When I left off my last post, my sister the cowgirl and I were taking a break from the gingerbread house we were making so that she could help her husband put hay into a barn. This took a lot longer than I anticipated. I resume the saga a few hours later...
3:15 p.m. With help from the cowboy, the cowgirl remeasures the cardboard template pieces for the house and scales everything down. Way down. The goal, as I understand it, is to avoid having to make another whole batch of dough—a goal that I very heartily support. Not that making gingerbread dough from scratch isn't more fun than a barrel of monkeys, but I'm ready to move on to the next part of the process, whatever that might be.
The cowgirl lays out the cardboard pieces on the three giant slabs of gingerbread we've already prepared. A few moments later she says, "We have to do another batch."
Maybe I shouldn't have sampled so much dough when the cowgirl wasn't looking.
4:00 Round 2 of dough-making begins. For the record, my right arm still hasn't forgiven me for all the whisking I had to do in the first round.
4:05 "No wonder they sell kits for this," the cowgirl says.
4:15 - 6:15 A lot happens, including the preparation of a butternut squash soup while we are still in the middle of baking what are starting to seem like an endless parade of gingerbread pieces. I feel like I've fallen into some surreal dream, or maybe a Disney's Fantasia! segment, where kitchen implements come to life and dance around and food bursts into song and the whole world trips out. Worst of all, I can't stop myself from snacking on scraps of gingerbread, which is giving me a stomachache. Plus, it tastes weird when eaten while the scent of the sauteed onions fills the air, which it does because of the soup.
At some point I realize I have not left the house all day. At another point, I pour myself a stiff drink.
The cowgirl wonders who first had the bright idea of making gingerbread houses. I suggest—or blame—the Swiss. I'm wrong, as it turns out, but I don't care.
6:15 If I never eat gingerbread again as long as I live, I'll be fine.
6:20 The cowgirl valiantly keeps trying to give me tips on making the butternut squash soup, so I can do it on my own in the future. Her confidence in my potential for domestication is endearing, really. Especially given her close proximity to me in the kitchen all day today.
6:55 The butternut squash soup is nearly ready! I think we are also still baking gingerbread, but I really have no idea anymore what's going on. Everything's a bit of a blur. And no, it's not because of the stiff drink. Even though I had another one.
8:00 Dinner's finished. The gingerbread house pieces are all cooked and laid out on racks on the dining room table. Are we almost done? No. We still have to make frosting tomorrow, once again from scratch. Why, I want to say, or, more accurately, scream. Why why why, when someone so cleverly invented ready-made frosting in a little tub that you can buy from the grocery store! (I'm sure it comes as a big surprise that between the two of us, the cowgirl is the one who's married.)
9:00 After cleaning up the kitchen, vacuuming, and starting a load of laundry, the cowgirl mixes a pomegranate martini for each of us. At least one of us has earned it.
9:10 I show the cowgirl what I've written here, before I post it to the blog.. When she gets to the part about the frosting, she says, "It's a different kind of frosting." Of course it is.
"And you earned it too," she adds, referring to the martini.
I laugh. "No, I didn't."
"You were standing up almost as long as I was!" She pauses. "You didn't drag hay into the barn, but..." I laugh again. A few minutes later, she asks if I want a refill. I say sure. Then she realizes there's only enough left in the shaker for one more drink.
I tell her to go ahead.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Adventures In The Cowgirl's Kitchen, Part 1
10:00 Since I arrived at my sister the cowgirl's place last Sunday for a visit, she's been talking a lot about a gingerbread house competition she wants to enter. Today is the day that we are going to embark on this project. I told her I'd "help" but we all know what that means. (Hey, someone has to make sure everything tastes the way it's supposed to, right?)
10:15 The cowgirl turns on the stereo and the soundtrack from O Brother Where Art Thou starts playing. The cowgirl begins trying to tape together the cardboard skeleton of the house, which has been designed and cut out by her husband the cowboy before he left to pick up some hay.
Apparently the house is going to be a mansion. The cowgirl hopes the gingerbread sections (which "we" are going to make from scratch) will fit on her baking pans. I hope so, too, if for no other reason than that it will be a lot more peaceful around here if they do.
10:25 It turns out that cardboard is less cooperative than you might think.
10:29 The cowgirl is taking measurements, making drawings, and trying to get the house to stand up. "The roof is going to be the bear," says the cowgirl. My thoughts exactly. Or something like that.
10:47 Not for the first time, the cowgirl expresses concern about how big the gingerbread pieces will have to be. In the background, I hear voices singing a mournful chorus: "I am weary, let me rest." I suspect it's an omen but for once I keep my opinion to myself.
10:55 I am given the job of whipping some cream and vanilla together until it develops "soft peaks." Not being experienced in these matters, I'm not sure what this means, but figure I'll find out. The cowgirl says I can use the handheld electric whisk, or just do it on my own power. I opt for the latter because "I need the exercise" but in reality it's because I'm too lazy to put together and plug in the electric whisk.
11:04 Whoever invented the handheld electric whisk deserves a medal.
11:15 I get in trouble for pausing the whisk so that I can sing along with the last song on the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack.
11:25 Finally, the whipping cream is done, which is good because my right tricep is about to go on strike, electric whisk notwithstanding. R.E.M.'s Automatic for the People album is playing now. Ever so subtly, the atmosphere changes.
11:37 The gingerbread dough is all mixed! The cowgirl starts rolling it out. She stops, looks at the dough sticking to the rolling pin. "I can see this is going to get really obnoxious," she says. She's right. And what's even more obnoxious is how it takes both of us to try to lift the (giant) gingerbread pieces and move them to a baking sheet, and yet we still can't prevent the pieces from tearing.
"How does anyone do stuff like this by themselves?" I wonder aloud.
"I don't know!" the cowgirl wails. I pick up some of the scraps and eat them. Mmm, the sweet taste of silver lining...
12:05 Looks like we have a choice between making another batch of gingerbread dough or making the house smaller. The cowgirl and I glance at each other. She gets out her measuring tape and an X-acto knife.
12:15 The cowboy's returned with a truckful and then some of hay. The cowgirl has to run out and help him unload. I'd join them, but someone has to eat, I mean guard, the gingerbread dough. Besides, it's raining out there. Brrr.
More to come, I'm sure. Stay tuned.
10:15 The cowgirl turns on the stereo and the soundtrack from O Brother Where Art Thou starts playing. The cowgirl begins trying to tape together the cardboard skeleton of the house, which has been designed and cut out by her husband the cowboy before he left to pick up some hay.
Apparently the house is going to be a mansion. The cowgirl hopes the gingerbread sections (which "we" are going to make from scratch) will fit on her baking pans. I hope so, too, if for no other reason than that it will be a lot more peaceful around here if they do.
10:25 It turns out that cardboard is less cooperative than you might think.
10:29 The cowgirl is taking measurements, making drawings, and trying to get the house to stand up. "The roof is going to be the bear," says the cowgirl. My thoughts exactly. Or something like that.
10:47 Not for the first time, the cowgirl expresses concern about how big the gingerbread pieces will have to be. In the background, I hear voices singing a mournful chorus: "I am weary, let me rest." I suspect it's an omen but for once I keep my opinion to myself.
10:55 I am given the job of whipping some cream and vanilla together until it develops "soft peaks." Not being experienced in these matters, I'm not sure what this means, but figure I'll find out. The cowgirl says I can use the handheld electric whisk, or just do it on my own power. I opt for the latter because "I need the exercise" but in reality it's because I'm too lazy to put together and plug in the electric whisk.
11:04 Whoever invented the handheld electric whisk deserves a medal.
11:15 I get in trouble for pausing the whisk so that I can sing along with the last song on the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack.
11:25 Finally, the whipping cream is done, which is good because my right tricep is about to go on strike, electric whisk notwithstanding. R.E.M.'s Automatic for the People album is playing now. Ever so subtly, the atmosphere changes.
11:37 The gingerbread dough is all mixed! The cowgirl starts rolling it out. She stops, looks at the dough sticking to the rolling pin. "I can see this is going to get really obnoxious," she says. She's right. And what's even more obnoxious is how it takes both of us to try to lift the (giant) gingerbread pieces and move them to a baking sheet, and yet we still can't prevent the pieces from tearing.
"How does anyone do stuff like this by themselves?" I wonder aloud.
"I don't know!" the cowgirl wails. I pick up some of the scraps and eat them. Mmm, the sweet taste of silver lining...
12:05 Looks like we have a choice between making another batch of gingerbread dough or making the house smaller. The cowgirl and I glance at each other. She gets out her measuring tape and an X-acto knife.
12:15 The cowboy's returned with a truckful and then some of hay. The cowgirl has to run out and help him unload. I'd join them, but someone has to eat, I mean guard, the gingerbread dough. Besides, it's raining out there. Brrr.
More to come, I'm sure. Stay tuned.
Thursday, November 04, 2010
Communion
Last night I had communion in a pub. I didn't plan to, it just kind of happened. And I have to say, it was pretty awesome.
I get together at this pub every couple weeks or so with a few friends to have drinks and discuss various culturally relevant topics of interest to all of us. We call ourselves The Philosophers Club, I guess because we couldn't come up with anything much nerdier than that. (I mean honestly, could you?) But inevitably, no matter what topic we start out with — the evils of Facebook (that's usually my idea), the nature of truth, the pursuit of happiness — we always end up talking about church and Christianity. And last night was no exception.
Confession time: I haven't been to church in several weeks now, because my church is in my black books lately. It's hard for me to articulate exactly why, but basically I'm annoyed at the whole programmatic aspect of the endeavor. Church isn't a place to be anymore, if it ever was, at least in America. No, it's a whole new To Do list, especially when you add up the myriad of activities beyond the Sunday sermon to help you get "plugged in" or "connected" (and notice the terminology of mechanization).
As if we weren't busy enough already in our lives.
Here's the thing. I don't want to join a "small group", or lead one. I don't want to go on a missions trip. I don't want to go on my church's annual retreat, a decision that people simply can't understand when I don't offer up a good excuse along with it, such as, "I'm dying." And so help me God, if I hear the word "community" or the phrase "doing life together" one more time, I'm going to puke on someone's face.
What I want is rest. I want silence. I want mystery. And I want communion. But I don't particularly want church. At least not right now.
I said some of this to my fellow philosophers (all two of them) last night. Not in so many words, but that was the gist. At least it must have been, because the next thing I knew, one of them was flagging down the waitress (who, I thought, was already a tiny bit annoyed at us for not buying beer or food this time, just coffee and dessert) to tell her, "We'd like to do communion. Can we have some wine and a side of bread?"
I felt a little weird about it at first. Praying over the bread and wine when it was brought to our courtyard table, while some sports event played out on the big screen TV behind me. Passing the elements around and trying not to look at fellow diners to see if they were looking at us. But after we prayed, after we read the Passover passage from the Gospel of Luke off of my friend's iPad, after we broke the bread and shared the wine, we sat back, looked at each other, and said, 'Wow. That was really nice."
And you know what? It was. Really, really nice.
An interesting little addendum to this story: Today I found out that last Sunday the topic at my church was... the meaning of communion. Weird, right? Maybe God's trying to tell me something. Maybe I'll try not to think about what it might be. Because I have this sick feeling it involves the word "community." Ugh.
I get together at this pub every couple weeks or so with a few friends to have drinks and discuss various culturally relevant topics of interest to all of us. We call ourselves The Philosophers Club, I guess because we couldn't come up with anything much nerdier than that. (I mean honestly, could you?) But inevitably, no matter what topic we start out with — the evils of Facebook (that's usually my idea), the nature of truth, the pursuit of happiness — we always end up talking about church and Christianity. And last night was no exception.
Confession time: I haven't been to church in several weeks now, because my church is in my black books lately. It's hard for me to articulate exactly why, but basically I'm annoyed at the whole programmatic aspect of the endeavor. Church isn't a place to be anymore, if it ever was, at least in America. No, it's a whole new To Do list, especially when you add up the myriad of activities beyond the Sunday sermon to help you get "plugged in" or "connected" (and notice the terminology of mechanization).
As if we weren't busy enough already in our lives.
Here's the thing. I don't want to join a "small group", or lead one. I don't want to go on a missions trip. I don't want to go on my church's annual retreat, a decision that people simply can't understand when I don't offer up a good excuse along with it, such as, "I'm dying." And so help me God, if I hear the word "community" or the phrase "doing life together" one more time, I'm going to puke on someone's face.
What I want is rest. I want silence. I want mystery. And I want communion. But I don't particularly want church. At least not right now.
I said some of this to my fellow philosophers (all two of them) last night. Not in so many words, but that was the gist. At least it must have been, because the next thing I knew, one of them was flagging down the waitress (who, I thought, was already a tiny bit annoyed at us for not buying beer or food this time, just coffee and dessert) to tell her, "We'd like to do communion. Can we have some wine and a side of bread?"
I felt a little weird about it at first. Praying over the bread and wine when it was brought to our courtyard table, while some sports event played out on the big screen TV behind me. Passing the elements around and trying not to look at fellow diners to see if they were looking at us. But after we prayed, after we read the Passover passage from the Gospel of Luke off of my friend's iPad, after we broke the bread and shared the wine, we sat back, looked at each other, and said, 'Wow. That was really nice."
And you know what? It was. Really, really nice.
An interesting little addendum to this story: Today I found out that last Sunday the topic at my church was... the meaning of communion. Weird, right? Maybe God's trying to tell me something. Maybe I'll try not to think about what it might be. Because I have this sick feeling it involves the word "community." Ugh.
Monday, November 01, 2010
NanoWriMo 2010!
Well, it's November and that means it's also National Novel Writing Month. Somewhat to my own surprise, my friend Drew managed to talk me into participating this year. "It works out to 1,667 words a day," he said. Which sounded doable.
Until today, of course, when NanoWriMo officially begins. And of course my mind is blank.
Soooo, anyone have a first sentence lying around that they don't need? Just curious.
Until today, of course, when NanoWriMo officially begins. And of course my mind is blank.
Soooo, anyone have a first sentence lying around that they don't need? Just curious.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Honk If You REALLY Love Jesus
The other night I was driving along Los Feliz Blvd when I found myself behind a car with a bumper sticker that said, "Honk if you LOVE it!" And I found myself wondering if people who have these "Honk if you love [whatever]" stickers on their car actually remember that they do. I mean, if someone behind them honks, do they think, "Cool, that person liked my bumper sticker!" or do they freak out and wonder if they did something wrong, or do they just plain go from zero to road rage and flip off whoever honked?
I considered honking to find out, but L.A. isn't really the sort of place where you want to drive around playing games with your horn, so I didn't.
Besides, the "Honk if you LOVE it!" sticker was underneath another sticker that said, "Real men find Jesus sexually attractive," and that gave me other stuff to wonder about. Mainly, why?
It's mostly a rhetorical question.
I considered honking to find out, but L.A. isn't really the sort of place where you want to drive around playing games with your horn, so I didn't.
Besides, the "Honk if you LOVE it!" sticker was underneath another sticker that said, "Real men find Jesus sexually attractive," and that gave me other stuff to wonder about. Mainly, why?
It's mostly a rhetorical question.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
I Obsess Like
While the rest of the world is riveted by the saga of the Chilean miners, I have been obsessing over the I Write Like website. This should tell you something about me, but I hope you'll ignore it..
The important thing to note is that I finally got the website to say that I write like someone I wouldn't mind writing like. Someone other than Dan Brown, Stephen King, Chuck Palahniuk (I really can't believe I got compared to the author of Fight Club), Isaac Asimov and Rudyard Kipling.
Today I achieved... drum roll, please... no, really, I want the drum roll, so please do it... thank you... get ready now...
Ernest Hemingway!
Now, I'm trying not to think about the fact that I allegedly write like old white guys. I'm also trying not to think about the fact that I have actually been obsessing over what a website has to say about my writing. And I'm also also trying not to think about the fact that I got Hemingway after typing the following three lines into the "analyzer":
"The unicorn was dead when they found it. Nothing they could have done. That didn't make them feel any better."
I know. I have issues. Lots of them. But hey, so did Hemingway. Did I mention I write like him? A website told me so. Booyah.
The important thing to note is that I finally got the website to say that I write like someone I wouldn't mind writing like. Someone other than Dan Brown, Stephen King, Chuck Palahniuk (I really can't believe I got compared to the author of Fight Club), Isaac Asimov and Rudyard Kipling.
Today I achieved... drum roll, please... no, really, I want the drum roll, so please do it... thank you... get ready now...
Ernest Hemingway!
Now, I'm trying not to think about the fact that I allegedly write like old white guys. I'm also trying not to think about the fact that I have actually been obsessing over what a website has to say about my writing. And I'm also also trying not to think about the fact that I got Hemingway after typing the following three lines into the "analyzer":
"The unicorn was dead when they found it. Nothing they could have done. That didn't make them feel any better."
I know. I have issues. Lots of them. But hey, so did Hemingway. Did I mention I write like him? A website told me so. Booyah.
A Rant of Biblical Proportions
Yesterday on my way home from breakfast, I stopped at a local used bookstore that specializes in books on Christian theology and spirituality. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, but as I walked in I remembered that I had been thinking about getting a chronological Bible and decided to see if they had any. But I was only in their "Bibles" section for two seconds before I felt the familiar weariness that is my standard reaction to Christian bookstores as a whole.
There were so many Bibles. I'm not talking about translations here; I'm talking about "The Couple's Devotional Bible", the "Celebrate Recovery Bible", "The Groom's Bible" (subtitle: "preparing spiritually for the most important day of your life"), and the one that really made me gag, the "Busy Life Bible" ("Got a minute? Only a minute? This Bible is designed just for you").
There were Bibles for students, for dads, for "all people" (I guess just in case, God forbid, a niche market was overlooked). There was an "Inclusive" Bible, which sounds like the Bible for all people, except it's not; it's an "egalitarian" Bible, meaning it uses words like humankind instead of mankind, and so on. There were indeed chronological Bibles (none of which I ended up buying), as well as one-year reading plan Bibles and study Bibles — including the "Inspirational Study Bible", edited, to my complete lack of surprise, by Max Lucado.
I'm not going to make some big point here (probably to your complete lack of surprise). I just feel kind of sad. It's bad enough, in my opinion, that American Christianity has been commodified into bumper stickers and T-shirts with saccharine slogans on them, or Jesus Christ action figures, or (God forgive us) this. All of that is plain awful, period. But what can you expect from people who see in the sacred text itself an opportunity for profit? Every carefully branded iteration of what used to be simply The Holy Bible is yet another triumph of marketing over mystery.
We talk about Christ paying the price for our sins. Well, believe me, he still does.
There were so many Bibles. I'm not talking about translations here; I'm talking about "The Couple's Devotional Bible", the "Celebrate Recovery Bible", "The Groom's Bible" (subtitle: "preparing spiritually for the most important day of your life"), and the one that really made me gag, the "Busy Life Bible" ("Got a minute? Only a minute? This Bible is designed just for you").
There were Bibles for students, for dads, for "all people" (I guess just in case, God forbid, a niche market was overlooked). There was an "Inclusive" Bible, which sounds like the Bible for all people, except it's not; it's an "egalitarian" Bible, meaning it uses words like humankind instead of mankind, and so on. There were indeed chronological Bibles (none of which I ended up buying), as well as one-year reading plan Bibles and study Bibles — including the "Inspirational Study Bible", edited, to my complete lack of surprise, by Max Lucado.
I'm not going to make some big point here (probably to your complete lack of surprise). I just feel kind of sad. It's bad enough, in my opinion, that American Christianity has been commodified into bumper stickers and T-shirts with saccharine slogans on them, or Jesus Christ action figures, or (God forgive us) this. All of that is plain awful, period. But what can you expect from people who see in the sacred text itself an opportunity for profit? Every carefully branded iteration of what used to be simply The Holy Bible is yet another triumph of marketing over mystery.
We talk about Christ paying the price for our sins. Well, believe me, he still does.
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