I was doubly touched by a bit 'o the green this weekend.
Exhibit A: I step out of my building to head to baking class. I immediately spy a group of people (eight or so) waiting to cross the street. They are all wearing matching green T-shirts of a shade somewhere between kelly and emerald. My first thought, "Ah...another matchy-matchy tour group."
Then I squinted my eyes to get a better look. The people were of an assortment of ages. Just the right assortment to be...ohmygod! It's a family! A family, dressed in matching green T-shirts! The horror!
I incurred moderate damage to my retinas and to the portions of my brain responsible for good taste. Fortunately, the damage was not severe enough to prevent me from producing both a delicious carrot cake (with cream cheese frosting and handmade marzipan carrots) and a scrumptious coconut cake (butter cake soaked with a sugar-coconut milk syrup, filled with a mixture of pastry cream and toasted coconut flakes, and frosted with Swiss meringue topped with a coating of non-toasted coconut flakes). No sugar high going on in my household. No siree!
Exhibit B: Walking to Pike Place Market on Sunday with Doofus and He Who Puts Up With Me, I spied a gent wearing an emerald green hooded sweatshirt emblazoned with "Kiss me, I'm Irish" in big gold letters. Only the gent in question was quite clearly not Irish. He was Latino. Which made me appreciate the slogan all the more (it's a bit trite on folks who actually are Irish...although I wouldn't mind if The Edge crossed my path while wearing one of those sweatshirts. Sigh.)
P.S. Speaking of HWPUWM...he's a little irritated with the, ahem, disparaging remarks I made about him in my Mullets-R-Us post from July 19. (I believe his exact words included "I'm not reading your blog anymore!" and included some foot stamping.) I stand behind my words. Maybe that will teach him to not dis Freddie Mercury's teeth (he's dead, for goodness sake!) and Bono's boots.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
As you wish...
I was catching a little local TV news (something I usually avoid like the plague) this morning, when what did my shocked eyes spy? Inigo Montoya, (as in, "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.") shilling for a cholesterol drug company.
It was painful to watch. If I ever see Princess Buttercup pushing hormone replacement therapy (or whatever), I will...oh, heck, I don't know what I'll do. But whatever it is, it won't be pretty.
What would Fezzik say?
It was painful to watch. If I ever see Princess Buttercup pushing hormone replacement therapy (or whatever), I will...oh, heck, I don't know what I'll do. But whatever it is, it won't be pretty.
What would Fezzik say?
Mullets-R-Us
He Who Puts Up With Me scored a DVD copy of the 1985 Live Aid concerts from the library, so we had great fun watching that last night. FYI, I have officially renamed the event. Heretofore, it will be known as Mulletpalooza. I had forgotten (or blocked out) just how big mullets were 20 years ago. Frightening.
Speaking of frightening...It didn't bother me at all that I am old enough to remember with near crystal clarity spending July 13, 1985 camped out in front of my TV set watching the concert's original broadcast on MTV (that was back in the days when they actually played music, nothing but music). Nope, didn't bother me one little bit. No siree.
So, we're watching Freddie Mercury of Queen apply his amazing vocal skills to "Crazy Little Thing Called Love," a song I remember fondly from, let's see, fifth grade (which was several years prior to 1985). HWPUWM is sitting on the couch; I'm doing something in the kitchen, when the following dialogue plays out:
HWPUWM: "I sure hope he's earned enough in his career to get those teeth fixed."
MB (that's me): "Ummmm...he died. Years ago. Of AIDS." [Said with an appropriate mix of horror and disgust of his lack of pop cultural knowledge. Of course, this was a man who knew almost nothing about popular music until I started dating him in college in 1991. I know, don't ask, I can't explain it.]
HWPUWM: "Oh. Do you think he had them fixed before he died?"
MB: "Gee, no, because I hardly think that was his top priority when he was dying of AIDS!"
Someone help me, please.
Almost as bad as the abundance of mullets was the abundance of ballads. Please, people. You're playing to an enormous stadium. Put some life into it. Sting, I love you man, and I know The Police just broke up and you were getting into your jazz phase and all, and I think Branford Marsalis is pretty great, but what were you thinking when you decided on an acoustic version of "Roxanne," with Branford as the lone accompaniment? Yawnapalooza!
Now, U2 knew how to bring some life to the party. Their performances of "Sunday Bloody Sunday" and "Bad" were i-n-s-p-i-r-e-d! [HWPUWM: "I didn't know 'Bad' was that old." MB: "Yep. Unforgettable Fire album, 1984." HWPUWM: "Wow." MB: (muttered under breath) And you call yourself a fan.] And, while not quite a baby band anymore, U2 had not yet broken into the world of stadium tours yet, which makes their show-stealing peformance all the more impressive.
Of course, HWPUWM could not get over U2's stage clothes. I believe he proclaimed them "the worst costumes ever." They weren't great, but they weren't that bad. HWPUWM was practically having seizures over the perceived awfulness of Bono's calf-high, almost high-heeled boots. Now, from my point of view, those boots (and yes, even the mullet) are simply part of the U2 iconography. Love the band, love the boots.
I got a kick out of watching Duran Duran perform (Simon LeBon had ditched his mullet by this time, incidentally). I discovered the true awfulness of songs like "Union of the Snake" and "The Reflex." (I always suspected that their significant-sounding lyrics were really just a bunch of gobbledygook). More importantly, I was blown away by Andy Taylor. I was never heavily into DD, but he was my favorite. A little less pretty boy, a little more rock-n-roll black sheep. But man, in this concert he was wild! His hair (long and tons of it), his facial expressions, his movements on stage...whoa, mama. How did I forget about that?!
Speaking of frightening...It didn't bother me at all that I am old enough to remember with near crystal clarity spending July 13, 1985 camped out in front of my TV set watching the concert's original broadcast on MTV (that was back in the days when they actually played music, nothing but music). Nope, didn't bother me one little bit. No siree.
So, we're watching Freddie Mercury of Queen apply his amazing vocal skills to "Crazy Little Thing Called Love," a song I remember fondly from, let's see, fifth grade (which was several years prior to 1985). HWPUWM is sitting on the couch; I'm doing something in the kitchen, when the following dialogue plays out:
HWPUWM: "I sure hope he's earned enough in his career to get those teeth fixed."
MB (that's me): "Ummmm...he died. Years ago. Of AIDS." [Said with an appropriate mix of horror and disgust of his lack of pop cultural knowledge. Of course, this was a man who knew almost nothing about popular music until I started dating him in college in 1991. I know, don't ask, I can't explain it.]
HWPUWM: "Oh. Do you think he had them fixed before he died?"
MB: "Gee, no, because I hardly think that was his top priority when he was dying of AIDS!"
Someone help me, please.
Almost as bad as the abundance of mullets was the abundance of ballads. Please, people. You're playing to an enormous stadium. Put some life into it. Sting, I love you man, and I know The Police just broke up and you were getting into your jazz phase and all, and I think Branford Marsalis is pretty great, but what were you thinking when you decided on an acoustic version of "Roxanne," with Branford as the lone accompaniment? Yawnapalooza!
Now, U2 knew how to bring some life to the party. Their performances of "Sunday Bloody Sunday" and "Bad" were i-n-s-p-i-r-e-d! [HWPUWM: "I didn't know 'Bad' was that old." MB: "Yep. Unforgettable Fire album, 1984." HWPUWM: "Wow." MB: (muttered under breath) And you call yourself a fan.] And, while not quite a baby band anymore, U2 had not yet broken into the world of stadium tours yet, which makes their show-stealing peformance all the more impressive.
Of course, HWPUWM could not get over U2's stage clothes. I believe he proclaimed them "the worst costumes ever." They weren't great, but they weren't that bad. HWPUWM was practically having seizures over the perceived awfulness of Bono's calf-high, almost high-heeled boots. Now, from my point of view, those boots (and yes, even the mullet) are simply part of the U2 iconography. Love the band, love the boots.
I got a kick out of watching Duran Duran perform (Simon LeBon had ditched his mullet by this time, incidentally). I discovered the true awfulness of songs like "Union of the Snake" and "The Reflex." (I always suspected that their significant-sounding lyrics were really just a bunch of gobbledygook). More importantly, I was blown away by Andy Taylor. I was never heavily into DD, but he was my favorite. A little less pretty boy, a little more rock-n-roll black sheep. But man, in this concert he was wild! His hair (long and tons of it), his facial expressions, his movements on stage...whoa, mama. How did I forget about that?!
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
#%^&$(*&@?}!!!
A message to all you miscreants who continue to pollute my beloved P-Patch (that's a community garden to you non-Seattlites) with your presence:
P-Patches were not created to give you a place to smoke crack, litter, vandalize (that rock wall was there for a reason, thank you very much), urinate, drink cheap beer and sleep (or pass out, as the case may be).
They were also not created to give you a place to pick produce. I grew that artichoke you stole, and I had intended to eat it! And my plot neighbor? The one who you stole every single pea from? She grew those, and she had intended to pick and eat them!
I just know you're eyeing my big, lush, dark green tomato plants and already anticipating the day when you will steal my tomatoes. I swear to whatever you might hold holy (even if it's only your damn crack pipe): You touch my tomatoes, and I will put a hex on you, so help me...
Frankly, I'm getting a little tired of having to call 911 every other time I go down to do a little gardening. I pay an annual fee to garden there. I deserve to garden in relative peace. I deserve to be able to harvest the fruits of my labor. That is the bottom line.
But I will continue to call the police, and e-mail the police, and start bugging the damn city council if I have to. Because you are pond scum. And you will not win.
Do you think I sound angry? You bet your ass I am. Hell hath no fury like a gardener whose garden is tampered with.
So just stop it.
Stop it.
Stop it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I'm done...for now.
P-Patches were not created to give you a place to smoke crack, litter, vandalize (that rock wall was there for a reason, thank you very much), urinate, drink cheap beer and sleep (or pass out, as the case may be).
They were also not created to give you a place to pick produce. I grew that artichoke you stole, and I had intended to eat it! And my plot neighbor? The one who you stole every single pea from? She grew those, and she had intended to pick and eat them!
I just know you're eyeing my big, lush, dark green tomato plants and already anticipating the day when you will steal my tomatoes. I swear to whatever you might hold holy (even if it's only your damn crack pipe): You touch my tomatoes, and I will put a hex on you, so help me...
Frankly, I'm getting a little tired of having to call 911 every other time I go down to do a little gardening. I pay an annual fee to garden there. I deserve to garden in relative peace. I deserve to be able to harvest the fruits of my labor. That is the bottom line.
But I will continue to call the police, and e-mail the police, and start bugging the damn city council if I have to. Because you are pond scum. And you will not win.
Do you think I sound angry? You bet your ass I am. Hell hath no fury like a gardener whose garden is tampered with.
So just stop it.
Stop it.
Stop it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I'm done...for now.
Do not call!
I am not exaggerating when I say that I have spent years of effort preventing my alma mater, University of Oregon, from having my phone number. Since the day I graduated, in fact.
Why?
Because I don't want students calling me and asking me to donate money, that's why.
At first, it was for philosophical reasons. I was paying off student loans, which meant I was giving quite enough money for education, thank you very much. Then, I developed a new philosophy: I don't want anyone calling me and asking me for money, ever!
All was well until this morning, when I received a telemarketing call at my desk at work. You know the kind: you answer, and there's no one there because the autodialer missed the boat on the timing between telemarketing parasite and innocent victim. I looked up the area code: Virginia. Hmmmm....
A few hours later, I get another call. The same number pops up on my phone display. This time, there's someone on the other end of the line. He identifies himself as being from the University of Oregon (gee, didn't know they had a satellite campus in Virginia). I politely (I am at work and within the earshot of others) tell him that I don't appreciate receiving telemarketing calls at my place of business. He hangs up before I even finish my sentence. The nerve!
So I fume about how the Fighting Ducks got my work number. I check my alumni profile online. Nothing there. Then the lightbulb over my head goes on. In February, I faxed in a request for my transcript to be sent to the culinary school I was in the process of applying to. And I gave them my work number (only because I am even more zealous about not giving out my cell/home number). I think those bastards in the registrar's office shared my information.
I am steaming. Really, its still coming out of my ears.
I fired off a frosty e-mail (yes, frosty in spite of all the steam) asking who they share that information with. Hmmph!
Why?
Because I don't want students calling me and asking me to donate money, that's why.
At first, it was for philosophical reasons. I was paying off student loans, which meant I was giving quite enough money for education, thank you very much. Then, I developed a new philosophy: I don't want anyone calling me and asking me for money, ever!
All was well until this morning, when I received a telemarketing call at my desk at work. You know the kind: you answer, and there's no one there because the autodialer missed the boat on the timing between telemarketing parasite and innocent victim. I looked up the area code: Virginia. Hmmmm....
A few hours later, I get another call. The same number pops up on my phone display. This time, there's someone on the other end of the line. He identifies himself as being from the University of Oregon (gee, didn't know they had a satellite campus in Virginia). I politely (I am at work and within the earshot of others) tell him that I don't appreciate receiving telemarketing calls at my place of business. He hangs up before I even finish my sentence. The nerve!
So I fume about how the Fighting Ducks got my work number. I check my alumni profile online. Nothing there. Then the lightbulb over my head goes on. In February, I faxed in a request for my transcript to be sent to the culinary school I was in the process of applying to. And I gave them my work number (only because I am even more zealous about not giving out my cell/home number). I think those bastards in the registrar's office shared my information.
I am steaming. Really, its still coming out of my ears.
I fired off a frosty e-mail (yes, frosty in spite of all the steam) asking who they share that information with. Hmmph!
Vive la France!
I have long been a fan of that "Very French Bakery," Le Panier, located in the Pike Place Market, for those of you who aren't familiar. Their pain au chocolat is a breakfast treat I would love to indulge in daily (I don't). And I adore the delicious simplicity of their jambon et fromage baguette sandwiches. Yum.
So, imagine my surprise when I visited my favorite Seattle food blog (more than just food, actually), Seattle Bon Vivant. It turns out that mere blocks from me is a Frencher than French bakery called Biofournil (the Web site says nothing about the Seattle location, but it does have info on their breads and philosophy). I say that because there are only two outposts: The original one in France, and the one in Seattle. Located at 2507 Fourth Ave in Belltown (just north of Wall Street), not only is this bakery French, they're organic. Two things that are music to my ears (and tastebuds).
So I took a different path on my walk to work this morning, and treated myself to a yummy almond croissant and a lovely, crusty loaf for later. I am eager to return to sample their lunch offerings, which I understand include quiche and tasty French sandwiches. Hmmmm...tomorrow is Bastille Day. Did I mention the organic part?
So, imagine my surprise when I visited my favorite Seattle food blog (more than just food, actually), Seattle Bon Vivant. It turns out that mere blocks from me is a Frencher than French bakery called Biofournil (the Web site says nothing about the Seattle location, but it does have info on their breads and philosophy). I say that because there are only two outposts: The original one in France, and the one in Seattle. Located at 2507 Fourth Ave in Belltown (just north of Wall Street), not only is this bakery French, they're organic. Two things that are music to my ears (and tastebuds).
So I took a different path on my walk to work this morning, and treated myself to a yummy almond croissant and a lovely, crusty loaf for later. I am eager to return to sample their lunch offerings, which I understand include quiche and tasty French sandwiches. Hmmmm...tomorrow is Bastille Day. Did I mention the organic part?
V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N
Well, it's hump day of the week following my one glorious week of vacation, and I am surviving.
I am well aware that I did not blog once during that week. Even if I did not possess that inner awareness, He Who Puts Up With Me gave me more than enough reminders. If I had a nickel for every time he said, "You haven't blogged in forever. I'm giving up on you," I would have a truckload of nickels.
Since HWPUWM is in the process of starting his own blog (only the harder way, with a blank slate and html programming from scratch...not that he knows html yet, mind you), I hearby lay down the blog challenge: I double-dog-dare him to blog every single day beginning with the day he posts his first official entry.
To be fair, I will issue to the same challege to myself (again, starting the day of his first official post). May the best blogger win.
I had a lovely vacation (oh, how I miss thee already). We stayed in city, with the exception of a day trip to West Seattle, which has the amazing quality of not feeling like Seattle at all (I'm talking about the tip of Alki Beach, here, especially once you make it far enough around where you can't see downtown Seattle anymore.
I had a small list of restaurants I wanted to hit, but only made it to two: Baguette Box and Le Pichet, both of which I heartily recommend. The roasted pork loin with apricot aioli baguette was divine, and HWPUWM was quite pleased with his roasted Oregon leg of lamb baguette. A shared cup of truffle fries and plate of beet salad with garlic olive oil rounded out the meal nicely.
I felt there was no more appropriate way to kick off the Fourth of July than with a late breakfast at a French cafe. So off we went, to Le Pichet, to satisfy ourselves with two servings (total, not each...please!) of oeufs plats, jambon et fromage. That would be two eggs broiled with ham and gruyere for you non-French speakers. I admit that I ordered in English, because I couldn't remember how to properly pronounce "oeufs" (it's been a long time since high school French class, OK?). Our lovely, cheesy, breakfast came with a tasty baguette and sweet butter. Oui! Oui! Please monsieur, may I have another!
And another vacation, while you're at it. S'il vous plait.
I am well aware that I did not blog once during that week. Even if I did not possess that inner awareness, He Who Puts Up With Me gave me more than enough reminders. If I had a nickel for every time he said, "You haven't blogged in forever. I'm giving up on you," I would have a truckload of nickels.
Since HWPUWM is in the process of starting his own blog (only the harder way, with a blank slate and html programming from scratch...not that he knows html yet, mind you), I hearby lay down the blog challenge: I double-dog-dare him to blog every single day beginning with the day he posts his first official entry.
To be fair, I will issue to the same challege to myself (again, starting the day of his first official post). May the best blogger win.
I had a lovely vacation (oh, how I miss thee already). We stayed in city, with the exception of a day trip to West Seattle, which has the amazing quality of not feeling like Seattle at all (I'm talking about the tip of Alki Beach, here, especially once you make it far enough around where you can't see downtown Seattle anymore.
I had a small list of restaurants I wanted to hit, but only made it to two: Baguette Box and Le Pichet, both of which I heartily recommend. The roasted pork loin with apricot aioli baguette was divine, and HWPUWM was quite pleased with his roasted Oregon leg of lamb baguette. A shared cup of truffle fries and plate of beet salad with garlic olive oil rounded out the meal nicely.
I felt there was no more appropriate way to kick off the Fourth of July than with a late breakfast at a French cafe. So off we went, to Le Pichet, to satisfy ourselves with two servings (total, not each...please!) of oeufs plats, jambon et fromage. That would be two eggs broiled with ham and gruyere for you non-French speakers. I admit that I ordered in English, because I couldn't remember how to properly pronounce "oeufs" (it's been a long time since high school French class, OK?). Our lovely, cheesy, breakfast came with a tasty baguette and sweet butter. Oui! Oui! Please monsieur, may I have another!
And another vacation, while you're at it. S'il vous plait.
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