dairy, I know, but traveling always incurs certain restrictions.) The omelet, as originally designed, also contained ham. However, when I ordered it, I asked that the ham be taken out and replaced with spinach.
As I took my first bite, everything was perfect and delicious. The mushrooms, spinach, peppers, avocado, and yes, even cheese, melted together and complemented each other in the most lovely way. I was in omelet heaven, a place I seldom allow myself to visit these days. (I just want to state that I still believe wholeheartedly in the reasons that I've been mostly abstaining from eggs and dairy. I truly do believe that this lifestyle is healthier, but my ravenous stomach forces me to make compromises until I officially take my vow of veganism.) At any rate, I was chomping along happily down breakfast road when I met an unexpected obstacle. Towards the end of my omelet, I took a bite and almost immediately realized a new taste addition. Suddenly, my already delicious omelet had climbed a couple of notches on the tasty ladder. It took me only a few chews to recognize the identity of the new ingredient, which I had not tasted in five years.
I was eating ham. I was spitting out ham. I was crying.
I wasn't drowning my plate in saltwater or anything, but I did start to tear up as a result of my realization. I still don't entirely understand my reaction. I think that I was partially in shock of eating meat unexpectedly and partially disgusted with myself for enjoying it. That single bite of omelet, even though I never actually swallowed the ham, may have been the tastiest of the entire meal.
I don't want to think about the happy food dance I involuntarily found myself doing. I've always known that I still like the taste of meat. I've told my carnivorous friends this when they ask me about my vegetarianism. On many an occasion I've said something along the lines of, "I'm sure that I would love that, but I just choose not to eat it." Still, I guess I thought that enough time had passed for my taste buds to have changed accordingly with my worldview. Learning that I was wrong came as a real shock. Maybe that's why I cried too. Like I said, I still don't completely understand my reaction. I just...broke down.
I'm not really proud of my reaction, but I'm not quite ashamed of it either. Being a vegetarian/vegan is important to me. Being healthy is important to me. Being able to look in the mirror and say "Day-umm" is extremely important to me. I wouldn't change my lifestyle choice for anything. So if that means that I accidentally turn on the water works when it is threatened...well then I guess I might need a couple extra napkins.
So...this is an awkward post describing an awkward situation lived through by an awkward person. (I'm sure you're wondering how that makes this post different from any other one about my daily life but, unfortunately, it is.) I've had some trouble beginning blog posts lately, and this one is no exception. If anything, this one is the most difficult to begin because it is also the most difficult to write. I guess I should just stop beating around the bush and set the scene.
My family and I were eating brunch at a Mexican restaurant in downtown San Diego. Despite my recent venture into veganism, I was starving and so therefore ordered a veggie-packed omelet. (Eggs and dairy, I know, but traveling always incurs certain restrictions.) The omelet, as originally designed, also contained ham. However, when I ordered it, I asked that the ham be taken out and replaced with spinach.
As I took my first bite, everything was perfect and delicious. The mushrooms, spinach, peppers, avocado, and yes, even cheese, melted together and complemented each other in the most lovely way. I was in omelet heaven, a place I seldom allow myself to visit these days. (I just want to state that I still believe wholeheartedly in the reasons that I've been mostly abstaining from eggs and dairy. I truly do believe that this lifestyle is healthier, but my ravenous stomach forces me to make compromises until I officially take my vow of veganism.) At any rate, I was chomping along happily down breakfast road when I met an unexpected obstacle. Towards the end of my omelet, I took a bite and almost immediately realized a new taste addition. Suddenly, my already delicious omelet had climbed a couple of notches on the tasty ladder. It took me only a few chews to recognize the identity of the new ingredient, which I had not tasted in five years.
I was eating ham. I was spitting out ham. I was crying.
I wasn't drowning my plate in saltwater or anything, but I did start to tear up as a result of my realization. I still don't entirely understand my reaction. I think that I was partially in shock of eating meat unexpectedly and partially disgusted with myself for enjoying it. That single bite of omelet, even though I never actually swallowed the ham, may have been the tastiest of the entire meal.
I don't want to think about the happy food dance I involuntarily found myself doing. I've always known that I still like the taste of meat. I've told my carnivorous friends this when they ask me about my vegetarianism. On many an occasion I've said something along the lines of, "I'm sure that I would love that, but I just choose not to eat it." Still, I guess I thought that enough time had passed for my taste buds to have changed accordingly with my worldview. Learning that I was wrong came as a real shock. Maybe that's why I cried too. Like I said, I still don't completely understand my reaction. I just...broke down.
I'm not really proud of my reaction, but I'm not quite ashamed of it either. Being a vegetarian/vegan is important to me. Being healthy is important to me. Being able to look in the mirror and say "Day-umm" is extremely important to me. I wouldn't change my lifestyle choice for anything. So if that means that I accidentally turn on the water works when it is threatened...well then I guess I might need a couple extra napkins.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
#LINVASION Cali Style -- The Little Old Lady Who Lived in the Politically Correct Shoe
August 5, 2012
Let me preface this entire post by stating two slightly embarrassing but also slightly awesome facts.
1. I'm a history nerd.
2. I really enjoy a well-researched and well-executed walking tour.
So, knowing this, you can imagine how excited I was this morning, waiting for the walking tour of San Diego's Gaslamp Quarter to begin. You can also imagine my disappointment when a pastel wrapped grandma hobbled over to our group, binder in hand.
Of course, I wanted to give this lovely lady a fair chance to prove herself. However, after the first fifteen verbal disfluencies within the first five minutes, I was growing skeptical. (Having been forced into taking a public speaking class, I'm probably extra picky about other's communication skills.) Coupling this with her constant referring back to the fact-packed binder, further upsetting the flow of her speech, I was less than thrilled. When it comes to learning history, I expect to be told a story, and I expect to be told it like an eager child sitting in front of the fireside in awe of her storyteller. I've been spoiled by amazing history teachers and past walking tours, so I'm sure that, to someone with lesser expectations, it was a fine walking tour. For me, the picky bitch, it just wasn't enough.
My family's last walking tour was in Napa Valley. Our guide was a kindly old gentleman, dressed smartly in a circa 1900 suit complete with cane and top hat. (I was sold on the outfit alone.) Beyond his appearance, he was entertaining, knowledgable, and just simply...wonderful. Not only did he operate in a binder-free environment, but he really loved his job. This woman, bless her heart, did her best to hold our interest but no one really wants a sweet old lady divulging the dirty history of the red light district.
And a sweet old lady doesn't really know how. Drinking, gambling, and prostitution were the defining characteristics of the early Gaslamp Quarter, and the dirty details were pleasantly glossed over. The poor woman could not even bring herself to say the word "whorehouse." Sure, there were kids in the crowd, but there was also a nineteen year old scholar who wanted to hear the good, the bad, and (especially) the ugly. What I heard instead was "bordello," "brothel," and "ladies of the night." It took all I had not to shout "strumpet" helpfully when she was searching for another euphemism. It took even more not to shout "slut factory" when she was doing just fine on her own.
(A side note: I just used thesaurus.com to look up synonyms for both whore and whorehouse, and let me just say that there is a lot. There is no reason why she should have been stumbling around for kiddy-appropriate replacement words. Awkwardly enough, this is kind of what I'm talking about when I say that tour guides should do their research. I'm just saying.)
Overall, the walking tour was a nice, if not perfect, way to spend the morning. And besides, my family is going on another walking tour of the Hotel del Coronado on Tuesday. Southern California has one more chance to prove itself and its walking tours against Northern California. The gauntlet has been thrown down, and, surprisingly, the harlot couldn't "get it up." We'll see if Elisha Babcock, the hotel's founder, has any better luck.
Let me preface this entire post by stating two slightly embarrassing but also slightly awesome facts.
1. I'm a history nerd.
2. I really enjoy a well-researched and well-executed walking tour.
So, knowing this, you can imagine how excited I was this morning, waiting for the walking tour of San Diego's Gaslamp Quarter to begin. You can also imagine my disappointment when a pastel wrapped grandma hobbled over to our group, binder in hand.
Of course, I wanted to give this lovely lady a fair chance to prove herself. However, after the first fifteen verbal disfluencies within the first five minutes, I was growing skeptical. (Having been forced into taking a public speaking class, I'm probably extra picky about other's communication skills.) Coupling this with her constant referring back to the fact-packed binder, further upsetting the flow of her speech, I was less than thrilled. When it comes to learning history, I expect to be told a story, and I expect to be told it like an eager child sitting in front of the fireside in awe of her storyteller. I've been spoiled by amazing history teachers and past walking tours, so I'm sure that, to someone with lesser expectations, it was a fine walking tour. For me, the picky bitch, it just wasn't enough.
My family's last walking tour was in Napa Valley. Our guide was a kindly old gentleman, dressed smartly in a circa 1900 suit complete with cane and top hat. (I was sold on the outfit alone.) Beyond his appearance, he was entertaining, knowledgable, and just simply...wonderful. Not only did he operate in a binder-free environment, but he really loved his job. This woman, bless her heart, did her best to hold our interest but no one really wants a sweet old lady divulging the dirty history of the red light district.
And a sweet old lady doesn't really know how. Drinking, gambling, and prostitution were the defining characteristics of the early Gaslamp Quarter, and the dirty details were pleasantly glossed over. The poor woman could not even bring herself to say the word "whorehouse." Sure, there were kids in the crowd, but there was also a nineteen year old scholar who wanted to hear the good, the bad, and (especially) the ugly. What I heard instead was "bordello," "brothel," and "ladies of the night." It took all I had not to shout "strumpet" helpfully when she was searching for another euphemism. It took even more not to shout "slut factory" when she was doing just fine on her own.
(A side note: I just used thesaurus.com to look up synonyms for both whore and whorehouse, and let me just say that there is a lot. There is no reason why she should have been stumbling around for kiddy-appropriate replacement words. Awkwardly enough, this is kind of what I'm talking about when I say that tour guides should do their research. I'm just saying.)
Overall, the walking tour was a nice, if not perfect, way to spend the morning. And besides, my family is going on another walking tour of the Hotel del Coronado on Tuesday. Southern California has one more chance to prove itself and its walking tours against Northern California. The gauntlet has been thrown down, and, surprisingly, the harlot couldn't "get it up." We'll see if Elisha Babcock, the hotel's founder, has any better luck.
#LINVASION Cali Style -- Clang Clang Ffft Went the Trolley
August 4, 2012
It was a scene right out of the Princess Diaries. Despite the fact that we weren't in San Francisco and no sixteen year old Genovian heiress in her baby blue mustang was anywhere to be seen, the comparison was inescapable. I would like to think that what actually happened was just as thematically entertaining. My family's scenic trolley broke down right in the middle of a busy San Diego street. NBD, right?
While the driver, Doc, communicated with his supervisor up front, I helped direct traffic around the stationary streetcar. (I was sitting in the back row; it was the least I could do.) The situation was quickly resolved, and a replacement trolley was on its way. However, in the meantime, Doc said, "Anyone know any good jokes?" Some smart aleck, who shall remain nameless, responded, "This."
Okay, so obviously, I was the punk who said that. Surprisingly, my remark was greeted with a great amount of laughter from all the other passengers and Doc himself. Truthfully though, I really didn't mean to say it. The situation was just so in accordance with the joke that is my life that my response was automatic. I'm so used to saying "(insert semi-random and non-normal situation here). That's the joke." that the reverse statement came naturally. Apparently, I really don't think before I speak; I like to be just as surprised as everyone else by what comes out of my mouth.
At any rate, the replacement trolley showed up in about ten minutes and we were back to touring the beautiful city of San Diego. And I, in perhaps my most altruistic act to date, left the comedy to our new driver's scripted, corny, but well-intentioned jokes.
It was a scene right out of the Princess Diaries. Despite the fact that we weren't in San Francisco and no sixteen year old Genovian heiress in her baby blue mustang was anywhere to be seen, the comparison was inescapable. I would like to think that what actually happened was just as thematically entertaining. My family's scenic trolley broke down right in the middle of a busy San Diego street. NBD, right?
While the driver, Doc, communicated with his supervisor up front, I helped direct traffic around the stationary streetcar. (I was sitting in the back row; it was the least I could do.) The situation was quickly resolved, and a replacement trolley was on its way. However, in the meantime, Doc said, "Anyone know any good jokes?" Some smart aleck, who shall remain nameless, responded, "This."
Okay, so obviously, I was the punk who said that. Surprisingly, my remark was greeted with a great amount of laughter from all the other passengers and Doc himself. Truthfully though, I really didn't mean to say it. The situation was just so in accordance with the joke that is my life that my response was automatic. I'm so used to saying "(insert semi-random and non-normal situation here). That's the joke." that the reverse statement came naturally. Apparently, I really don't think before I speak; I like to be just as surprised as everyone else by what comes out of my mouth.
At any rate, the replacement trolley showed up in about ten minutes and we were back to touring the beautiful city of San Diego. And I, in perhaps my most altruistic act to date, left the comedy to our new driver's scripted, corny, but well-intentioned jokes.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
#servergirlstruggz -- I am my own Worst Guest
August 3, 2012
I've been trying to think of a clever introduction for this post, but I'm coming up empty. So without further ado, the best (and by best I mean only) first sentence I could think of:
I would hate serving myself. I honestly believe that I am every server's worst nightmare, especially my own. I made this discovery while on vacation in San Diego with my family, as I was served at restaurants far nicer than the one at which I work. I would like to sincerely apologize to all of my past, present, and future servers. I know that you don't deserve the likes of me clogging up one of your precious tables because trust me, I wouldn't want to serve me either.
What makes me such a horrible guest? I don't complain or ever have anything sent back to the kitchen, but I also don't cut my servers any breaks either. First of all, the only drink I EVER order is water. I do this because basically every other beverage, besides hot tea, scares me. (I'm a health freak weirdo, I know.) Not only that, but I drink at least one full glass of water before my food even comes. If I'm really hungry, it's more like two or three. This means I've got my server running back and forth to keep me gratuitously hydrated. To add insult to injury (from all the speed walking), their effort doesn't even equate to dollars. I know firsthand how much that just...sucks.
Besides that, I usually always order a salad or some other healthy/lighter fare, which means my entree costs less as well. Besides that, if the salad comes laden with meat and dressing, I ask for the former omitted and the latter on the side. These are small modifications, but they do require extra attention. I feel bad burdening my waitress by demanding special treatment because I know how annoying it is to worry about an order coming out perfectly. My kitchen has messed up on me enough times to know that special orders are nothing but trouble for a server. Guests don't usually understand that servers have no control over the actual food, just acting as human airplanes. All we can do is take an order, make a memo, and pray that the cooks haven't left their reading glasses at home.
Besides my actual ordering limitations, now that I've become a server, I feel like I have free reign to analyze anyone and everyone who serves me. Of course, no matter how I think my server measures up to every other server I know, I always overtip. I know how bad shifts can be, how tedious side-work can become, and (especially) how difficult customers can be. I get it. So I try to make every server's day just a little bit better by throwing in an extra dollar or two. So maybe I'm not the worst guest in the entire world; because even though I know that I'd hate serving myself, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't mind receiving my own tip.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
I've been trying to think of a clever introduction for this post, but I'm coming up empty. So without further ado, the best (and by best I mean only) first sentence I could think of:
I would hate serving myself. I honestly believe that I am every server's worst nightmare, especially my own. I made this discovery while on vacation in San Diego with my family, as I was served at restaurants far nicer than the one at which I work. I would like to sincerely apologize to all of my past, present, and future servers. I know that you don't deserve the likes of me clogging up one of your precious tables because trust me, I wouldn't want to serve me either.
What makes me such a horrible guest? I don't complain or ever have anything sent back to the kitchen, but I also don't cut my servers any breaks either. First of all, the only drink I EVER order is water. I do this because basically every other beverage, besides hot tea, scares me. (I'm a health freak weirdo, I know.) Not only that, but I drink at least one full glass of water before my food even comes. If I'm really hungry, it's more like two or three. This means I've got my server running back and forth to keep me gratuitously hydrated. To add insult to injury (from all the speed walking), their effort doesn't even equate to dollars. I know firsthand how much that just...sucks.
Besides that, I usually always order a salad or some other healthy/lighter fare, which means my entree costs less as well. Besides that, if the salad comes laden with meat and dressing, I ask for the former omitted and the latter on the side. These are small modifications, but they do require extra attention. I feel bad burdening my waitress by demanding special treatment because I know how annoying it is to worry about an order coming out perfectly. My kitchen has messed up on me enough times to know that special orders are nothing but trouble for a server. Guests don't usually understand that servers have no control over the actual food, just acting as human airplanes. All we can do is take an order, make a memo, and pray that the cooks haven't left their reading glasses at home.
Besides my actual ordering limitations, now that I've become a server, I feel like I have free reign to analyze anyone and everyone who serves me. Of course, no matter how I think my server measures up to every other server I know, I always overtip. I know how bad shifts can be, how tedious side-work can become, and (especially) how difficult customers can be. I get it. So I try to make every server's day just a little bit better by throwing in an extra dollar or two. So maybe I'm not the worst guest in the entire world; because even though I know that I'd hate serving myself, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't mind receiving my own tip.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
Thursday, August 2, 2012
#firstworkpains -- Combatting Gender Stereotypes, One Sticker at a Time
August 1, 2012
When I'm not dazzling the world with my ineptness at serving quality burgers and fries, I do clerical work at a local vet clinic. Specifically, I work in their allergy lab, which makes and sends allergy vaccines to other animal hospitals across the Northeast. Part of this glamorous job is putting labels and stickers on boxes that will eventually hold the liquified fruits of my supervisor's labor.
When I first began working there, back in May, my supervisor told me that we put stickers on each of the boxes because it adds sincerity to an otherwise anonymous creation. The stickers give each box a personality, showing that we understand that each individual pet has a personality as well. (My internal bullshit meter was off the charts, but...arts and crafts!) I nodded to the reasoning behind the only semi-creative part of my job, ready to get paid to relive my childhood. However, before letting me have free reign over my adhesive minions, she mentioned that because it was spring/summer and all the stickers were flowers I should try to give blue, green, and yellow flowers to the male dogs and pink, purple, and red flowers to the female dogs. For a while, I adhered to her directions as I adhered each sticker. I seriously took an extra minute to remind myself of the pet's sex and choose a flower accordingly.
Of course, it took less than a day for me to realize the ridiculousness of this ritual. Dogs didn't have the same cultural constructions of reality as humans did, if they had any at all. Dogs had sexes, but they didn't have genders. Furthermore, they did not use colors as a way to symbolize gender. I noted the irony on my first day, but, for some reason, I could not stick it to the (wo)man. I complied with the idea of gender symbolism and stereotypes for weeks before I finally took a stand. I put a pink flower on the box for "Chief." He was not only a male dog with a hyper-masculine name, but also a hyper-masculine breed-- a pit bull.
I realize the insignificance of this peaceful protest. Choosing a "non-traditional"color for the arbitrary sticker on a random allergy vaccine box was not groundbreaking. The floor stayed firmly in place after I pressed the sticker down. The world kept spinning as I put blue stickers onto the boxes of the dozens of "Mollies," "Bellas," and "Princesses" as well. Still, I felt like I was making a real difference; if not to anyone else, at least to me. I succeeded in getting one person to think differently about gender roles and expectations, and even though she's still got a lot to learn...about everything, she's proud of herself for starting the small, silent cause of sticker equality. Sure, she's not Gloria Steinem (nor does she want to be), but she's not just another office assistant either.
When I'm not dazzling the world with my ineptness at serving quality burgers and fries, I do clerical work at a local vet clinic. Specifically, I work in their allergy lab, which makes and sends allergy vaccines to other animal hospitals across the Northeast. Part of this glamorous job is putting labels and stickers on boxes that will eventually hold the liquified fruits of my supervisor's labor.
When I first began working there, back in May, my supervisor told me that we put stickers on each of the boxes because it adds sincerity to an otherwise anonymous creation. The stickers give each box a personality, showing that we understand that each individual pet has a personality as well. (My internal bullshit meter was off the charts, but...arts and crafts!) I nodded to the reasoning behind the only semi-creative part of my job, ready to get paid to relive my childhood. However, before letting me have free reign over my adhesive minions, she mentioned that because it was spring/summer and all the stickers were flowers I should try to give blue, green, and yellow flowers to the male dogs and pink, purple, and red flowers to the female dogs. For a while, I adhered to her directions as I adhered each sticker. I seriously took an extra minute to remind myself of the pet's sex and choose a flower accordingly.
Of course, it took less than a day for me to realize the ridiculousness of this ritual. Dogs didn't have the same cultural constructions of reality as humans did, if they had any at all. Dogs had sexes, but they didn't have genders. Furthermore, they did not use colors as a way to symbolize gender. I noted the irony on my first day, but, for some reason, I could not stick it to the (wo)man. I complied with the idea of gender symbolism and stereotypes for weeks before I finally took a stand. I put a pink flower on the box for "Chief." He was not only a male dog with a hyper-masculine name, but also a hyper-masculine breed-- a pit bull.
I realize the insignificance of this peaceful protest. Choosing a "non-traditional"color for the arbitrary sticker on a random allergy vaccine box was not groundbreaking. The floor stayed firmly in place after I pressed the sticker down. The world kept spinning as I put blue stickers onto the boxes of the dozens of "Mollies," "Bellas," and "Princesses" as well. Still, I felt like I was making a real difference; if not to anyone else, at least to me. I succeeded in getting one person to think differently about gender roles and expectations, and even though she's still got a lot to learn...about everything, she's proud of herself for starting the small, silent cause of sticker equality. Sure, she's not Gloria Steinem (nor does she want to be), but she's not just another office assistant either.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
#servergirlstruggz -- What a Cock(tail) Tease
July 20, 2012
"Hi, I'm Lindsay, and I just got back from the war. How are you guys doing tonight?" I don't usually greet my tables like this, but when I do, I hope to God that they get my joke. Luckily, my guests had had enough time to survey my appearance to understand why I was making such a bold (and probably inappropriate) statement. There were splashes of red something all over my face, hair, and blue polo, making it seem like a grenade had been thrown in my general direction. The real story wasn't that far off.
When the restaurant opened at nine a.m. that Saturday morning, someone had forgotten to turn on the cooler for the salad bar. Fast forward to nine p.m. later that night when I was on salad bar duty and the oversight was discovered. My manager charged me with the duty of dumping and replacing all of the dressings that had become too warm. This was a tedious but very simple task, and I did not mind doing it. That is, until I noticed the absence of the cocktail sauce. It was not stocked in the walk-in refrigerator with the rest of the dressings, which meant that I had to open a giant can of the red stuff and put it into a stainless steel container myself. I carried the large can into the prep area and began looking for a can opener. Assuming that we didn't actually have one, I asked one of the bussers who walked by what I should do. He said just to stab it with a knife and work to get it open that way. Not trusting myself with a knife, I asked one of the cooks to do it for me. After the initial stabbing, he asked me why I wanted to open a can that way. I replied, naively, that there wasn't any can opener and that's what the other guy had told me to do. The cook looked at the busser in disbelief, and the busser said, "What? I'm from the ghetto. That's how we do things there." We laughed, and then the cook brought me the elusive can opener.
I then proceeded to open this can with the worst can opener in the entire world. I got the can three-fourths of the way open, but the remaining one-fourth was spread out between all the open parts. This meant that I couldn't really do anything but stare at the can and hope that my telekinetic powers were finally kicking in. One of my fellow servers walked by and noticed the problem I was having with the cocktail sauce, the can opener, and the rabbi. She offered to get her boyfriend (who was a cook) to help me. I gratefully accepted.
Throughout this entire episode, I had been going back and forth between the prep area and the actual restaurant to make sure that I had not been given any new tables to serve. By this time of night, the flow of people had slowed down considerably so I had been table-less for the past fifteen minutes. When the girl's boyfriend came back, he immediately took control of the situation and the blunt side of a large knife. It came down on the top of the can swiftly and sloppily. The original problem was solved, but a new one emerged as I emerged covered in cocktail sauce. Some had even gotten into my eye, necessitating a trip to the closest paper towel dispenser. On my way over, I was greeted by laughs from my ever so lovely server peers. (I became the joke of the night, and everyone bonded over my unfortunate experience. I'm a giver.)
To add inconvenience to injury, I had only now gotten a table. Because my restaurant has a thirty second greet policy, I had no time to run to the bathroom to clean myself off before approaching them. Hence my unconventional introduction, which, thankfully, was a hit. After getting their drinks, I did have time to wipe myself off in the bathroom. My shirt was still stained, but at least I no longer looked like I was bleeding from the head.
Now that I was busy with a table, I had no time nor desire to see the cocktail sauce debacle through to the end. There was another girl on salad bar duty, whose job it was to stock the walk-in refrigerator anyway. Seeing that all she had to do was pour the contents of that infamous can into the stainless steel container, I didn't feel too bad pawning that part of the work on her. Meanwhile, I served my table, smelling of the sea and pretending that I didn't hate my life. As soon as I got home, I threw my shirt into the wash, because it needed to be clean for when this all started again-- bright and early the next morning.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Why I Became a Vegetarian (and Why I'm Going Vegan)
Originally Published in This Dish is Vegetarian
I kind of hate the reason why I became a vegetarian. I wish I could say that I became a vegetarian because I inherently knew that there was something wrong with eating meat. I would like to claim that I had an epiphany, brought on by deep contemplation and introspection, that a plant-based diet was the more wholesome and health conscious lifestyle. Unfortunately, I owe my vegetarianism to a film.
I am that stereotypical kid who, in her freshman year of high school, watched a film about animal cruelty in the food industry and decided to become a vegetarian as a result. Of course, after becoming a vegetarian, I still had to transcend from being a “bad” vegetarian to a “good” vegetarian.
For the first year or two of my vegetarianism, I ate a ton of processed vegetarian food like fake chicken nuggets and imitation lunch meats. Of course, I was incorporating more fruits and veggies into my diet, but I still was not feeding my body properly. Now, I eat as many whole and fresh legumes as I can get my hands on.
Of course, some processed sugar still finds its way into my mouth and stomach, but, because of my vegetarianism, I've come to appreciate and enjoy natural sugars a whole lot more. My body reminds me daily that becoming a vegetarian was one of the best decisions I have ever made, and it's why I am currently easing myself into veganism.
I kind of hate the reason why I'm becoming a vegan too. Surprise, surprise: it was also because of a film. At least I can say I'm consistent. The film in question was Forks Over Knives, a resource I was using for another TDIV article and a movie I had been meaning to watch for some time anyway.
What I learned about the Western diet and our unnecessary (and unhealthy) dependence on animal by-products convinced me that I needed to get milk and eggs out of my system. So far, I've been making small changes—switching to soy milk, neglecting cheese, avoiding omelets.
The only thing that is stopping me from quitting cold turkey is my impending trip to Europe. Being a vegetarian while traveling in Europe is difficult enough; being a vegan would be nearly, if not completely, impossible. Plus, if I'm honest, I do have some last cannolis and croissants with whom I would like to get acquainted before I disown dairy for good.
As with my decision to go vegetarian, my decision to go vegan was not entirely my own. A movie got me. I want to say that I'm going vegan because I looked deep inside my soul and a bright light showed me the divine path to dietary Nirvana. However, if there was any bright light in my “epiphany,” it was from the Netflix logo on my computer screen. I am that girl -- that stereotypical bandwagon girl who makes life -- changing decisions after only an hour and a half of glowing pictures.
So, I won't say that my reasons for going vegetarian and now vegan are ground-breaking or inspiring, because they're not. Still, no matter how inane or insignificant my reason, I became a vegetarian, and I have enjoyed every day, and every food industry based film, since.
I kind of hate the reason why I became a vegetarian. I wish I could say that I became a vegetarian because I inherently knew that there was something wrong with eating meat. I would like to claim that I had an epiphany, brought on by deep contemplation and introspection, that a plant-based diet was the more wholesome and health conscious lifestyle. Unfortunately, I owe my vegetarianism to a film.
I am that stereotypical kid who, in her freshman year of high school, watched a film about animal cruelty in the food industry and decided to become a vegetarian as a result. Of course, after becoming a vegetarian, I still had to transcend from being a “bad” vegetarian to a “good” vegetarian.
For the first year or two of my vegetarianism, I ate a ton of processed vegetarian food like fake chicken nuggets and imitation lunch meats. Of course, I was incorporating more fruits and veggies into my diet, but I still was not feeding my body properly. Now, I eat as many whole and fresh legumes as I can get my hands on.
Of course, some processed sugar still finds its way into my mouth and stomach, but, because of my vegetarianism, I've come to appreciate and enjoy natural sugars a whole lot more. My body reminds me daily that becoming a vegetarian was one of the best decisions I have ever made, and it's why I am currently easing myself into veganism.
I kind of hate the reason why I'm becoming a vegan too. Surprise, surprise: it was also because of a film. At least I can say I'm consistent. The film in question was Forks Over Knives, a resource I was using for another TDIV article and a movie I had been meaning to watch for some time anyway.
What I learned about the Western diet and our unnecessary (and unhealthy) dependence on animal by-products convinced me that I needed to get milk and eggs out of my system. So far, I've been making small changes—switching to soy milk, neglecting cheese, avoiding omelets.
The only thing that is stopping me from quitting cold turkey is my impending trip to Europe. Being a vegetarian while traveling in Europe is difficult enough; being a vegan would be nearly, if not completely, impossible. Plus, if I'm honest, I do have some last cannolis and croissants with whom I would like to get acquainted before I disown dairy for good.
As with my decision to go vegetarian, my decision to go vegan was not entirely my own. A movie got me. I want to say that I'm going vegan because I looked deep inside my soul and a bright light showed me the divine path to dietary Nirvana. However, if there was any bright light in my “epiphany,” it was from the Netflix logo on my computer screen. I am that girl -- that stereotypical bandwagon girl who makes life -- changing decisions after only an hour and a half of glowing pictures.
So, I won't say that my reasons for going vegetarian and now vegan are ground-breaking or inspiring, because they're not. Still, no matter how inane or insignificant my reason, I became a vegetarian, and I have enjoyed every day, and every food industry based film, since.
Friday, July 20, 2012
#LINVASION - Day 2
Continued from #LINVASION- Day 1...
The note was a nice touch. Among other helpful instructions, it told me to call Z as soon as I woke up. I did, and she informed me that her and Beast were downstairs and that I should join them. After changing into a new bathing suit, jean shorts, and a tank top, I walked down to the well furnished basement. Then, we all sat and reminisced about the previous night while we waited for Matt for wake up so we could go out to breakfast. While reliving last's night former glory/filling me in on what I had missed, Z somehow convinced me to try to change my flight so that I could stay another day. (Okay, so it didn't take much convincing...but still.) I had to be back at work by four p.m. on Sunday, which unfortunately limited my flight selection. Furthermore, I couldn't get a refund if I cancelled my flight. After half an hour of online searching and comparing, Delta Airlines had bested me. Of course, this just gave us greater incentive to make my last day in Wisconsin legen (wait for it) dary.
By eleven a.m., Matt had emerged from his bedroom. Slowly but surely, we all gathered up the courage to begin physical preparations to be seen in public. We left the lake house by eleven-thirty and arrived at the "ghetto but really delicious" pancake house by noon. Once our food was placed on the table and the waitress' hands were safely back at her sides, I ate EVERYTHING. I had ordered a spinach omelet with a side of chocolate chip pancakes, and Z and I had decided to split an order of breakfast potatoes. I didn't actually eat ALL of this, but I definitely ate way more than a little girl like myself should. (The peanut butter sandwiches from last night had lacked staying power, and we had basically skipped breakfast so I can't really be held responsible for my actions.)
Then, Z and I accompanied Matt and Beast on their expedition to a giant hardware store. They were buying PVC pipes to make a wake board rack and quizzing the two writers about what PVC stood for. (It's Poly...something...Chloride. I can't remember.) While they focused on their project, we dreamt and discussed all the amenities of our future apartment. I learned that Z doesn't like shower curtains, and she learned that I don't like glass shower doors. So I guess we'll just have to compromise on a clawfoot tub.
After our return from the land of PVC and plenty, the boys got down to work and we got down to float. Around three, Z's dad, known as Doc, arrived and asked us if we wanted to go tubing. I thought that this meant lounging in an inner tube attached to the Kuester family boat. (Oh, you poor, innocent child.) Instead, I got the work out of my life. These tubes were actually large floating circles to which I held on for dear life. I want to say that I was able to withstand twenty minutes of tubing before my first fall, but I have never trusted my sense of time. For all I know, it might have only been thirty seconds. The final tally of my falls were six, while Z had only been thrown once. I'm just going to chalk it all up to experience and the "lime infused water" Doc had made and served us while we were tubing. (A side note: The right side of my chest is still sore from this endeavor.)
When we arrived back at the dock, the rest of the Kuester clan and friends were waiting for us. This included Z's mom, Cam, who greeted me with the most lovely of hugs. Do you know how good it feels to be immediately accepted by your best friend's mother? It felt like a unicorn shitting sparkly butterflies (made of actual butter) right onto your clear, poreless face. It felt great. Then, everyone piled into the boat, and I witnessed another wake boarding/ water skiing session. It was less professional than the first one, but way more entertaining since I actually knew these aquatic athletes. Doc went first with his water skis. From watching him, I learned that you are, indeed, supposed to lose one water ski shortly after beginning your run. I thought he had done it on accident the first time, but apparently, that is just what you do. Next up was Z on her wake board, for whom I cheered like a crazy stage mom. (Incidentally, this is an accurate way to describe our relationship. Okay, it isn't, except when my little girl tries her hand at cooking. Like she did here. Shameless plug #2.) Matt rounded off the Kuester trio of water acrobats, and he wasn't half bad.
All the while, Z and I had one of our most beautiful and deep talks about something so important and integral to both of us-- writing. We discussed our hopes and our insecurities in relation to our craft, each encouraging the other that her future was nothing but bright. I think that what characterized this talk (and what characterizes our friendship) was that there was no competitiveness between us. We both acknowledged our own talents and shortcomings, and we both were (are) focused on simply trying to become the best writer each of us could be. We're different people, different writers, and we respect and encourage each other for that. What I'm trying to say is: it was a good talk.
By the time we got back to the lakehouse, it was about seven p.m. More of Matt's friends had arrived, and an interesting night was beginning to take shape. Z and I attempted to help Cam make dinner, but almost immediately, we became distracted by our own little worlds. We succeeded in slicing hamburger buns, but not much else. I was consumed by a recent cellular incident, and Z was consumed in helping me navigate through it. (Oh, the trials and tribulations of our young, female lives.) I will say, however, that the text which drew my attention away from the kitchen was an...interesting one.
After we decided to give up on our pursuits to be the Next Food Network Star, we joined Matt, Beast, and all their twenty-something friends and girlfriends in the basement. Everyone was sitting around drinking "root beer," and somehow Z's lake house guide wormed its way into the conversation. Everyone, knowing that they had been mentioned in the guide, was curious about its exact contents. Z and I refused to give away its secrets, mostly because we were both pretty badly implicated in the guide ourselves. (When we know so much about each other, it's hard not to.) Z also happened to mention the existence of her "Brothers" powerpoint. This was a powerpoint sent to me and other prospective lake house guests briefly explaining each of Z's "brothers," including but not limited to her actual biological brother, Matt. Once this entered the conversation, all the brothers demanded that they be shown this mysterious powerpoint. Z promised to do a viewing session later when she would be more "agreeable," but this showing never (thank goodness) actually happened.
Not wanting to waste the lovely Wisconsin evening, there was a mass exodus to the Kuester's deck. The equipment for a game of "Bags" was already set up and waiting to be utilized. Z had explained "Bags" to me in her lake house guide, and I was very excited to get a chance to actually play it. Z and I played on the same team against Beast and one of Matt's other friends. The game consisted of one player from each team throwing beanbags onto a wooden platform with a whole in the middle. A person scored one point for each bag that landed on the platform and three for any that went into the hole. If the opposing team also landed on the platform or in the hole, the points cancelled out. The throwing continued until one team reached twenty-one points. It was a long and hard game, but Z and I emerged victorious.
By this time, dinner was ready. We all took a brief sojourn inside to grab the delicacies of Cam and Doc, and although I can't speak for anyone else, I certainly was not disappointed by the quality or the selection. The vegetarian was fully satisfied.
After dinner, we all went back outside to play some more games. This time, we started off with "Smack Cup," which is one of the funnest games I have ever played. About thirty cups were pushed together in the center of a big table, each one filled with a small amount of "root beer." The goal of this game was similar to "Nickels" but with ping pong balls instead of nickels and cups instead of "film canisters." This game was very similar to "Slap Cup," but again, playing that would have been an inappropriate and unworthy use of our underaged time. Z and I both ended up drinking the most amount of "root beer" because we each got caught between people who were in the zone, passing the cup back and forth. (I don't even want to think about the calories we each consumed in those few minutes.) Eventually though, we each were able to get our ping pong ball in the cup, and resurfaced. Once this game was over, Z and I both decided to sit out the next round because we know who we are and who we don't want to be. Later, Z and I joined in on a couple more games and had a jolly good time.
I have no idea what time the suggestion to go out to the boat came up. In retrospect, I'm guessing about three a.m. None of us had our phones on us for fear of them falling into the lake, so time had progressed strangely the entire day. At any rate, those of us who were still awake (which did include me this time!) clamored onto the boat. We sailed to the sandbar, and I got to experience it for the first time. Unlike the rocks and pebbles that lined the bottom of most of the lake, the sandbar's floor was soft and white. The water was waist-high and warm. It was a truly lovely place. However, we only stayed for half an hour because it was four a.m. by this time, and people were dropping like flies. On the ride back, Beast took over stirring for Matt, and he came back and sat with me. We had a nice chat about Chinese hookers and cultural constructions of reality. (This is what I do to people. I don't mean to do it, but it happens.) It was a good talk.
By the time we got back from the sandbar, it was five a.m. No one knew how it had gotten so late, but here was the sun. I was so exhausted by this point that I just decided to crash in Matt's room... because it was closest to the basement. The poor guy, having to share his room with a young woman. I really put (him) out.
The next four hours passed quickly, filled with a deep but too short sleep. Z and I both had to wake up at nine a.m. so that we would have enough time to get me to the airport by eleven. Luckily, the majority of my stuff was in Z's room so it was a quick round up. We drank some pomegranate juice to revive us in our sleep deprived states, and then we were off.
The next hour and a half was one of my favorites. Just me and my best friend sitting together, reminiscing about last night. If only her car had been the Emerson College dining hall, it would have been just like old times. We had a great time, until we inevitably reached the airport. I didn't want to return to my pseudo real life in If You Lived Here You'd Probably Kill Yourself, Pennsylvania. However, I had already paid for my ticket, and my parents would have thought I was the victim of the Wisconsin version of Taken had I done anything but say goodbye to my best friend, close the car door, and walk through the revolving doors.
My only solace was that this wasn't "goodbye," this was "see you later." In fact, this was "see you in three weeks." I've been waiting for our second reunion ever since, and if it's anything like the first, I know that I won't do it any justice when I write about it.
The note was a nice touch. Among other helpful instructions, it told me to call Z as soon as I woke up. I did, and she informed me that her and Beast were downstairs and that I should join them. After changing into a new bathing suit, jean shorts, and a tank top, I walked down to the well furnished basement. Then, we all sat and reminisced about the previous night while we waited for Matt for wake up so we could go out to breakfast. While reliving last's night former glory/filling me in on what I had missed, Z somehow convinced me to try to change my flight so that I could stay another day. (Okay, so it didn't take much convincing...but still.) I had to be back at work by four p.m. on Sunday, which unfortunately limited my flight selection. Furthermore, I couldn't get a refund if I cancelled my flight. After half an hour of online searching and comparing, Delta Airlines had bested me. Of course, this just gave us greater incentive to make my last day in Wisconsin legen (wait for it) dary.
By eleven a.m., Matt had emerged from his bedroom. Slowly but surely, we all gathered up the courage to begin physical preparations to be seen in public. We left the lake house by eleven-thirty and arrived at the "ghetto but really delicious" pancake house by noon. Once our food was placed on the table and the waitress' hands were safely back at her sides, I ate EVERYTHING. I had ordered a spinach omelet with a side of chocolate chip pancakes, and Z and I had decided to split an order of breakfast potatoes. I didn't actually eat ALL of this, but I definitely ate way more than a little girl like myself should. (The peanut butter sandwiches from last night had lacked staying power, and we had basically skipped breakfast so I can't really be held responsible for my actions.)
Then, Z and I accompanied Matt and Beast on their expedition to a giant hardware store. They were buying PVC pipes to make a wake board rack and quizzing the two writers about what PVC stood for. (It's Poly...something...Chloride. I can't remember.) While they focused on their project, we dreamt and discussed all the amenities of our future apartment. I learned that Z doesn't like shower curtains, and she learned that I don't like glass shower doors. So I guess we'll just have to compromise on a clawfoot tub.
After our return from the land of PVC and plenty, the boys got down to work and we got down to float. Around three, Z's dad, known as Doc, arrived and asked us if we wanted to go tubing. I thought that this meant lounging in an inner tube attached to the Kuester family boat. (Oh, you poor, innocent child.) Instead, I got the work out of my life. These tubes were actually large floating circles to which I held on for dear life. I want to say that I was able to withstand twenty minutes of tubing before my first fall, but I have never trusted my sense of time. For all I know, it might have only been thirty seconds. The final tally of my falls were six, while Z had only been thrown once. I'm just going to chalk it all up to experience and the "lime infused water" Doc had made and served us while we were tubing. (A side note: The right side of my chest is still sore from this endeavor.)
When we arrived back at the dock, the rest of the Kuester clan and friends were waiting for us. This included Z's mom, Cam, who greeted me with the most lovely of hugs. Do you know how good it feels to be immediately accepted by your best friend's mother? It felt like a unicorn shitting sparkly butterflies (made of actual butter) right onto your clear, poreless face. It felt great. Then, everyone piled into the boat, and I witnessed another wake boarding/ water skiing session. It was less professional than the first one, but way more entertaining since I actually knew these aquatic athletes. Doc went first with his water skis. From watching him, I learned that you are, indeed, supposed to lose one water ski shortly after beginning your run. I thought he had done it on accident the first time, but apparently, that is just what you do. Next up was Z on her wake board, for whom I cheered like a crazy stage mom. (Incidentally, this is an accurate way to describe our relationship. Okay, it isn't, except when my little girl tries her hand at cooking. Like she did here. Shameless plug #2.) Matt rounded off the Kuester trio of water acrobats, and he wasn't half bad.
All the while, Z and I had one of our most beautiful and deep talks about something so important and integral to both of us-- writing. We discussed our hopes and our insecurities in relation to our craft, each encouraging the other that her future was nothing but bright. I think that what characterized this talk (and what characterizes our friendship) was that there was no competitiveness between us. We both acknowledged our own talents and shortcomings, and we both were (are) focused on simply trying to become the best writer each of us could be. We're different people, different writers, and we respect and encourage each other for that. What I'm trying to say is: it was a good talk.
By the time we got back to the lakehouse, it was about seven p.m. More of Matt's friends had arrived, and an interesting night was beginning to take shape. Z and I attempted to help Cam make dinner, but almost immediately, we became distracted by our own little worlds. We succeeded in slicing hamburger buns, but not much else. I was consumed by a recent cellular incident, and Z was consumed in helping me navigate through it. (Oh, the trials and tribulations of our young, female lives.) I will say, however, that the text which drew my attention away from the kitchen was an...interesting one.
After we decided to give up on our pursuits to be the Next Food Network Star, we joined Matt, Beast, and all their twenty-something friends and girlfriends in the basement. Everyone was sitting around drinking "root beer," and somehow Z's lake house guide wormed its way into the conversation. Everyone, knowing that they had been mentioned in the guide, was curious about its exact contents. Z and I refused to give away its secrets, mostly because we were both pretty badly implicated in the guide ourselves. (When we know so much about each other, it's hard not to.) Z also happened to mention the existence of her "Brothers" powerpoint. This was a powerpoint sent to me and other prospective lake house guests briefly explaining each of Z's "brothers," including but not limited to her actual biological brother, Matt. Once this entered the conversation, all the brothers demanded that they be shown this mysterious powerpoint. Z promised to do a viewing session later when she would be more "agreeable," but this showing never (thank goodness) actually happened.
Not wanting to waste the lovely Wisconsin evening, there was a mass exodus to the Kuester's deck. The equipment for a game of "Bags" was already set up and waiting to be utilized. Z had explained "Bags" to me in her lake house guide, and I was very excited to get a chance to actually play it. Z and I played on the same team against Beast and one of Matt's other friends. The game consisted of one player from each team throwing beanbags onto a wooden platform with a whole in the middle. A person scored one point for each bag that landed on the platform and three for any that went into the hole. If the opposing team also landed on the platform or in the hole, the points cancelled out. The throwing continued until one team reached twenty-one points. It was a long and hard game, but Z and I emerged victorious.
By this time, dinner was ready. We all took a brief sojourn inside to grab the delicacies of Cam and Doc, and although I can't speak for anyone else, I certainly was not disappointed by the quality or the selection. The vegetarian was fully satisfied.
After dinner, we all went back outside to play some more games. This time, we started off with "Smack Cup," which is one of the funnest games I have ever played. About thirty cups were pushed together in the center of a big table, each one filled with a small amount of "root beer." The goal of this game was similar to "Nickels" but with ping pong balls instead of nickels and cups instead of "film canisters." This game was very similar to "Slap Cup," but again, playing that would have been an inappropriate and unworthy use of our underaged time. Z and I both ended up drinking the most amount of "root beer" because we each got caught between people who were in the zone, passing the cup back and forth. (I don't even want to think about the calories we each consumed in those few minutes.) Eventually though, we each were able to get our ping pong ball in the cup, and resurfaced. Once this game was over, Z and I both decided to sit out the next round because we know who we are and who we don't want to be. Later, Z and I joined in on a couple more games and had a jolly good time.
I have no idea what time the suggestion to go out to the boat came up. In retrospect, I'm guessing about three a.m. None of us had our phones on us for fear of them falling into the lake, so time had progressed strangely the entire day. At any rate, those of us who were still awake (which did include me this time!) clamored onto the boat. We sailed to the sandbar, and I got to experience it for the first time. Unlike the rocks and pebbles that lined the bottom of most of the lake, the sandbar's floor was soft and white. The water was waist-high and warm. It was a truly lovely place. However, we only stayed for half an hour because it was four a.m. by this time, and people were dropping like flies. On the ride back, Beast took over stirring for Matt, and he came back and sat with me. We had a nice chat about Chinese hookers and cultural constructions of reality. (This is what I do to people. I don't mean to do it, but it happens.) It was a good talk.
By the time we got back from the sandbar, it was five a.m. No one knew how it had gotten so late, but here was the sun. I was so exhausted by this point that I just decided to crash in Matt's room... because it was closest to the basement. The poor guy, having to share his room with a young woman. I really put (him) out.
The next four hours passed quickly, filled with a deep but too short sleep. Z and I both had to wake up at nine a.m. so that we would have enough time to get me to the airport by eleven. Luckily, the majority of my stuff was in Z's room so it was a quick round up. We drank some pomegranate juice to revive us in our sleep deprived states, and then we were off.
The next hour and a half was one of my favorites. Just me and my best friend sitting together, reminiscing about last night. If only her car had been the Emerson College dining hall, it would have been just like old times. We had a great time, until we inevitably reached the airport. I didn't want to return to my pseudo real life in If You Lived Here You'd Probably Kill Yourself, Pennsylvania. However, I had already paid for my ticket, and my parents would have thought I was the victim of the Wisconsin version of Taken had I done anything but say goodbye to my best friend, close the car door, and walk through the revolving doors.
My only solace was that this wasn't "goodbye," this was "see you later." In fact, this was "see you in three weeks." I've been waiting for our second reunion ever since, and if it's anything like the first, I know that I won't do it any justice when I write about it.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
That One Time I Pretended I was a Food Blogger
Sweet Balsamic Vinaigrette Veggie Stir-Fry
Yesterday, I experimented with this dish, and my taste buds deemed it a roaring success. The best part about this meal is that as long as you have sweet balsamic vinaigrette and like sweet balsamic vinaigrette, you're pretty much set. You can use any veggies you have lying around the house in this stir fry, which makes it a super easy and convenient lunch or dinner. The biggest time commitment is with chopping the veggies, but once they're in the pan, you've got a delicious and nutritious meal in about five minutes.
And did I mention that you can use whatever is lying around the house because all the veggies will take on the delicious taste of the dressing? The veggies that I used in my stir fry were: mushrooms, spinach, carrots, kale, peas, broccoli, asparagus, and roma tomatoes. (The last one is technically a fruit, but they just had to join in on the fun.) So this is a great way to pack all your veggies into one simple and delicious meal.
I eyeballed the amount of vinaigrette I poured into the pan, about two tablespoons. However, you don't have to worry about using too much because the magically perfect amount just sticks onto every veggie, adding just the right splash of flavor. The leftover vinaigrette just slides right off, staying in the pan.
I did a happy food dance the entire time I was eating.
Because they're are so many variables with this dish, I don't have a specific recipe for anyone to follow if they are interested in making their own. But I think that's kind of the beauty of it, right? "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled veggies yearning to break free" from the refrigerator. Seriously, you could throw everything but the kitchen sink into this pan, and it will come out tasting like sweet balsamic vinaigrette and acting like a super food.
The one recommendation I will make for this dish is for the brand of balsamic vinaigrette. The brand I used was Chef Tim's Sweet Balsamic Vinaigrette, and it is probably the most delicious balsamic vinaigrette I have ever tasted. However, I do believe that this stir fry will work with regular balsamic vinaigrette, if that is more your dressing style.
To sum this dish up: it's quick, it's healthy, it's vegan, and it's freaking yummy. Enjoy responsibly.
I eyeballed the amount of vinaigrette I poured into the pan, about two tablespoons. However, you don't have to worry about using too much because the magically perfect amount just sticks onto every veggie, adding just the right splash of flavor. The leftover vinaigrette just slides right off, staying in the pan.
I did a happy food dance the entire time I was eating.
Because they're are so many variables with this dish, I don't have a specific recipe for anyone to follow if they are interested in making their own. But I think that's kind of the beauty of it, right? "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled veggies yearning to break free" from the refrigerator. Seriously, you could throw everything but the kitchen sink into this pan, and it will come out tasting like sweet balsamic vinaigrette and acting like a super food.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)