Loving Me Some Food Blogs

My newest obsession is cooking blogs. I can't get enough of 'em. I keep finding new ones, reading through them, falling in love and getting really hungry. I've taken to copying all the tasty (easier) recipes onto blank Word documents with the intent of printing them when I get to Norman.

It started out innocently enough. My first love was Pioneer Woman, though I loved her more for her wit and entertaining stories than for her cooking. But I did try a few of her recipes (one of which I have now cooked three times over the break for different people) and I love them.

After Pioneer Woman came The Menu Mama, who is actually an old friend of the family's. Heather has two little kids and focuses her blog on helping people plan for the week ahead, including a grocery list for the beginning of every week (which I think is brilliant). She's also great because her meals rely on ingredients that I could easily find in my own pantry -- no fancy-schmancy spices and impossible-to-pronounce cheeses.

These blogs I admired passively, browsing through and appreciating but not needing.

Then I went to Montana for part of Christmas break and took it upon myself to help my dad find some easy new recipes that he can make on Sundays (and in turn, find some good recipes for myself). And of course, where would you go for recipes except online?

So with that challenge in mind, I went through the links on Ree and Heather's blogs and found Bakerella, Smitten Kitchen, and a plethera of other awesome, delicious, super cool cooking (and baking) blogs.

With all these blogs to browse through, I don't think I'll ever purchase an actual cookbook now. What's the point? It's all online.

Kinda makes me feel bad for the poor publishing industry.

Until I google how to make the perfect brown rice and I immediately get a good fifty or sixty recipes.

From now on, I think I'll just grab my favorite recipes from all these great blogs and combine them in a binder or something. It's better that way anyway, because then it's personalized.

. . .

An artist's failures are as valuable as his successes.
By misjudging one thing he confirms something else,
even if at the time he does not know what that something else is.
[Bridget Riley]

Losing My Zen

The fastest way to lose all this great inner peace stored up over the break is to start thinking ahead toward the coming semester. Then the illusion of "Oh, I'll have so much free time to be creative because I'm only taking twelve hours" comes crashing down, revealing the behemoth of extra-curricular activities and responsibilities to which I've already committed (and conveniently tend to push into the back recesses of my mind).

Grrreeeeaaaaattt.

I can feel my zen deflating like one of those helium balloons left out in the cold too long.

It's funny, because I do this absolutely every single semester (you'd think I'd know better by now). I start by simplifying my upcoming responsibilities in my mind so they feel manageable. And once I've drawn myself a comforting black and white picture, I look at that and only that -- until a couple weeks before the semester starts. Then, when it comes time to write goals and make plans, all the nuances of all the little things that I'm also committeed to flood in. And I freak out. Stress out. Freeze.

This freezing business is dangerous. For example, I'm starting to get important emails again. Important emails that I really should have replied to today (or yesterday). I should not leave them for tomorrow (or Monday). But the sub-zero-ness of stress has taken me over, and I can't respond.

Or wont.

It's a slippery slope.

My refusal to rejoin the world of the working is just the first step, I imagine. I'll probably progress with alarming swiftness to more dangerous things like running traffic lights, not voting, and stealing purses from old ladies.

Save me from myself!!!

Anyway, instead of doing my work, I continue to blog and read memoirs and take naps. I live in denial that I only have a week and a half until classes begin. Of course, once they do, I'll be kicking myself that I didn't start on all these projects earlier.

Which I really should. Really really really should.

Maybe I should take up yoga. Get some of that zen back. Except instead of chanting "Om," I can slip in a couple extra syllables and say something like "Don't streeeessssssssssss" and "Dooooooo yoooooooouur wooooooooooorrrrrkkkk."

The last one has a nice calming drone to it.

My Airport Friend

This little fellow seranaded me (beautifully) for a good ten minutes while I sat munching on my delicious, fresh (a rarity!) chicken salad sandwich in the Denver Airport yesterday. When he started, I kept looking around for the source of the tweeting, thinking that maybe the delirium of late-night painting and packing was finally getting to me. But then I looked straight up.

And when I finally found him, I couldn't stop staring. He was a pretty little thing, with snowy feathers and a voice for the stage. No one else around seemed to notice (or care) that he was there. They just kept eating and talking on their bluetooths and checking their watches incessantly so they wouldn't miss their flights. No one paid any attention to the little bird trilling his heart out in the high rafters above their heads.

It was tragic.

I mean, it's obvious that he was able to find a way in, but I doubt he'll be able to find a way out again. So there he sat, trapped inside a huge airport terminal, warbling to harried travelers and irritated fast food workers. No one looked up. Even his tiny last gift to the world was being completely ignored.

A bird dying in an airport-- a modern marvel of metal and concrete where wingless mammals have learned to defy gravity-- strikes me as incredibly ironic.

Notes on Flying

I would imagine that the United States seems like a much smaller place if you're a flight attendant. If you're traveling cross-country three times in a day, it has to lose some of its allure. And magic. Which is a shame.

I've flown my fair share of times (to and from school, etc), and I still love flying. It never gets old, even when I'm half-dead from a lack of sleep and the slow-to-dissipate stress from packing (because I think I'm literally incapable of starting my packing endeavors any earlier than midnight before a 6 a.m. flight. It's inevitable).

But regardless, I'm still in love with flying. I still love the exhilaration of take-off, the thrill of seeing a familiar face in a terminal of strangers, and the inner leaping of my heart when I find that my suitcase fits neatly under the 50 lb weight limit.

I used to want to be a flight attendant like nobody's business. I wanted that cute blue suit, wanted to chat with attractive pilots, and fly all over the country. I still wouldn't mind that, I guess. Especially the flirting with pilots part.

But the way I see it, flying wouldn't be the same if I did it everyday.

Old hat = no more fun.

So I'm sticking to my day job (or will, once I get one). And I'll continue to love flying, and I'll still get enjoyment from being a speedy security check-through-er, and I'll love finding that one restaurant in the Denver airport with fresh, not soggy sandwiches. Ka-ching!

Another Resolution

I was looking through my post about resolutions just now, trying to see if I forgot anything (I did. Add: Call family and friends more frequently), and I noticed that I wrote "my resolutions for the new year (and in part, the new decade)."

Umm... I'm pretty sure going into 2011 doesn't count as the new decade, Virginia. I think that one started about a year ago.

Are you allowed blonde moments when you're a brunette/redhead?

(I guess I also can't decide on my hair color. I'd like to claim that it's just "one of those days," but the hair thing is an ongoing source of confusion. I'm having severe identity issues because of it.)

At the City Brew Drive-Thru Yesterday

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Me: "Do you want anything?"
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Dad: "Sure. I'll just take a small coffee."
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Barista: *crackle* "Welcome to City Brew! What can I get for you today?!" *crackle crackle*
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Me: "Um, I'll take a small black coffee and . . .  a tall mint mocha frappuccino with skim milk, two shots of espresso, extra whip cream, and sprinkles if you have them. Thanks!"
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Cooking for One

In general, I have very little motivation to cook for just myself. Why go through all the effort if I'm the only one around to enjoy it? I mean, if it's seulement moi doing the eating, my specialties are tuna melts and turkey sandwiches. Nothing fancy.

(My expertise also barely extends at scrambled eggs and Kraft mac & cheese, though I do make a mean french toast breakfast. I hate to brag, but it's the truth.)

So, with that said, I must admit that I feel a bit like a phony right now. All this week, my dad and I have been discussing ways for him to meal plan, store leftovers, and try out new recipes -- and I have no idea what I'm talking about.

. . .

"The heights by great men reached and kept

were not obtained by sudden flight.

But they, while their companions slept,

were toiling upward in the night."

- Thomas S. Monson

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Montana is cold. Very cold.

Going back to my dad not having a car, it's veeeeeery cold. Freezing, in fact.

And we were walking everywhere in it. 

For example, early yesterday afternoon, my dad and I put on some warm clothes and walked to the bus stop. We were heading down to the YMCA (about nine blocks from my dad's apartment). It has been snowing constantly for the last two days, and we now have at least a foot of snow covering the ground. I dressed as was needed to get me from the front door to the bus. 

But the bus didn't come. I think we probably missed it. 

So -- and this speaks to our intense dedication to working out (or my dad's, rather)-- we walked to the gym. 

Walked. Nine blocks in freezing weather. Literally.

We passed a little ticker-tape sign that read 0 degrees. I repeat, ZERO degrees. 

When I got to the gym, I immediately went to the locker room and took off my shoes. I then spent the next twenty minutes slapping and poking my feet, trying to breathe life back into my toes.

My workout was severely shortened by this effort.