It Just Needs Some Salt

The most popular weekend in food culture was fantastic in terms of Thursday evening itself. However, I tried some other concoctions that just didn't quite work out as well. First there was the eggnog.
1. I don't know what induced me to purchase this stuff. I consider it every Christmas, but haven't had it in a long time. My only recollection was that it tasted bad, but the reason why no longer remained. SO I took it home, and had a sip. Yuck. Another sip... no, the nog was still terrible. Basically, it tasted like bubblegum. NO LIE. Cinnamon did not help. I think I had expected it to taste like a spicy vanilla milkshake. (It did not.) The abandoned mini jug sat in our fridge all weekend until I dumped the contents down the drain. NO GOOD.

2. The presence of whipped cream always makes me want hot chocolate, mochas, ice cream, or pie. Having already eaten pie, I turned to hot chocolate. We had bitter baking cocoa, so I poured it in a pot with sugar and spice, then added the last of the milk. The drink was excellent, but I overestimated the amount of milk we had. Thus, when I poured the hot chocolate in a cup, this is all I came up with: NO GOOD. There is nowhere near a full cup here.

3. Mum picked up a box of brownie mix, and like a good daughter, I added eggs and water, and put it in the oven. That's odd, I thought. There is no heat in this oven. Realizing the pilot light had gone out, I tried to relight it: a terrible idea. I lit a twig on fire and waved it around the bottom of the oven for awhile. Fearing for my yet-unburned hands and face, I bothered the parental unit about the situation. Dad rummaged around for a bit and determined that the igniter and the gas will not function in the bottom half of our stove. The unit on top, however, works excellently. Thus, I broiled the brownies. But... it didn't really work. While scalding the top of the batter, without baking the bottom of the dish, the brownies came out like this: soup. NO GOOD. (But very delish. Think brownie pudding.)

Project Izzy

I've been battling a sense of complacency for the past few holiday seasons, so this year, I decided to shake things up a bit and throw a cat into the mix. I'm catsitting.

Who is the fortunate feline? Aubrey's little bundle of joy: Izzy. As she had little or no intention of shuttling him home on a commuter flight to Albany, she needed a catsitter. "Awesome," I said. "I can't wait for Thanksgiving dinner now!" Dad was of the same spirit when he heard the news: "Your mother hasn't made that since you were little!" Cooking-the-cat jokes aside, everyone (Mom) agreed to the visitor, so long as I cleaned up after it.

On Tuesday afternoon, Aubrey and I were in the apartment, collecting last-minute Izzy items and enticing him to eat a kitty treat. The kitty treat was so important because it contained a kitty tranquilizer pill that would knock him out for the drive home. Ten minutes before the airport van was scheduled to leave, we were left to chase a very non-tranquil Izzy around the apartment.

Izzy did not sleep on the way home. He meowed. A lot. An average of ten times per minute, I would guess, since I was counting for awhile. I even pulled over at a gas station to see if there was something really wrong, but realized that he was just being ornery, and I was the only thing wrong with him. I turned up the radio and we drove on.

So we've been hanging out for the past few days, and Izzy seems slightly more comfortable than before. He hides in the back of our linen closet during the day, and I bother him when I'm bored. Then when he wants attention and a scratch behind the ears, he meows at me when I'm asleep. Before I'm ready to wake up.

Before dawn.

But that's what I get for offering him a place at the foot of my bed. (It seemed more comfortable than the freezing-cold closet). It all tends to drive Mum a bit crazy, which is great. When annoyed, capricious, or emotionally-distressed, I holler, "IZZY!" So Mum thinks I'm going to be a creepy old cat lady when I grow up. Izzy often ignores me, so I call out, "Why don't you love me?" Mum thinks I should get a real boyfriend because she cannot handle me in such a state because of a cat. I think it's hilarious. Perhaps when I go back to school I'll tell her we eloped. But I wouldn't do that to Aubrey. I know he stole her heart first.

FOOD

It's Thanksgiving! This fantastic holiday usually involves sleeping in, lounging about the kitchen to occasionally help Mum cook, and wandering over to watch the Macy's parade. I always feel sorry for those famous performers, like Kristen Chenoweth and Ashanti, who have to lip-sync on the Build-A-Bear Workshop float. It's just sort of sad that the producers won't allow them to sing live. I'm pretty sure they could do it by themselves.

In other news, when my parents were young, there was a Thanksgiving song called "Alice's Restaurant" by Arlo Guthrie, which is a 20-minute holiday tradition in Mum's family, and it's absolutely hilarious. It's a folksy narrative about a guy who visits Alice at and is arrested for taking her garbage to the dump (she had been storing it in the downstairs of an empty church where she lived). How do I know all of this? Because right after Mum told me about it, it came on the radio: AWESOME. It's so great. Just look it up and listen to a few minutes. Srsly.

Dad & I are notorious for walking by a half-cooked meal and swiping bits of it, and today the victim of our nibbling is: stuffing. Yum!!!! This stuff has bacon and mushroom and deliciousness throughout. I ate so much of it in passing that it was basically enough to constitute lunch.

Dad has been otherwise hiding in the living room. He is astounded by the fact that "Miracle on 34th Street" is showing at the same time as "Rocky Horror Picture Show." He's never seen the latter, and called me in to discuss it.

Dad: "Guess who this is!"

Me: "Tim Curry."

Tim Curry: "... transexual from Transylvania... Sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll, sexsexsex..."

It was incredibly painfully awkward to be in the same room as my father and a man in garters and lipstick, who was talking about sex parties and such. I have not such a comfortable relationship with my dad, and was reduced to giggling embarrassedly and running away to eat more stuffing. Dad is now watching "Miracle on 34th Street." Christmas just a safer theme.

Musca domestica

House fly.

There is a dying fly in our room, and I desperately wish it would KEEL OVER, ALREADY. Flies are typically quick and buzzy as they leap from place to place. (Yes, they leap.) But not this one. This one is falling apart, so it hovers around at half-speed, like a failing car engine. When we swat and make contact with it, we can feel its nasty, fat little body as it escapes our murderous grip.

It cannot go on much longer.

This morning was particularly harrowing. I was in that lovely dream state, dozing between alarms, when I felt something tickle my hand. I woke up for long enough to swat the fly from my knuckle. I awoke thrice more to again brush the creature from my wrist. The bug must die: this declaration was confirmed by the next ten minutes, which the fly spent lazily drifting around my head. In bed. It landed on my nose. I wondered if it would make its way to Claire's face once I left for work, but apparently it did not. (Probably it couldn't find her face in there. She has a very thick blanket and sometimes talks in her sleep. It was probably too afraid to land on either of those characteristics.)

I am embarrassed to admit that my swear count has increased considerably since the fly has moved in. I hope it dies soon. Where is it right now? I'm really not sure, but I think it's rubbing its little feelers together, plotting against my poor knuckles. It never quite goes away...

My First: Energy Drink

Last night at 10 pm, I sat in the library computer lab with head and eyelids drooping into sleep. With a high majority of an essay to write, I was in a bad state. This will never do, I realized. Reenforcement is required. Reenforcement came in the form of a Rockstar Roasted Coffee & Energy drink, with an infusion of caffeine, guarana, ginseng, taurine, and an exciting assortment of B-vitamins.

I returned to the computer and noted after a few sips that I was at least awake. Good start. I drank about a quarter of the 15-oz can, and returned to my dorm at midnight. With much more work to do (I'm a hideously slow writer), I questioned the Rockstar's ability to get me through the night, and I desired extreme power.

"Claire, how much energy drink do you need until you start shaking?" I wanted to type- and think- much faster.

"Um, usually two cans," she replied.

I could see my fault in not purchasing more. But I went to the lounge to do the work, armed with my books and 3/4 can of liquid speed.

Now, I can't say that I wrote any faster than usual, sipping the coffee. Still, I didn't fall asleep on my keyboard, either. The paper was completed in the early morning, so I decided to take a nap while the housekeeper cleaned the showers.

It was 6 am, and I still didn't fall asleep. Okay, that was fine. I had energy enough- I went back to the lounge and did sit-ups for awhile. Seriously. I considered going to the gym, already being dressed in sweats.

I took the shower and was dressed by 8 am. There was now the choice of whether to go to the art studio, edit my essay some more, or catch up on reading assignments. With ceramics in mind, I attacked my body with coats and scarves, and sat down to get my books-

and then I considered going to sleep right where I sat fully dressed at the desk in my dorm. I removed the scarf and the jackets, and crawled up to bed, where I slept for an hour and woke up just in time to go to work, as always.

Craftily Inspired

Today was a fantastic autumn day, with just a hint of misty coolness, a semi-cloudy sky, and excellent Maryland leaves scattered on the ground. I decided it was a perfect day to walk into town, and intended to bring Roomie Claire, too. Conversation as follows:

ME: [bursts into dorm room, shouting] Claire!

CLAIRE: [no answer. She is not there. But her phone is, so she's probably still in the building.]

ME: [bursts into bathroom, sees Claire shower supplies and robe] Claire! It's gorgeous outside!

CLAIRE: [no answer. She cannot hear me over the shower, and is confused to have possibly heard her name.]

We finally spoke face-to-face, and I eventually convinced her to go into town with me.

ME: Hey!

CLAIRE: Hey.

ME: It's really nice outside. Wanna walk to town?

CLAIRE: Okay.

Mission complete. For a few hours, we drank coffees, examined antique Dutch dressers, considered transporting aforementioned dresser back to the dorm (uphill), discussed decorative pillows and beaver pelts, bought cheap plastic rings, dragged our weary bodies back to the dorm (having sat down not once), and ate chicken nuggets with current and past members of the drama department.

Having examined multiple expensive knick-knack shops, I am now inspired to sew my own decorative pillows, paint some pictures, and throw a few bowls, cups, and plates. I am, however, much too tired to do any of it, though, or to elaborate on the topic. Good night.