People tell me that technology is slowly ruining our lives. I agree with them wholeheartedly. I know that being at the constant beck and call of text messages and email can drive a girl insane. I can feel my brain slowly warping because of my dependence on Google to tell me things like how to spell the name of the actress who starred in Jane Eyre. And I really hate the time stamps on iPhone messages telling people that you read their messages and are ignoring them. But I forgive technology all of these sins because it gave me the joy of instant streaming.
Those of my parents' generation, chained to their traditions, their cable boxes, and their television reruns, will disagree with me. I've read countless articles decrying this innovation of the future. Some people say bingewatching tv makes us dumber. Some say that it's good to wait for a week or more between installments of television shows. And some say that it destroys community because last night's TV is all we have to discuss around the watercooler at work the next day. I don't know if anyone in their right mind actually does this. If they do then I feel sorry that all they have to connect with each other is what the cable gods saw fit to play for them last night. Suffice to say none of these arguments are compelling enough to stop my habit of Saturday bingewatching via Netflix or Amazon.
It's come to the point where if it's not on instant streaming, I don't bother. I don't care how great your favorite television show is. I refuse to watch it unless it's available to watch when I want. I am a material girl used to 21st century instant gratification. You can judge me all you please, but it's simply the way things are. I can remember the not so very long ago days when people were chained to the cruel dictates of the television prime time lineup, and I didn't like it. I didn't like the commercials, I didn't like wishing there were more episodes of Seinfeld on and less episodes of Friends, and I didn't like being at the mercy of whoever decides what to play when. And now that Netflix has dialed it up a notch by releasing entire seasons for my enjoyment, how can I ever go back to watching a weekly television show?
It's like dating. Given a choice between Prince Harry (who you will never meet) and the guy next door (who might not be everything you hoped and dreamed but is awfully available), you will date the guy next door and kiss the redheaded dream prince goodbye. Why? Because a girl has to eat, and someone who is there and offering to take you out for dinner has a better chance of making you happy than a non-existent prince who is busy playing strip poker. Now if you'll excuse me, I just found out that Call the Midwife is now streaming. I'll tell you all about it in a few days.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Monday, June 10, 2013
It's Not That I Don't Like Children, It's Just That I Don't Like Yours.
"When I took to someone I took to them, and when I took against them ditto. Mostly I felt indifference." --Elaine Dundy
Somehow, during my brief acquaintance with this world, I have gained a reputation for disliking children. It's true that I don't get as excited about the prospect of seeing children as much as I get excited about, say, a fresh banana milkshake topped with whipped cream. It's hard to beat the allure of a fresh banana milkshake. Put a shot of coconut rum in that and I'll love you forever. Banana milkshakes aside, the fact remains that it's not that I don't like all children. It's just that I don't like your children.
This is partly because I'm a bad liar. While I won't think twice about brushing someone off by telling them I have family in town (when I'm actually lying about in my pajamas, watching Arrested Development with the cat and pondering the eternal question of what color to paint my nails), I can't possibly lie to someone about their children. I refuse to Facebook like people's scary alien pictures of the insides of their uteri, and I don't like pictures of babies covered in guck. Clean the child up before you document his private parts on Facebook for all the world to see, please. As soon as I see one of these offending pictures, I banish the parents from my newsfeed so that I won't happen upon another bloody child picture the next time I'm innocently browsing Facebook while eating my lunch.
But underneath this refusal to lie about children is that I don't trust children. I don't trust adults, either, but that is a subject for another day. Children have burnt me one too many times. I've witnessed full-fledged tantrums which make Christian Bale look like an amateur. I've seen them bite their parents, the ones who are funding their childhood careers. When a child starts whining every muscle inside me begins to cringe, and my face turns into a death mask of forced politeness. Children can be miniature incarnations of the devil himself. Rosemary's Baby is still a classic because mothers have secretly wondered if their child is the offspring of the devil. I've certainly seen enough kids who could give that child a run for his money in the department of demonic behavior. If they cause scenes, throw fits, or otherwise disturb my day, I don't feel any compulsion to like them.
This is, most likely, the reason I have never been the girl who eagerly offers up her services to babysit for breadcrumbs. I don't start drooling as soon as a baby enters the room, and don't offer to hold the baby. I've heard girls my age moan about how much their wombs crave babies or their bodies ache when they hear a baby crying. I then look at them like they've suddenly admitted a partiality for human flesh cooked to medium rare. When I crave something it's usually along the lines of champagne with my popcorn at a movie. I don't crave children. I don't crave childbirth. And I don't crave pain in general, (which is another reason why I avoid Fifty Shades of Grey like the plague). But because I never once wailed about how much I wanted to be blessed that instant with a child in some sort of immaculate conception orchestrated by the powers that be, I have been branded as a hater of children, devoid of all maternal instinct.
This is partly because I'm a bad liar. While I won't think twice about brushing someone off by telling them I have family in town (when I'm actually lying about in my pajamas, watching Arrested Development with the cat and pondering the eternal question of what color to paint my nails), I can't possibly lie to someone about their children. I refuse to Facebook like people's scary alien pictures of the insides of their uteri, and I don't like pictures of babies covered in guck. Clean the child up before you document his private parts on Facebook for all the world to see, please. As soon as I see one of these offending pictures, I banish the parents from my newsfeed so that I won't happen upon another bloody child picture the next time I'm innocently browsing Facebook while eating my lunch.
But underneath this refusal to lie about children is that I don't trust children. I don't trust adults, either, but that is a subject for another day. Children have burnt me one too many times. I've witnessed full-fledged tantrums which make Christian Bale look like an amateur. I've seen them bite their parents, the ones who are funding their childhood careers. When a child starts whining every muscle inside me begins to cringe, and my face turns into a death mask of forced politeness. Children can be miniature incarnations of the devil himself. Rosemary's Baby is still a classic because mothers have secretly wondered if their child is the offspring of the devil. I've certainly seen enough kids who could give that child a run for his money in the department of demonic behavior. If they cause scenes, throw fits, or otherwise disturb my day, I don't feel any compulsion to like them.
This is, most likely, the reason I have never been the girl who eagerly offers up her services to babysit for breadcrumbs. I don't start drooling as soon as a baby enters the room, and don't offer to hold the baby. I've heard girls my age moan about how much their wombs crave babies or their bodies ache when they hear a baby crying. I then look at them like they've suddenly admitted a partiality for human flesh cooked to medium rare. When I crave something it's usually along the lines of champagne with my popcorn at a movie. I don't crave children. I don't crave childbirth. And I don't crave pain in general, (which is another reason why I avoid Fifty Shades of Grey like the plague). But because I never once wailed about how much I wanted to be blessed that instant with a child in some sort of immaculate conception orchestrated by the powers that be, I have been branded as a hater of children, devoid of all maternal instinct.
For a while I thought maybe it was true and I couldn't be a mother because I never felt these cravings. But then I adopted a long haired cat who I adore more than anything else on the earth. I love her even when she eats her food so fast she promptly throws it all up on my favorite chair. I take my life into my hands any time I am forced to give her a bath. With a child you know you never run the risk that they will gouge your eye out with a flailing claw, (unless the worst has happened and you do have Rosemary's baby). If that's not maternal affection I don't know what is.
So no, I won't fuss over your kids, demand to hold them, or talk baby talk to them. I don't pine for impulses that, from what I can research, won't set in until I'm actually expecting a kid, and I don't dream of the day when I too can post a picture of an alien parasite that's taken up residence in my body. It's just not my thing, and that's the way it is. Until then I shall enjoy my carefree life free of all demonic offspring, and when my cat's acting up at three in the morning, rejoice in the fact that I can always lock her out of my bedroom and return to my blissful, ten-hour long slumbers.
So no, I won't fuss over your kids, demand to hold them, or talk baby talk to them. I don't pine for impulses that, from what I can research, won't set in until I'm actually expecting a kid, and I don't dream of the day when I too can post a picture of an alien parasite that's taken up residence in my body. It's just not my thing, and that's the way it is. Until then I shall enjoy my carefree life free of all demonic offspring, and when my cat's acting up at three in the morning, rejoice in the fact that I can always lock her out of my bedroom and return to my blissful, ten-hour long slumbers.
Monday, June 3, 2013
The Wild Love Affair That Spanned Two Coasts
Sometimes you fall in love with someone so passionately that nothing can stop you. It doesn't matter if your friends disapprove. It doesn't matter that you live over one thousand miles apart, and it doesn't matter that you can only fulfill your passion at random hotels and restaurants. But sometimes that's how it is, and even though Eggs Benedict is one of my favorite breakfast items ever, I only ever eat them when I am at a hotel or restaurant. The synchronicity involved in making my own Eggs Benedict is beyond me. It's beyond a lot of restaurants, too. The first time I had them I absolutely adored them, but thinking back my love was tempered by the fact that the English muffins were as difficult to cut through as trying to slice sourdough with a dull knife. Impossible. It's like falling in love with someone who has an addiction to Thursday night karaoke. You still love them, but you'd really rather they pick up a new hobby that didn't force you to spend your Thursday evenings listening to bad renditions of Madonna's greatest hits.
The second time I had them they were worse than the first. But I was haunted by the thought of what could have been. Obsessed with an ideal, I went home to try and make them myself. Making them at home is a fairly simple task if you have English muffins and an egg poacher handy. If not, then you're in for the culinary adventure of a lifetime as you try to poach eggs in a pot of water, toast English muffins, whip up a hollandaise sauce, and cook the ham. I am convinved that this is requires a generous amount of witchcraft as you trust that the recipe book is right and that the eggs which are currently floating about your pot of hot water like wispy Miss Havishams will eventually turn into those heavenly beings which are put on your plate at the restaurant. Again, practice makes perfect. The finished product was almost everything I had ever dreamt of with a wee bit too much vinegar. But not easy enough to convince me that I should ever try the harrowing process again.
After that experience, I carried on a love affair with Eggs Benedict that spanned the country. I ordered them every time they were listed on a menu. I had a licentious encounter with them in San Francisco. I ate them in bed in Chicago. I had a rapturous reunion with them in New York City. I even had a crazy version which involved salt air foam at a forward thinking restaurant in DC. Sometimes they were great, sometimes not so great, but you win some and lose some, and besides, variety keeps things exciting. And then fate stepped into my life one morning at a little French cafe and changed my life forever.
Eggs Benedict is amazing in its own right. The version I had with salt air foam will always hold a special spot in my heart. But Eggs Benedict with salmon is a completely different kettle of fish, and so they are called Eggs Hemingway, Eggs Royale, or Eggs Atlantic. Eggs Hemingway is the exotic cousin who suddenly descends into your life and brings with her new music, new fashion, and all that jazz. Eggs Hemingway is worthy of epic poetry written by none other than Homer. And Eggs Hemingway became my new obsession. No longer do I play the fields. I am forever faithful to this particular rendition, and refuse to try it at any other restaurant. It's like the champagne of the breakfast world, and I think is best enjoyed with as many mimosas as you can drink and still be able to walk out of the restaurant on your own two feet. After all, it is named after Ernest Hemingway, and besides, brunch is an experience, and should be splurged on accordingly. So this week, google brunch, salmon, benedict, and "bottomless mimosas", and then try it this Saturday. I promise you, you won't regret it, and it may even start your own obsession.
The second time I had them they were worse than the first. But I was haunted by the thought of what could have been. Obsessed with an ideal, I went home to try and make them myself. Making them at home is a fairly simple task if you have English muffins and an egg poacher handy. If not, then you're in for the culinary adventure of a lifetime as you try to poach eggs in a pot of water, toast English muffins, whip up a hollandaise sauce, and cook the ham. I am convinved that this is requires a generous amount of witchcraft as you trust that the recipe book is right and that the eggs which are currently floating about your pot of hot water like wispy Miss Havishams will eventually turn into those heavenly beings which are put on your plate at the restaurant. Again, practice makes perfect. The finished product was almost everything I had ever dreamt of with a wee bit too much vinegar. But not easy enough to convince me that I should ever try the harrowing process again.
After that experience, I carried on a love affair with Eggs Benedict that spanned the country. I ordered them every time they were listed on a menu. I had a licentious encounter with them in San Francisco. I ate them in bed in Chicago. I had a rapturous reunion with them in New York City. I even had a crazy version which involved salt air foam at a forward thinking restaurant in DC. Sometimes they were great, sometimes not so great, but you win some and lose some, and besides, variety keeps things exciting. And then fate stepped into my life one morning at a little French cafe and changed my life forever.
Eggs Benedict is amazing in its own right. The version I had with salt air foam will always hold a special spot in my heart. But Eggs Benedict with salmon is a completely different kettle of fish, and so they are called Eggs Hemingway, Eggs Royale, or Eggs Atlantic. Eggs Hemingway is the exotic cousin who suddenly descends into your life and brings with her new music, new fashion, and all that jazz. Eggs Hemingway is worthy of epic poetry written by none other than Homer. And Eggs Hemingway became my new obsession. No longer do I play the fields. I am forever faithful to this particular rendition, and refuse to try it at any other restaurant. It's like the champagne of the breakfast world, and I think is best enjoyed with as many mimosas as you can drink and still be able to walk out of the restaurant on your own two feet. After all, it is named after Ernest Hemingway, and besides, brunch is an experience, and should be splurged on accordingly. So this week, google brunch, salmon, benedict, and "bottomless mimosas", and then try it this Saturday. I promise you, you won't regret it, and it may even start your own obsession.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Leave Your Psychotic Mom At Home
I've always thought of online dating as a slightly disreputable operation carried on by desperate people. I swore I'd never sink so low. But then my friends began telling me of how they were thinking of trying it. There were long conversations over drinks about how maybe, just maybe there are nice guys to be found on dating sites, despite how we laughed at the idea during college. We reasoned that perhaps all the nice guys one would actually want to date are busy working long hours, furthering their careers, and paying off their college loans. It was only logical that these nice guys must then be driven online because that's all they would have time for between their 12-16 hour workdays and a few precious hours for sleep.
So I decided it was time to see if this theory was correct, or if it was merely the outcome of our happy hour logic after a few too many drinks. I'm still not sure if the theory works or not, but I have been on a few dates now, and I'm afraid the theory has been weakened. So, in order to keep our bourbon infused daydream alive and well, here are a few helpful hints for those amazing workaholic guys, in the hopes that they exist somewhere in the world.
Tips For Guys on Online Dates
1. Don't bring up your psychotic mom in the first five minutes of conversation. Your date will spend the next quarter of an hour wondering if that was supposed to be a joke and if she was supposed to laugh instead of looking shocked. Because of this, she will accidentally tune you out while she wonders why you would mention a psychotic mom so quickly, while you ramble about what you do for a living and so when you next mention your job, she'll ask you all about it a second time.
2. Do tell her if you are unable to climb stairs. This way she won't feel like a horrible person for suggesting you guys meet in the city in the loft of her favorite coffeeshop. She'll then spend a good amount of time feeling guilty about how long it took you to get to get to the subway, and she'll feel even worse when you tell her how half of your subway line was shut down and you had to get on and off a shuttle bus. Why she feels guilty about this oversight on your part, she doesn't know, but still. It's unsettling.
3. Don't mention your psychotic mom again. At this point she will ask you if you are joking, and when you say your mother is a manipulative hoyden from hell, this will erase any chance you had of a second date.
4. Don't talk about her cholesterol and tell her how she needs to stop eating eggs and cheese immediately. If you choose to be a gluten-free vegan with paleolithic tendencies, fine, more power to you, but she obviously isn't, and dissing her two favorite foods isn't winning you brownie points. Right now she is thinking about how she would rather be at home by herself with a bottle of wine and a block of cheese. Or about how she would rather be anywhere but here. Again, this will cement in her head that she likes people who eat red meat.
5. Don't bring up your older sister and how she is a mean person who picked on you incessantly growing up, who then moved away to get away from your aforementioned psychotic mom. Your date may be an older sister herself, and if so, she will have zero sympathy for you, and instead have sympathy for the sister.
6. Don't ask her if she can cook. She is an adult, so the odds are that she can, but unless she answered a Craigslist ad for a full-time chef, she probably doesn't want you to recite a list of your favorite vegan foods and then ask if she can cook each one. She will retaliate by bringing up her love of medium rare hamburgers and how the blood dripping from it makes her heart do a little skip. She will also then tell you that she really doesn't cook that often and usually orders a meat lover's pizza with extra cheese.
7. You can ask her if she likes animals, but when you find out she has a cat, don't mention how you'd love to move in with a girl (or a guy) who had a cat. It won't make her feel any more comfortable in this already completely awkward situation, and she will shut down the conversation by bringing it back to your psychotic mom, because, let's face it, this may be the most exciting thing about the entire date. She will also wonder why you added the part about moving in with a guy who had a cat.
8. If you fail on all these points, please feel free to only talk about yourself. She will be thankful she didn't have to volunteer any information that could possibly allow you to find her on the internet.
So I decided it was time to see if this theory was correct, or if it was merely the outcome of our happy hour logic after a few too many drinks. I'm still not sure if the theory works or not, but I have been on a few dates now, and I'm afraid the theory has been weakened. So, in order to keep our bourbon infused daydream alive and well, here are a few helpful hints for those amazing workaholic guys, in the hopes that they exist somewhere in the world.
Tips For Guys on Online Dates
1. Don't bring up your psychotic mom in the first five minutes of conversation. Your date will spend the next quarter of an hour wondering if that was supposed to be a joke and if she was supposed to laugh instead of looking shocked. Because of this, she will accidentally tune you out while she wonders why you would mention a psychotic mom so quickly, while you ramble about what you do for a living and so when you next mention your job, she'll ask you all about it a second time.
2. Do tell her if you are unable to climb stairs. This way she won't feel like a horrible person for suggesting you guys meet in the city in the loft of her favorite coffeeshop. She'll then spend a good amount of time feeling guilty about how long it took you to get to get to the subway, and she'll feel even worse when you tell her how half of your subway line was shut down and you had to get on and off a shuttle bus. Why she feels guilty about this oversight on your part, she doesn't know, but still. It's unsettling.
3. Don't mention your psychotic mom again. At this point she will ask you if you are joking, and when you say your mother is a manipulative hoyden from hell, this will erase any chance you had of a second date.
4. Don't talk about her cholesterol and tell her how she needs to stop eating eggs and cheese immediately. If you choose to be a gluten-free vegan with paleolithic tendencies, fine, more power to you, but she obviously isn't, and dissing her two favorite foods isn't winning you brownie points. Right now she is thinking about how she would rather be at home by herself with a bottle of wine and a block of cheese. Or about how she would rather be anywhere but here. Again, this will cement in her head that she likes people who eat red meat.
5. Don't bring up your older sister and how she is a mean person who picked on you incessantly growing up, who then moved away to get away from your aforementioned psychotic mom. Your date may be an older sister herself, and if so, she will have zero sympathy for you, and instead have sympathy for the sister.
6. Don't ask her if she can cook. She is an adult, so the odds are that she can, but unless she answered a Craigslist ad for a full-time chef, she probably doesn't want you to recite a list of your favorite vegan foods and then ask if she can cook each one. She will retaliate by bringing up her love of medium rare hamburgers and how the blood dripping from it makes her heart do a little skip. She will also then tell you that she really doesn't cook that often and usually orders a meat lover's pizza with extra cheese.
7. You can ask her if she likes animals, but when you find out she has a cat, don't mention how you'd love to move in with a girl (or a guy) who had a cat. It won't make her feel any more comfortable in this already completely awkward situation, and she will shut down the conversation by bringing it back to your psychotic mom, because, let's face it, this may be the most exciting thing about the entire date. She will also wonder why you added the part about moving in with a guy who had a cat.
8. If you fail on all these points, please feel free to only talk about yourself. She will be thankful she didn't have to volunteer any information that could possibly allow you to find her on the internet.
Monday, May 20, 2013
How I Survived a Hijacking by a Bridezilla
Like many American twenty-something girls, I use Pinterest. Unlike many American twenty-something girls, I do not have a wedding board. Sure, I may have pinned a wedding dress to the obligatory style pinboard that comes automatically with every Pinterest account, but that's about the extent of my interest. Since a wedding is something I would probably only wish to have once (at least at this point in my life), and since I've never really thought of it as the defining event of my life, I really could care less about looking at wedding ideas. There are so many other things to think about in life, like Benedict Cumberbatch, whether peplums are flattering or not, and Wes Anderson's next film.
People with wedding boards annoy me. I understand seeing a pretty dress and wanting to remember it, but seventy nine pretty dresses? Seventy nine dresses which are all variations upon the mermaid dress. When is the point where a girl says uncle? How will pinning seventy nine dresses help you narrow it down? Will you really be able to judge fairly between dress number three and dress number forty one? These are all questions that I asked myself as I was slogging through my Pinterest feed after one girl had gone on a wedding dress pinning binge.
After a few days of this madness, I realized that I didn't need to subject myself to this and unfollowed her wedding board. That was all it took. My Pinterest feed regained normalcy and once again provided me with a steady stream of pretty foods, cute kittens, and Modcloth dresses. I became drunk with power and vowed to never let my feed be hijacked by a bridezilla again. I systematically unfollowed every other wedding board I had inadvertently subscribed to when I had so innocently and unknowingly clicked the "follow all" button. Pinterest very wisely makes it difficult for a girl to see who still follows their boards, and only if they go through all their followers will they see that you aren't a devoted fan of their fetish for cheap, dead ringers of Kate Middleton's wedding dress. I was in a state of supreme bliss.
And then it happened. One day I found myself barraged with wedding horrors pinned by a girl who had recently become engaged. She was making up for lost time by going on a pinning spree that rivaled that of a shopaholic with a new credit card. Well, fine. I would unfollow her too. No sooner had I done this when I realized I had just made the worst mistake of my Pinterest career. Her wedding board was like What Not to Wear: Wedding Edition. The magenta and gold eyeshadow, garish bouquets, and satin prom dresses straight from the 1980s were simply begging for an intervention by Stacy and Clinton.
My sense of the absurd began to silently reproach me. I found myself regretting my hasty decision to unfollow her Pinterest board. But my hands were tied. If I refollowed it she would be notified and then she would know that I had unfollowed her. And so I learned my lesson, even as I counted down the days until the wedding of the century. Be careful who you unfollow, because sometimes the bad can be a blessing in disguise, and since we still have a few days until Arrested Development comes back, we need all the entertainment we can get.
(As seen on Thought Catalog)
People with wedding boards annoy me. I understand seeing a pretty dress and wanting to remember it, but seventy nine pretty dresses? Seventy nine dresses which are all variations upon the mermaid dress. When is the point where a girl says uncle? How will pinning seventy nine dresses help you narrow it down? Will you really be able to judge fairly between dress number three and dress number forty one? These are all questions that I asked myself as I was slogging through my Pinterest feed after one girl had gone on a wedding dress pinning binge.
After a few days of this madness, I realized that I didn't need to subject myself to this and unfollowed her wedding board. That was all it took. My Pinterest feed regained normalcy and once again provided me with a steady stream of pretty foods, cute kittens, and Modcloth dresses. I became drunk with power and vowed to never let my feed be hijacked by a bridezilla again. I systematically unfollowed every other wedding board I had inadvertently subscribed to when I had so innocently and unknowingly clicked the "follow all" button. Pinterest very wisely makes it difficult for a girl to see who still follows their boards, and only if they go through all their followers will they see that you aren't a devoted fan of their fetish for cheap, dead ringers of Kate Middleton's wedding dress. I was in a state of supreme bliss.
And then it happened. One day I found myself barraged with wedding horrors pinned by a girl who had recently become engaged. She was making up for lost time by going on a pinning spree that rivaled that of a shopaholic with a new credit card. Well, fine. I would unfollow her too. No sooner had I done this when I realized I had just made the worst mistake of my Pinterest career. Her wedding board was like What Not to Wear: Wedding Edition. The magenta and gold eyeshadow, garish bouquets, and satin prom dresses straight from the 1980s were simply begging for an intervention by Stacy and Clinton.
My sense of the absurd began to silently reproach me. I found myself regretting my hasty decision to unfollow her Pinterest board. But my hands were tied. If I refollowed it she would be notified and then she would know that I had unfollowed her. And so I learned my lesson, even as I counted down the days until the wedding of the century. Be careful who you unfollow, because sometimes the bad can be a blessing in disguise, and since we still have a few days until Arrested Development comes back, we need all the entertainment we can get.
(As seen on Thought Catalog)
Friday, May 17, 2013
Paleolithic Pornography
There's a trend sweeping the food blogs. A fad of lentils. A burst of buckwheat. And a host of other grains I don't know and don't care to learn how to pronounce. I'm looking at you, quinoa. These ancient grains are the current health food superstars, and my favorite blogs that used to be filled with glorious peanut butter pie pornography are now filled with rustic polenta cakes with resinous herbs, meat pie with buckwheat groats, and spelt veggie burgers. Don't ask me what a groat is. I don't think I want to know.
What just happened? When did antique birdseed take over our lives? I suspect it has something to do with the paleolithic diet that has top bloggers, foodies, and desperate dieters in its grip. When I first heard of the paleolithic diet I mistakenly thought it was an archaeological breakthrough that had something to do with extinct fish now only found in fossilized form. Sadly, that is not the case. It's a diet that from what I can understand consists of eating only what was available to our paleolithic ancestors. No flour, no sugar, and no cheese. Since my four major food groups are cheese, sour cream, mayonnaise, and bread, this diet has no appeal for me. I'm sure our Paleolithic ancestors made the best of it, maybe even enjoyed it, and had they had access to the Internet, would have spent their time filling their blogs with this ancient grain food porn. But since they obviously left it behind with the fossilized fish, why would I want to revive something dead and buried?
I met the health food fad ages ago. My grandma liked health food before it was cool. That's how hipster my family is. We also watched Seinfeld before it was popular, and I watched more Saturday Night Live as a toddler (when it was actually still worth watching) than a college student does during senior year. I knew how bad my grandma's health food was, and it hasn't changed all that much in the last two decades. It's still pretty much tasteless. No matter how many resinous herbs you add to your grilled polenta, or how high you can trick your gluten free cake into rising, my heart just won't be in my applause. I'll smile politely, but please give me a slice of pizza with sausage and extra cheese.
It's not that I'm against fruits and vegetables. I am the champion of rhubarb. I visit the farmers market every week. I'll happily eat an avocado for dinner. But I also love things like cheese. And sourdough toast with salted butter. And baked potatoes with cheddar and sour cream. Why forsake these beautiful inventions for whatever resinous herbs may be? There's a reason these are ancient grains were only rediscovered recently, and that reason is that flour is magic and makes things like bread, while buckwheat groats only create more disillusioned souls searching for a sour cream meaning in life.
What just happened? When did antique birdseed take over our lives? I suspect it has something to do with the paleolithic diet that has top bloggers, foodies, and desperate dieters in its grip. When I first heard of the paleolithic diet I mistakenly thought it was an archaeological breakthrough that had something to do with extinct fish now only found in fossilized form. Sadly, that is not the case. It's a diet that from what I can understand consists of eating only what was available to our paleolithic ancestors. No flour, no sugar, and no cheese. Since my four major food groups are cheese, sour cream, mayonnaise, and bread, this diet has no appeal for me. I'm sure our Paleolithic ancestors made the best of it, maybe even enjoyed it, and had they had access to the Internet, would have spent their time filling their blogs with this ancient grain food porn. But since they obviously left it behind with the fossilized fish, why would I want to revive something dead and buried?
I met the health food fad ages ago. My grandma liked health food before it was cool. That's how hipster my family is. We also watched Seinfeld before it was popular, and I watched more Saturday Night Live as a toddler (when it was actually still worth watching) than a college student does during senior year. I knew how bad my grandma's health food was, and it hasn't changed all that much in the last two decades. It's still pretty much tasteless. No matter how many resinous herbs you add to your grilled polenta, or how high you can trick your gluten free cake into rising, my heart just won't be in my applause. I'll smile politely, but please give me a slice of pizza with sausage and extra cheese.
It's not that I'm against fruits and vegetables. I am the champion of rhubarb. I visit the farmers market every week. I'll happily eat an avocado for dinner. But I also love things like cheese. And sourdough toast with salted butter. And baked potatoes with cheddar and sour cream. Why forsake these beautiful inventions for whatever resinous herbs may be? There's a reason these are ancient grains were only rediscovered recently, and that reason is that flour is magic and makes things like bread, while buckwheat groats only create more disillusioned souls searching for a sour cream meaning in life.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Why You Too Will Turn Into Your Mother
One day, all girls turn into their mothers. No matter how hard you try and fight it, or how much you lie to yourself saying that it won't possibly happen, it does. One day you are cleaning your kitchen, wiping down your already clean stove after making dinner and you realize this is exactly what you always saw your mother do after dinner, and the realization hits you.
Ever since you turned fifteen, you did everything in your power not to turn into your mother. After leaving home to go to college you experimented with laundry detergents other than the Tide your mom always used. When you moved into your first apartment, you stacked all your books into whimsical piles around the living room instead of alphabetizing them like your mom always wanted you to do when you were a kid. You hoped the kitchen floor would miraculously self-clean. And then one day you wake up, realize you're an adult, and that it's time to start mopping your own floor. You buy bookshelves and feel a sense of relief as you line your books into neat rows. After many brief yet exciting flings with other laundry detergents (with sometimes disastrous results), you find yourself reaching for the carton of Tide, just like your mom.
You catch yourself saying things that your mother once said to you. After your roommate hopelessly plugs the toilet up for the third time in less than two weeks, the toilet that you have never had a problem with, you find yourself lecturing her on using more than five squares of the expensive four-ply toilet paper. As your mom's words come out of your mouth you wonder how this happened. Was it when you turned twenty-six that you magically turned into a younger version of your mom? Or was it the stress of living with a roommate who still acted like a child? You tell yourself that it's the latter, that living with a twenty-five year old teenager as a roommate is horrible and you promptly call your mom and apologize profusely for every time you ever used more than five squares, left dirty dishes in the sink, or pretended not to notice the garbage needed to be taken out.
But it's okay. We all turn into the women who brought us into the world, perhaps as payback for causing them so much pain on the day we were born. No matter how hard you try and fight it, you too will unexpectedly catch yourself uttering words that your mother once said to you, wiping down the counters and stove every time you are in the kitchen, and using the same laundry detergent your mom used. Because your mom was right about everything. The boyfriends she was polite to yet hoped you would not marry, how you'll sleep better if the kitchen is clean, and, of course, that Tide is the best laundry detergent out there.
(As seen on Thought Catalog)
Ever since you turned fifteen, you did everything in your power not to turn into your mother. After leaving home to go to college you experimented with laundry detergents other than the Tide your mom always used. When you moved into your first apartment, you stacked all your books into whimsical piles around the living room instead of alphabetizing them like your mom always wanted you to do when you were a kid. You hoped the kitchen floor would miraculously self-clean. And then one day you wake up, realize you're an adult, and that it's time to start mopping your own floor. You buy bookshelves and feel a sense of relief as you line your books into neat rows. After many brief yet exciting flings with other laundry detergents (with sometimes disastrous results), you find yourself reaching for the carton of Tide, just like your mom.
You catch yourself saying things that your mother once said to you. After your roommate hopelessly plugs the toilet up for the third time in less than two weeks, the toilet that you have never had a problem with, you find yourself lecturing her on using more than five squares of the expensive four-ply toilet paper. As your mom's words come out of your mouth you wonder how this happened. Was it when you turned twenty-six that you magically turned into a younger version of your mom? Or was it the stress of living with a roommate who still acted like a child? You tell yourself that it's the latter, that living with a twenty-five year old teenager as a roommate is horrible and you promptly call your mom and apologize profusely for every time you ever used more than five squares, left dirty dishes in the sink, or pretended not to notice the garbage needed to be taken out.
But it's okay. We all turn into the women who brought us into the world, perhaps as payback for causing them so much pain on the day we were born. No matter how hard you try and fight it, you too will unexpectedly catch yourself uttering words that your mother once said to you, wiping down the counters and stove every time you are in the kitchen, and using the same laundry detergent your mom used. Because your mom was right about everything. The boyfriends she was polite to yet hoped you would not marry, how you'll sleep better if the kitchen is clean, and, of course, that Tide is the best laundry detergent out there.
(As seen on Thought Catalog)
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