While perusing Lisa Yee's blog, I came across her post about spilling rice pudding all over the streets of NYC. Alas, this made me think of the time my mom and I were making apple pies. Now, I play soccer and consider myself a pretty coordinated person, but when it comes to cooking and holding breakable things, I am a bit of a klutz. My mom once had me carry a giant glass bowl filled with salad to a party. It never made it there. I dropped the bowl and spilled the salad all over the road while I was trying to close the car door. Another time I mixed (not with the electric mixer, mind you...I was mixing with just a wooden spoon) a ceramic bowl full of cookie dough right off the table.
These little incidents were nothing compared to the apple-pie debacle. So my mom and I had peeled, sliced, seasoned, and placed the apples in the crusts. I believe she was making one pie and I was making two. I also believe some of the apples were ones that I had picked with my own two hands (apple-picking is a great New England activity for the fall). The pies were baked, and all I had to do was take them out of the oven and let them cool. Then I would be able to eat my awesome delicious homemade apple pies. Easier said than done.
Because we were making three pies, there wasn't enough glass pie pans for them all, so one of my pies had to go in a tin pan. So I've got the big awkward pot holders in my hands, I reach into the oven, and I pull out the pie in the tin pan. I have to walk maybe four steps to the kitchen table to place the pie on the cooling rack. Well, somewhere during that four steps the pie pan decided to fold in on itself, slip through my hands, and fall on the ground. Now this sucks, but a squished apple pie still might be edible (and really yummy!). Only the pie pan somehow flipped upside down and deposited my apple pie on the floor.
I pretty much lost it. A hot mess of apple mush on the kitchen floor is not exactly edible (though still potentially yummy...but possibly with some kitchen-floor extras in it). I growled in frustration and stomped into the living room. I know I'm a klutz when it comes to breakables, so I was being really careful with the pies. How was I supposed to anticipate that the pie pan was going to fail me? It wasn't just that I wasn't going to be able to eat the pie, either. I had spent all that time and energy on these stupid apples; my hand were still aching from all the slicing and peeling, and it was all a waste. The pie was a mess on the floor and not a delicious treat in my belly.
Thankfully, my mom cleaned up the mess, so I didn't have to deal with the pie any longer (thanks, Mom!). I ranted for a little while about calling up the tin pan company and complaining about their faulty products, but of course I never actually did that. This taught me the important lesson of never using cheap, crappy tin pans for something as important as homemade apple pie. Luckily, this year's apple pies have all ended up where they were supposed to (i.e. in someone's belly). Although, I may never get over losing that one pie!
*Stevie Wonder
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
"Closing time, you don't have to go home but you can't stay here"*
So here it is (finally!): the beginning of a follow-up to this post about Vincent Van Gogh’s Sunflowers painting. You didn’t think I had forgotten, did you? Sometimes I just need a little time to ruminate/procrastinate before the literary genius is released.
Anyway, I finally visited the Yale University Art Gallery to see the special Van Gogh exhibit. When my husband and I arrived, we had some time to kill before out allotted appointment with The Starry Night, so we perused the African art, which I found to be very stereotypically...umm...phallic. Then we checked out the Asian art, which we found quite...umm...amusing. Okay, so Yale University is supposed to be one of the most prestigious colleges in the world and all that, but I couldn’t help but wonder about it when I examined a beautiful piece of Asian pottery whose label was comprised of a time period and the word "Pitcher."
I thought Maybe this label is just an anomaly. Perhaps very little was known about this piece when it was found, so they kept it simple. But then we came across another piece of pottery that was described as "Vase" and another one called "Bowl." In fact, the more pieces we looked at the more we realized that this labeling-of-the-obvious was the standard. My husband and I speculated that perhaps this tagging system stemmed from some sort of project done by the freshmen in Intro to Art 101 (or maybe it was spearheaded by the local kindergarten class!). In an effort not to get kicked out of the art gallery for excessive giggling (Why am I always worrying about being kicked out of art galleries?), we moved on to the Modern and Contemporary Art section.
This area is home to my very favorite Van Gogh painting The Night Café. The bright reds, greens, and yellows are almost harsh to the eyes; the colors both contrast and compliment the lonely, ghostly themes of the painting. At first glance, the painting is simple, but the more you look at it, the more you notice the odd proportions and angles of the room and its contents.
The people are hunched over. The ceiling lamps mimic stars, but they don’t have the same warmth of the stars in Van Gogh’s night skies. The bouquet at the far end of the room is in full bloom, but behind it the table is full of amber bottles of liquor. The clock reads that it’s very early in the morning as if the inhabitants of the painting have nothing worth going home to. The drape in the back doorway falls in the shape of an eerie figure, who is watching—maybe judging—the others in the room. I could go on forever about this painting (clearly I’ve spent way too much time thinking about it).
It was to this standard of (over) thinking that The Starry Night was held. Alas, I must leave you with a cliffhanger here as I ruminate/procrastinate a little more! I know, the suspense created by impressionist art is overwhelming you, isn’t it?
*Semisonic
Anyway, I finally visited the Yale University Art Gallery to see the special Van Gogh exhibit. When my husband and I arrived, we had some time to kill before out allotted appointment with The Starry Night, so we perused the African art, which I found to be very stereotypically...umm...phallic. Then we checked out the Asian art, which we found quite...umm...amusing. Okay, so Yale University is supposed to be one of the most prestigious colleges in the world and all that, but I couldn’t help but wonder about it when I examined a beautiful piece of Asian pottery whose label was comprised of a time period and the word "Pitcher."
I thought Maybe this label is just an anomaly. Perhaps very little was known about this piece when it was found, so they kept it simple. But then we came across another piece of pottery that was described as "Vase" and another one called "Bowl." In fact, the more pieces we looked at the more we realized that this labeling-of-the-obvious was the standard. My husband and I speculated that perhaps this tagging system stemmed from some sort of project done by the freshmen in Intro to Art 101 (or maybe it was spearheaded by the local kindergarten class!). In an effort not to get kicked out of the art gallery for excessive giggling (Why am I always worrying about being kicked out of art galleries?), we moved on to the Modern and Contemporary Art section.
This area is home to my very favorite Van Gogh painting The Night Café. The bright reds, greens, and yellows are almost harsh to the eyes; the colors both contrast and compliment the lonely, ghostly themes of the painting. At first glance, the painting is simple, but the more you look at it, the more you notice the odd proportions and angles of the room and its contents.
The people are hunched over. The ceiling lamps mimic stars, but they don’t have the same warmth of the stars in Van Gogh’s night skies. The bouquet at the far end of the room is in full bloom, but behind it the table is full of amber bottles of liquor. The clock reads that it’s very early in the morning as if the inhabitants of the painting have nothing worth going home to. The drape in the back doorway falls in the shape of an eerie figure, who is watching—maybe judging—the others in the room. I could go on forever about this painting (clearly I’ve spent way too much time thinking about it).
It was to this standard of (over) thinking that The Starry Night was held. Alas, I must leave you with a cliffhanger here as I ruminate/procrastinate a little more! I know, the suspense created by impressionist art is overwhelming you, isn’t it?
*Semisonic
Sunday, November 9, 2008
"When I strap on my boots and I slip on my suit you see the vixen in me becomes an angel for you"*
Sometimes I think I have a secret identity. Really it's more like an alter ego...or maybe it's just a split-personality disorder (just kidding...such disorders are nothing to joke about). It all started the summer I turned 18—it's all downhill after 18! I was watching the Bridgeport Bluefish (What? You've never heard of them...I bet you know who the New York Yankees are) play baseball, and I noticed I was having trouble reading the scoreboard.
Seeing as I was about to start college—and I was contributing a lot of my own money to pay for my higher education—I figured I'd better make the dreaded trip to the eye doctor (I really do dread all trips to the doctor, except the dentist, for some reason I like visiting the dentist). As I suspected, I needed glasses. Great, now I had a giant visual on my face, my previously secret nerdiness exposed.
As I got used to being a person with glasses (I know, you're thinking four-eyes), I realized the potential of it. This potential was fully realized when I became a part-time contacts wearer. With my glasses, I feel smart, like a real intellectual, like the writer me. Glasses me is an avid reader who enjoys sweet white wines and listens to NPR in the morning. With my contacts, I feel strong, like a warrior, like the soccer player me. Contacts me is an avid sports fan who yells expletives at the television and runs marathons in Alaska. (Without glasses or contacts, I'm just visually impaired me!)
Though, maybe I should've realized long ago that I had a secret identity. When my siblings and I were younger, my parents would often separate us into two group. My mom would say, "The three older ones go with Dad, and the three younger ones come with me." The problem was there was only five of us and, yes, you guessed it, I was child number three, smack dab in the middle. That's the problem with being in the middle; you never quite know where you fit in. So I made do with both roles: I tattled on my older siblings and bossed around my younger ones.
This identity crisis only got worse when I got married. I decided to legally change my last name to my husband's and to keep my maiden name for writing and other pursuits (like soccer) in which everyone already knew me by my maiden name. Not only has this caused confusion for me, but it also seems to have stymied the Connecticut Registrar of Voters.
Last week, I went to my old high school gymnasium to vote. I found my street name (which of course was split into two tables, so I had to think about whether or not my house number was higher or lower than 40) and gave the lady on the left my license. The lady on the right slid her ruler up the line of names until she reached mine...only she appeared to be confused. I glanced at the list. There was my husband's name, my name, and my name again.
"Wait," the lady on the right said. "Which one are you?" (How many ladies does it take to check-in a voter?) I wanted to say, "Didn't you listen to the other lady, who just read the correct name off my license?" Instead, I simply explained that one was my married name and one was my maiden name and somehow both ended up on the list. Apparently the government has trouble with the multitude of women who change their names upon marrying.
I should refer to all my life stories as "The Adventures of ---" (I'll fill in the blank when I figure out who I really am). Sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror when I'm not wearing my glasses and think Oh! That's the face I know. Not that stranger with the glasses. Then again, I tend to wear my glasses more frequently than my contacts. Which is my real identity and which is my alter ego? Maybe it's better if I don't know.
*Christina Aguilera
Seeing as I was about to start college—and I was contributing a lot of my own money to pay for my higher education—I figured I'd better make the dreaded trip to the eye doctor (I really do dread all trips to the doctor, except the dentist, for some reason I like visiting the dentist). As I suspected, I needed glasses. Great, now I had a giant visual on my face, my previously secret nerdiness exposed.
As I got used to being a person with glasses (I know, you're thinking four-eyes), I realized the potential of it. This potential was fully realized when I became a part-time contacts wearer. With my glasses, I feel smart, like a real intellectual, like the writer me. Glasses me is an avid reader who enjoys sweet white wines and listens to NPR in the morning. With my contacts, I feel strong, like a warrior, like the soccer player me. Contacts me is an avid sports fan who yells expletives at the television and runs marathons in Alaska. (Without glasses or contacts, I'm just visually impaired me!)
Though, maybe I should've realized long ago that I had a secret identity. When my siblings and I were younger, my parents would often separate us into two group. My mom would say, "The three older ones go with Dad, and the three younger ones come with me." The problem was there was only five of us and, yes, you guessed it, I was child number three, smack dab in the middle. That's the problem with being in the middle; you never quite know where you fit in. So I made do with both roles: I tattled on my older siblings and bossed around my younger ones.
This identity crisis only got worse when I got married. I decided to legally change my last name to my husband's and to keep my maiden name for writing and other pursuits (like soccer) in which everyone already knew me by my maiden name. Not only has this caused confusion for me, but it also seems to have stymied the Connecticut Registrar of Voters.
Last week, I went to my old high school gymnasium to vote. I found my street name (which of course was split into two tables, so I had to think about whether or not my house number was higher or lower than 40) and gave the lady on the left my license. The lady on the right slid her ruler up the line of names until she reached mine...only she appeared to be confused. I glanced at the list. There was my husband's name, my name, and my name again.
"Wait," the lady on the right said. "Which one are you?" (How many ladies does it take to check-in a voter?) I wanted to say, "Didn't you listen to the other lady, who just read the correct name off my license?" Instead, I simply explained that one was my married name and one was my maiden name and somehow both ended up on the list. Apparently the government has trouble with the multitude of women who change their names upon marrying.
I should refer to all my life stories as "The Adventures of ---" (I'll fill in the blank when I figure out who I really am). Sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror when I'm not wearing my glasses and think Oh! That's the face I know. Not that stranger with the glasses. Then again, I tend to wear my glasses more frequently than my contacts. Which is my real identity and which is my alter ego? Maybe it's better if I don't know.
*Christina Aguilera
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