Scientific method II

Observation: Since the first of the month, we’ve experienced something like 347% humidity, temperatures around 100 degrees Fahrenheit, the gloomiest week of the summer weather-wise, and my head has been in a funk such that I’ve thought it was Tuesday at least once every day this week so far, and I believe at this point I need either a fabulous year-long vacation, magical pills, or an infinite supply of dark chocolate (in any form: cake, cookies, hot chocolate, pudding, hand-rolled truffles) and coffee to get over it.

Hypothesis: August is the worst month of the year. It doesn’t even have any holidays.

Other possibilities: There are no holidays in March either, making it a close contender for worst month of the year. In March, it is neither winter nor spring, but a nasty mess of cold and wet. March is also mid-term, when the first round of big papers are due all at the same time and psychological conditions like Mid-Semester Stress Disorder and Spring Fever are nearing their peak.

Argument: However, March produces daffodils, crocus and tulips. August, on the other hand, produces mosquitoes.

Conclusion: August is undoubtedly the worst month of the year. Even the name is unpleasant.

Proposal for Action: I hereby propose that August is removed from the calendar--reassigning August birthdays to a more appropriate month, of course--so that we may skip directly from July to September without all this August nonsense.

Saturday Night Roasted Chicken & Vegetables

Vegetables:

1 bulb fennel (the white part—slice off the green stalks & save half for the chicken), cut into wedges
6 small potatoes, peeled (I made slits ½ inch apart in each, and stuck clumps of rosemary leaves and thyme into the slits)
3-5 carrots, peeled, quartered
1 large sweet onion, quartered
6-10 green onions, chopped (green & white parts)
6 cloves garlic, peeled & smashed

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In roasting pan, add 4 Tbsp olive oil & 4 Tbsp of butter (cut into chunks & softened).

Throw in the vegetables! Toss with oil & butter to coat. Sprinkle about 1 Tbsp of kosher salt & 1 Tbsp of black pepper evenly over vegetables.

Place roasting rack over top of vegetables.


Chicken rub:

3 Tbsp Dijon mustard
1 Tbsp fresh rosemary, chopped
1 Tbsp fresh thyme, chopped

Combine ingredients in small bowl. Rub on chicken & inside cavity with paper towel (or your hands if you’re inclined to do such things).

Place chicken on roasting rack, breast side up.

In cavity, insert: reserved fennel stalks, 2-3 sprigs fresh rosemary, 6-8 sprigs fresh thyme; tied together with a strip of cheesecloth or twine.

Tent chicken with aluminum foil. Roast chicken & vegetables for 2 - 3 hours until chicken is done, basting every 30 – 60 minutes. Remove foil towards end of roasting time, if necessary, to brown.

Remove pan from oven, tent chicken in foil & let rest 15 – 20 minutes before serving.

A Little Joy

Sarah Schodroski Ehman

Little Joys

August 2007

Paper

7" x 5"

Sweet 100

I hold a half-dozen in one hand--ethereal orbs of tomatoey goodness. Popping them into my mouth one at a time, I savor them like filled chocolates.

The skin is tight and smooth, still warm from the filtered sunlight. I bite into the flesh without reservation, unleashing a hot sweet explosion that tastes like robust red-orange with a surprising hint of delectable pink, finishing off smoothly with pure golden yellow.

Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep breath and smile as unfiltered delight travels through my arteries, delivering utopian intoxication to every cell. The flavor of sunshine lingers on my tongue, flirting with my taste buds, tantalizing, teasing, making them crave more.

"Yummmmmmm."

Scientific method

Observation: I have two Jennifers: Jen A. and Jen B. Each of my Jennifers happens to have at least two Sarahs. One might speculate that each of these Sarahs has another Jennifer, who has another Sarah, etc., and thus that every Jennifer has a Sarah and every Sarah, then, has a Jennifer.

Hypothesis: There is a metaphysical connection between girls of the name Jennifer and girls of the name Sarah. One cannot exist without the other. A Jennifer without a Sarah or a Sarah without a Jennifer is, therefore, an incomplete being: throwing the universe out of whack, and doomed to a life of emptiness and despair.

Other possibilities: It has occurred to me that the popularity of the names Jennifer and Sarah may be the cause of the Jennifer-Sarah link. The high occurrence of babies with these names in the early 1980s could thus indicate a high probability of a girl named Jennifer having a friend named Sarah and vice versa. As both names ranked in the top 5 for the decade (according to the Social Security Administration--they would know), this explanation seems feasible.

Argument: However, Jessica, Amanda and Ashley also ranked in the top 5. It would then seem statistically probable that every Sarah and/or Jennifer would have a Jessica, Amanda and Ashley too. Yet this is not necessarily the case.

Conclusion: I am right, as evidenced by Jen A's statement: “You are a shining example of intelligence wrapped up in pretty.” She also gave me peanut M&M’s. Metaphysical connection. Complete and fulfilled being.

Awakening

Why is it that Life wants to teach us lessons?

I started the day feeling emotionally raw, even a little sad, for no reason in specific--rather a whole bunch of little reasons building up on top of me to create a very great weight. I was thinking about my blog goal--to write something once a day--and of how I started the blog a week ago and have only managed three entries (now four). Sad.

So then I realized I am one of those people who has always been instantly successful at pretty much everything, and it must have become something I now expect: instant gratification. Thus, I am also one of those people who gets frustrated if I slip a little on the way to achieving my goals, like blogging every day, or going to the gym on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, or finishing my graduate programs according to my carefully planned timeline. A perfectionist. So I can be pretty hard on myself, too.

As a result, I've abandoned work to sulk around the house, moping, thinking about this ugly day, that it could only get better from here, and--SMACK!--I smash my funny bone on the edge of the kitchen counter.

Okay, okay. I’m awake. I’m writing.

Ode à la Feuille de Dessiccateur

A dryer sheet just fell out of my sweater and landed on my leg. Really, just now--like a mysterious artifact from the past, a witness to secrets and stories, history in the making. One can only imagine if it had fallen into anyone else’s lap: in as much time it would have ended up in the trash can. But it surreptitiously, serendipitously fell into MY lap! What providence! I understand your worth, O Dryer Sheet--I instantly realized your beauty. So I give you your rightful place of honor in the world of art and literature, my virtually static-free Muse, distinguished from all other dryer sheets with prose.

Your moonlight fibers are fragile as flakes of snow, yet woven together like breezy gossamer, the whole is strong enough to bear repeated exposure to water and heat and wind. It is soft as cotton, and wonderfully, beautifully, divinely clean. How long have you been clinging to the inside of my sweater, I wonder? To where have you traveled? What great adventures did you experience in the secret world between the inside of my sweater and the outside of the shirt underneath my sweater? O messenger between this world and that, where have my socks gone?

Alas, we shall never come to know the secrets of the Dryer Sheet, for it cannot talk or write or sing or even dance. It is too old, perhaps even dead. But it will live on through these words as a beacon of inspiration, a reminder of the meadowy freshness that hides away in places we never think to look, waiting to reveal itself when we need it most.

Purpose and purposlessness

I was thinking today about the purpose of blogging. I am fascinated lately with the blogosphere, like a whirlwind of simultaneous autobiographies happening in real-time: oooohhhh. Except I can’t help the feeling that I’m supposed to be blogging about something--that this blog* should have a “purpose” or some consistent thread of subject matter. Get over it, I tell myself. It’s mine, all mine, and I can do with it what I want. HAHAHA! Freedom borne out of constriction.

So today’s resplendent entry is about goals, because I am by my very nature a planner, a list-maker, a goal-setter.

My goal here is to post something at least once a day, with the goal of forcing myself to find something to write about at least once a day, with the umbrella goal of re-building my creative muscle and using it to make my mark and maybe even a living with writing and art. I believe I can do this (post once a day) because late last night while falling asleep at the computer and persistently exploring the world of iGoogle and Blogger, I discovered that making a post can be as easy as sending an e-mail. Brilliant.

{ASIDE}
iGoogle (How do you start a sentence with iGoogle? Should the “i” be capitalized? I would very much like for the iGoogle people to meet with the people in charge of the English language and provide clear stylistic guidelines on this matter.) is control-freak nirvana. I adore iGoogle. Thank you, Jen A, for opening up my iGoogle eyes.
{END ASIDE}

And my other short-term life goals are few and simple:

1. Run a marathon (26.2 miles), or be capable of it, by the time I reach the age of 26.2 on December 31, 2008
   
2. Get a little pineapple tattoo
   
3. PASS THE PRAXIS II

I am considering the addition of a fourth goal: to train for a biathlon but never compete. You may wonder, Why train for a biathlon without the intention of actually competing in a biathlon?

Truly, it’s because I’d like to be able to casually drop into conversation, “I’m training for a biathlon,” which sounds more enigmatic and exciting than, “I just got my ass crushed in a biathlon.” And anyway, I figure you must have to be pretty crazy to want to compete in a biathlon, but even crazier to want pretend to want to compete in a biathlon, and I think that added bit of craziness is just the thing I need in my life, short of a big bowl of ice cream and a Scotsman.
___________

* I do not especially like the word “blog” because it sounds made-up, and not a nice or funny kind of made-up (you know, because I never make words up), but rather like the name of cartoon alien vomit, so I will use it as little as possible, and just know that when I have no choice but to use it, I do so begrudgingly.

The joy of emptying boxes

In celebration of one year of moved-into-our-new-housedness, and because I'm too tired to come up with anything exciting for my numero uno blog post, here's a rediscovered bit of writing:

There are but a few things in life that fill one with absolute, untainted happiness. My latest joy: unpacking boxes.

I get chills as my scissors, splayed apart to make use of a single blade, slice through the packing tape with a satisfying rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiip. My heart beats with anticipation and then jubilation as I rediscover all of my things--books, linens, the soapstone carving I bought from the Kenyan guy at Disney World--and find a place for them in my new dwelling.

But nothing--NOTHING--equates to the ecstasy of looking into an empty box, flipping it over, scissors in hand, and slicing through the tape on the bottom--rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiip --reducing the box into nothing more than a flat piece of cardboard. I am beaming as a new space opens up in front of me. One less obstacle in the maze of boxes.

I take a deep breath and smile in accomplishment before I look around for the next box to empty. I don't have to look far.