for those of you who don't know, i am short. as in, less than 5 feet short. in my immediate little family of 4, only my brother currently breaks the 5 foot mark (well done to you!) at one point both my mother and father could boast of this goal, but they have been afflicted with skeletal shrinkage due to old age. stack the three of us on top of each other and a single male giraffe would still look upon us with disdain. such is my family.
i have been helping my parents paint their house for the last few days, and with the exception of one day when i conned a long lanky friend into helping out, "painting the house" also means "scaling a three rung ladder repeatedly, developing excellent calf muscles." it's not that we have tall ceilings; we're just that short. though inconvenient, this was doable until...
THE STAIRWELL. yes. regular three-rung ladders don't work well on stairwells. my father's first suggestion, of course, was to basically construct scaffolding for the whole house---thank goodness my mother has some sense of reason. nono, i said, we can do it, we just have to find stuff to prop up under half the ladder so we don't send paint flying down the carpeted stairs. and so i did one side (story to come later) and my father did the other.
this is how i came to stare at my father's calves for minutes on end (stabilizing the ladder). and then i noticed: he doesn't have much hair. okay yes, he's bald, but i meant on his legs. he has some of course, but not tons. why does this matter?
well, my mother's legs are completely hairless. she doesn't shave, she doesn't Nair, nothing. her legs are the mexican hairless cats of the leg world. a natural phenomenon. my legs, on the other hand, if not subjected to frequent shaving, er....well, i'll spare you the description. if i lived au naturale, i would be hairier than my brother. i thought i inherited leg hair from my father; now i know i am wrong. as far as i know, i am the hairiest person in my entire family. just call me chewbacca.
now, the other half of THE STAIRWELL painting experience---my half. the half that is titled: Conversations With Death.
right. so, i'm climbing the ladder to tape the ceiling, no big deal, la-di-da, but the higher up THE STAIRWELL i get the more freaked out i become. i'm fighting this, of course, because i don't want my father to have to do too much---ah, nobility---but you know, my hands are sweating, my legs are shaking, my mouth is dry. all symptoms of paranoia, and then here's the kicker: i see Death.
i hate, loathe, abhor, detest, consider an abomination, would vomit at the sight of, would throw pygmy goats at, would wish a plague of boils upon, people who ask me "why are you afraid of heights?" hello! look at me! i spent 99.9725% of my life less than 5 feet above the ground! it's like throwing a pagan witch into the southern baptist convention and asking, "why are you uncomfortable?" or giving a rhinoceros snorkeling gear and freeing it in the great barrier reef. or releasing an ostrich on the tundra. ah, i see i have developed an "animals of the african savannah" theme here. you get the point. "oh, but humans adapt! that's how we have survived as a species: high adaptability!" yes, i'm sure. throw me on top of a 2000 foot high plateau that's about 7 feet in diameter and i'm sure the spawn that follows me will have grown suckers on their hands and feet and can run down cliff-sides face-first, like a squirrel. me, i will have perished from fright. or rolled off the edge in my sleep.
anywho, back to Death. he's there, far far below, like 12 feet below, about the size of an apple, going: hello! hello! would you fancy coming down here for a bit? we have fantastic billiards.
Me: what? oh, um, no thank you. not if you don't mind.
Death: but are you sure? it wouldn't be very difficult for you to come with me at all, you know, just a few inches to your right....
Me: yes, but then my tombstone would say, "here lies jo she died by rugburn." and not that it matters to you, but there are other ways i'd rather go.
Death: i think Death by Rugburn is a nice way to go! not to mention you'd die doing something NOBLE for your parents! i can't think of any more creative ways, can you?
Me: more creative? you can't be more creative? wait, i'm an experiment in creativity? what kind of morbid loser are you?
Death: well if you're going to get all testy, i might just have to come up there and nudge you a bit....
Me: alright alright. let's see...my mind could slowly deteriorate until i think i'm a hippo and that charter bus is my mate!
Death: mmmm.
Me: or i could be mistaken as a dwarf by a bigoted giant who smashes me to bits with a medieval club, oh wait that sounds painful.
Death: well if you're not coming up with anything better...
Me: wait wait! or i could be walking along a posh alley somewhere and a piano could come crashing on my head! but it'd have to be a steinway or busendorfer or yamaha or you know, something nice. no clavinovas, please.
Death: no, i like the clavinova idea. it's ironic! it's amusing! it's fitting, you know, really. *pauses* i think you've given me all the ideas i need for my next final destination movie.
Me: what, you're making ANOTHER one of those?
Death: well, it is one of my best roles, you know. i get to let loose my twisted side!
Me: you're a sick wanker, i hope you know. and now *hops off ladder* i'm done, so you lost your chance! BWAHAHAHHAHA!
Death: *poof!*
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Olfactory Narcissism
bath and body works is what i refer to as "that smell store." true, there's the body shop, which i refer to as "that other smell store," only because i don't frequent it as often as bath and body works. this has little to do with the quality of either company's products, but rather relates directly to the fact that the body shop is always burning ridiculously extravagant amounts of aromatherapy oil in about 12 square feet of space. i imagine it smells like royal medieval paris, when people soaked themselves in herbage to disguise their own rank body odor.
at any rate, that smell store is the one which USED to sell a bergamot coriander series of products---massage oil, body washes, scrubs, etc. you know, the same aromatherapy line as the eucalyptus mint and lemongrass ginger and various other "fragrances" which remind me more of dessert or curry than cleaning putrid human bodies. not to say i don't like them, but at times i am tempted to eat a limb or at least a digit to see if i taste as good as the bottle smells. luckily i'm able to control this urge.
bergamot coriander is different. i don't understand why it's discontinued anymore than most people can understand my fascination with it. i first discovered it, in massage oil form, at a semi annual sale a year or two ago and fell deeply in love at first whiff. i scrabbled around the bins looking for any other products (let's face it; i don't get massaged with oil every day, or even every other day, or even with any frequency worth mentioning) but alas and alack! there were none to be found. to compound my feelings of woe, a very nice sales lady said, "oh, i think that's the last of it----it's discontinued."
oh the horror! if i were a soprano, i would shriek obscenely high notes at this very nice sales lady whilst collapsing on the spot, overcome by weakness from this dire news. if i were a tenor, i would croon a silky, yet sweet aria at her until she relented and gave up her secret bergamot coriander stash (i was sure she had one). if i were a hearty, stoic mezzo i might poke her with an epee just because i enjoyed vengeance. if i were a bass....well, i can't even begin to think like a bass. do basses think?
regardless, as a keyboardist my overflow of despair and heart-wrenching angst was manifested by lots of impotent fist-clenching. i brought home the lone bottle of massage oil and ruefully hoarded it, occasionally bringing it out for a quick sniff or two---just to tide me over. harmless fix, really. just a little bit more!!! but then...
my dearest friend (even more dear to me now) was at that smell store last week, as they are having their semi annual sale, and brought home three bottles of bergamot coriander BODY WASH! i was singing more alleluias than a catholic at easter! and tonight i bathed in it for the first time...oh what a combination of fresh acidity and musky sensuality! oh what an oasis of luxury for a nose parched in a desert of sewage! (cleveland's fault, not mine). if i were a soprano, i would shriek obscenely high notes of pleasure whilst collapsing on the spot, overcome by sheer hedonistic happiness. it's funny; it doesn't matter what they feel, they always do the same thing.
for the last half hour i have been rolling around in bed, trying to sniff random body parts (the back of my knee, the small of my back) and i'm always struck with amazement that THAT PLACE SMELLS GOOD TOO. i am in love with my smell. i can't get enough of me. i can see it now: i tuck myself into a fetal position as i inhale my gorgeous scent, and i never resurface for bland air. over time my hair and nails grow long and the gods pity me, turning me into a brown bush with black trim that smells fantastic! and a museum will buy me for my oddly human features and of course, my scent, and i will be known as The Jo. and hundreds of years later, whenever a human tucks into a fetal position, they will be doing The Jo. or if someone finds a brown bush with black trim, fragrant or not, it will be called The Jo. and then eventually a person with a smell fetish will be called a Joist, and everyone will want to plant Jo hedges and hold Jo-growing contests, or Jo-cultivation conferences, and my name will live on through all eternity, all owing to one fortuitous semi annual sale.
at any rate, that smell store is the one which USED to sell a bergamot coriander series of products---massage oil, body washes, scrubs, etc. you know, the same aromatherapy line as the eucalyptus mint and lemongrass ginger and various other "fragrances" which remind me more of dessert or curry than cleaning putrid human bodies. not to say i don't like them, but at times i am tempted to eat a limb or at least a digit to see if i taste as good as the bottle smells. luckily i'm able to control this urge.
bergamot coriander is different. i don't understand why it's discontinued anymore than most people can understand my fascination with it. i first discovered it, in massage oil form, at a semi annual sale a year or two ago and fell deeply in love at first whiff. i scrabbled around the bins looking for any other products (let's face it; i don't get massaged with oil every day, or even every other day, or even with any frequency worth mentioning) but alas and alack! there were none to be found. to compound my feelings of woe, a very nice sales lady said, "oh, i think that's the last of it----it's discontinued."
oh the horror! if i were a soprano, i would shriek obscenely high notes at this very nice sales lady whilst collapsing on the spot, overcome by weakness from this dire news. if i were a tenor, i would croon a silky, yet sweet aria at her until she relented and gave up her secret bergamot coriander stash (i was sure she had one). if i were a hearty, stoic mezzo i might poke her with an epee just because i enjoyed vengeance. if i were a bass....well, i can't even begin to think like a bass. do basses think?
regardless, as a keyboardist my overflow of despair and heart-wrenching angst was manifested by lots of impotent fist-clenching. i brought home the lone bottle of massage oil and ruefully hoarded it, occasionally bringing it out for a quick sniff or two---just to tide me over. harmless fix, really. just a little bit more!!! but then...
my dearest friend (even more dear to me now) was at that smell store last week, as they are having their semi annual sale, and brought home three bottles of bergamot coriander BODY WASH! i was singing more alleluias than a catholic at easter! and tonight i bathed in it for the first time...oh what a combination of fresh acidity and musky sensuality! oh what an oasis of luxury for a nose parched in a desert of sewage! (cleveland's fault, not mine). if i were a soprano, i would shriek obscenely high notes of pleasure whilst collapsing on the spot, overcome by sheer hedonistic happiness. it's funny; it doesn't matter what they feel, they always do the same thing.
for the last half hour i have been rolling around in bed, trying to sniff random body parts (the back of my knee, the small of my back) and i'm always struck with amazement that THAT PLACE SMELLS GOOD TOO. i am in love with my smell. i can't get enough of me. i can see it now: i tuck myself into a fetal position as i inhale my gorgeous scent, and i never resurface for bland air. over time my hair and nails grow long and the gods pity me, turning me into a brown bush with black trim that smells fantastic! and a museum will buy me for my oddly human features and of course, my scent, and i will be known as The Jo. and hundreds of years later, whenever a human tucks into a fetal position, they will be doing The Jo. or if someone finds a brown bush with black trim, fragrant or not, it will be called The Jo. and then eventually a person with a smell fetish will be called a Joist, and everyone will want to plant Jo hedges and hold Jo-growing contests, or Jo-cultivation conferences, and my name will live on through all eternity, all owing to one fortuitous semi annual sale.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
'Ole Mole
i love this title for its versatility. for example:
1) replace ' with "wh" and you get Whole Mole, as in an entire furry creature that plagues gardeners.
2) replace ' with "h" and it's Hole Mole, as in a mole hole.
3) pronounce the single "e" as a double "ee" and get "Holee Molee," which is scarily similar to Holy Moly.
4) pronounce it as a spaniard would and you have "Olay Molay," which is scarily similar to the anglo expression "Holy Moly."
so is this blog about moles the unit of measurement, moles the furry animal, moles the mexican sauces, whole holes, holy wholes, or the annoying cheerleaders of the english language, those perky, flexible, ever-present homonyms?
i'll take "what is the most famous distinguishing mark of puebla, mexico, to an uncultured american-centric oaf like myself?" for $46.78.
if you've never had a great mole poblano, i can now officially pity you, as i have finally had a great one myself. a week ago i could only say that i had disappointing moles, some of which tasted only of chocolate and others that tasted like spiced mud. it is funny to me when people refer to mole poblano as "that mexican chocolate sauce," given that the recipe i attempted called for 6 ounces of chocolate vs 20 dried chiles, 1 lb tomatoes, 1 lb tomatillos, plantains, etc. at the risk of making a completely inappropriate analogy, does having a tiny percentage of chocolate make it a chocolate sauce just as being 1/16 black makes one a "colored person?"
i confess: it was egullet.org, combined with too much time and boredom, that prompted me to tackle this 7 hour recipe. a $46.78 trip to the grocery later, i had all the ingredients i needed plus fresca and diet gingerale for hydration.
the recipe consists of a lot of toasting, poaching, blending (in a food processor), sauteeing. there was only one truly frightening moment: frying the chile puree. commentary had warned, "exploding chiles all over my kitchen! cover well!" this was shortly after i had delved deep into the gumbo archives on egullet and had learned that the roux i'd been making for 5 years or so is also known as "cajun napalm." apparently roux sticks to everything and can burn down to the bone --- as one poster wrote, "as i washed the burn under water my skin came peeling off, then flesh, exposing bone." yowch. in horrified shock, i combined the fear of toxic cajun napalm with the dread of burning hot chile puree and melted into a neurotic mess. this is partly why the process took two days: 1 day prep, 1 night to build up my courage, day 2 storm the fort.
and storm the fort i did. two potholders that went down to my elbow. ratty old tshirt that wouldn't complain if it looked like a bloody battlefield and tasted like a bloody mary (extra hot!) not one, but TWO splashguards. glasses to protect my eyes. long wooden spatula, AND i placed the pot on the back burner, just to be safe. and then pouring the puree....
"BOOM! BAM! whop! FOOM! PSSSSHHH! hisssssssssssssssss! CRUK! FOW! whrrrrrrrrm!"
was how everyone else had described it. but no, my pot went a bit like this: "pssssssssssssssss."
that was it! a sort of disgruntled murmur, and then acquiescence. a deflating balloon. a fish peeing in the sea. dumping the trinity in roux (for gumbo) created more of a fuss. adding cream to caramel was like gettysburg compared to this! WHAT??!!! i felt betrayed by the potency of my chile puree. i wanted a do-over. i wanted to throttle each little ancho, pasilla, and guajillo pepper and cry, "I TOASTED YOU WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS! I LOVINGLY DESEEDED AND DESTEMMED YOU! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME????!!!!!"
so then i stripped myself of all my protective gear and ran to check the recipe.
oh.
see, frying the chile puree calls for 1/2 cup. i had memorized this as 1/4. then i thought, well to avoid all that oil, i'll just reduce it by a little bit, say, 2 tablespoons instead of 3.
in the end there just wasn't enough oil to bite back like it should have.
nevertheless, my mole still kicks butt. as in, your butt. as in, all of your butts that have never made a mole poblano FROM SCRATCH before, which i'm pretty sure is all of your butts. and next time, i promise.....
FOOM!
1) replace ' with "wh" and you get Whole Mole, as in an entire furry creature that plagues gardeners.
2) replace ' with "h" and it's Hole Mole, as in a mole hole.
3) pronounce the single "e" as a double "ee" and get "Holee Molee," which is scarily similar to Holy Moly.
4) pronounce it as a spaniard would and you have "Olay Molay," which is scarily similar to the anglo expression "Holy Moly."
so is this blog about moles the unit of measurement, moles the furry animal, moles the mexican sauces, whole holes, holy wholes, or the annoying cheerleaders of the english language, those perky, flexible, ever-present homonyms?
i'll take "what is the most famous distinguishing mark of puebla, mexico, to an uncultured american-centric oaf like myself?" for $46.78.
if you've never had a great mole poblano, i can now officially pity you, as i have finally had a great one myself. a week ago i could only say that i had disappointing moles, some of which tasted only of chocolate and others that tasted like spiced mud. it is funny to me when people refer to mole poblano as "that mexican chocolate sauce," given that the recipe i attempted called for 6 ounces of chocolate vs 20 dried chiles, 1 lb tomatoes, 1 lb tomatillos, plantains, etc. at the risk of making a completely inappropriate analogy, does having a tiny percentage of chocolate make it a chocolate sauce just as being 1/16 black makes one a "colored person?"
i confess: it was egullet.org, combined with too much time and boredom, that prompted me to tackle this 7 hour recipe. a $46.78 trip to the grocery later, i had all the ingredients i needed plus fresca and diet gingerale for hydration.
the recipe consists of a lot of toasting, poaching, blending (in a food processor), sauteeing. there was only one truly frightening moment: frying the chile puree. commentary had warned, "exploding chiles all over my kitchen! cover well!" this was shortly after i had delved deep into the gumbo archives on egullet and had learned that the roux i'd been making for 5 years or so is also known as "cajun napalm." apparently roux sticks to everything and can burn down to the bone --- as one poster wrote, "as i washed the burn under water my skin came peeling off, then flesh, exposing bone." yowch. in horrified shock, i combined the fear of toxic cajun napalm with the dread of burning hot chile puree and melted into a neurotic mess. this is partly why the process took two days: 1 day prep, 1 night to build up my courage, day 2 storm the fort.
and storm the fort i did. two potholders that went down to my elbow. ratty old tshirt that wouldn't complain if it looked like a bloody battlefield and tasted like a bloody mary (extra hot!) not one, but TWO splashguards. glasses to protect my eyes. long wooden spatula, AND i placed the pot on the back burner, just to be safe. and then pouring the puree....
"BOOM! BAM! whop! FOOM! PSSSSHHH! hisssssssssssssssss! CRUK! FOW! whrrrrrrrrm!"
was how everyone else had described it. but no, my pot went a bit like this: "pssssssssssssssss."
that was it! a sort of disgruntled murmur, and then acquiescence. a deflating balloon. a fish peeing in the sea. dumping the trinity in roux (for gumbo) created more of a fuss. adding cream to caramel was like gettysburg compared to this! WHAT??!!! i felt betrayed by the potency of my chile puree. i wanted a do-over. i wanted to throttle each little ancho, pasilla, and guajillo pepper and cry, "I TOASTED YOU WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS! I LOVINGLY DESEEDED AND DESTEMMED YOU! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME????!!!!!"
so then i stripped myself of all my protective gear and ran to check the recipe.
oh.
see, frying the chile puree calls for 1/2 cup. i had memorized this as 1/4. then i thought, well to avoid all that oil, i'll just reduce it by a little bit, say, 2 tablespoons instead of 3.
in the end there just wasn't enough oil to bite back like it should have.
nevertheless, my mole still kicks butt. as in, your butt. as in, all of your butts that have never made a mole poblano FROM SCRATCH before, which i'm pretty sure is all of your butts. and next time, i promise.....
FOOM!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)