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Jenny & her unicorn friends
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
inoculations from hell / grilled watermelon salad
So my family and I are going to visit Africa. When I think of Africa I picture lions, zebras and elephants like any other ignorant foreigner, but I also picture giant anacondas, typhoid fever, and lots of bottled water. In a nutshell, we have to get inoculated. This word sounds harmless enough- perhaps even enjoyable because of its similarity to words like intoxicated, innocence, and inner-tube. But let me be clear: getting inoculated has nothing to do with pleasantness and everything to do with large needles.
The office for infectious disease smells like its filled with them (translation: a too warm grey blue box reeking of latex and dirty people). I check in with a lady wearing scrubs decorated with kittens playing with a ball of string and chuckle at her perfectly executed presentation of the stereotypical hospital receptionist (translation: overweight middle aged she-man who used to care but now just rescues cats and watches reality TV). She's tucked behind a glass window (I can't help but notice the fingerprints and dried spit before she slides it open and hands me a clipboard). "Just grab a pen from the jar," she tells me. I look at the jar of used looking pens and scolded myself for hesitating. It's just a goddamn pen, I tell myself. I am here for disease prevention...disease prevention. I keep repeating this in my head to drown out my inner chorus of: this place is festering with disease...this place is festering with disease. The paper on the clipboard asks me if I have AIDS, if I'm pregnant, if I'm allergic to anything, if I take blood thinners or anti-psychotics, if I'm depressed, if I have heart disease...
No, I say to myself, but I'm a panic stricken vegan with germaphobia!
My unicorn friend is eating the fake green hanging plant in the corner. I roll my eyes and sarcastically ask him how a plant can grow without light. Green plants can grow anywhere, he argues, while chewing on a plastic leaf. I snort and turn my attention to the wrinkled Good Parenting magazine on the side table. I open it with my fingertips and discover that a few pages have been ripped out. Who rips out magazine articles? I wonder briefly. After learning that the first year of a baby's life costs around 50k, I pick up a pamphlet on HIV. It takes me about 2 minutes to convince myself that I have it.
The doctor emerges from behind a grey door. He's just finished up with my sister, who's in some sort of post traumatic shock (translation: she doesn't like hospitals or people generally, especially people who tell her to be very still for any period of time and stick her with large needles). I can't say I blame her. Her boyfriend is smiling and tells us that the needles were "This big!" (gesticulating wildly and giving the impression that the needle was the length of a large cat).
My unicorn friend and I follow the doctor into his small office and I immediately feel claustrophobic. It's another grey blue box. It has a window that looks out onto more grey buildings, and his desk is completely hidden beneath never-ending stacks of papers and charts cloaked in dust. A few family photos have managed to hold onto the edges of the mahogany surface. The wall opposite the window has a bookshelf lined with thick boring books that no one ever reads. The doctor tells us to have a seat, then launches into a freaking dissertation about the importance of vaccines when traveling to Africa. I want to say, Yeah, I know all this, that's why I'm here you idiot. No, I don't want to get Hepatitis from fruit salad or Typhoid fever from bacteria infested water. Yes, I'm fine with getting Tetanus. And Polio. Yes, yes...just DO it already! The longer I sit in this grey blue box of dust and disease, the more likely I'm going to contract a Staph infection! My unicorn friend calmly asks if the scar on his arm from a previous vaccination reaction will be an issue. I groan as the doctor goes into a detailed explanation of the hows and whys of vaccination reactions. I am stuck to my seat with sweat. I need to get out of here. After what seems like a full calendar year, the doctor asks us if we want to watch him prepare the inoculations. "Is it interesting?" asks my unicorn friend. My eyes swell like two glass orbs and I nearly shout, "Jesus, you don't have the shots ready yet?"
Suddenly I picture a petri dish writhing with a typhoid amoeba monster and our sloth of a doctor coaxing it into a giant needle with soft encouragement. Beads of sweat form on my forehead and I grab my unicorn friend by the mane and drag him to the waiting room. It's cooler in there at least. The lady with the kitten scrubs beams at us and I'm reminded of the fact that no one else has come or gone from the office since we arrived 108 hours ago. How many shots does this guy dole out per day? I wonder with increasing fear.
20 minutes have passed and I'm eyeing the air vent like it's a MRSA filled enemy, floating into the grey blue office like the Ebola virus from Outbreak, just when Dustin Hoffman and Rene Russo realize that it's airborne...
Come on in, says the doctor with a toothy grin. I am fairly certain at this point that I am in Hell and this doctor is Satan and all I'm going to do for the rest of eternity is wait for and then receive shots in his infernal office.
The exam room is blindingly bright from the neon light buzzing overhead. There's a bed covered in stiff white paper and a framed print of one of Monet's waterlilies. I sit on the edge of the bed with a loud crunch after deciding that I'm getting the damn shots first. Two in each arm, Satan says with a smile. Oh, you sadist sloth! I want to yell. When the first needle goes in, I try to ignore my sister's earlier bravado about vaccine reactions and subsequent paralyzation of the legs. They hurt like hell, but its pure bliss compared to sitting in Satan's dusty office or the grey blue waiting room filled with MRSA.
Now that you've been to Hell and back and have enough vaccines to roll around in Malaria-infested waters with hippos and anacondas, why not invite them over for some grilled watermelon salad? I was very skeptical about grilling fruit at first, but now I realize that when you grill fruit it actually caramelizes and makes it even sweeter. A punch of balsamic reduction and some cashew cheese (Dr. Cow makes the most delicious vegan cheese I've ever tasted. Buy it online or at certain natural foods stores), and you're in for a serious flavor explosion.
Grilled Watermelon Salad with Cashew Cheese
1/2 (5 pound) watermelon, rind removed and cut into about 8 squares
1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
splash of extra virgin olive oil
sea salt & fresh pepper to taste
2 cups arugula
1 container Dr. Cow cashew cheese sliced thin (or "cheese" of your choosing)
Pour the vinegar into a small saucepan and bring to a simmer over medium heat. Cook until reduced to a think syrup and set aside. Heat a cast iron grill pan over medium high heat. Drizzle enough olive oil over watermelon slices to coat and place on hot grill. Grill each side about 3 minutes or until grill marks appear. Season with sea salt. To assemble, put a handful of arugula on a plate and top with two slices of grilled watermelon, a drizzle of balsamic reduction and a few pieces of cashew cheese. Serves 4 unicorns with sore arms and paralyzed legs.
The office for infectious disease smells like its filled with them (translation: a too warm grey blue box reeking of latex and dirty people). I check in with a lady wearing scrubs decorated with kittens playing with a ball of string and chuckle at her perfectly executed presentation of the stereotypical hospital receptionist (translation: overweight middle aged she-man who used to care but now just rescues cats and watches reality TV). She's tucked behind a glass window (I can't help but notice the fingerprints and dried spit before she slides it open and hands me a clipboard). "Just grab a pen from the jar," she tells me. I look at the jar of used looking pens and scolded myself for hesitating. It's just a goddamn pen, I tell myself. I am here for disease prevention...disease prevention. I keep repeating this in my head to drown out my inner chorus of: this place is festering with disease...this place is festering with disease. The paper on the clipboard asks me if I have AIDS, if I'm pregnant, if I'm allergic to anything, if I take blood thinners or anti-psychotics, if I'm depressed, if I have heart disease...
No, I say to myself, but I'm a panic stricken vegan with germaphobia!
My unicorn friend is eating the fake green hanging plant in the corner. I roll my eyes and sarcastically ask him how a plant can grow without light. Green plants can grow anywhere, he argues, while chewing on a plastic leaf. I snort and turn my attention to the wrinkled Good Parenting magazine on the side table. I open it with my fingertips and discover that a few pages have been ripped out. Who rips out magazine articles? I wonder briefly. After learning that the first year of a baby's life costs around 50k, I pick up a pamphlet on HIV. It takes me about 2 minutes to convince myself that I have it.
The doctor emerges from behind a grey door. He's just finished up with my sister, who's in some sort of post traumatic shock (translation: she doesn't like hospitals or people generally, especially people who tell her to be very still for any period of time and stick her with large needles). I can't say I blame her. Her boyfriend is smiling and tells us that the needles were "This big!" (gesticulating wildly and giving the impression that the needle was the length of a large cat).
My unicorn friend and I follow the doctor into his small office and I immediately feel claustrophobic. It's another grey blue box. It has a window that looks out onto more grey buildings, and his desk is completely hidden beneath never-ending stacks of papers and charts cloaked in dust. A few family photos have managed to hold onto the edges of the mahogany surface. The wall opposite the window has a bookshelf lined with thick boring books that no one ever reads. The doctor tells us to have a seat, then launches into a freaking dissertation about the importance of vaccines when traveling to Africa. I want to say, Yeah, I know all this, that's why I'm here you idiot. No, I don't want to get Hepatitis from fruit salad or Typhoid fever from bacteria infested water. Yes, I'm fine with getting Tetanus. And Polio. Yes, yes...just DO it already! The longer I sit in this grey blue box of dust and disease, the more likely I'm going to contract a Staph infection! My unicorn friend calmly asks if the scar on his arm from a previous vaccination reaction will be an issue. I groan as the doctor goes into a detailed explanation of the hows and whys of vaccination reactions. I am stuck to my seat with sweat. I need to get out of here. After what seems like a full calendar year, the doctor asks us if we want to watch him prepare the inoculations. "Is it interesting?" asks my unicorn friend. My eyes swell like two glass orbs and I nearly shout, "Jesus, you don't have the shots ready yet?"
Suddenly I picture a petri dish writhing with a typhoid amoeba monster and our sloth of a doctor coaxing it into a giant needle with soft encouragement. Beads of sweat form on my forehead and I grab my unicorn friend by the mane and drag him to the waiting room. It's cooler in there at least. The lady with the kitten scrubs beams at us and I'm reminded of the fact that no one else has come or gone from the office since we arrived 108 hours ago. How many shots does this guy dole out per day? I wonder with increasing fear.
20 minutes have passed and I'm eyeing the air vent like it's a MRSA filled enemy, floating into the grey blue office like the Ebola virus from Outbreak, just when Dustin Hoffman and Rene Russo realize that it's airborne...
Come on in, says the doctor with a toothy grin. I am fairly certain at this point that I am in Hell and this doctor is Satan and all I'm going to do for the rest of eternity is wait for and then receive shots in his infernal office.
The exam room is blindingly bright from the neon light buzzing overhead. There's a bed covered in stiff white paper and a framed print of one of Monet's waterlilies. I sit on the edge of the bed with a loud crunch after deciding that I'm getting the damn shots first. Two in each arm, Satan says with a smile. Oh, you sadist sloth! I want to yell. When the first needle goes in, I try to ignore my sister's earlier bravado about vaccine reactions and subsequent paralyzation of the legs. They hurt like hell, but its pure bliss compared to sitting in Satan's dusty office or the grey blue waiting room filled with MRSA.
Now that you've been to Hell and back and have enough vaccines to roll around in Malaria-infested waters with hippos and anacondas, why not invite them over for some grilled watermelon salad? I was very skeptical about grilling fruit at first, but now I realize that when you grill fruit it actually caramelizes and makes it even sweeter. A punch of balsamic reduction and some cashew cheese (Dr. Cow makes the most delicious vegan cheese I've ever tasted. Buy it online or at certain natural foods stores), and you're in for a serious flavor explosion.
Grilled Watermelon Salad with Cashew Cheese
1/2 (5 pound) watermelon, rind removed and cut into about 8 squares
1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
splash of extra virgin olive oil
sea salt & fresh pepper to taste
2 cups arugula
1 container Dr. Cow cashew cheese sliced thin (or "cheese" of your choosing)
Pour the vinegar into a small saucepan and bring to a simmer over medium heat. Cook until reduced to a think syrup and set aside. Heat a cast iron grill pan over medium high heat. Drizzle enough olive oil over watermelon slices to coat and place on hot grill. Grill each side about 3 minutes or until grill marks appear. Season with sea salt. To assemble, put a handful of arugula on a plate and top with two slices of grilled watermelon, a drizzle of balsamic reduction and a few pieces of cashew cheese. Serves 4 unicorns with sore arms and paralyzed legs.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
concerning grocery stores / I want to live forever juice
So I'm actually a big fan of grocery stores. Now before you call me a 50's housewife, let me clarify what I mean by "grocery store". I'm not talking about the Stop & Shop's and A&P's of the world, or the buy-your-furniture-and-get-your-prescription-filled-while-you-buy-groceries mega marts, but the patchouli-smelling-"we-have-a-yoga-section" natural foods stores. I can literally spend hours perusing their essential oils section or filling up on bulk items while listening to Fleet Foxes or something featuring a sitar player.
Whole Foods, though enormously large, is also a haven for me. Most of them still have the warm colors and dreadlocked workers that make me feel right at home. The problem is that I live in Greenwich. And the Greenwich Whole Foods isn't full of hemp sandal earth mamas or yogi men in capris. Nope, the Greenwich Whole Foods is full of caffeine-crazed blonde mothers of three who are perpetually late for something (translation: mani-pedis with the girls, lunch date with gay friend, zumba class, picking up the kid's ADD prescriptions, bringing the Range Rover in for a service, etc...) They need their organic food and they need it now. I nearly get run over by an Escalade or Mercedes every time I walk through the parking lot towards the entrance. I try to ignore their stressed-out-I-miss-carbs vibe, but then my toe gets stepped on by a child who's rushing past me with a cart. After an ear splitting shriek from her mother, I hear the chastising I'm-dissappointed-with-you-so-I'm-going-to-say-your-full-name tone (translation: "Madison something something, I'm going to count to three...").
This shopping experience, however unpleasant, still pales in comparison to your average supermarket. In fact, the only reason I ever go into these blinding neon light establishments is to purchase something odd or impossible to buy organic (translation: ice and razor blades). I try to make the visit as short as possible, mainly because it's unbearably freezing and smells of dead fish and Febreze. Everything looks hideously yellow from the overhead lighting and most of the packaged foods are fluorescent and could survive a nuclear explosion. I feel as though I've entered a time capsule when I walk past the deli section and see a line of people holding little paper tickets with numbers on them, waiting for the black screen to light up with their number in glowing red. I decide to make a beeline to the check-out line via aisle 3, the detergent / cleaning section (translation: Clorox-laden-chemical-shit-storm). I hold my breath until I reach the cat food section, then join a cue.
So now that you're never going to go back to a conventional grocery store again, you can easily make the I Want to Live Forever juice. Juicing is incredibly good for your health and should be a part of your daily regimen if possible. When vegetables and fruits are put through a juicer, the liquid is extracted from the fiber or pulp, leaving you with a delicious beverage chock full of live enzymes, amino acids, vitamins and minerals! Popping synthetic vitamins cannot replace what living foods deliver to your body. Juicing is widely known as an important way to decrease your risk of certain cancers and other illnesses both for its nutritional punch and its oxygenating and alkalinizing effect on the body. Remember that diseases thrive in an acidic environment! There are many good juicers on the market, but the juicers most people recommend are the Omega juicers. I have a Breville juicer that works great. Important note: buy your vegetables and fruits organic, especially for juicing! The last thing you want to add to your juiced awesomeness is a bunch of pesticides.
I Want To Live Forever Juice
5 carrots
1 granny smith apple, cut in half
1 inch knob of peeled ginger root
1 small lemon, cut in half
1/2 of a medium sized beet, washed (optional)
Turn on your juicer and press all of your ingredients through, except for the lemon. Simply squeeze the lemon juice into your juice after its finished and stir with a spoon. Makes enough for one immortality-seeking unicorn (actually, they're already immortal...they just have a thing for fresh juice).
Whole Foods, though enormously large, is also a haven for me. Most of them still have the warm colors and dreadlocked workers that make me feel right at home. The problem is that I live in Greenwich. And the Greenwich Whole Foods isn't full of hemp sandal earth mamas or yogi men in capris. Nope, the Greenwich Whole Foods is full of caffeine-crazed blonde mothers of three who are perpetually late for something (translation: mani-pedis with the girls, lunch date with gay friend, zumba class, picking up the kid's ADD prescriptions, bringing the Range Rover in for a service, etc...) They need their organic food and they need it now. I nearly get run over by an Escalade or Mercedes every time I walk through the parking lot towards the entrance. I try to ignore their stressed-out-I-miss-carbs vibe, but then my toe gets stepped on by a child who's rushing past me with a cart. After an ear splitting shriek from her mother, I hear the chastising I'm-dissappointed-with-you-so-I'm-going-to-say-your-full-name tone (translation: "Madison something something, I'm going to count to three...").
This shopping experience, however unpleasant, still pales in comparison to your average supermarket. In fact, the only reason I ever go into these blinding neon light establishments is to purchase something odd or impossible to buy organic (translation: ice and razor blades). I try to make the visit as short as possible, mainly because it's unbearably freezing and smells of dead fish and Febreze. Everything looks hideously yellow from the overhead lighting and most of the packaged foods are fluorescent and could survive a nuclear explosion. I feel as though I've entered a time capsule when I walk past the deli section and see a line of people holding little paper tickets with numbers on them, waiting for the black screen to light up with their number in glowing red. I decide to make a beeline to the check-out line via aisle 3, the detergent / cleaning section (translation: Clorox-laden-chemical-shit-storm). I hold my breath until I reach the cat food section, then join a cue.
So now that you're never going to go back to a conventional grocery store again, you can easily make the I Want to Live Forever juice. Juicing is incredibly good for your health and should be a part of your daily regimen if possible. When vegetables and fruits are put through a juicer, the liquid is extracted from the fiber or pulp, leaving you with a delicious beverage chock full of live enzymes, amino acids, vitamins and minerals! Popping synthetic vitamins cannot replace what living foods deliver to your body. Juicing is widely known as an important way to decrease your risk of certain cancers and other illnesses both for its nutritional punch and its oxygenating and alkalinizing effect on the body. Remember that diseases thrive in an acidic environment! There are many good juicers on the market, but the juicers most people recommend are the Omega juicers. I have a Breville juicer that works great. Important note: buy your vegetables and fruits organic, especially for juicing! The last thing you want to add to your juiced awesomeness is a bunch of pesticides.
I Want To Live Forever Juice
5 carrots
1 granny smith apple, cut in half
1 inch knob of peeled ginger root
1 small lemon, cut in half
1/2 of a medium sized beet, washed (optional)
Turn on your juicer and press all of your ingredients through, except for the lemon. Simply squeeze the lemon juice into your juice after its finished and stir with a spoon. Makes enough for one immortality-seeking unicorn (actually, they're already immortal...they just have a thing for fresh juice).
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
concerning "quaint" towns / raw coconut water
Every time I visit a town referred to as "quaint" or "nestled" in any type of landscape whether sea or mountains or whatever, I become suspicious. These overused adjective's usually mean one thing only: fudge shops. Small town fudge shops draw fanny-packed Americans into their sugary arms like retired Floridians to egg salad sandwiches. And each of these lame towns always proclaim themselves as having "the best fudge in the country". Who the hell eats fudge anyway?
These types of towns scare me. They always have that "Truman Show" look about them. The sidewalks are cobblestone and pristine, the shop windows are framed in gingham-checked curtains, and you instantly get the feeling that you've entered a time capsule. My unicorn friend picks up a complimentary map from the trolley conductor, but since the town's only 3 inches long, I tell him we'll manage. There's a barber shop with the weird twirly striped thing outside the door, a "country" store that sells peanut brittle and salt water taffy, about a dozen or so antique shops (translation: stores filled with some old cat lady's weird junk), little benches with bronze statues of small children at play, horse-drawn carriages driven by bearded men in top hats who speak with an accent that suggests they're from the 19th century, and of course–the dreaded fudge shop. Salted fudge, fudge with nuts, fudge filled with coffee, fudge shaped into dogs, and fudge store novelty items: stuffed animals holding hearts and a small bag of fudge, magnets, teeshirts, and other useless crap that tourists scoop up with exuberance so they can show their friends back home. "We went to this quaint little town and they had the best fudge..."
These towns were probably great a long time ago, before they knew how marketable they could become by exploiting their charm to the point of nausea. All you have to do is clean up your town a bit (translation: add cobblestone, hanging flower baskets, street lamps, and an old cannon or some type of rusting weapon of yesteryear in the main square...there must be a main square). Then add a Life is Good franchise. Tourists love that spindly-legged do gooder. You should also have a "walking tour" of the town, described in a series of plaques every few hundred feet: "This is where Joe-I-did-the-american-dream-thing-Smith first landed" or "This is the oldest tree in America", etc. The important thing is to make sure that this walking tour isn't longer than about a 1/2 mile, not only because you'll end up in the next town but because Americans don't like to walk. Actually, if you really want to shake things up, open up a Segway rental shop and soon you'll have fanny-packs zooming around your town like nobody's business! And you can charge twice as much for everything. As long as it has the town's name plastered all over it, tourists will overlook the golden "Made in China" sticker.
Now that you're parched from stuffing your face with fudge and you've totaled your Segway, why not sit on one of those creepy benches with the bronze children and have some coconut water? Raw coconut water is the water found inside of fresh young coconuts. It is one of the most naturally hydrating liquids on earth. It's full of electrolytes and has the same nutrient balance as plasma. The brand I love most is called Harmless Harvest. Unlike most brands, Harmless Harvest's coconut water is unprocessed and raw, which allows for greater nutrient bioavailability and a superior taste. You can also purchase a young coconut from most natural foods stores and stick a straw in the top and suck the water out for yourself. Either way, it's insanely delicious. Try it out and give it to your unicorn friends!
These types of towns scare me. They always have that "Truman Show" look about them. The sidewalks are cobblestone and pristine, the shop windows are framed in gingham-checked curtains, and you instantly get the feeling that you've entered a time capsule. My unicorn friend picks up a complimentary map from the trolley conductor, but since the town's only 3 inches long, I tell him we'll manage. There's a barber shop with the weird twirly striped thing outside the door, a "country" store that sells peanut brittle and salt water taffy, about a dozen or so antique shops (translation: stores filled with some old cat lady's weird junk), little benches with bronze statues of small children at play, horse-drawn carriages driven by bearded men in top hats who speak with an accent that suggests they're from the 19th century, and of course–the dreaded fudge shop. Salted fudge, fudge with nuts, fudge filled with coffee, fudge shaped into dogs, and fudge store novelty items: stuffed animals holding hearts and a small bag of fudge, magnets, teeshirts, and other useless crap that tourists scoop up with exuberance so they can show their friends back home. "We went to this quaint little town and they had the best fudge..."
These towns were probably great a long time ago, before they knew how marketable they could become by exploiting their charm to the point of nausea. All you have to do is clean up your town a bit (translation: add cobblestone, hanging flower baskets, street lamps, and an old cannon or some type of rusting weapon of yesteryear in the main square...there must be a main square). Then add a Life is Good franchise. Tourists love that spindly-legged do gooder. You should also have a "walking tour" of the town, described in a series of plaques every few hundred feet: "This is where Joe-I-did-the-american-dream-thing-Smith first landed" or "This is the oldest tree in America", etc. The important thing is to make sure that this walking tour isn't longer than about a 1/2 mile, not only because you'll end up in the next town but because Americans don't like to walk. Actually, if you really want to shake things up, open up a Segway rental shop and soon you'll have fanny-packs zooming around your town like nobody's business! And you can charge twice as much for everything. As long as it has the town's name plastered all over it, tourists will overlook the golden "Made in China" sticker.
Now that you're parched from stuffing your face with fudge and you've totaled your Segway, why not sit on one of those creepy benches with the bronze children and have some coconut water? Raw coconut water is the water found inside of fresh young coconuts. It is one of the most naturally hydrating liquids on earth. It's full of electrolytes and has the same nutrient balance as plasma. The brand I love most is called Harmless Harvest. Unlike most brands, Harmless Harvest's coconut water is unprocessed and raw, which allows for greater nutrient bioavailability and a superior taste. You can also purchase a young coconut from most natural foods stores and stick a straw in the top and suck the water out for yourself. Either way, it's insanely delicious. Try it out and give it to your unicorn friends!
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
concerning the dentist / roasted beet & chickpea salad
So I'm not a big fan of going to the dentist. It's nothing in particular, just the general atmosphere and post-cleaning stomach ache from swallowing the electric blue mouthwash in miniature paper cups and recovering from the embarrassment of not being able to figure out which button fills the cup and which button cleans the bowl. The waiting room isn't so bad except the magazines have that used quality about them that tempts my germophobia to come out in full form (translation: inability to open magazines followed by fixation on other frequently touched objects: doorknobs, pens, seats that have recently become available and are still warm, etc). As soon as they call my name and whisk me through the milk toast colored door, I can smell the mouthwash and latex gloves. The chairs are comfortable, but then they shine that unearthly looking spaceship lamp into your mouth while asking you how your family is. You have to time when you're going to answer because the tools keep going in and out of your mouth and you inevitably have one of those awkward moments when you speak just as their about to put the mirror back in. They wait for you to finish telling them about your dog's weight problem and you resume your vacant stare at the popcorn ceiling. Why don't they hang some artwork or a crossword puzzle or a flatscreen on the ceiling instead of forcing you to stare at the air vent while listening to soft rock? The chair comes down and it's time to rinse. I catch a view of the pastel print of a white chair in a garden and become sidetracked by my preoccupation with judging people who love crappy art. I manage to hit the wrong button and my blue mouthwash overflows into the ceramic bowl. I swish it around and spit, managing to dribble on my stiff paper bib. After the dentist polishes my teeth with bubblegum flavored grit (half of which I end up swallowing), Mr. Thirsty comes out. Mr. Thirsty is the miniature vacuum cleaner that slurps up all the liquid in your mouth before you choke on it. When I was little they used to try to pump me up with excitement by smiling and saying: "Here comes Mr. Thirsty!" I was more traumatized than excited, for by that point I had already discovered that when adults get overly excited about something in a hospital setting, it means you're not going to like it. I end my appointment with a visit from the big man himself, the head dentist. I've been going to the same dentist since I was little, so when he recently retired I didn't know what to do. A new dentist came in and they said I should go to him. I said fine. My old dentist was a hippie type with a vegan daughter and we got along great, so when the new guy walked in with a crew cut and hungry looking eyes, I became anxious. He's about six years old and shakes my hand so hard that my bib unhooks. His teeth are blazing white and he looks like he hasn't seen the sun in a decade. The mirror and the pick come out and he examines my teeth with exuberance. I've never had a cavity before and I've never had any work done. After he pokes around, he tells me that I have a cavity and need a filling. "Really?" I ask. I wonder what I've been doing wrong. He says it's no big deal. So I get the filling and a few hundred uninsured dollars later, I'm back at the office for another cleaning, and guess what? This time I need a few hundred dollars worth of x-rays and two more fillings. Now I'm getting suspicious. I ask to see the x-rays, but all he shows me is a bunch of light areas and dark areas around my teeth. When he points out the "bad" areas, I lightheartedly mention that he could be showing me a picture of space and I wouldn't know the difference. He laughs uncomfortably behind a set of magnifying spectacles that actually make him look like he's from space. I make the appointment for more fillings, then make the mistake of telling my dad (translation: my dad thinks everyone is always after your money and you can't trust anyone, especially young dentists and car dealers). He tells me what I want to hear. "Your teeth are fine...he's just trying to make more money off of you." Solution? I'm switching dentists, and may or may not be suffering from two life threatening cavities.
When you're worried about cavities, what should you make yourself to eat? A huge crunchy salad of course! This salad is a perfect Big Love style marriage of creamy, sweet, tangy, and salty.
Roasted Beet & Chickpea Salad
2 red beets, scrubbed & ends removed
1 cup cooked chickpeas
small handful of fresh dill, minced
1 avocado, pitted and chopped
for the dressing:
1 T dijon mustard
1 T balsamic vinegar
2 tsp apple cider vinegar
2 T olive oil + more for baking beets
sea salt & pepper to taste
Preheat oven to 400. Place beets in baking dish, sprinkle with salt and pepper, drizzle with olive oil, and cover with foil. Bake for an hour, or until a knife easily pierces the beets. Allow to cool, then remove skins and chop. In a small bowl, whisk together dressing ingredients, then toss with salad and enjoy! Feeds two unicorns with post-traumatic dental stress.
When you're worried about cavities, what should you make yourself to eat? A huge crunchy salad of course! This salad is a perfect Big Love style marriage of creamy, sweet, tangy, and salty.
Roasted Beet & Chickpea Salad
2 red beets, scrubbed & ends removed
1 cup cooked chickpeas
small handful of fresh dill, minced
1 avocado, pitted and chopped
for the dressing:
1 T dijon mustard
1 T balsamic vinegar
2 tsp apple cider vinegar
2 T olive oil + more for baking beets
sea salt & pepper to taste
Preheat oven to 400. Place beets in baking dish, sprinkle with salt and pepper, drizzle with olive oil, and cover with foil. Bake for an hour, or until a knife easily pierces the beets. Allow to cool, then remove skins and chop. In a small bowl, whisk together dressing ingredients, then toss with salad and enjoy! Feeds two unicorns with post-traumatic dental stress.
Monday, March 12, 2012
billboard humor / buttermilk pecan waffles with blueberries
So I made the mistake of listening to an American history book on CD while driving to Florida and have come to two conclusions: firstly, that the Union and the Confederacy should have just gone their separate ways, and secondly, that America has a profoundly unhealthy obsession with making money. But as we crossed state border after state border, the only real opinions I could generate about each state were based on the billboards that stretch along the I-95. They started off with nuance and wordplay, hinting at what they were selling without insulting the driver's intelligence, perhaps even resulting in a dry chuckle or a whispered "touché". The chic Audi billboard "Your move, BMW" and the suave reply "Checkmate" got our trip off to a sophisticated start. I nearly had to roll down my window and light up a cuban while pretending that my Subaru was the 2012 Audi A4.
After driving past billboards for ipods, itunes, ipads and all things apple, and at least three billboards for Breaking Dawn: Part 1 that read "forever is just the beginning" followed by a not-so-brief desire for my husband to become a vampire (translation: Rob Pattinson), we reached North Carolina (we don't need to mention Delaware because I'm fairly certain that no one lives there). This is when we began to see signs like "When you die, you will meet God" interspersed with South of the Border's witty one-liner's: "You never sausage a place, you're always a winner at Pedro's" and "Pedro's weather report: chili today hot tamale!". I quickly found that the combination of the billboards and the increasing heat slowed my brain function, and as we continued south, confederate flags began to crop up on the backs of trucks and Darwin fish were replaced by Jesus fish. Religious billboards continued to multiply like pine trees with bold statements like "Where are you going? Heaven or Hell?" and "Anti-God is Anti-American" (ironically, when we stopped for gas in Georgia, I went into the store and, in addition to the usual items, were a string of occupied slot machines and a neon sign that read "Playboy" above a vast selection of colorful magazines (translation: the billboards aren't working).
Florida brought with it a slew of ads for community living with walled-in pink stucco houses, palm trees and neon grass. Everyone featured in these ads was 106 and had replaced their cadillac with an electric golf cart, and find bridge absolutely scintillating. There were a few ads for Ron Jon's surf shop featuring the nearly extinct sun-bleached surfer dude (who I suspect has been hunted and turned into egg-salad sandwiches and prune juice).
Driving down the I-95 and feeling bored? Whip out your waffle iron (which you obviously packed in your suitcase) and make a batch of yummy waffles! These waffles are hearty, crunchy and have just the right amount of sweetness to make you dream about breakfast every night. This recipe is adapted from the fabulously vegan Post Punk Kitchen.
Buttermilk Pecan Waffles with Blueberries
2 cups nut milk (I use soymilk)
1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar
2 cups whole wheat pastry flour or all purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
After driving past billboards for ipods, itunes, ipads and all things apple, and at least three billboards for Breaking Dawn: Part 1 that read "forever is just the beginning" followed by a not-so-brief desire for my husband to become a vampire (translation: Rob Pattinson), we reached North Carolina (we don't need to mention Delaware because I'm fairly certain that no one lives there). This is when we began to see signs like "When you die, you will meet God" interspersed with South of the Border's witty one-liner's: "You never sausage a place, you're always a winner at Pedro's" and "Pedro's weather report: chili today hot tamale!". I quickly found that the combination of the billboards and the increasing heat slowed my brain function, and as we continued south, confederate flags began to crop up on the backs of trucks and Darwin fish were replaced by Jesus fish. Religious billboards continued to multiply like pine trees with bold statements like "Where are you going? Heaven or Hell?" and "Anti-God is Anti-American" (ironically, when we stopped for gas in Georgia, I went into the store and, in addition to the usual items, were a string of occupied slot machines and a neon sign that read "Playboy" above a vast selection of colorful magazines (translation: the billboards aren't working).
Florida brought with it a slew of ads for community living with walled-in pink stucco houses, palm trees and neon grass. Everyone featured in these ads was 106 and had replaced their cadillac with an electric golf cart, and find bridge absolutely scintillating. There were a few ads for Ron Jon's surf shop featuring the nearly extinct sun-bleached surfer dude (who I suspect has been hunted and turned into egg-salad sandwiches and prune juice).
Driving down the I-95 and feeling bored? Whip out your waffle iron (which you obviously packed in your suitcase) and make a batch of yummy waffles! These waffles are hearty, crunchy and have just the right amount of sweetness to make you dream about breakfast every night. This recipe is adapted from the fabulously vegan Post Punk Kitchen.
Buttermilk Pecan Waffles with Blueberries
2 cups nut milk (I use soymilk)
1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar
2 cups whole wheat pastry flour or all purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons ground flax seeds
1/2 cup water
3 tablespoons olive oil
3 tablespoons maple syrup
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup fresh blueberries
1 cup pecans, chopped
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons ground flax seeds
1/2 cup water
3 tablespoons olive oil
3 tablespoons maple syrup
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup fresh blueberries
1 cup pecans, chopped
Pour nut milk in
to bowl and add vinegar to allow it to curdle. Then combine flour, baking powder, cinnamon and salt in another bowl.
Add the flax seeds to the milk and whisk until frothy, about 30 seconds. Add mixture to the flour along with water, olive oil, maple syrup and vanilla. Mix with a wooden spoon until mostly combined then fold in the blueberries and pecans.
Preheat waffle iron and let the batter rest. Cook according to waffle iron directions, making sure to oil the iron before making each waffle so it doesn't stick. Serve with maple syrup and Earth Balance butter, if desired. Makes about 8 waffles, perfect for a herd of 4-8 unicorns with road rage.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
buying a new car / key lime & coconut tarts
My husband and I recently bought a subaru.
Go ahead. Tell me that I'm a liberal, a lesbian or a homeschooling mother of three because to you I will simply say Ha! I am destroying that stereotype, one granola bar at a time. But let's be honest, stereotypes develop for a reason...
Take my car buying experience. As soon as I walked through the door, I was royalty; the most beautiful and interesting person they had ever met (translation: ignorant car buyer going to slaughter). Everything I said warranted a light chuckle and a nod of the head. I could do no wrong in this fantasy world of shiny cars and shinier smiles; all they wanted to do was help me. Or so I thought. Now I'm not so ignorant as to be fooled by these kinds of sales tactics, and fake niceness is right at the top of my list of least favorite things. Believe me, I've been there, on the other side, handing out orchids to tourists and pretending to care about their Hawaiian vacation when I'll I really wanted to do was con them into buying timeshares. And I did. Again and again with the slyness of a used car salesman. All they wanted was directions to the Cheesecake Factory and now they are going to a free luau with orchids behind their ears after buying a timeshare they don't want = Job done (I quit that job to save myself from becoming the slime of the earth). But I digress...
So I'm buying a new car and I don't know about you, but in my estimation there can only be so much conning going on. I know the msrp is a joke and I can work with that. I just have to play their game, hem and haw over everything and scrunch up my face so that I appear to be in deep contemplation. Lie and tell them I'll come back later after I've thought about it some more (even though I already know I'm going to buy the car). I know what I'm doing...
The sales guy I'm working with keeps disappearing with a line like "I don't have those numbers in front of me, in fact I'm not privy to them, but I can check with my manager and see if he can work something out for you". Because I'm special, right? Wrong, they say the same bs to every poor slob who walks in, and you know what, most of them probably eat that crap right up.
I finally get the numbers in front of me after negotiating with the guy for an hour (translation: I ask for a deal, he theatrically sighs and carries on, then talks to the manager, then comes back, then sighs and tell me that they don't normally do this, but he wants me to be happy, etc...bs, bs, bs).
Then it gets interesting...I buy the stupid car so they should be happy, right? Well they are, but not until I've bought all of the extra crap that I don't need. The extended warranty I understand, but why doesn't it include everything? I have to buy tire and wheel coverage separately, dings and dents separately, and the worst of all? A little extra called glasscoat. This is a poly-based paint that bonds to the paint job on the car and apparently protects it (translation: covers it with an extra coat of paint that it doesn't need so the dealership can make more money off of you). As I write this, I'm embarrassed/pissed that I fell for it. The salesman that sold me the car hands me off to the king of slime balls, the dreaded "manager". He's a greasy, baldheaded guy stuffed into a wrinkled shirt, who's about to see how stupid I am. A few stories and two framed photos of his family later, we're big buddies and he's let me in on a little secret: this glasscoat stuff really works, and it's only $7.99 per month. With horror in his eyes he recalls to me the dangers of tree sap and road salt. How could my precious new baby subaru handle it? So I sign up, then realize three days later (thanks to my father's brilliant opinion: "that's *$%^!") that I don't want it anymore. Now upon signing, my "new best friend" had told me that I could easily alter anything if I changed my mind. Yea, right. I called them up and told them I didn't want it anymore. They were shocked! stunned! stupified! and told me I had to bring in my contract and that it was going to be very complicated. Great. So I went in and my same bff tried to sell me on it again with the premise: "I'm not going to try to change your mind, but...(enter sales pitch here)". After he ranted on for several minutes, I told him that I didn't understand why a brand new car needed another coat of paint. He brought up the tree sap again and I started getting antsy.
"I don't want it, period", I finally said. And that was the end. No more glittering smiles and fake chuckles; I had become the dreaded customer with an opinion. He grumbled and started punching keys on his computer, all the while telling me that no one had ever canceled glasscoat before, so he wasn't even sure if he could cancel it. Now I really hate this guy. Not only is he blatantly lying to me, he's making me feel like I'm the problem. I want to say "I'm on to you, you money grubbing snake!" but instead I say, "you expect me to believe that this is the first time a customer has ever canceled glasscoat?" He looks at me with beady eyes and lies to my face again. Then he says he can't change the contract because it's already "in" (in where? a secret vault of untouchable contracts?), so he'll have to write me a check for the amount.
"Does this mean that I'm going to be paying interest on it?" I ask. In a nutshell, yes. Then he asks me if I want the tax back. Um...duh, I think to myself. He says he might not be able to get it back. I am ready to scream at this point and my unicorn friend has decided to test drive the new outback while waiting for me. I whisper to him to park under a pine tree and wait for sap. Then I look back at my enemy, the stuffed turkey of a manager, and ask "if I return something to a store, do they give me my money back and keep the tax? No, because that would be illegal." He smiles and says he totally understands, but somehow this is different, more complicated (translation: he wants to keep the tax because he's a thieving bastard). He calls someone named Debra who must have all the answers, but alas she's unavailable. He's going to have to get back to me on that. Oh, but he'll take my credit card number and call me once he finds out. I look at him square in the face before I leave and say, "you're on my side, right?" His sweaty palm grabs my hand and I want to say so many horrible things to him, but my unicorn friend anxiously flags me down. I go outside and we get into my shiny new subaru, and my unicorn friend tells me that he accidentally stabbed his horn through the sunroof of the outback he was test driving. "Great", I say, "there goes my tax."
It's the middle of winter and you've just gotten screwed over by a car dealership. Solution? Indulge in some velvety smooth key lime tarts to lift your spirit! This recipe is raw, free of refined sugars, gluten free, soy free, and guilt free because it's made from healthy ingredients like avocado! Hooray!
Key Lime & Coconut Tarts
Crust:
1/2 cup almond flour (I use Bob's Red Mill)
1/2 cup dates, pitted
pinch of sea salt
Filling:
2 avocados, pitted and removed from skins
1/4 cup fresh lime juice
1/2 cup virgin coconut oil (I use Dr. Bronner's)
2 T coconut nectar (you can substitute agave nectar or honey)
Topping:
Handful of shredded, unsweetened coconut (I use Let's Do Organic)
Zest of one lime
Add crust ingredients to a food processor and blend until crumbly and moist. Press mixture into six ramekins or muffin tins or vessel of your choosing. Now blend the filling ingredients in a high-speed blender (like a Vita-Mix) until smooth and fluffy. Add a dollop of the filling to each ramekin and spread over crust. Top with a sprinkle of zest and coconut flakes. Chill in the frig for at least an hour before serving. Makes 6 ramekin-sized tarts, enough for 6 unicorns seeking revenge.
Go ahead. Tell me that I'm a liberal, a lesbian or a homeschooling mother of three because to you I will simply say Ha! I am destroying that stereotype, one granola bar at a time. But let's be honest, stereotypes develop for a reason...
Take my car buying experience. As soon as I walked through the door, I was royalty; the most beautiful and interesting person they had ever met (translation: ignorant car buyer going to slaughter). Everything I said warranted a light chuckle and a nod of the head. I could do no wrong in this fantasy world of shiny cars and shinier smiles; all they wanted to do was help me. Or so I thought. Now I'm not so ignorant as to be fooled by these kinds of sales tactics, and fake niceness is right at the top of my list of least favorite things. Believe me, I've been there, on the other side, handing out orchids to tourists and pretending to care about their Hawaiian vacation when I'll I really wanted to do was con them into buying timeshares. And I did. Again and again with the slyness of a used car salesman. All they wanted was directions to the Cheesecake Factory and now they are going to a free luau with orchids behind their ears after buying a timeshare they don't want = Job done (I quit that job to save myself from becoming the slime of the earth). But I digress...
So I'm buying a new car and I don't know about you, but in my estimation there can only be so much conning going on. I know the msrp is a joke and I can work with that. I just have to play their game, hem and haw over everything and scrunch up my face so that I appear to be in deep contemplation. Lie and tell them I'll come back later after I've thought about it some more (even though I already know I'm going to buy the car). I know what I'm doing...
The sales guy I'm working with keeps disappearing with a line like "I don't have those numbers in front of me, in fact I'm not privy to them, but I can check with my manager and see if he can work something out for you". Because I'm special, right? Wrong, they say the same bs to every poor slob who walks in, and you know what, most of them probably eat that crap right up.
I finally get the numbers in front of me after negotiating with the guy for an hour (translation: I ask for a deal, he theatrically sighs and carries on, then talks to the manager, then comes back, then sighs and tell me that they don't normally do this, but he wants me to be happy, etc...bs, bs, bs).
Then it gets interesting...I buy the stupid car so they should be happy, right? Well they are, but not until I've bought all of the extra crap that I don't need. The extended warranty I understand, but why doesn't it include everything? I have to buy tire and wheel coverage separately, dings and dents separately, and the worst of all? A little extra called glasscoat. This is a poly-based paint that bonds to the paint job on the car and apparently protects it (translation: covers it with an extra coat of paint that it doesn't need so the dealership can make more money off of you). As I write this, I'm embarrassed/pissed that I fell for it. The salesman that sold me the car hands me off to the king of slime balls, the dreaded "manager". He's a greasy, baldheaded guy stuffed into a wrinkled shirt, who's about to see how stupid I am. A few stories and two framed photos of his family later, we're big buddies and he's let me in on a little secret: this glasscoat stuff really works, and it's only $7.99 per month. With horror in his eyes he recalls to me the dangers of tree sap and road salt. How could my precious new baby subaru handle it? So I sign up, then realize three days later (thanks to my father's brilliant opinion: "that's *$%^!") that I don't want it anymore. Now upon signing, my "new best friend" had told me that I could easily alter anything if I changed my mind. Yea, right. I called them up and told them I didn't want it anymore. They were shocked! stunned! stupified! and told me I had to bring in my contract and that it was going to be very complicated. Great. So I went in and my same bff tried to sell me on it again with the premise: "I'm not going to try to change your mind, but...(enter sales pitch here)". After he ranted on for several minutes, I told him that I didn't understand why a brand new car needed another coat of paint. He brought up the tree sap again and I started getting antsy.
"I don't want it, period", I finally said. And that was the end. No more glittering smiles and fake chuckles; I had become the dreaded customer with an opinion. He grumbled and started punching keys on his computer, all the while telling me that no one had ever canceled glasscoat before, so he wasn't even sure if he could cancel it. Now I really hate this guy. Not only is he blatantly lying to me, he's making me feel like I'm the problem. I want to say "I'm on to you, you money grubbing snake!" but instead I say, "you expect me to believe that this is the first time a customer has ever canceled glasscoat?" He looks at me with beady eyes and lies to my face again. Then he says he can't change the contract because it's already "in" (in where? a secret vault of untouchable contracts?), so he'll have to write me a check for the amount.
"Does this mean that I'm going to be paying interest on it?" I ask. In a nutshell, yes. Then he asks me if I want the tax back. Um...duh, I think to myself. He says he might not be able to get it back. I am ready to scream at this point and my unicorn friend has decided to test drive the new outback while waiting for me. I whisper to him to park under a pine tree and wait for sap. Then I look back at my enemy, the stuffed turkey of a manager, and ask "if I return something to a store, do they give me my money back and keep the tax? No, because that would be illegal." He smiles and says he totally understands, but somehow this is different, more complicated (translation: he wants to keep the tax because he's a thieving bastard). He calls someone named Debra who must have all the answers, but alas she's unavailable. He's going to have to get back to me on that. Oh, but he'll take my credit card number and call me once he finds out. I look at him square in the face before I leave and say, "you're on my side, right?" His sweaty palm grabs my hand and I want to say so many horrible things to him, but my unicorn friend anxiously flags me down. I go outside and we get into my shiny new subaru, and my unicorn friend tells me that he accidentally stabbed his horn through the sunroof of the outback he was test driving. "Great", I say, "there goes my tax."
It's the middle of winter and you've just gotten screwed over by a car dealership. Solution? Indulge in some velvety smooth key lime tarts to lift your spirit! This recipe is raw, free of refined sugars, gluten free, soy free, and guilt free because it's made from healthy ingredients like avocado! Hooray!
Key Lime & Coconut Tarts
Crust:
1/2 cup almond flour (I use Bob's Red Mill)
1/2 cup dates, pitted
pinch of sea salt
Filling:
2 avocados, pitted and removed from skins
1/4 cup fresh lime juice
1/2 cup virgin coconut oil (I use Dr. Bronner's)
2 T coconut nectar (you can substitute agave nectar or honey)
Topping:
Handful of shredded, unsweetened coconut (I use Let's Do Organic)
Zest of one lime
Add crust ingredients to a food processor and blend until crumbly and moist. Press mixture into six ramekins or muffin tins or vessel of your choosing. Now blend the filling ingredients in a high-speed blender (like a Vita-Mix) until smooth and fluffy. Add a dollop of the filling to each ramekin and spread over crust. Top with a sprinkle of zest and coconut flakes. Chill in the frig for at least an hour before serving. Makes 6 ramekin-sized tarts, enough for 6 unicorns seeking revenge.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
and now for something completely different / fettuccine with cashew alfredo
Sometimes I like to write poetry. And since I'm on a cleanse right now (translation: no life), I'm feeling less cynical and more contemplative. I know...boring, boring, boring. But what else am I supposed to do when it's 20 degrees outside and I can't drink? Exactly. Poetry is the answer. Here's one that I wrote about my mom and I...
“I had a thought today,” said my mother to me,
“and it didn’t make me sad or glad. It was just there in front of me
like a wide-eyed creature.”
A sparrow landed on the slate patio and picked up a piece of millet.
I asked her what it was.
“That we are insignificant. I mean, in the grand scheme of things,
we don’t matter.”
The sky was ocean blue with white-capped clouds.
“We are dust gathering in a corner, we are blades of grass
hanging onto the earth;
we are the small things that no one ever sees, we are seeds blowing on a wayward sojourn;
we are the raindrops that never reach the ground,
splattered on a bough, a fence, a rooftop—we are nothing.”
The phone was ringing. Mom always answers, but she didn’t get up.
I guess she didn’t hear it.
I smiled. She knew that I knew exactly what she meant because I always did.
I agreed, of course, and asked her how this insignificance made her feel.
“Like a wet blanket lifting from my shoulders,” she said, “like the first burst of radiant sunlight over a sleeping field—shouting—go on and do it Kim!
Go on and wear the clothes you want, go on and tell the world how you feel about it,
because in the end, none of it will matter!”
We shared a maniacal laugh.
The laundry announced that it was clean.
Yes, I thought to myself, this is one of those pure moments.
This is what really matters.
Now that you're feeling nostalgic and want to call your mom and tell her you love her, why not indulge in a sinfully rich dish with your unicorn friends and watch Steel Magnolias? This fettuccine alfredo will blow you away with its creaminess without the added nastiness of dairy. In fact, this dish is soy and gluten free too so I can't think of one person who won't be able to eat this (unless you're allergic to cashews in which case, I feel sorry for you because they are the greatest nut on the planet).
Fettuccine with Cashew Alfredo
for the pasta:
1 box of fettuccine noodles (use whole wheat noodles or brown rice noodles to make it gluten free)
1 large yellow onion, sliced
1 box of button mushrooms, sliced
1 red pepper, sliced
*optional* a few handfuls of spinach or kale or chard (everything I make has greens in it because I am a dirty hippie...and unicorns love their greens)
sea salt & black pepper to taste
for the sauce:
2 cups raw cashews
1/2 cup stock or water
3 T fresh lemon juice
4 cloves garlic (sliced and sauteed in a little olive oil for 1 minute)
1 cup almond milk (I use unsweetened, but if you want to use "original" then omit the coconut nectar)
1 tsp dried thyme
1 tsp coconut nectar (I love this minimally processed sweetener, but you can easily substitute agave nectar or brown rice syrup)
2 T nutritional yeast (buy it in the bulk section of a natural foods store)
1 T tamari (naturally brewed, gluten free soy sauce. You can sub with regular shoyu too.)
pinch of sea salt
Get out a big pot and fill it up with lots of water and a generous pinch of sea salt. Cover, and bring to a boil, then add noodles and cook according to package directions. Meanwhile, saute your onion in some olive oil until soft, then add mushrooms, stir once or twice, then add the rest of your veggies. Season with salt and pepper.
In a high speed blender (buy a Vita-Mix! They're amazing!!!) add all sauce ingredients and blend on variable speed until combined, then pump it up to highest speed until creamy and smooth. If you're using a Vita-Mix, leave motor running until sauce is heated up. If you're using a conventional blender, remove once creamy and smooth, then gently heat in a saucepan until warm (if your blender is a little weak, soak the cashews for an hour first, then add to blender with everything else). Toss noodles with sauce and a bit of the starchy water from the pot to thin out the sauce, if desired. Add veggies and serve to four nostalgic unicorns who want to feed their emotions.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
an alien named Santa part two
Santa the alien is still fascinated by my slippers when I suggest he come inside.
"Is your spaceship on wheels?" I ask.
"No, it's a hover craft," he replies.
"So...no wheels?" I just want him to move it out of the front yard so no one sees it.
He looks at me as if I'm an idiot. "It hovers," he emphasizes, "Get it? Why would I need something as archaic as wheels?"
I shake my head and show him where the garage is. After he moves his ship into the bay, he joins me at the door to my apartment. "You're not one of those weird ass scientists that wants to give me a lobotomy and sell my body parts on the black market, right?" he asks.
My raised eyebrows and bulging eyes seem to answer correctly. He steps inside.
"Whoa! What is that?" Santa yells.
My cat, Dragon, seems to be thinking the same thing. She arches her back and tries to make herself as large as possible. Fur standing on end, sideways scuttle, never breaking her gaze with Santa. Frodo is somewhere near Mordor no doubt because I don't see him anywhere. Toast is already licking one of Santa's green legs. I swear, dogs are the most accepting creatures on earth.
"Don't worry, that's just my cat and dog. They won't hurt you."
"What are they doing here?"
"They're my pets."
"What are pets?"
"Companion animals that live with you."
Santa shakes his head, but doesn't reply. Obviously they don't have pets on his planet.
"Nice tree," he says, gesturing towards our Christmas tree.
"Thanks," I reply.
"Where's the menorah?"
"The what?"
"You know, the candle holder thingy that you light. Isn't that for Jesus's birthday? Or it that just Santa taking over again?"
I take a moment to process the question, then ask, "How do you know about Hanukkah?"
"Do I really need to explain it again?" he asks. "The letters, of course."
"But they're written to Santa and..."
"And...?"
"And that's a different religion and holiday all together!"
"Well, don't look at me. You humans are the ones with the strange holidays that make no sense."
Instead of arguing otherwise, I offer Santa some tea, and we sit on the couch.
"So...what's Hanukkah?"
I sigh so loudly that Santa cracks a smile. He doesn't have lips, or teeth for that matter, but I guess you just know a smile when you see one, alien or not.
"It's a holiday that Jewish people celebrate for eight days in December."
"Where are the Jewish people from?"
"All over, but they believe in God and the ten commandments and all that."
"Like the Christians?"
"Yea, but they don't believe in the whole Jesus-born-on-Christmas-day thing."
"What does Jesus think about it?"
"I don't know. I mean, he might not think about it at all, if they're right."
"You mean, the whole thing about Christmas that you told me hasn't been proven?"
"No."
"Then how come everyone celebrates Christmas?"
"It's called a belief for a reason," I smirk.
"Something tells me that you don't agree with it."
"Not at all. Who doesn't love presents and eggnog?"
"Oh, I get it. You're on Santa's side."
I laugh. This alien is funnier than I thought.
"So what do the Jewish people think?"
"That a guy like Jesus is going to come."
"When?"
"I don't know."
Santa and I sip our tea for a few moments in silence.
"You still haven't answered my question about Hanukkah," Santa points out.
"Oh, right. So on a particular day, you light one candle on the menorah, and the following seven days, you continue to light a candle until all eight of the candles are burning."
"Why?"
"To signify the importance of oil."
"What, for fuel? Isn't that what you still use?"
I find myself becoming sidetracked, but resist the urge to ask Santa what his spaceship runs on.
"No, for purifying the Jewish temple."
"Wouldn't oil burn it down? Why not use an antibacterial cleanser?"
"They didn't have cleanser back then. It was a long time ago."
"I don't understand."
My head is spinning at this point, and I barely understand what I'm saying either.
"So a bunch of Greeks took over the Jews and told them to worship their Gods. The Jews didn't want to and they eventually killed all of the Greeks..."
"Gods? I thought there was only one?"
"Some think there are more than one, some don't," I reply. "Anyway, afterwards, they thought their temple was defiled by the Greeks and wanted to purify it, so they lit a menorah, then realized they were almost out."
"Of what, oil?"
"Yup."
"Bummer."
"But it didn't matter because their one day's worth of oil lasted eight nights anyway. Hence celebrating the oil."
"Oh, I guess I get it. I still would've used cleanser, but whatever. So that's it?"
"Well, no," I sigh, "there's more..."
Images of menorahs and bald headed men wearing very small hats float through my head; children eating latkes and chocolate coins while singing "dreidel, dreidel", mothers wrapping presents in blue and silver paper with the star of david all over it, pickled herring and other gross looking foods labeled with the symbol K, Adam Sandler's "chanukah song", and a lot of strange sounding expressions that require a throaty delivery that leave everyone covered in little globules of spit.
Santa senses my hesitation.
"What I don't understand is, where does Santa fit into this whole oil cleansing thing?"
"He doesn't. He has nothing to do with it," I say.
"And yet, it's right there. In my letters. Santa this, Santa that..."
"So Jewish kids are sending you letters?"
"Yup. Always asking for eight presents. Freaking Santa..." he grumbles.
"Well, Hanukkah has become a lot more Christmas-y lately."
"I thought they weren't related?"
"They aren't, but it's the same month and all of the Jewish kids were jealous of the Christian kids because they get all these gifts on Christmas. So now the Jewish kids get eight gifts, one for each night of lighting the menorah."
"Which proves my point again. Santa taking over a holiday that isn't his..."
"You just don't like him because you get all of his mail," I remind him.
Santa grunts something unintelligible and shoots a menacing glare at Frodo, who has just realized that there is an alien in our apartment. He puts the ring on his paw and disappears...
"Is your spaceship on wheels?" I ask.
"No, it's a hover craft," he replies.
"So...no wheels?" I just want him to move it out of the front yard so no one sees it.
He looks at me as if I'm an idiot. "It hovers," he emphasizes, "Get it? Why would I need something as archaic as wheels?"
I shake my head and show him where the garage is. After he moves his ship into the bay, he joins me at the door to my apartment. "You're not one of those weird ass scientists that wants to give me a lobotomy and sell my body parts on the black market, right?" he asks.
My raised eyebrows and bulging eyes seem to answer correctly. He steps inside.
"Whoa! What is that?" Santa yells.
My cat, Dragon, seems to be thinking the same thing. She arches her back and tries to make herself as large as possible. Fur standing on end, sideways scuttle, never breaking her gaze with Santa. Frodo is somewhere near Mordor no doubt because I don't see him anywhere. Toast is already licking one of Santa's green legs. I swear, dogs are the most accepting creatures on earth.
"Don't worry, that's just my cat and dog. They won't hurt you."
"What are they doing here?"
"They're my pets."
"What are pets?"
"Companion animals that live with you."
Santa shakes his head, but doesn't reply. Obviously they don't have pets on his planet.
"Nice tree," he says, gesturing towards our Christmas tree.
"Thanks," I reply.
"Where's the menorah?"
"The what?"
"You know, the candle holder thingy that you light. Isn't that for Jesus's birthday? Or it that just Santa taking over again?"
I take a moment to process the question, then ask, "How do you know about Hanukkah?"
"Do I really need to explain it again?" he asks. "The letters, of course."
"But they're written to Santa and..."
"And...?"
"And that's a different religion and holiday all together!"
"Well, don't look at me. You humans are the ones with the strange holidays that make no sense."
Instead of arguing otherwise, I offer Santa some tea, and we sit on the couch.
"So...what's Hanukkah?"
I sigh so loudly that Santa cracks a smile. He doesn't have lips, or teeth for that matter, but I guess you just know a smile when you see one, alien or not.
"It's a holiday that Jewish people celebrate for eight days in December."
"Where are the Jewish people from?"
"All over, but they believe in God and the ten commandments and all that."
"Like the Christians?"
"Yea, but they don't believe in the whole Jesus-born-on-Christmas-day thing."
"What does Jesus think about it?"
"I don't know. I mean, he might not think about it at all, if they're right."
"You mean, the whole thing about Christmas that you told me hasn't been proven?"
"No."
"Then how come everyone celebrates Christmas?"
"It's called a belief for a reason," I smirk.
"Something tells me that you don't agree with it."
"Not at all. Who doesn't love presents and eggnog?"
"Oh, I get it. You're on Santa's side."
I laugh. This alien is funnier than I thought.
"So what do the Jewish people think?"
"That a guy like Jesus is going to come."
"When?"
"I don't know."
Santa and I sip our tea for a few moments in silence.
"You still haven't answered my question about Hanukkah," Santa points out.
"Oh, right. So on a particular day, you light one candle on the menorah, and the following seven days, you continue to light a candle until all eight of the candles are burning."
"Why?"
"To signify the importance of oil."
"What, for fuel? Isn't that what you still use?"
I find myself becoming sidetracked, but resist the urge to ask Santa what his spaceship runs on.
"No, for purifying the Jewish temple."
"Wouldn't oil burn it down? Why not use an antibacterial cleanser?"
"They didn't have cleanser back then. It was a long time ago."
"I don't understand."
My head is spinning at this point, and I barely understand what I'm saying either.
"So a bunch of Greeks took over the Jews and told them to worship their Gods. The Jews didn't want to and they eventually killed all of the Greeks..."
"Gods? I thought there was only one?"
"Some think there are more than one, some don't," I reply. "Anyway, afterwards, they thought their temple was defiled by the Greeks and wanted to purify it, so they lit a menorah, then realized they were almost out."
"Of what, oil?"
"Yup."
"Bummer."
"But it didn't matter because their one day's worth of oil lasted eight nights anyway. Hence celebrating the oil."
"Oh, I guess I get it. I still would've used cleanser, but whatever. So that's it?"
"Well, no," I sigh, "there's more..."
Images of menorahs and bald headed men wearing very small hats float through my head; children eating latkes and chocolate coins while singing "dreidel, dreidel", mothers wrapping presents in blue and silver paper with the star of david all over it, pickled herring and other gross looking foods labeled with the symbol K, Adam Sandler's "chanukah song", and a lot of strange sounding expressions that require a throaty delivery that leave everyone covered in little globules of spit.
Santa senses my hesitation.
"What I don't understand is, where does Santa fit into this whole oil cleansing thing?"
"He doesn't. He has nothing to do with it," I say.
"And yet, it's right there. In my letters. Santa this, Santa that..."
"So Jewish kids are sending you letters?"
"Yup. Always asking for eight presents. Freaking Santa..." he grumbles.
"Well, Hanukkah has become a lot more Christmas-y lately."
"I thought they weren't related?"
"They aren't, but it's the same month and all of the Jewish kids were jealous of the Christian kids because they get all these gifts on Christmas. So now the Jewish kids get eight gifts, one for each night of lighting the menorah."
"Which proves my point again. Santa taking over a holiday that isn't his..."
"You just don't like him because you get all of his mail," I remind him.
Santa grunts something unintelligible and shoots a menacing glare at Frodo, who has just realized that there is an alien in our apartment. He puts the ring on his paw and disappears...
Monday, December 19, 2011
an alien named Santa part one
8:31 am. A man with a hammer begins to hit nails into the side of my apartment. Naturally, I remain calm and go outside to see why the $%&*#^@ he's doing that at 8:31 in the morning. Yes, I know it's monday and most people are already at their junior investment banker jobs, but some people (namely, the unemployed and chefs) have mondays off.
8:35 am. I am standing in the driveway with my slippers on (moose rowing in canoes, stolen from my brother-in-law), trying to generate the most disgruntled expression I possibly can, when something amazing happens...
A spaceship lands in the grass below my porch. Yup, right in the area where Toast likes to take her morning dumps. I turn to the hammer man, but he's already run away. I consider doing the same, but the spaceship isn't very big and besides, three of my unicorn friends spent the night and I know they will fight to the death. No big deal.
Moments later, a door opens with that star wars-ish breaking of a seal sound, smoke billows out of the capsule, and a small alien walks out. He's green, of course, and has those tube-like antenna jutting out of the top of his head (it's amazing how right we've been about describing what aliens look like). He has a bit of a gut (too much freeze-dried ice cream? I wonder with a chuckle), and he's holding a pile of what looks like mail, wrapped in twine. He looks down at my slippers curiously.
"They're not mine, I swear."
"Reindeer?"
"What? Oh, the slippers- no those are moose."
"What's moose?"
"Similar to a reindeer, but..." What the hell is the difference? I ask myself. Nothing comes to mind except an obvious cliche. "Reindeer pull Santa's sleigh and moose don't." (I can't believe I just said that to an alien).
"Santa has a sleigh?"
"Er- yea," I reply, bewildered that he understands me, "how do you know who Santa is?"
"I keep getting all of his mail."
I make a what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about expression. He understands that, too.
"The problem is, my name is Santa too, so I get a lot of his mail every year- always during December, which is kind of bizarre, you know? And I'm not going to lie, I have read a few of the letters."
"And?"
"And they're also totally bizarre...A bunch of poorly scribbled notes asking for strange things for something called christmas."
A pause.
"What the hell is christmas?" the alien asked.
A flurry of images runs through my head: a fat, bearded white guy in a red suit, women wearing ornament bauble earrings, pine trees on rooftops of cars, miniature nativity scenes with hay, wise men, and baby J, eggnog, presents, and really really bad music.
"Um, it's kind of hard to explain," I reply nervously.
"It can't be as hard as me trying to explain this to my family." He gestures to the pack of letters.
"Ok, well, it's a holiday that we celebrate on the 25th of December."
"What are you celebrating?"
"Technically, the birth of Jesus Christ."
"Who's Jesus? Is that Santa?"
"No, Santa is the guy who delivers all the presents in his sleigh with reindeer who can fly."
Another pause.
"So Santa works for Jesus?"
"No, not really."
"Does he give presents to everyone?"
"Only those who have been nice."
"As opposed to what?"
"Naughty." (I can't believe I just said that).
Santa the alien looks at my moose slippers again. "Who's Jesus?"
"You know what reindeer are, but you've never heard of Jesus?"
"All of my information on your planet comes from those weird letters addressed to Santa."
"Some people believe that he is the savior of the world, the son of God, the Christ in CHRISTmas, and they worship him."
"Where does he live?"
"We killed him a long time ago, but he's not really human, so many believe that he's just living somewhere else, waiting for the right time to return as our savior."
"Does he live with Santa? Are they close friends?"
"No, I don't think so."
"What's with all of the pine trees getting chopped down and decorated?"
"That's where Santa puts all of the presents."
"Oh. Does Jesus have a tree with presents under it?"
"No, he's not into that."
"But the holiday is named after him, right?"
"Yea, but Santa has kind of taken over."
"What an asshole."
"No, he's a pretty good guy."
"He's a fat slob and he's taken over Jesus's birthday party. Not to mention I have to deal with his mail."
"Yea, sorry about that."
"You earthlings are strange."
He's staring at my slippers again.
8:35 am. I am standing in the driveway with my slippers on (moose rowing in canoes, stolen from my brother-in-law), trying to generate the most disgruntled expression I possibly can, when something amazing happens...
A spaceship lands in the grass below my porch. Yup, right in the area where Toast likes to take her morning dumps. I turn to the hammer man, but he's already run away. I consider doing the same, but the spaceship isn't very big and besides, three of my unicorn friends spent the night and I know they will fight to the death. No big deal.
Moments later, a door opens with that star wars-ish breaking of a seal sound, smoke billows out of the capsule, and a small alien walks out. He's green, of course, and has those tube-like antenna jutting out of the top of his head (it's amazing how right we've been about describing what aliens look like). He has a bit of a gut (too much freeze-dried ice cream? I wonder with a chuckle), and he's holding a pile of what looks like mail, wrapped in twine. He looks down at my slippers curiously.
"They're not mine, I swear."
"Reindeer?"
"What? Oh, the slippers- no those are moose."
"What's moose?"
"Similar to a reindeer, but..." What the hell is the difference? I ask myself. Nothing comes to mind except an obvious cliche. "Reindeer pull Santa's sleigh and moose don't." (I can't believe I just said that to an alien).
"Santa has a sleigh?"
"Er- yea," I reply, bewildered that he understands me, "how do you know who Santa is?"
"I keep getting all of his mail."
I make a what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about expression. He understands that, too.
"The problem is, my name is Santa too, so I get a lot of his mail every year- always during December, which is kind of bizarre, you know? And I'm not going to lie, I have read a few of the letters."
"And?"
"And they're also totally bizarre...A bunch of poorly scribbled notes asking for strange things for something called christmas."
A pause.
"What the hell is christmas?" the alien asked.
A flurry of images runs through my head: a fat, bearded white guy in a red suit, women wearing ornament bauble earrings, pine trees on rooftops of cars, miniature nativity scenes with hay, wise men, and baby J, eggnog, presents, and really really bad music.
"Um, it's kind of hard to explain," I reply nervously.
"It can't be as hard as me trying to explain this to my family." He gestures to the pack of letters.
"Ok, well, it's a holiday that we celebrate on the 25th of December."
"What are you celebrating?"
"Technically, the birth of Jesus Christ."
"Who's Jesus? Is that Santa?"
"No, Santa is the guy who delivers all the presents in his sleigh with reindeer who can fly."
Another pause.
"So Santa works for Jesus?"
"No, not really."
"Does he give presents to everyone?"
"Only those who have been nice."
"As opposed to what?"
"Naughty." (I can't believe I just said that).
Santa the alien looks at my moose slippers again. "Who's Jesus?"
"You know what reindeer are, but you've never heard of Jesus?"
"All of my information on your planet comes from those weird letters addressed to Santa."
"Some people believe that he is the savior of the world, the son of God, the Christ in CHRISTmas, and they worship him."
"Where does he live?"
"We killed him a long time ago, but he's not really human, so many believe that he's just living somewhere else, waiting for the right time to return as our savior."
"Does he live with Santa? Are they close friends?"
"No, I don't think so."
"What's with all of the pine trees getting chopped down and decorated?"
"That's where Santa puts all of the presents."
"Oh. Does Jesus have a tree with presents under it?"
"No, he's not into that."
"But the holiday is named after him, right?"
"Yea, but Santa has kind of taken over."
"What an asshole."
"No, he's a pretty good guy."
"He's a fat slob and he's taken over Jesus's birthday party. Not to mention I have to deal with his mail."
"Yea, sorry about that."
"You earthlings are strange."
He's staring at my slippers again.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
leaf blowers & men / nutty granola bars
It's a cool, cloudy morning. I've got a cup of steaming hot tea, three passed out pets, and an empty apartment. In a word: heaven. I sit down at the computer, open up my laptop, and take a satisfying stretch before delving into fantasy land, when I hear the most obnoxious sound...
A leaf blower.
Not only is a leaf blower one of the loudest machines I've ever heard, it's also the most useless. People seem to use these odd contraptions to collect the fall leaves from their lawns (translation: hot air blasts out of smelly machine and blows leaves in every direction). And then? Oh, that's simple, you place your pile of leaves into trash bags and put them at the end of your driveway because then your lawn will be perfect again and the neighbors won't judge you. Plus, it gives you a sense of "I am the ruler of this castle and with my bare hands I shall rid it of all evil (translation: leaves)". Ok, so maybe this is more of a guy reaction because frankly, I don't see why you can't just leave the leaves (no pun intended) on the ground. Perhaps it's more of a "man and his machine" syndrome, otherwise known as the urge to lift heavy objects made of metal, gas, and lava that make absurdly loud noises and do manly things like blow, cut, slice, dig, and screw. It also helps if the machine has a hose, saw, or spiky things shaped like...(let's just say- pickles or the Washington Monument). Extreme weather conditions, a midlife crisis, and alcohol will make these machines even more exciting. Because there's nothing quite like a good snow plowing in the middle of a blizzard or mowing the lawn after a bottle of wine or powerwashing the garage after buying that Harley you always wanted. Upon finishing such herculean tasks, a man may enter the kitchen victorious, smelling of gas, sweat and blood. He may have lost some good men out there, but the mission was clear, and he had to see it through. His expression looks like a combination of "the few, the proud, the marines" and John Wayne. He might as well be wearing chaps and saying something like, "courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway". This is the time when you must notice his battle wounds (translation: miscalculation of branch height on lawnmower due to alcohol consumption = small cut on forehead) with a level of concern bordering hysteria. "It's just a scratch," he replies, his voice a full octave lower than usual. He is a man and men don't feel pain.
Solution? Bring out your tweezers, and pluck one hair out of his back. It's bliss I tell you, pure bliss...
When you're out on your horse, and there's no time to visit the saloon for a whiskey and some meat, what are you supposed to eat? A nutty granola bar of course! These little guys are easy to make and will fill you with energy when your out on the plains looking for the Indians who stole your cousin, and will make old John jealous (he's only got a piece of dried up jerky).
Nutty Granola Bars
1 cup raw almonds (soaked for an hour = pour water over almonds and let sit, then discard water)
1 cup dates, pitted & any variety (soaked for an hour)
1/2 cup roasted, unsweetened peanut butter (I use Santa Cruz Organic creamy peanut butter)
1/2 cup unsweetened, shredded coconut (I use Let's Do Organic unsweetened coconut)
1/2 cup sprouted buckwheat grouts OR finely chopped raw almonds
2 T sesame seeds
1/3 cup ground flax seed meal
2 T raw honey
2 T virgin coconut oil (I use spectrum organic or Dr. Bronner's organic)
1 T vanilla extract
1 T + ground cinnamon
In a food processor, process dates and almonds until crumbly, not pureed.
Transfer to a mixing bowl and add all other ingredients, combine, and press into a glass baking dish or dish or your choice. That's it! Serves ten sleepy unicorns in the wild west.
A leaf blower.
Not only is a leaf blower one of the loudest machines I've ever heard, it's also the most useless. People seem to use these odd contraptions to collect the fall leaves from their lawns (translation: hot air blasts out of smelly machine and blows leaves in every direction). And then? Oh, that's simple, you place your pile of leaves into trash bags and put them at the end of your driveway because then your lawn will be perfect again and the neighbors won't judge you. Plus, it gives you a sense of "I am the ruler of this castle and with my bare hands I shall rid it of all evil (translation: leaves)". Ok, so maybe this is more of a guy reaction because frankly, I don't see why you can't just leave the leaves (no pun intended) on the ground. Perhaps it's more of a "man and his machine" syndrome, otherwise known as the urge to lift heavy objects made of metal, gas, and lava that make absurdly loud noises and do manly things like blow, cut, slice, dig, and screw. It also helps if the machine has a hose, saw, or spiky things shaped like...(let's just say- pickles or the Washington Monument). Extreme weather conditions, a midlife crisis, and alcohol will make these machines even more exciting. Because there's nothing quite like a good snow plowing in the middle of a blizzard or mowing the lawn after a bottle of wine or powerwashing the garage after buying that Harley you always wanted. Upon finishing such herculean tasks, a man may enter the kitchen victorious, smelling of gas, sweat and blood. He may have lost some good men out there, but the mission was clear, and he had to see it through. His expression looks like a combination of "the few, the proud, the marines" and John Wayne. He might as well be wearing chaps and saying something like, "courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway". This is the time when you must notice his battle wounds (translation: miscalculation of branch height on lawnmower due to alcohol consumption = small cut on forehead) with a level of concern bordering hysteria. "It's just a scratch," he replies, his voice a full octave lower than usual. He is a man and men don't feel pain.
Solution? Bring out your tweezers, and pluck one hair out of his back. It's bliss I tell you, pure bliss...
When you're out on your horse, and there's no time to visit the saloon for a whiskey and some meat, what are you supposed to eat? A nutty granola bar of course! These little guys are easy to make and will fill you with energy when your out on the plains looking for the Indians who stole your cousin, and will make old John jealous (he's only got a piece of dried up jerky).
Nutty Granola Bars
1 cup raw almonds (soaked for an hour = pour water over almonds and let sit, then discard water)
1 cup dates, pitted & any variety (soaked for an hour)
1/2 cup roasted, unsweetened peanut butter (I use Santa Cruz Organic creamy peanut butter)
1/2 cup unsweetened, shredded coconut (I use Let's Do Organic unsweetened coconut)
1/2 cup sprouted buckwheat grouts OR finely chopped raw almonds
2 T sesame seeds
1/3 cup ground flax seed meal
2 T raw honey
2 T virgin coconut oil (I use spectrum organic or Dr. Bronner's organic)
1 T vanilla extract
1 T + ground cinnamon
In a food processor, process dates and almonds until crumbly, not pureed.
Transfer to a mixing bowl and add all other ingredients, combine, and press into a glass baking dish or dish or your choice. That's it! Serves ten sleepy unicorns in the wild west.
Monday, November 21, 2011
thanksgiving / mashed cinnamon ginger sweet potatoes
I find it amusing / scary how quickly the real meaning of this holiday has changed, and let's be honest, how many of us really know the history behind Thanksgiving?
When I think of Thanksgiving, I envision pilgrims with buckle shoes and ridiculous hats gathering around wooden tables with a bunch of natives with headdresses, celebrating their most genuine "friendship" by feasting on a giant dead bird (with cranberry sauce and grandma's pumpkin pie, obviously). However, because I'm highly educated, I know that this is a gross misconception of a holiday that has nothing to do with a dead turkey and everything to do with William Bradford (the badass governor of the 1620 American colony) proclaiming that all his puritan buddies should gather together and thank God for helping them thrive in America...
But let's be honest, this is not interesting at all...
Turkey day (as I like to call it) is a time for families to come together and eat and drink as much as humanly possible, fall into a trytophan-induced coma, then wake up the next day and act like raving lunatics as they shop from 5am onwards to get the best deals on crap they probably don't need.
When I was in fourth grade, we dressed up like pilgrims and sang songs with the "native americans" (fifth graders) about peace and corn and turkeys...then we cut out a giant paper turkey and offered it to the natives (fifth graders), which they happily accepted with "thanks". This was followed by a feast in the auditorium with our teachers and all I kept thinking (between mouthfuls of mashed potatoes) is how much I wanted to be a native (because they had cooler outfits and got to make their own walking sticks). A plump pilgrim nudged me in the ribs and said, "why did the turkey sit on the tomahawk?" I said I didn't know. "To hatchet." A blank stare. "Get it? Hatch-it?" Oh, right, I mumbled. Needless to say, it wasn't until high school that I realized the sweet old puritans weren't so "pure" after all...
"Wait, so they were escaping persecution from King James I and came to America so they could be socialists and practice their own religion?"
Yea, apparently, I said. But then all the indians died from disease and-
"Dude, you can't say indians!?!"
Oh, forgive me. We butchered the Native Americans, then became a capitalist society and thrived. God bless America...
"Jesus."
I know, right? He's caused us more problems...
So, what do I celebrate during Thanksgiving? Being with my family...because there's nothing better. Nothing.
Well, except perhaps mashed ginger cinnamon sweet potatoes! This is a simple recipe that's a perfect addition to your Thanksgiving spread.
Mashed Ginger Cinnamon Sweet Potatoes
2 large sweet potatoes, peeled and chopped
1 large yellow onion, peeled and chopped
2 carrots, peeled and chopped
1/3 cup coconut milk
2 T ginger pulp (= peeled and grated ginger root)
1 cinnamon stick
1 bay leaf
salt and pepper to taste
In a large pot, add potatoes, carrots, bay leaf, cinnamon stick, and onion and fill with enough water to just cover the vegetables. Bring to a boil and cover, then reduce heat and simmer until veggies are tender, about 20 minutes. Strain water out and remove bay leaf, then season with salt and add ginger pulp and coconut milk. Use an immersion blender or food processor to puree until creamy and smooth. Serves 6 unicorns disguised as pilgrims.
When I think of Thanksgiving, I envision pilgrims with buckle shoes and ridiculous hats gathering around wooden tables with a bunch of natives with headdresses, celebrating their most genuine "friendship" by feasting on a giant dead bird (with cranberry sauce and grandma's pumpkin pie, obviously). However, because I'm highly educated, I know that this is a gross misconception of a holiday that has nothing to do with a dead turkey and everything to do with William Bradford (the badass governor of the 1620 American colony) proclaiming that all his puritan buddies should gather together and thank God for helping them thrive in America...
But let's be honest, this is not interesting at all...
Turkey day (as I like to call it) is a time for families to come together and eat and drink as much as humanly possible, fall into a trytophan-induced coma, then wake up the next day and act like raving lunatics as they shop from 5am onwards to get the best deals on crap they probably don't need.
When I was in fourth grade, we dressed up like pilgrims and sang songs with the "native americans" (fifth graders) about peace and corn and turkeys...then we cut out a giant paper turkey and offered it to the natives (fifth graders), which they happily accepted with "thanks". This was followed by a feast in the auditorium with our teachers and all I kept thinking (between mouthfuls of mashed potatoes) is how much I wanted to be a native (because they had cooler outfits and got to make their own walking sticks). A plump pilgrim nudged me in the ribs and said, "why did the turkey sit on the tomahawk?" I said I didn't know. "To hatchet." A blank stare. "Get it? Hatch-it?" Oh, right, I mumbled. Needless to say, it wasn't until high school that I realized the sweet old puritans weren't so "pure" after all...
"Wait, so they were escaping persecution from King James I and came to America so they could be socialists and practice their own religion?"
Yea, apparently, I said. But then all the indians died from disease and-
"Dude, you can't say indians!?!"
Oh, forgive me. We butchered the Native Americans, then became a capitalist society and thrived. God bless America...
"Jesus."
I know, right? He's caused us more problems...
So, what do I celebrate during Thanksgiving? Being with my family...because there's nothing better. Nothing.
Well, except perhaps mashed ginger cinnamon sweet potatoes! This is a simple recipe that's a perfect addition to your Thanksgiving spread.
Mashed Ginger Cinnamon Sweet Potatoes
2 large sweet potatoes, peeled and chopped
1 large yellow onion, peeled and chopped
2 carrots, peeled and chopped
1/3 cup coconut milk
2 T ginger pulp (= peeled and grated ginger root)
1 cinnamon stick
1 bay leaf
salt and pepper to taste
In a large pot, add potatoes, carrots, bay leaf, cinnamon stick, and onion and fill with enough water to just cover the vegetables. Bring to a boil and cover, then reduce heat and simmer until veggies are tender, about 20 minutes. Strain water out and remove bay leaf, then season with salt and add ginger pulp and coconut milk. Use an immersion blender or food processor to puree until creamy and smooth. Serves 6 unicorns disguised as pilgrims.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
no power / asian ginger noodle soup
After ranting on about how hysterical people are about the weather, I'm feeling rather humbled. A Nor'easter in October is all I needed to realize why those nutters (translation: Americans) buy so much bottled water whenever there's a storm prediction. And speaking of no power, it's amazing how different your life suddenly becomes when you don't have it anymore...
Day 1: When it first goes off, it's kind of exciting in that "hey, this is an adventure" kind of way. You grab a flashlight and pull out all of your candles, then tell the unicorns that they're not allowed to open the refrigerator door (or any door for that matter) unless absolutely necessary. "We have to keep it cold," you say with authority, "and we need to keep the house warm". Then you converse about the last time you lost power and make predictions for when it's going to come back on. Ten minutes later, you're already missing it...
It's 4:30pm and dark, there's no internet, no TV, no music, no comforting droll of running machines, and you realize that being a pioneer isn't fun at all. There is only one thing you can really do: read. Reading is fun when you want to read, but not when you have to read. It's like when you're at school and your professor tells you that you have to read fifty pages of a book. You instantly feel like reading anything other than the book assigned (and it doesn't help when the book is Chaucer's Canterybury Tales...let's just say that middle english didn't last for a reason). Luckily, there's an old issue of Us magazine with Brangelina and her brood on the cover...
Another hour passes. Then another. Then it's dinner time. You decide to eat all of the perishable food first (translation: one big-ass salad), but it's so dark out now that you can barely see the knife while cutting vegetables...
Another hour passes, and you think, "is it too early to go to bed?" You look at your phone and it says 8:05, so you reorganize a bookshelf. Then you pile the magazines on your coffee table by date, oldest on the bottom, newest on the top. Then you play a game of checkers with your unicorn friend. And then you give up and go upstairs.
Day 2: You wake up to the sound of a distant generator, and look out your window at your neighbor's house. It's lit up like a christmas tree and you decide that you never really liked them anyway. Outside, it looks like a war zone and a branch is lying over your car. "Great," you mumble as you walk down the stairs. Suddenly, a cold gust of wind blows into your face; you reach the kitchen and find a branch lying through one of the windows. This is about the time when you let out one of those high-pitched crazy person laughs and your unicorn friend looks at you with concern.
Day 3: The house is 50 degrees, the refrigerator smells, and you've developed a cold. The best part of the day is when you win a game of Words with Friends on your iphone.
Day 4: You've finally broken down and have begun reading a book, while dressed in a puffer coat and wearing two pairs of socks. Your hair is in a braid, a dog is in your lap, a candle burns on the table beside you, and you suddenly realize that you really are Laura Ingalls from A Little House on the Prairie.
Day 5: You spend half of the day trying to move a paperclip after reading a short book on telekinesis.
Day 6: Your unicorn friend wakes you up after you fall asleep with a half eaten can of beans in your hand. You mumble something unintelligible and fall back asleep.
Day 7: The most glorious, stupendous, unimaginable feeling of joy washes over you when you hear the noise of a machine. "Ssshhh!" you yell at the unicorn, "Do you hear that?" He perks his ears forward and nods his furry head. Then you see a light on in the kitchen. It's too good to be true. You leap and twirl in the air like a madman and feel positively euphoric as you do the laundry and dishes...
Day 8: internet and cable still don't work and the bliss of having hot water, heat and light is already wearing off. Simple creatures with simple needs? I think not...
Since I've been cold for about a week, I'm craving something warm and comforting. Solution? Asian ginger noodle soup. This is like mom's chicken noodle soup, minus the dead bird. Ginger is anti-fungal and anti-inflammatory, and a great thing to eat when feeling a little under the weather or nauseated. The best part? This takes less than 30 minutes from prep to finish.
Asian Ginger Noodle Soup
4 scallions, chopped
1 package or 2 cups shiitake mushrooms, sliced
1 heaping tablespoon of peeled and grated ginger (I use a microplane grater)
2 cups (1/2 bunch) of collards, stems removed and sliced into thin ribbons
1/4 cup mirin (I use Eden brand)
2 cups stock (or water) + 1 cup water
1 large handful of thin brown rice noodles (I use Annie Chung's)
1 can navy beans (or bean of choice) (I use Eden Organic...no bisphenol-A in lining!)
1 T + shoyu or tamari (naturally brewed soy sauces)
2 tsp. brown rice vinegar
A few shakes of Gomasio as a topping, optional (Gomasio is a delectable combination of sesame seeds and sea salt that is absolutely delicious! I use Eden's garlic gomasio)
In a soup pot, heat oil and add scallions and ginger. Cook a few minutes, then add mushrooms and collards. Deglaze with mirin and allow to bubble for a few minutes, then add stock or water + additional water, cover with a lid, and bring up to a boil. Once boiling, add noodles and cook until soft, about 2 minutes, then reduce heat to low, add beans and allow to simmer, partially covered for a few more minutes. Season with rice vinegar and shoyu, then serve in bowls with gomasio sprinkled on top. Serves 3 unicorns suffering from Vampire Diaries withdrawal...
Day 1: When it first goes off, it's kind of exciting in that "hey, this is an adventure" kind of way. You grab a flashlight and pull out all of your candles, then tell the unicorns that they're not allowed to open the refrigerator door (or any door for that matter) unless absolutely necessary. "We have to keep it cold," you say with authority, "and we need to keep the house warm". Then you converse about the last time you lost power and make predictions for when it's going to come back on. Ten minutes later, you're already missing it...
It's 4:30pm and dark, there's no internet, no TV, no music, no comforting droll of running machines, and you realize that being a pioneer isn't fun at all. There is only one thing you can really do: read. Reading is fun when you want to read, but not when you have to read. It's like when you're at school and your professor tells you that you have to read fifty pages of a book. You instantly feel like reading anything other than the book assigned (and it doesn't help when the book is Chaucer's Canterybury Tales...let's just say that middle english didn't last for a reason). Luckily, there's an old issue of Us magazine with Brangelina and her brood on the cover...
Another hour passes. Then another. Then it's dinner time. You decide to eat all of the perishable food first (translation: one big-ass salad), but it's so dark out now that you can barely see the knife while cutting vegetables...
Another hour passes, and you think, "is it too early to go to bed?" You look at your phone and it says 8:05, so you reorganize a bookshelf. Then you pile the magazines on your coffee table by date, oldest on the bottom, newest on the top. Then you play a game of checkers with your unicorn friend. And then you give up and go upstairs.
Day 2: You wake up to the sound of a distant generator, and look out your window at your neighbor's house. It's lit up like a christmas tree and you decide that you never really liked them anyway. Outside, it looks like a war zone and a branch is lying over your car. "Great," you mumble as you walk down the stairs. Suddenly, a cold gust of wind blows into your face; you reach the kitchen and find a branch lying through one of the windows. This is about the time when you let out one of those high-pitched crazy person laughs and your unicorn friend looks at you with concern.
Day 3: The house is 50 degrees, the refrigerator smells, and you've developed a cold. The best part of the day is when you win a game of Words with Friends on your iphone.
Day 4: You've finally broken down and have begun reading a book, while dressed in a puffer coat and wearing two pairs of socks. Your hair is in a braid, a dog is in your lap, a candle burns on the table beside you, and you suddenly realize that you really are Laura Ingalls from A Little House on the Prairie.
Day 5: You spend half of the day trying to move a paperclip after reading a short book on telekinesis.
Day 6: Your unicorn friend wakes you up after you fall asleep with a half eaten can of beans in your hand. You mumble something unintelligible and fall back asleep.
Day 7: The most glorious, stupendous, unimaginable feeling of joy washes over you when you hear the noise of a machine. "Ssshhh!" you yell at the unicorn, "Do you hear that?" He perks his ears forward and nods his furry head. Then you see a light on in the kitchen. It's too good to be true. You leap and twirl in the air like a madman and feel positively euphoric as you do the laundry and dishes...
Day 8: internet and cable still don't work and the bliss of having hot water, heat and light is already wearing off. Simple creatures with simple needs? I think not...
Since I've been cold for about a week, I'm craving something warm and comforting. Solution? Asian ginger noodle soup. This is like mom's chicken noodle soup, minus the dead bird. Ginger is anti-fungal and anti-inflammatory, and a great thing to eat when feeling a little under the weather or nauseated. The best part? This takes less than 30 minutes from prep to finish.
Asian Ginger Noodle Soup
4 scallions, chopped
1 package or 2 cups shiitake mushrooms, sliced
1 heaping tablespoon of peeled and grated ginger (I use a microplane grater)
2 cups (1/2 bunch) of collards, stems removed and sliced into thin ribbons
1/4 cup mirin (I use Eden brand)
2 cups stock (or water) + 1 cup water
1 large handful of thin brown rice noodles (I use Annie Chung's)
1 can navy beans (or bean of choice) (I use Eden Organic...no bisphenol-A in lining!)
1 T + shoyu or tamari (naturally brewed soy sauces)
2 tsp. brown rice vinegar
A few shakes of Gomasio as a topping, optional (Gomasio is a delectable combination of sesame seeds and sea salt that is absolutely delicious! I use Eden's garlic gomasio)
In a soup pot, heat oil and add scallions and ginger. Cook a few minutes, then add mushrooms and collards. Deglaze with mirin and allow to bubble for a few minutes, then add stock or water + additional water, cover with a lid, and bring up to a boil. Once boiling, add noodles and cook until soft, about 2 minutes, then reduce heat to low, add beans and allow to simmer, partially covered for a few more minutes. Season with rice vinegar and shoyu, then serve in bowls with gomasio sprinkled on top. Serves 3 unicorns suffering from Vampire Diaries withdrawal...
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
halloween
Halloween is a strange holiday. Actually, it isn't even a holiday; it's an excuse to dress like a hooker and eat lots of sugar, all in the name of ??? Yea...weird. The reason I'm hating on halloween is because I had no plans so it's convenient to pull the "I didn't want to participate" line.
Halloween has always been a bit of a crapshoot in our family. When we were little, halloween always seemed to sneak up on us so quickly that we were left with 24 hours to come up with a costume. This usually limited our options to clothing already in our house (translation: mom and dad's clothes & some reject costumes from earlier years). My mom's favorite last minute costume? Gypsy. Going as a gypsy was easy because all we had to do was wear lots of ratty looking clothing and wear too much makeup. But after more than 3 appearances as a gypsy...we had to draw the line. Second place outfit? The infamous black cat. Black outfit (teenager = miniskirt, make-up, heels & the obligatory angst, innocent child = Laura Ashley jumper, mary janes, and furry gloves), a set of black, pointy ears and black eyeliner whiskers on your cheeks. Third place outfit? Witch. I pulled this one a lot, but I never had black robes so I just wore one of my mom's black dresses and put on the crooked pointy hat that was always stuffed in our "dress up" chest. The dress up chest was full of the most fabulously random things: grass skirts, hot pink tutus, a witch's hat, a bizarre unitard with a sewn on squirrel tail (it was for the play Chicken Little. I was a squirrel, which wasn't a character in the play, but after they cast me as a daisy, I asked if I could be a squirrel instead. I only had 1 line so they didn't care if I was a rodent or a flower), a red cape with faux white fur fringe (when needing to be a king naturally), several sparkling crowns (worn by us and regrettably, by our dogs), and a beautiful egyptian head piece that we always wanted to wear but never had the right outfit for. We tried doing the whole "trick-or-treating in your own neighborhood" thing, but the houses were too spread out, so our mom drove us from house to house and needless to say, many of the doors we knocked on either never opened or opened to a very shocked resident (and it wasn't because of our smashing costumes). We eventually started doing trick-or-treating with our friends in more populated areas, which was great. But the funny thing is, you collect all this candy, go home, stuff your face, and feel totally nuts for the rest of the night and wake up the next morning to find your candy stash mysteriously missing...You ask your mom and she looks down at you with that deceitful innocence as she makes you some breakfast and then quickly changes the subject or says something like, "didn't you eat it all?"
No, you say to yourself, I most certainly did not, and I was fully intending to go crazy again tonight and dress up as an egyptian king and sing songs from The Sound of Music at the top of my lungs! (this is about the time you realize why your mother would do such a horrible thing to you)...
Halloween has always been a bit of a crapshoot in our family. When we were little, halloween always seemed to sneak up on us so quickly that we were left with 24 hours to come up with a costume. This usually limited our options to clothing already in our house (translation: mom and dad's clothes & some reject costumes from earlier years). My mom's favorite last minute costume? Gypsy. Going as a gypsy was easy because all we had to do was wear lots of ratty looking clothing and wear too much makeup. But after more than 3 appearances as a gypsy...we had to draw the line. Second place outfit? The infamous black cat. Black outfit (teenager = miniskirt, make-up, heels & the obligatory angst, innocent child = Laura Ashley jumper, mary janes, and furry gloves), a set of black, pointy ears and black eyeliner whiskers on your cheeks. Third place outfit? Witch. I pulled this one a lot, but I never had black robes so I just wore one of my mom's black dresses and put on the crooked pointy hat that was always stuffed in our "dress up" chest. The dress up chest was full of the most fabulously random things: grass skirts, hot pink tutus, a witch's hat, a bizarre unitard with a sewn on squirrel tail (it was for the play Chicken Little. I was a squirrel, which wasn't a character in the play, but after they cast me as a daisy, I asked if I could be a squirrel instead. I only had 1 line so they didn't care if I was a rodent or a flower), a red cape with faux white fur fringe (when needing to be a king naturally), several sparkling crowns (worn by us and regrettably, by our dogs), and a beautiful egyptian head piece that we always wanted to wear but never had the right outfit for. We tried doing the whole "trick-or-treating in your own neighborhood" thing, but the houses were too spread out, so our mom drove us from house to house and needless to say, many of the doors we knocked on either never opened or opened to a very shocked resident (and it wasn't because of our smashing costumes). We eventually started doing trick-or-treating with our friends in more populated areas, which was great. But the funny thing is, you collect all this candy, go home, stuff your face, and feel totally nuts for the rest of the night and wake up the next morning to find your candy stash mysteriously missing...You ask your mom and she looks down at you with that deceitful innocence as she makes you some breakfast and then quickly changes the subject or says something like, "didn't you eat it all?"
No, you say to yourself, I most certainly did not, and I was fully intending to go crazy again tonight and dress up as an egyptian king and sing songs from The Sound of Music at the top of my lungs! (this is about the time you realize why your mother would do such a horrible thing to you)...
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
apartment charm / Rawesome Brownies
Hy husband and I (and Dragon and Toast and Frodo and all of the unicorns...) live in an apartment. Let's just say it's cozy (translation: pet hair is part of my daily protein intake). Actually, I read somewhere that there are crazy cat ladies and dog people who collect their pet's fur and--yes, literally knit themselves sweaters and other clothing out of it. Umm...I already think it's freaky how much pet owners look like their furry companions without dressing and smelling like them too. Zolts). Anyway, our apartment is on the first floor of an old house. Yup, it's old in that charming New England way, complete with rusted sideboard heaters, rotting wood in the bathroom, and closets from the 1800's. What I want to know is, how can a person actually fit all of their clothing in one of these tissue-box sized closets? My husband can't even have his clothing in our bedroom because there's no place to put it, so his stuff is in the "guest room" (translation: office / ironing board / dog crate / musical instrument room, and yes, we have an inflatable mattress for guests...).
The rotting piece of wood in the bathroom drives me crazy. I asked our landlord to fix it about a hundred times, but he suffers from the "sweet but dumb" syndrome and somehow I always end up feeling guilty when I ask him to do something. He looks at me with that friendly, deer-in-headlights stare that says "I don't know what you're asking, but I like cookies". Needless to say, there is a piece of wood that falls out of the bathroom wall and onto the floor, revealing the lovely mold and paint chips and other niceties that one ought to have in a bathroom. I push the stupid piece of wood back into place again and again and again, but every time I return to the bathroom, it's fallen out again (not to mention Dragon plays with the paint chips...hopefully she doesn't eat them, although that would explain a lot).
We also have neighbors. The house is zoned for 2 apartments, but when we moved in there were 4; a wacko living in the garage, a perpetually drunk "carpenter" and his girlfriend in the basement, and an eccentric but friendly loner on the second floor (who gave us a card with a sailboat on it saying "welcome to the neighborhood"). The sailboat guy and the drunk have since moved out, but lucky for us, there's still the wacko in the garage. The landlord is in the middle of a lawsuit with this guy because he hasn't paid rent for over a year. He's got a mullet that would make Michael Bolton jealous, and he's got one of those bouncy walks...you know the ones where people never put weight on their heels? Yup, he's pretty awesome. Does he work? Well, apparently some old lady gives him $500 a week to "help her out" (translation: stealing an old lady's money is not cool). Every time I leave the apartment I check to make sure he's not outside (the problem? He's always at home...one of those annoying habits of the unemployed), because he always smiles and gives me one of those small talk one-liners like "beautiful day, isn't it?" or upon petting Toast, smiles at me with glistening eyes and says, "We rescue them, they rescue us, right?". I force a smile but all I really want to say is, "hey mullet man, why don't you get a job already and stop ripping that old lady off!"
For a while, I worried that we would get new neighbors of the same variety, but then a nice man from Greenwich Town Hall came to my door and asked how many apartments there were. I said "Four" and he said "Really?" and I said "Why?" and he said "It's only zoned for two".
Needless to say, we haven't seen anybody new since...
So I never eat dessert (yup, I'm perfect). It's partially due to my eternal hatred / fear of sugar, but also because of the way sweet things make me feel after I've eaten them: crazy, bug-eyed wildcat followed by something along the lines of a sluggish Eeyore. Solution? A kick-ass dessert without sugar, without wheat, and without baking?!? Yes, I'm giving you the recipe to RAW brownies, and let me tell you...they are so freaking good that you'll want to make them every day. And the best part? This recipe takes about 10 minutes to make. Go ahead and thank me for making your life better.
The rotting piece of wood in the bathroom drives me crazy. I asked our landlord to fix it about a hundred times, but he suffers from the "sweet but dumb" syndrome and somehow I always end up feeling guilty when I ask him to do something. He looks at me with that friendly, deer-in-headlights stare that says "I don't know what you're asking, but I like cookies". Needless to say, there is a piece of wood that falls out of the bathroom wall and onto the floor, revealing the lovely mold and paint chips and other niceties that one ought to have in a bathroom. I push the stupid piece of wood back into place again and again and again, but every time I return to the bathroom, it's fallen out again (not to mention Dragon plays with the paint chips...hopefully she doesn't eat them, although that would explain a lot).
We also have neighbors. The house is zoned for 2 apartments, but when we moved in there were 4; a wacko living in the garage, a perpetually drunk "carpenter" and his girlfriend in the basement, and an eccentric but friendly loner on the second floor (who gave us a card with a sailboat on it saying "welcome to the neighborhood"). The sailboat guy and the drunk have since moved out, but lucky for us, there's still the wacko in the garage. The landlord is in the middle of a lawsuit with this guy because he hasn't paid rent for over a year. He's got a mullet that would make Michael Bolton jealous, and he's got one of those bouncy walks...you know the ones where people never put weight on their heels? Yup, he's pretty awesome. Does he work? Well, apparently some old lady gives him $500 a week to "help her out" (translation: stealing an old lady's money is not cool). Every time I leave the apartment I check to make sure he's not outside (the problem? He's always at home...one of those annoying habits of the unemployed), because he always smiles and gives me one of those small talk one-liners like "beautiful day, isn't it?" or upon petting Toast, smiles at me with glistening eyes and says, "We rescue them, they rescue us, right?". I force a smile but all I really want to say is, "hey mullet man, why don't you get a job already and stop ripping that old lady off!"
For a while, I worried that we would get new neighbors of the same variety, but then a nice man from Greenwich Town Hall came to my door and asked how many apartments there were. I said "Four" and he said "Really?" and I said "Why?" and he said "It's only zoned for two".
Needless to say, we haven't seen anybody new since...
So I never eat dessert (yup, I'm perfect). It's partially due to my eternal hatred / fear of sugar, but also because of the way sweet things make me feel after I've eaten them: crazy, bug-eyed wildcat followed by something along the lines of a sluggish Eeyore. Solution? A kick-ass dessert without sugar, without wheat, and without baking?!? Yes, I'm giving you the recipe to RAW brownies, and let me tell you...they are so freaking good that you'll want to make them every day. And the best part? This recipe takes about 10 minutes to make. Go ahead and thank me for making your life better.
Rawesome Brownies with Chocolate Frosting
2 cups raw pecans
2 cups fresh dates, seeds removed
1 cup unsweetened cocoa powder (I use Equal Exchange)
1 cup shredded, unsweetened coconut (I use Let’s Do Organic)
3 T raw agave
1 tsp sea salt
for frosting:
1 cup fresh dates
¼ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
¼ cup virgin coconut oil
¾ cup water
For brownies, pulse pecans in a food processor until crumbled. Add dates and process until incorporated, then add the rest of the ingredients and process until mixed. Pour mixture into dish of choice and press down firmly. Top with frosting and refrigerate a little before serving. For the frosting, place all ingredients in a blender (I use a VitaMix and so should you). Blend on a slow speed and then increase, allowing mixture to blend until velvety and smooth. Top on brownies. Serves 12 unicorns in need of a sweet pick-me-up after another boring day of eating hay.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
passport renewal part 2 / blueberry bliss smoothie
Last night I picked up our mail and was pleasantly surprised to see an envelope from the Department of State. Must be my new passport, right? After an evil post office woman, four hours, a $110 check, and yelling obscenities in the privacy of my car about the inefficiency of government run businesses, I was actually receiving my passport in a timely fashion. I nearly felt guilty for my previous post (see Passport Renewal), but then I opened the thick, manila envelope. New passport? Nope. It was my old passport, all of my filled out paperwork, and a fresh white letter telling me that my passport renewal had been denied. I looked in the envelope for the returned check. No luck; the bastards took my money anyway...and, on top of it all, they had the audacity to tell me in that my check amount was incorrect. I was supposed to send $135 dollars instead of $110 dollars. Super. So why had it been denied? Apparently I had already applied for a passport in 2003.
#$%*@#?! (translation: I am a little bit frustrated) because I sent them my old passport, marriage license, social security number, a hair sample, and even a unicorn friend to vouch for me...and they still turned me down (not to mention my unicorn had to be overnighted which was rather expensive).
Luckily, my husband's passport is up to date, so he just needs to renew his green card (he's from outer space!!!). Isn't it strange how they call non-citizens aliens? Every time I see his "legal alien" card I envision a purple, bug-eyed creature with antennae and sticky fingers like E.T.- not a cute englishman.
And speaking of aliens...Dragon (samwise gamgee) has been mewing all morning and staring at the ceiling as though a demon (no doubt invisible to the human eye) has infiltrated our apartment. I think it may have something to do with the fact that we removed the AC unit from our bedroom window. This is rather catastrophic (no pun intended) for a cat like Dragon. She lives in our apartment, every second of every day, and isn't allowed outside (for reasons I think you may be able to guess...she gets lost in open spaces, remember?). There was a large, grey object that made loud noises and now there isn't (translation: demons are in the apartment and she must alarm everyone to their presence). I also made the mistake of leaving the closet under the stairs (mordor) slightly ajar. Frodo went inside (naturally, because he's got to throw that ring into the fires of mount doom already!) and when Dragon approached the dark, menacingly entrance...she panicked. She could hear the crinkling of bags (translation: roar of mount doom's inferno), and feared for Frodo's life, so she pooped outside the litter box and has been running like a maniac around the apartment for the last ten minutes.
Needless to say, I've been slightly distracted and unable to edit my novel very much this morning. Solution? A raw smoothie to energize my spirits (and an excuse to turn on the blender and further confuse Dragon). Raw food used to scare me because I love cooked, hot, cozy food, and whenever I thought of the word raw I envisioned cold, gazpacho soup, goosebumps, a food dehydrator, and an unsatisfied stomach. But you know what? Raw food is pretty r-awesome. Yup, I just said rawesome...deal with it, haters.
Blueberry bliss smoothie
1 large banana, peel removed
1/2 cup frozen or fresh blueberries
1 cup soy milk (I use Edensoy Extra Original) or non-dairy milk of your choice
A few pinches of ground cinnamon
3-4 ice cubes
1/2 tsp raw agave, if desired (I think it's plenty sweet without agave. Bananas have a lot of natural sugar!)
**For a protein boost, I add a small scoop of hemp protein powder (I use Living Harvest Organic Hemp Protein...nothing but cold milled hemp!)
In a high speed blender, combine all ingredients and blend until smooth. Serve to two sluggish unicorns without passports.
#$%*@#?! (translation: I am a little bit frustrated) because I sent them my old passport, marriage license, social security number, a hair sample, and even a unicorn friend to vouch for me...and they still turned me down (not to mention my unicorn had to be overnighted which was rather expensive).
Luckily, my husband's passport is up to date, so he just needs to renew his green card (he's from outer space!!!). Isn't it strange how they call non-citizens aliens? Every time I see his "legal alien" card I envision a purple, bug-eyed creature with antennae and sticky fingers like E.T.- not a cute englishman.
And speaking of aliens...Dragon (samwise gamgee) has been mewing all morning and staring at the ceiling as though a demon (no doubt invisible to the human eye) has infiltrated our apartment. I think it may have something to do with the fact that we removed the AC unit from our bedroom window. This is rather catastrophic (no pun intended) for a cat like Dragon. She lives in our apartment, every second of every day, and isn't allowed outside (for reasons I think you may be able to guess...she gets lost in open spaces, remember?). There was a large, grey object that made loud noises and now there isn't (translation: demons are in the apartment and she must alarm everyone to their presence). I also made the mistake of leaving the closet under the stairs (mordor) slightly ajar. Frodo went inside (naturally, because he's got to throw that ring into the fires of mount doom already!) and when Dragon approached the dark, menacingly entrance...she panicked. She could hear the crinkling of bags (translation: roar of mount doom's inferno), and feared for Frodo's life, so she pooped outside the litter box and has been running like a maniac around the apartment for the last ten minutes.
Needless to say, I've been slightly distracted and unable to edit my novel very much this morning. Solution? A raw smoothie to energize my spirits (and an excuse to turn on the blender and further confuse Dragon). Raw food used to scare me because I love cooked, hot, cozy food, and whenever I thought of the word raw I envisioned cold, gazpacho soup, goosebumps, a food dehydrator, and an unsatisfied stomach. But you know what? Raw food is pretty r-awesome. Yup, I just said rawesome...deal with it, haters.
Blueberry bliss smoothie
1 large banana, peel removed
1/2 cup frozen or fresh blueberries
1 cup soy milk (I use Edensoy Extra Original) or non-dairy milk of your choice
A few pinches of ground cinnamon
3-4 ice cubes
1/2 tsp raw agave, if desired (I think it's plenty sweet without agave. Bananas have a lot of natural sugar!)
**For a protein boost, I add a small scoop of hemp protein powder (I use Living Harvest Organic Hemp Protein...nothing but cold milled hemp!)
In a high speed blender, combine all ingredients and blend until smooth. Serve to two sluggish unicorns without passports.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
weather & drama / tofu ricotta lasagna
You know how people always tell you that they "don't like drama"? They're lying. Everyone likes drama...it gives them something to talk about, worry about, obsess over, cry over and laugh about. Sure, we've got reality shows, but the funny thing is, it's usually the news and the weather channel that are the most entertaining...
The weatherperson stands before a neon map of the United States with a clicker and a bug-eyed expression of terror. "It's going to be a wet one out there today folks," he says while waving his hand over a green smudge in Connecticut, "expect flooding in some parts and power outages from the wind gusts". This is when you start to get excited and check to make sure that your flashlights have fresh batteries in them. "Gusts could be over 40 miles per hour". You lock all of the windows and check your pantry. Six cans of beans, some mustard, pasta sauce, brown rice, and a hundred other items. You realize that if this turns into as big of a storm as they're predicting, there's no way you'll be able to survive. You must go to the store and buy water (this is one of those strange human responses to any type of weather from a light rain to a full blown you-need-to-evacuate hurricane). "And the traffic is going to be a doozy too". Maybe you shouldn't go on the highway then? Although if it's windy, a tree might fall down, in which case the backroads would be more dangerous than traffic on the highway. Hmm...you'll have to wait and see.
Several hours and three raindrops later, you go outside and look at the blue sky with disappointment. "Where's the storm?" you wonder. You were so excited to wear your new Hunter rain boots and North Face shell, but since you already called in from work, you throw your PJ's back on and put on the news. "Steve Jobs didn't have to die!" says the newsperson dramatically, with the same voice as the guy who does movie previews. Really? Was he murdered, given the wrong medication, or secretly still living on some tiny island in the caribbean? "He started his cancer treatment too late". Seriously? This is a news story? You pretend to want to turn off the news, but another headline catches your eye. It's about a missing baby (I swear they have one every week, and doesn't it always seems like the parents end up being guilty?). You see an adorable picture of the baby and start feeling emotional, but the next thing you know the newsperson is on to the next pressing headline: "What happened to Lindsay Lohan's teeth?" they announce. "Sources say that smoking cigarettes are to blame." Wow, I had no idea that cigarettes made your teeth yellow...what an astonishing breakthrough! After watching for 10 more minutes and learning about the recent shootings, you feel like the world is going to end and check the bolt lock on your front door. Solution? Put on Pride & Prejudice, snuggle with your pets on the couch, and allow yourself to get lost in Mr. Darcy's eyes...
And since you're staying in and watching a movie, why not whip up some lasagna for those unicorn friends that are stopping by later with a tazer gun and pepper spray?
Growing up, lasagna was always my favorite dish. I remember one day at school, the teacher asked us to write down our favorite food. Most kids put down chocolate, cookies, hot dogs, or hamburgers, but not me...nope, I was the weirdo who put down lasagna (but it was spelled more like: lazanya). Hey, I was in third grade...give me a break.
Lasagna with Tofu Ricotta
1 package whole wheat lasagna noodles (I use Bionaturae)
1 large jar of Rao's marinara sauce, or marinara sauce of your choice
1 T extra virgin olive oil
1 large yellow onion, diced
1 large yellow onion, diced
3 garlic cloves, diced
1 package button mushrooms, diced
1-2 heads broccoli, finely chopped
salt & pepper to taste
*for tofu ricotta:
2 packages extra firm tofu (I use The Bridge) crumbled
4 T italian seasoning blend or Penzey's Sandwich Sprinkle (not sure why they call it this...weird)
1/4 cup + more nutritional yeast (in the bulk section of WF)
2 T + stock (I use Imagine No-Chicken stock)
2 T lemon juice
salt & pepper to taste
*a note about making the tofu ricotta...I've never really measured out these ingredients before, so I'm estimating for you, but taste as you go and see. It should taste salty, cheesy & herbalicious. If not, adjust accordingly.*
*for tofu ricotta:
2 packages extra firm tofu (I use The Bridge) crumbled
4 T italian seasoning blend or Penzey's Sandwich Sprinkle (not sure why they call it this...weird)
1/4 cup + more nutritional yeast (in the bulk section of WF)
2 T + stock (I use Imagine No-Chicken stock)
2 T lemon juice
salt & pepper to taste
*a note about making the tofu ricotta...I've never really measured out these ingredients before, so I'm estimating for you, but taste as you go and see. It should taste salty, cheesy & herbalicious. If not, adjust accordingly.*
Preheat oven to 350. In a large pot, cook pasta noodles according to package directions. Drain noodles and rinse with cold water, then set aside in a bowl of cool water. In a saute pan, saute onions in olive oil until soft, then add garlic, mushrooms, broccoli and some salt. Cook until soft, just a few minutes. Take off stove and let cool. In a mixing bowl, combine crumbled tofu, seasoning, nutritional yeast, stock (use as much as you need to make a ricotta cheese consistency), and lemon juice. Take out a 9 x 12 baking dish (I use a cast iron or ceramic baking dish), and pour a thin layer of pasta sauce over the bottom of the pan. Now add one layer of cooked noodles, side by side over the sauce. Add half of the veggie mixture and half of the ricotta mixture and pat down lightly and evening over the noodles. Cover with a generous amount of pasta sauce, then repeat the process one more time. Top with a third layer of noodles, and pour the rest of your pasta sauce over top. Sprinkle with nutritional yeast for a cheesy top. Place in the oven and bake for 40 minutes. Remove from oven and allow to cool, then top with almesan sprinkles and pesto and serve to 6 nervous unicorns.
Optional topping: Walnut pesto
1 cup loosely packed basil, washed and pulled off stems
1/2 cup raw walnuts, toasted (in oven at 350 for 10 minutes or until fragrant)
1 T fresh lemon juice
1 tsp miso (I use South River brown rice miso)
2 T extra virgin olive oil
sea salt & pepper to taste
process ingredients in food processor until just a little chunky...adjust seasonings to preference.
Optional topping: Almesan sprinkles (tastes better than parmesan!)
1/2 cup almonds, toasted (see above toasting procedure for walnuts)
1 tsp + lemon zest
sea salt to taste
process ingredients in food processor until crumbly and reminiscent of parmesan cheese...adjust seasoning to preference.
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