A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm!

Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, J'ai-oublié-mon-blogité

Yup-- I totally forgot about blogging yesterday.  I honestly did, and it's weird because normally blogging is very much at the forefront of my mind (i.e. I'm pretty friggin' anal about the whole thing).

But yesterday I took a nice shower and I went for a solo walk and I even got a pink mani-pedi that makes me feel very happy and girly.  I worked on one of the goofiest things I've ever made --a crocheted bag made out of plastic bags-- and I read part one on the Post's series on what really happened to Chandra Levy (because as sad as the story is, there is nothing quite like reading a good mystery caper).  And to top off the day, we had Five Guys for dinner.

So you could say that I fed myself the sort of spiritual (and highly-caloric, local-favorite) food that makes colds and/or allergies go away.  Or well, at least feel less horrid if I am to be honest.  Today was a mellow day and I expect tomorrow to be a version of that as well, and I am digging that.

So just for the record, this post counts double.

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Oh um, yeah.  Food.

Today we celebrate Bastille Day, also known as the beginning of the French Revolution, which happened back in 1789.  I don't think I am familiar with French holiday food --for quite obvious reasons, as I am neither French, nor have lived in France-- but I do know there are a couple of people who read this who are qualified to reply to this.  What is typical Quatorze Juilliet fare? 

I mean, apart from chiens chauds,  that is? ;o)

Damn Hormones.

So I was just perusing some information on what you can and cannot take medicine-wise, like, say, for a cold, when you're pregnant.  The verdict?  Easy.

What you can take: Nothing.

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So it's safe to say that I'm feeling a little sorry for myself.  Not even an Advil, really?  Maybe I shouldn't have taken that whole "benefits outweighing the risks" bit so much to heart.  I mean, children have turned out fine and people, short of taking Accutane and Thalidomide, have taken pain pills and antibiotics and decongestants and all manner of drugs before.

But I guess I also feel like being a little whiny.  I was remembering earlier, through a rather disgusting series of events that included that particularly off-putting thing that small children do wherein they take a sip of your nice grown-up drink ("I have some of that?  Peez? May? I?") and then proceed to deposit half of their mouth's contents right into what becomes San Pellegrino, Torani syrup with a festive amount of ice and a liberal sprinkling of carrot by-product, a drink that my grandmother used to make for me when I was sick.

My grandmother was a hard person to live with on occasion, especially as I became older and less dependent on her; but she truly shined when you were sick or in need of a little TLC.  So whenever I was down with a cold, she would prepare something that may sound as gross as the Toddler Italian Soda listed above, but which to me was a real treat when I was feeling sorry for myself, as I am now.

She would finely grate a carrot and then pour boiling hot water over it.  Then she would squeeze almost a whole lime and add a few generous spoonfuls of honey. 

And then I'd eat the carrots, made soft and sweet and tender by the water and the honey and the lime, and pretend I was a horse eating straw.  And my throat would still hurt, but somehow I knew someone loved me, because I was eating my carrots and honey.

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I wish sometimes things were as simple as that.

Not Gilbert Grape, and Yet

I'm plumb out of foodness inspiration for today.  Of course I did eat but my culinary experiences weren't earth-shattering (though the pasta was cooked al dente and the sauce was nice, and the bean and corn salad came out good, too-- and yes, those flavors do go together).

I guess something is eating at me (see how cleverly I'm changing the subject here?). 

For some reason, I don't seem to be getting as much traffic as I have been and this fact has me a little --more than a little, really-- puzzled.  I like the attention.  Even if you guys don't say hello, which I understand because blogging doesn't have to be an ongoing dialogue of, "Oh really, you, too?  Me, too!  And you, too!" I like knowing that you guys stop by and read what I have to say.  Except that for the second part of this week things have been sluggish.  Is it me?  Do I smell?  Have I been blackballed by some alpha blogger and no one is telling me?  (I have, but shh... don't tell 'em I know, ok?)

I guess some weeks are slower than others.  Sometimes I feel like maybe blogging isn't as fun as it used to be.  Sometimes I feel like not even doing a monthly assignment stirs things up.  And sometimes it's a little frustrating to be a very small fish in a pond whose tributary is the equivalent of Niagara Falls.

Don't mind me.  I just sometimes feel like being eye-rollingly curmodgeonly.  Oh, and it's BlogHer conference time, too.  What's a not-really-fitting-in-anywhere-oh-so-seriously gamma girl to do?

Who said nothing?  DING! DING! DING!
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Wanna know if you're an alpha, beta or gamma girl?  Of course you do, even if you're a guy clawing at your mouse to get you the hell away from this page.

Click here for a really silly one.

Click here for another not-as-silly one.

My results, complete with she-should-shoot-someone ugly picture of Julia Stiles: 

Are you an alpha, beta, or gamma girl?

Are you an Alpha, Beta or Gamma girl?
Your Score is:  9  (5-11 points: GAMMA GIRL)

Pho-r Out!

Honestly, this cold/allergy thing I have going is turning out great in terms of food consumed.  Or maybe it's the pregnancy and the being-hungry-when-I'm-hungry-so-better-make-it-now-lest-I-bitch-slap-someone, but seriously (SRSLY!) I've been having some great food-related experiences.

Today I went out with my good buddy SoloMother, and her King of Everything and my Herr Meow had a wild time terrorizing the citizenry of Rosslyn as we walked toward our delicious destination:  Pho 75.

As you may or may not read from the Washingtonian write-up, the place in itself is nothing to write home about.  Large and largely charmless, the homiest detail is the grinning fat Buddha that welcomes you. But hey-- you're not here for the ambience --which grows on you anyway.

You're here for the steaming, hot, vibrant, yummy, appetizing, BIG, and did I already cliché myself into "delicious" territory?, PHO.

Now, it's true that soup is soup and beef noodle soup is nothing that special.  But no, this one is.  It really is.

Eating it is feeling happy from the inside. 

Adding the little raw extras lets you have perceived control over the sheer magnificence of this soup.

Slurping your noodles --which you simply MUST slurp and will want to slurp-- is a messy affirmation of life and carbohydrates.

Slurping your noodles is also a occupational hazard, as you may end up wearing your dinner if you're an overzealous and overdelighted diner.  Names are here withdrawn to protect the guilty.

Eating this soup, spoon in one hand and chopsticks in the other, is tapping into a source of life; a simple life where you can witness the miracle that is boiling water and what it does to some basic ingredients, which are then transformed into something that could very possibly raise the dead.

Pho-- it's what was for dinner.  And how.

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Pee Ess: Want to read about some pretty cool toothbrushes by Recycline? (coupon!) Make sure you go to Zen Sarcasm Reviews!

Armand-- Get me Some Cough Syrup Before you Go --XO Marge

There is a cute little poem in Spanish about a cold feeling like,

...In my throat I feel an ant running on a hundred long legs. (translation mine)

I memorized that poem when I was about 8 years old-- a friend of mine had picked it as her piece for this really dorky annual poetry thing we had to do at school.  I can still see her in my mind's eye, blond hair flying everywhere and big green eyes popping almost out of their sockets as she dramatized the horror of a cold.

Minus her energy, I am savoring/living that poem and that memory.  Because having a cold sucks such fat, hairy ones that it's not even funny or fair.

But perhaps the cruelest thing about a cold is that it robs you of enjoying and even of tasting your food.  Especially head colds are vicious that way.

I must have lucked out then, with this one (if such a concept is applicable) because this cold has allowed me to enjoy my food more thoroughly today than I have in a while.

I know, weird huh? 

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Maybe sometimes the body knows that you're talking about food all month and you'd better keep your game in good shape; or maybe it's just the simple but unalienable fact that sometimes the body shows gratitude in even the smallest of retributions to it.  In other words, if you've been walking under the hot sun and coughing as if you were French, in the 19th century, and pining away for the love you've just shunned because you're of low birth, a common woman, and you're dying of consumption, your body is probably going to be happy when it finally gets to eat.

Or maybe sometimes you eat something good.  And I can honestly say that I hadn't enjoyed a tuna melt as fine and delicious as I did today.   I enjoyed every single one of those million calories, as they slid down my ant-crawl-feeling raw throat, and I wouldn't change a single thing.
Thank you, Tunnicliff's, and thank you cold.

A Corn-Made Glow to Brighten the Weakest Sun

If you've never heard of an empanada, don't despair.

Surely you've heard of a turnover?
Or perhaps you've heard of a pasty, or a calzone or a meat-filled pastry?  Okay.  We're cookin' now (albeit only figuratively).

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Now, see, empanadas are highly regional in all of Spain and Latin America, and I suspect that every countryman thinks his or her version of the empanada is not just the better one, but the ONLY one.  It's really that simple: millions of others can create the same floury envelope and stuff it  with exactly the same fillings, but somehow the one you grew up with is the one that is the original in your heart.

(except for Argentine empanadas: those are just awesome)
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The Bogotan empanada looks like a golden half-moon thanks to the yellow corn flour that is fried to a crispy shell.  Inside comes a filling that features ground meat, rice, little bitty yellow potatoes and other delightfuls that come together in a delicious amalgam which is not too crumbly and not too runny: perfect for eating at recess or on the go (or when you're having recess on the go, as I usually did, that being a story for another day).

In other words, when done right, a Bogotan empanada is a glorious yellow semicircle of joy.  And when coupled with a cold Coca-Cola, it tastes like some of the best moments of my school life-- which is in itself a great big compliment and an exclusive category unto itself.
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No need to remind me of the fact that soda is all kinds of evil, dear Internets.  I know.  But as with the best laid plans of mice and men, it seems this pregnancy is not as smooth a sail as pregnancy #1, and wouldn't you know it?  The only thing that seems to be settling my stomach is ... soda.  Specifically, a cold Coca-Cola (or, if available, a blonde and sparkly Ginger Ale) seems to be my panacea.

So this morning in the middle of my errands, I stopped by the little Colombian market just off Arlington Boulevard and while getting rung up for other things, I just had to have an empanada.  And well, while we're at it, and it being close to recess time, why not have a Coke?

It might sound atrocious to you-- fried meat cake with evil soda?

But, really, there are no words to describe the joy of today so I'll leave it at that.

But at Least We Ate, Right?

Herr Meow and I had dinner at the kitchen counter-- not at the dinner table.

Everything else was genial: he ate plenty and had good manners, and the food was reasonably okay and balanced.

But as we ate perched on stools at the counter-- a slight step above eating right over the sink-- it felt so very wrong.  It actually made the absence of those who weren't dining there that much more acute.

Dining on those hard stools --so nice and cheerful in the mornings or at snacktime or any other time of day-- is the equivalent of not having that foot next to you at night.

Sometimes I wonder about people who are separated by war, or loss, or other circumstance, and not by a trivial business trip, and I wonder if they pity themselves at least a little bit and look back fondly at the dinner table and feel their heart break just a little bit.

So just know that today I thought of you.  And maybe by so doing, we were all a little less lonely.

More Like the Asscheek Factory-- No Offense

So today we went to the Cheesecake Factory.

Since we walked in right before the lunch rush, we were able to seat ourselves at the bar and see the platters going by for the other diners.

At one point, a manager type walked by with two dishes large enough for a colony of birds to bathe at ease and length.  Disgusted and delighted, we asked what those massive platters were and we were informed that those were a California salad and a Barbecue chicken salad.

So salad, right?  That's healthy.  Except.

There was easily half a pound of onion rings in one plate, and at least six chopped-up rashers of bacon in the other. 

Does that still mean it's a salad?  Or a cholesterol trap?

And as we sat to eat and watch passersby, and wonder who ate the "salad", we realized the answer is simple: most of the patrons who walked into the restaurant were overweight to obese.  And those who aren't heavy, are just greedy --us included.  Whatever we couldn't eat (and believe me, we tried), we took home.

Portions are ridiculous these days.  This is not just a Cheesecake Factory problem --which was, by the way, quite a tasty place-- but a global problem.  All around us, people were not just eating those gigantic portions almost whole but also getting dessert.  When they don't get gigantic portions, they feel gypped. 

Gigantic portions make you eat more.  Eating more makes you gain weight.  Weight lets in the door for more weight, and so the cycle goes (I've already put on like 5 lbs. alone this pregnancy, and it SUCKS).

A thousand-calorie salad with a cheesecake chaser?

Sometimes there are no words.

Lentil Be

I love lentils.
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I'm sure I can try to think of something more humble, demure, unassuming, and generally wallfloweresque in the kingdom of eating, but few things could really compete in any of those departments with the delightfully simple lentil.

And yet, lentils are protein and fiber powerhouses-- they can help sustain the traditional vegetarian diet in India, for instance.

And they don't take presoaking, like their diva cousins the beans do.  They just take some simmering for 20 minutes or so, and they are ready to fill your belly with creamy, nutty goodness.

They have their own taste, but they yield graciously to whatever spices you use.  They are at ease with just salt and pepper, but they can also tolerate spicy curries and sauces.

To see them in the supermarket is possibly an underwhelming an event as any you can witness: they hide (just in case you didn't know) in the dried grain or bulk sections.  Most people know only the "boring" brownish ones, although they come in a wide spectrum of colors --from inky black to delicate salmon pink.

They are cheap.

They are sometimes dirty, and sometimes chipped and unkempt.

But a dinner of lentils can cheer the body whole.

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I'm buying lentil seeds.

My two-week hiatus, despite my husband's best efforts with watering, has left my little container garden looking parched and sullen.  Somehow I feel like a guilty mother who let her child watch too much television or allowed him to drink too much soda.  Sometimes I wonder if I'm crazy for pushing a little garden that doesn't stand a chance with the intense heat it gets.  But then I find a little place that sells lentil seeds and I just have to give it one more try.

And maybe the humble lentil will restore my faith in growing things.

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Blogging while sleepy again.  Ho-ly crap.

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Ignore my cheeztastic title pun.

Constitutional Appetizers-- Eat Independently

Alrighty.  It seems that I didn't make good on my promise of Wednesday AND I managed to kind of drop the ball on my paean to the Olive Garden.  Hey, at least I got some sleep and I'm still blogging about food, right?

Never mind that.  The first thing I want to do is to acknowledge the wonderful Anita over at Prairie Dreams,  because she gave me a lovely and very flattering award.  Isn't it pretty? I think so-- I'm a sucker for cute little illustrations such as those (the puppy looks like it's smiling!), and I am very flattered and proud of the fact that someone thinks this blog is "just plain fun to read"!

Thank you so much, Anita!! 

I suppose I should now make my selections for blogs that I think are just plain fun to read, but if I'm being completely honest, it's a hard decision.  I have tried to include all the links to blogs I read and enjoy to the right, in the DevaRoll heading, and I encourage to visit all these folks.  I will also be adding more people to that blogroll because while on "vacation" I kind of realized that TypePad was only displaying 40 out of the well-over-70 blogs I had on my list; and I also realized that some of the links have changed or have become invalid altogether (I wish Google Reader would fill me in when someone has stopped writing, as I feel like I'm treading water some days, with 200 posts to read and no time to do so).

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Enough whining: HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY, MY FELLOW AMERICANS!

I for one am looking forward to eating some good barbecue and/or other goodies at a friend's home later today.  And isn't Independence Day all about the eating, anyway?  Fireworks, grilled meats, and delicious corn.... mmmm.

Except that as I was catching up on one of my favorite green blogs, Crunchy Chicken, I read about how in olden times, yet-not-so-olden if you consider that today America turns a mere 232 years old today, people used to observe solemn and joyous occasions by fasting and abstaining.  Crunchy goes on to propose that maybe the Fourth of July could be observed with a fast as a sign of independence from consumption of all kinds-- our great American obsession.

I don't necessarily know that I want to fast today, as I'm pretty hungry and it's not good for a lady who is in, ahem, a family way, but I find her post poignant and thought-provoking: maybe the Fourth of July should be less about the (glorious) food; or the parade candy and trinkets; or the bigger, louder better fireworks that seem to dramatically improve every year.

Maybe the Fourth of July should be about realizing that we're able to overeat and overdrink and OD on candy and watch parades and fireworks or consciously stop eating and driving and consuming if we wish.

Because we live in a country that is independent, and was constitutionally set up so we could do as we please, within the bounds of the law. 

Because our free will is not regimented by oppresion.

Because we're free.

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About the title:  Here in DC, the streets that border the National Mall to the north and south are called Constitution and Independence, respectively (according to the L'Enfant plan they would be B streets, north and south).  Monsieur Meow and I have talked about which concept is more important to the basis of this country, and I think we have agreed that while "Independence" is a more poetic word with strong emotional connotations, "Constitution" is really the one that makes sure democracy is a process and not just an unreachable ideal.  Today's title is a nod to that. 
Also, I'm a nerd.