Les Miserables is ripe with symbolism as most classics are. In recent lectures references have been made to Jean Valjean’s garden and it has been a wondrous spark for my analytical brain.
Jean Valjean and Cosette are running from the law again. They decide to live in a house where they try to be inconspicuous. Hence Jean Valjean decides to not spend any time tending to his garden. He decides that if his garden is lovely, people will be drawn to it and they then will begin to come around. Having people around means people asking questions, which is what he most wants to avoid. So the garden is overgrown, weeds take over and people get the impression that no one lives there. Just as he wanted!
I began to wonder about the garden as something more than its face value. Yes, he doesn’t want people to visit or be nosey but what if there was more to this garden upon looking more closely. I realized that the garden was a symbol of Jean Valjean’s mental state. He’s slowly growing older and he’s trying the best he can to protect and raise Cosette without drawing attention to him or his history. His thoughts are sprouting all over and taking over the house of his body. He’s trying to contain everything in the garden of his mind. But it’s hard to not see that it’s slowly consuming him.
At this point in the narrative Cosette is slowly becoming a woman so we see her development and her thoughts more than we did before. In one scene Cosette takes a walk in the garden and the weeds are past her ankles. Despite this she enjoys walking through the weeds. She even likes to see the different kinds of bugs that appear as she strolls through the various paths. My interpretation of this scene is how Cosette is trying to make her way through her father’s thoughts, knowing they are confusing but enjoying the tidbits that she can put together. She’s slowly understanding her father without directly confronting him and questioning him on his decisions.
This is one section of the novel that I found intriguing. Honestly the novel doesn’t disappoint but this was one of the few times I was prompted to write something related to my readings.
It made me wonder if the garden I’ve been trying to grow the last few years is a symbol for my mental state. I’ll have to pay more attention come spring time!
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
My First Food Memory
Almost every Sunday morning as a kid I would wake up to the smell of garlic wafting through the house. The aroma tickling my nostrils was an indication that it was time to get up, get dressed and get a piece of bread. This has always been the best alarm clock I have ever known.
My mom prepared tomato sauce early in the morning with the intent of getting us to church for 10:30 mass. She started cooking around 8 in the morning. Occasionally after the garlic, the sizzle of either meatballs or short ribs would skip through the house. Eventually the tomatoes would hit the saucepan and then assault on the sauce would begin. When my mom wasn’t looking, I (and my siblings too) would grab a piece of bread and dip it into the sauce. This was the Sunday morning breakfast of champions! My mom would convince me to have cereal and milk or something else but I was content to have pieces of saucy bread for breakfast.
Then my mom, my siblings and I would head off to church. The idea was that mass would be done around noon. At that point my dad would start boiling the water for the pasta so that by the time we came home, we could eat Sunday lunch. Or at least by the time we got home we could make the big decision of which pasta (shape) we wanted. Every week we rotated…so the decision could be made before church or whenever we got home depending on whose week it was to decide on the pasta.
Honestly the weekends were always about food in some way. On Saturdays my dad would take a drive up to little Italy in the Bronx. He would go for some hardware or supplies he needed for work. On his way back into the city, he’d pass by Arthur Avenue and get some warm rustic bread, a fresh mozzarella and a number of other delicacies. We would wait in anticipation of his arrival with the yummy and delicious mozzarella that dripped fresh milk onto the warm bread. At times my excitement for seeing the mozzarella far surpassed the excitement I should have had for my dad’s return (sorry pop!).
Occasionally my dad would bring home a big piece of prosciutto that we would cut and put in a mozzarella and tomato sandwich (all with the warm bread!). Or he would bring home spicy olives and I would pick my way through the container. It was a glorious feast!
This is what always comes to mind when I think of my first food memory – food during the weekend as a kid. And to this day there still is nothing as satisfying as that lovely mozzarella from the Bronx and a nice piece of bread to accompany it…or a piece of bread dipped in sauce.
My mom prepared tomato sauce early in the morning with the intent of getting us to church for 10:30 mass. She started cooking around 8 in the morning. Occasionally after the garlic, the sizzle of either meatballs or short ribs would skip through the house. Eventually the tomatoes would hit the saucepan and then assault on the sauce would begin. When my mom wasn’t looking, I (and my siblings too) would grab a piece of bread and dip it into the sauce. This was the Sunday morning breakfast of champions! My mom would convince me to have cereal and milk or something else but I was content to have pieces of saucy bread for breakfast.
Then my mom, my siblings and I would head off to church. The idea was that mass would be done around noon. At that point my dad would start boiling the water for the pasta so that by the time we came home, we could eat Sunday lunch. Or at least by the time we got home we could make the big decision of which pasta (shape) we wanted. Every week we rotated…so the decision could be made before church or whenever we got home depending on whose week it was to decide on the pasta.
Honestly the weekends were always about food in some way. On Saturdays my dad would take a drive up to little Italy in the Bronx. He would go for some hardware or supplies he needed for work. On his way back into the city, he’d pass by Arthur Avenue and get some warm rustic bread, a fresh mozzarella and a number of other delicacies. We would wait in anticipation of his arrival with the yummy and delicious mozzarella that dripped fresh milk onto the warm bread. At times my excitement for seeing the mozzarella far surpassed the excitement I should have had for my dad’s return (sorry pop!).
Occasionally my dad would bring home a big piece of prosciutto that we would cut and put in a mozzarella and tomato sandwich (all with the warm bread!). Or he would bring home spicy olives and I would pick my way through the container. It was a glorious feast!
This is what always comes to mind when I think of my first food memory – food during the weekend as a kid. And to this day there still is nothing as satisfying as that lovely mozzarella from the Bronx and a nice piece of bread to accompany it…or a piece of bread dipped in sauce.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Pizza Party
One of the biggest indications that I am making a recovery is how quickly I want pizza. 3 days into my recent recovery, I was seeing triangular slices of mozzarella, tomato, basil and various other toppings dancing in front of my eyes. It seems that it is hereditary though and not medicinal.
I adore pizza. I won’t say it’s my favorite food but there is something special about it. It can be the most simple and satisfying thing to eat. It can also be delicate as well as complex. I’ve had a wild share of interesting pizzas in my day. One of the most memorable pizzas I’ve ever had was brimming with prosciutto, watermelon and arugula – the perfect blend of salty, sweet and bitter as well as hot and cold. Upon first seeing it on the menu, I know I made a face like I smelled a ruptured sewer pipe. But once I tasted it, I was awestruck. I welcome such surprises. Often it is with simple ingredients that one’s mind can be blown.
Anyway, I was saying it might be hereditary. My mom loves pizza. She may never admit it but she does. At least once a week you will hear her say “just order a pizza for dinner.” She will admit that at least once a week that will be on the menu because she just doesn’t feel like cooking. But it isn’t about it cooking, it’s about her pizza cravings. And whenever we pass by certain pizzerias, even if we’ve eaten a small country’s worth of food, she will say “Do you want some pizza?”
In past entries I’ve mentioned how my cousin would not eat anything but pizza when he was visiting last year. Honestly he eats pizza pretty much all the time when he’s in Italy. But part of why he was fixated on pizza was that it’s very hard to mess it up. He would rather have had a mediocre pizza than something weird like frog’s legs. I do think this is faulty logic but it’s ok. Sometimes there is nothing better than a slice of pizza.
When my husband first went to Italy, he wanted to wait until we got to Naples to eat a pizza. He wanted to have a pizza in the place of its birth. I told him he was making an enormous faux pas. Naples has fantastic pizza but many of the other Italian cities have phenomenal pies. In fact Rome is crawling with pizzerias that have pizzas that make you say “I can now die. I’ve eaten a piece of heaven.” One such place is Da Baffetto (Via del Governo Vecchio) in Rome. The waiters are the entertainment but the pizzas make you happy to be alive and are proof that a supreme being exists. My husband and I had their house special – individual thin crust pizzas with tomato sauce, cheese, mushrooms, salami and a fried egg. When the soft yolk breaks over the pizza, it is an exquisite dance of creamy sweetness blended with the salty salami. I took a breath so deep after eating it to verify that I was still alive. It was a pleasurable pirouette of playful textures prancing on my palate. I dream about this experience often. If there were a way to jet off to Rome on a moment’s notice, I’d be the first in line to take that flight just so I could have another pie!
Don’t get me wrong though. Naples also has some great pizzerias. I’m just too hungry right now to get into that discourse. It will have to wait for another day.
I adore pizza. I won’t say it’s my favorite food but there is something special about it. It can be the most simple and satisfying thing to eat. It can also be delicate as well as complex. I’ve had a wild share of interesting pizzas in my day. One of the most memorable pizzas I’ve ever had was brimming with prosciutto, watermelon and arugula – the perfect blend of salty, sweet and bitter as well as hot and cold. Upon first seeing it on the menu, I know I made a face like I smelled a ruptured sewer pipe. But once I tasted it, I was awestruck. I welcome such surprises. Often it is with simple ingredients that one’s mind can be blown.
Anyway, I was saying it might be hereditary. My mom loves pizza. She may never admit it but she does. At least once a week you will hear her say “just order a pizza for dinner.” She will admit that at least once a week that will be on the menu because she just doesn’t feel like cooking. But it isn’t about it cooking, it’s about her pizza cravings. And whenever we pass by certain pizzerias, even if we’ve eaten a small country’s worth of food, she will say “Do you want some pizza?”
In past entries I’ve mentioned how my cousin would not eat anything but pizza when he was visiting last year. Honestly he eats pizza pretty much all the time when he’s in Italy. But part of why he was fixated on pizza was that it’s very hard to mess it up. He would rather have had a mediocre pizza than something weird like frog’s legs. I do think this is faulty logic but it’s ok. Sometimes there is nothing better than a slice of pizza.
When my husband first went to Italy, he wanted to wait until we got to Naples to eat a pizza. He wanted to have a pizza in the place of its birth. I told him he was making an enormous faux pas. Naples has fantastic pizza but many of the other Italian cities have phenomenal pies. In fact Rome is crawling with pizzerias that have pizzas that make you say “I can now die. I’ve eaten a piece of heaven.” One such place is Da Baffetto (Via del Governo Vecchio) in Rome. The waiters are the entertainment but the pizzas make you happy to be alive and are proof that a supreme being exists. My husband and I had their house special – individual thin crust pizzas with tomato sauce, cheese, mushrooms, salami and a fried egg. When the soft yolk breaks over the pizza, it is an exquisite dance of creamy sweetness blended with the salty salami. I took a breath so deep after eating it to verify that I was still alive. It was a pleasurable pirouette of playful textures prancing on my palate. I dream about this experience often. If there were a way to jet off to Rome on a moment’s notice, I’d be the first in line to take that flight just so I could have another pie!
Don’t get me wrong though. Naples also has some great pizzerias. I’m just too hungry right now to get into that discourse. It will have to wait for another day.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Squirrels Get in Your Eyes
The weather was cool but not crisp. The sunrise was looming over the East. I had my coffee in hand and leash in the other. It was time to visit the park.
As we approached the entrance, the tugging on the leash got stronger. I stated firmly “Don’t pull!” The leash slacked a bit. Once we were in front of the park, Foxy sat down waiting for her leash to be removed. I clipped it off and down the hill she ran. She scampered about a bit then checked to see where I was, waited for me until she got a visual verification and then continued off on her path.
Mostly I follow her around and keep an eye on her. Occasionally we will get to a spot where we play “stick”, which is me tossing a stick around and having Foxy retrieve it and bring it back to me. On this day in particular we played two sessions of stick.
While doing so, Chloe, a boxer, decided to join in and chase Foxy while she tried to catch her sticks. Foxy was not willing to share her game with Chloe and let her know by turning her back on her. Chloe got the point and walked away.
We spent some more time walking around the park where Foxy jumped up the big rocks and rushed through bushes and shrubs.
The daylight started to become brighter which reminded me that it would soon be time to leave. I moved too slowly though as Foxy saw what usually came with brighter light – squirrels. On one tree there was one sitting on a branch just eating an acorn. Foxy was mesmerized for a few moments then began her twirling and spinning squirrel dance. As she continued her dance 4 more squirrels appeared on this same tree. It was as though Foxy’s dance was summoning them. I stood to the side and wondered “How am I going to get her to come home now?”
I let her stay under the tree for a little while as she danced and stared. As the squirrels began to tempt their fates more by getting closer to my canine, I called her. She looked at me as if to say “This is not a good time to leave.” She turned to look at the bushy tailed rodents. I called Foxy again but in a more firm tone. She came reluctantly while turning to look at the tree every so often before it was completely out of view.
It could have been a feast for her. One day I know she will catch one or two in her jaw and will have the time of her life. But that particular morning was not that day. She got her fill of squirrels in my book although I know that what she experienced was only an amuse-bouche in her book.
As we approached the entrance, the tugging on the leash got stronger. I stated firmly “Don’t pull!” The leash slacked a bit. Once we were in front of the park, Foxy sat down waiting for her leash to be removed. I clipped it off and down the hill she ran. She scampered about a bit then checked to see where I was, waited for me until she got a visual verification and then continued off on her path.
Mostly I follow her around and keep an eye on her. Occasionally we will get to a spot where we play “stick”, which is me tossing a stick around and having Foxy retrieve it and bring it back to me. On this day in particular we played two sessions of stick.
While doing so, Chloe, a boxer, decided to join in and chase Foxy while she tried to catch her sticks. Foxy was not willing to share her game with Chloe and let her know by turning her back on her. Chloe got the point and walked away.
We spent some more time walking around the park where Foxy jumped up the big rocks and rushed through bushes and shrubs.
The daylight started to become brighter which reminded me that it would soon be time to leave. I moved too slowly though as Foxy saw what usually came with brighter light – squirrels. On one tree there was one sitting on a branch just eating an acorn. Foxy was mesmerized for a few moments then began her twirling and spinning squirrel dance. As she continued her dance 4 more squirrels appeared on this same tree. It was as though Foxy’s dance was summoning them. I stood to the side and wondered “How am I going to get her to come home now?”
I let her stay under the tree for a little while as she danced and stared. As the squirrels began to tempt their fates more by getting closer to my canine, I called her. She looked at me as if to say “This is not a good time to leave.” She turned to look at the bushy tailed rodents. I called Foxy again but in a more firm tone. She came reluctantly while turning to look at the tree every so often before it was completely out of view.
It could have been a feast for her. One day I know she will catch one or two in her jaw and will have the time of her life. But that particular morning was not that day. She got her fill of squirrels in my book although I know that what she experienced was only an amuse-bouche in her book.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Tummy Troubles
Last week I had some stomach issues that kept me out of order for most of the week. It had started Tuesday night and lasted into Thursday. The discomfort manifested itself in one way on Tuesday and in another way on Wednesday. When Thursday came around, it became the biggest devil of pain imaginable.
I had gone into work on Thursday after taking the day off Wednesday. I wasn’t feeling the greatest but I wasn’t feeling the worst either. The morning was ok with a little blah happening in my stomach but nothing unbearable. By the time the afternoon rolled around, I couldn’t sit up straight. I was crouched with my head on my desk trying to get through meetings that I had to be on. After finishing a phone call, I rushed home with the hope that a nap might make me feel better. I was sorely mistaken. The pain got worse until I called the doctor. I explained what I was feeling and he asked me to go into his office.
After his consultation, along with the help of an attending doctor, they decided I needed to go in for an emergency procedure to see what was causing all the pain. The speed of the ordeal was surreal. I don’t remember much of it thanks to the morphine they gave me in the emergency room. But I do remember being wheeled into the operating room at 8:15pm.
The next thing I knew I was in the recovery room with a mouth that tasted of sewer and that felt like it had sucked in a desert. Luckily they fixed the problem and after a few precautions, I was sent home.
I spent the rest of the weekend recovering and am still doing so as I am working from home. I’ll be homebound for a bit which is better than the pain I was feeling last Thursday afternoon. When the doctor called me Friday morning, he reminded me that I could take medication if I was uncomfortable. I told him that after the pain I had the night before whatever I was feeling was nothing in comparison. He chuckled but reminded me that if I needed it, I should use it.
Hopefully I will make a full recovery soon and that everything will be all set going forward.
I had gone into work on Thursday after taking the day off Wednesday. I wasn’t feeling the greatest but I wasn’t feeling the worst either. The morning was ok with a little blah happening in my stomach but nothing unbearable. By the time the afternoon rolled around, I couldn’t sit up straight. I was crouched with my head on my desk trying to get through meetings that I had to be on. After finishing a phone call, I rushed home with the hope that a nap might make me feel better. I was sorely mistaken. The pain got worse until I called the doctor. I explained what I was feeling and he asked me to go into his office.
After his consultation, along with the help of an attending doctor, they decided I needed to go in for an emergency procedure to see what was causing all the pain. The speed of the ordeal was surreal. I don’t remember much of it thanks to the morphine they gave me in the emergency room. But I do remember being wheeled into the operating room at 8:15pm.
The next thing I knew I was in the recovery room with a mouth that tasted of sewer and that felt like it had sucked in a desert. Luckily they fixed the problem and after a few precautions, I was sent home.
I spent the rest of the weekend recovering and am still doing so as I am working from home. I’ll be homebound for a bit which is better than the pain I was feeling last Thursday afternoon. When the doctor called me Friday morning, he reminded me that I could take medication if I was uncomfortable. I told him that after the pain I had the night before whatever I was feeling was nothing in comparison. He chuckled but reminded me that if I needed it, I should use it.
Hopefully I will make a full recovery soon and that everything will be all set going forward.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Creative Writing
Recently I began a book written by a former creative writing teacher. I am close to finishing the novel and it makes me fondly remember that class that I took during my undergraduate years.
There were many really good students in that class. I didn’t even consider myself one of the good ones. But it was a great experience because it taught me how to harness my talent. It also instilled in me the routine of writing in spurts.
We would begin every class with a quick writing prompt. The point of this exercise was to write about a topic or in a writing style for about 10 – 15 minutes without taking our pens off the paper. Editing also wasn’t allowed. Doing this twice a week got our creative juices flowing which we could later use for our major papers for the class or we could scrap it and develop it at some other point in time.
We had to produce 2 longer works for the class which would be part of a class workshop. We could write a short story or a piece of a novel. We would create enough copies for all the other students in the class. They would then go home and read those pieces for homework and provide feedback in the class. Students could give their input during class or not. But we were all expected to give constructive criticism of the piece that the instructor would collect and read and grade as part of our participation grade.
One piece that I wrote created a bit of a buzz. I had no intention of causing a controversy; I was trying simply to work in humor. The workshop wasn’t too painful. Most everyone gave good ideas or pointed out things that I could work on more.
The next session the professor had read everyone’s critiques. Before she gave me the other students’ papers on my work, she took a moment to tell people what it meant to give constructive criticism. She had mentioned that we wouldn’t always love everything we read. But that didn’t mean we should use that as a moment to take down the other writer. We had to look at some piece of that writing that worked for us and what didn’t. But we weren’t supposed to be nasty about it. We had to be professional in our criticism.
That moment along with a number of others made that one of my favorite and most successful classes. So when I saw her name on a novel, I had to pick it up. As I’ve been reading it, I recall a couple of the writing lessons that she gave me. One of them was try to find a different way to say a cliché. Another tidbit was to trust your voice (if you had one) and to let that voice lead your story. In her book of short stories I have seen those important lessons appear on the pages of her short stories. I will always remember and thank her for those great pointers she gave me in that creative writing class so many years ago.
There were many really good students in that class. I didn’t even consider myself one of the good ones. But it was a great experience because it taught me how to harness my talent. It also instilled in me the routine of writing in spurts.
We would begin every class with a quick writing prompt. The point of this exercise was to write about a topic or in a writing style for about 10 – 15 minutes without taking our pens off the paper. Editing also wasn’t allowed. Doing this twice a week got our creative juices flowing which we could later use for our major papers for the class or we could scrap it and develop it at some other point in time.
We had to produce 2 longer works for the class which would be part of a class workshop. We could write a short story or a piece of a novel. We would create enough copies for all the other students in the class. They would then go home and read those pieces for homework and provide feedback in the class. Students could give their input during class or not. But we were all expected to give constructive criticism of the piece that the instructor would collect and read and grade as part of our participation grade.
One piece that I wrote created a bit of a buzz. I had no intention of causing a controversy; I was trying simply to work in humor. The workshop wasn’t too painful. Most everyone gave good ideas or pointed out things that I could work on more.
The next session the professor had read everyone’s critiques. Before she gave me the other students’ papers on my work, she took a moment to tell people what it meant to give constructive criticism. She had mentioned that we wouldn’t always love everything we read. But that didn’t mean we should use that as a moment to take down the other writer. We had to look at some piece of that writing that worked for us and what didn’t. But we weren’t supposed to be nasty about it. We had to be professional in our criticism.
That moment along with a number of others made that one of my favorite and most successful classes. So when I saw her name on a novel, I had to pick it up. As I’ve been reading it, I recall a couple of the writing lessons that she gave me. One of them was try to find a different way to say a cliché. Another tidbit was to trust your voice (if you had one) and to let that voice lead your story. In her book of short stories I have seen those important lessons appear on the pages of her short stories. I will always remember and thank her for those great pointers she gave me in that creative writing class so many years ago.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Learning Something Everyday
Today I went to do a google search for some information I had gotten a tidbit of on the radio. When I went to the google page however, I was greeted by one of their doodles and I couldn’t figure out what it meant. When I hovered over the picture, it stated that today was the 374th birthday of Nicolas Steno. Honestly I had no idea who that was.
So I clicked on the link that came up and I learned a little bit about this geographer. I also enjoy getting new information. Thank you, google, for providing another way to assist in my edification.
So I clicked on the link that came up and I learned a little bit about this geographer. I also enjoy getting new information. Thank you, google, for providing another way to assist in my edification.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
French Friends
Today I was pleasantly surprised by a couple of things I got in the mail. The first of which was an email telling me that I should be expecting something in the mail. This email led to a volley of other emails to catch up with a friend.
The second surprise was in fact the thing in the mail that I was supposed to be expecting. It was a Christmas gift – one that I was not expecting at all. And also not one I was expecting the actual day to which it was made reference. When I opened the gift, I giggled because it was a joke between me and my friend. He and I always talk about how we should change cities since we love the other’s respective city more than our own. The book was a comparison between New York and Paris. It made my day.
I was already very happy with these surprises when I checked the mail. Lo and behold I got a card from another friend. She announced in her card that she will be visiting this year. So many nice surprises in one day! Whenever I hear from my French friends I feel like jumping on a plane and spending time with them. They have a special place in my heart. I am grateful to have them in my life.
Pour monsieur Prout et Already
The second surprise was in fact the thing in the mail that I was supposed to be expecting. It was a Christmas gift – one that I was not expecting at all. And also not one I was expecting the actual day to which it was made reference. When I opened the gift, I giggled because it was a joke between me and my friend. He and I always talk about how we should change cities since we love the other’s respective city more than our own. The book was a comparison between New York and Paris. It made my day.
I was already very happy with these surprises when I checked the mail. Lo and behold I got a card from another friend. She announced in her card that she will be visiting this year. So many nice surprises in one day! Whenever I hear from my French friends I feel like jumping on a plane and spending time with them. They have a special place in my heart. I am grateful to have them in my life.
Pour monsieur Prout et Already
Friday, January 6, 2012
Communicating Doors
I recently moved back to my old office building after a temporary relocation. Our floor was redone to create more offices. It looks a bit newer than it did before but honestly, I don’t know why there was a change at all.
People I have never seen before have been residing at this work location. I am guessing they were sitting somewhere else before or they are completely new to the company. One of these new people has an office – not entirely sure why but that isn’t pertinent to the story.
Yesterday for some reason that is completely behind my comprehension, she got locked into her own office. She was not able to turn the knob and exit her office. A couple of people tried to help but it didn’t seem to work. I don’t know how she got out actually.
This morning however, she was back – as was a maintenance worker who was drilling at her door. I guess that whatever he did with the drill didn’t work. A few moments later, I saw a door walking across the floor as if it had legs.
I then got up to go to the bathroom and I noticed a sign on a door (which is where the door must have walked to) saying “Please do not close this door”. So I am guessing it was not the lock that was the problem but the door.
Regardless, what I thought was going to be a boring day ended up being surreal and disturbing.
Happy Friday!
People I have never seen before have been residing at this work location. I am guessing they were sitting somewhere else before or they are completely new to the company. One of these new people has an office – not entirely sure why but that isn’t pertinent to the story.
Yesterday for some reason that is completely behind my comprehension, she got locked into her own office. She was not able to turn the knob and exit her office. A couple of people tried to help but it didn’t seem to work. I don’t know how she got out actually.
This morning however, she was back – as was a maintenance worker who was drilling at her door. I guess that whatever he did with the drill didn’t work. A few moments later, I saw a door walking across the floor as if it had legs.
I then got up to go to the bathroom and I noticed a sign on a door (which is where the door must have walked to) saying “Please do not close this door”. So I am guessing it was not the lock that was the problem but the door.
Regardless, what I thought was going to be a boring day ended up being surreal and disturbing.
Happy Friday!
Are You Gonna Go My Way?
Lenny Kravitz’s song “Are You Gonna Go My Way?” is one of my favorite songs of all time. The guitar riff and the snazzy drum solo mid-way through give me goose bumps. Whenever I hear the song I just feel like either dancing or picking up a tennis racket and playing air guitar.
The song came to mind yesterday as I was walking to work. One the way to the office building I saw a number of dog owners walking their pups. However I wondered who was really walking whom. Of the 5 pairs that I saw, each of the pups in the couple decided it was not going to walk in the direction that its owner deemed appropriate. Most of them just pulled from their end – a leash tug-of-war if you will – and refused to oblige. 2 doggies decided to just sit down and stare their masters down.
This rascally rebellion wrecked havoc on the masters Thursday schedule I could tell. A few of them sighed exasperatedly and begged their dog to ‘come’. To which the dogs just blinked and continued their intense starefest. A number of the other owners chuckled at their pooches and just waited. They loosened their grips on their leashes in hopes of getting their dogs to comply. In some instances it worked.
Seeing all this activity and the pleading, you can see why the song popped into my mind. It was a humorous video for the song title. I could have watched this for longer but I had to get to work and prepare for a meeting.
Perhaps the next time I see this type of insurgence, I’ll either kindly ask the dogs “Are You Gonna Go My Way?” Or I’ll just put the song on my ipod and I’ll laugh.
The song came to mind yesterday as I was walking to work. One the way to the office building I saw a number of dog owners walking their pups. However I wondered who was really walking whom. Of the 5 pairs that I saw, each of the pups in the couple decided it was not going to walk in the direction that its owner deemed appropriate. Most of them just pulled from their end – a leash tug-of-war if you will – and refused to oblige. 2 doggies decided to just sit down and stare their masters down.
This rascally rebellion wrecked havoc on the masters Thursday schedule I could tell. A few of them sighed exasperatedly and begged their dog to ‘come’. To which the dogs just blinked and continued their intense starefest. A number of the other owners chuckled at their pooches and just waited. They loosened their grips on their leashes in hopes of getting their dogs to comply. In some instances it worked.
Seeing all this activity and the pleading, you can see why the song popped into my mind. It was a humorous video for the song title. I could have watched this for longer but I had to get to work and prepare for a meeting.
Perhaps the next time I see this type of insurgence, I’ll either kindly ask the dogs “Are You Gonna Go My Way?” Or I’ll just put the song on my ipod and I’ll laugh.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
New Year's Day
As I have grown older the importance and festivity around New Year’s has been completely lost on me. I don’t see what the big deal is anymore. I used to get excited as it was always an excuse to make a resolution to try something new or do something I kept telling myself to do. And while I still do that, the magic is gone.
I still see the hope of a new year – new experiences, people and new beginnings. But in the last 10 years or so, the excitement has gone. I used to make plans with friends to go to dinner or a bar or some place to ring in the New Year. The whole point was to have a plan and be with friends. Now I don’t even want to be bothered. I’d rather just go to a movie or sleep.
Wish I could put my finger on what has changed but it will take more than a few sentences to get to the bottom of that.
As far as New Year’s Day goes, I do make it a point to listen to U2’s song a couple of times. Somehow it captures how I feel about New Year’s day completely. And I occasionally listen to it when it’s not New Year’s day as well.
I still see the hope of a new year – new experiences, people and new beginnings. But in the last 10 years or so, the excitement has gone. I used to make plans with friends to go to dinner or a bar or some place to ring in the New Year. The whole point was to have a plan and be with friends. Now I don’t even want to be bothered. I’d rather just go to a movie or sleep.
Wish I could put my finger on what has changed but it will take more than a few sentences to get to the bottom of that.
As far as New Year’s Day goes, I do make it a point to listen to U2’s song a couple of times. Somehow it captures how I feel about New Year’s day completely. And I occasionally listen to it when it’s not New Year’s day as well.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
The Zen of Celery
I enjoy cooking - playing around with different components and flavors makes my brain sparkle with activity. The idea of finding a vegetable or other ingredient as a foundation for a meal warms my soul. And in these cold days nothing is more pleasurable than a wonderful bowl of soup.
It’s not so much for its temperature elevating properties in cold climates that interests me. It’s the preparation that is very relaxing. I usually use carrots, onions and celery to create my base. From there anything is possible. I’ll use any vegetable I have on hand. Occasionally I’ll add a protein but most likely grains get a starring role and combinations you wouldn’t imagine are more intriguing to me than the old standards.
In the chopping of my aromatics, I find the utmost sense of repose. Concentrating on the blade as it cuts through the celery eases my tension. The sound of the swish as the knife slices through the stalks lets me know I’ve completed the cutting.
The carrots are a bit more challenging as they are a tougher vegetable but it is relaxing in its own right. I have to constantly keep an eye on the flying carrot bits that can ricochet off the chopping block. And then there is always a beggar puppy who wants some treats when I cut the orange root.
As much as I love the flavor of onions, the action of prepping them is an exercise in speed. No matter what tactics I use to not make me cry while cutting them, it has yet to work. If I can chop through half an onion without having to bathe my eyes in cold water, I have succeeded. It’s not really bliss to cut that tuber but it definitely keeps me alert since I don’t want to loser a finger tip while trying to prepare dinner.
If I decide to use fresh herbs, the aromas that waft through my nostrils as I chop them make me feel like I am walking in an expansive garden. All this writing is making me want to go home and cook.
It’s not so much for its temperature elevating properties in cold climates that interests me. It’s the preparation that is very relaxing. I usually use carrots, onions and celery to create my base. From there anything is possible. I’ll use any vegetable I have on hand. Occasionally I’ll add a protein but most likely grains get a starring role and combinations you wouldn’t imagine are more intriguing to me than the old standards.
In the chopping of my aromatics, I find the utmost sense of repose. Concentrating on the blade as it cuts through the celery eases my tension. The sound of the swish as the knife slices through the stalks lets me know I’ve completed the cutting.
The carrots are a bit more challenging as they are a tougher vegetable but it is relaxing in its own right. I have to constantly keep an eye on the flying carrot bits that can ricochet off the chopping block. And then there is always a beggar puppy who wants some treats when I cut the orange root.
As much as I love the flavor of onions, the action of prepping them is an exercise in speed. No matter what tactics I use to not make me cry while cutting them, it has yet to work. If I can chop through half an onion without having to bathe my eyes in cold water, I have succeeded. It’s not really bliss to cut that tuber but it definitely keeps me alert since I don’t want to loser a finger tip while trying to prepare dinner.
If I decide to use fresh herbs, the aromas that waft through my nostrils as I chop them make me feel like I am walking in an expansive garden. All this writing is making me want to go home and cook.
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