I didn't have a perfectly good day...
Dec 16, 2007
I got up in the morning, ready to spend the day baking (and the next several weeks slowly enjoying what I made.) I had looked over all the recipes, made sure I had things like orange peel, allspice, mace, Crisco, real butter (always use real butter when baking! anything else...and trust me, its lack will be noticed), a new carton of eggnog specifically for the eggnog snickerdoodles, and nearly three dozen eggs. I had also bought stacking cooling racks
, to save counter space1. Mom-thing had sent me a rolling pin, pastry cloth, and some cookie cutters. I printed out the recipes, put them in plastic protectors, and planned out which I was going to prepare first. I’d run out that morning and gotten some more decorating goodies
(including edible ball bearings), a large stainless steel mixing bowl, and a small electric mixer (usually I just use a wire whisk and that works just fine without taking up additional counter space; but with the sheer amount of mixing I planned on doing, I decided to break down, spend the money, and avoid the muscle aches and mixing nightmares). I cleaned the kitchen, made my coffee (it was already 11 and I hadn’t had so much as one cup of coffee! I was seriously focussed2) set out all the baking supplies
, and started mixing the first batch of dough: drop sugar cookies. I cracked six eggs into a bowl, added the vanilla, and started to add the cooking oil...and ran out. I was half a cup short.
Thank you, gods of zonal planning, that the grocery store was just under a block away.
I put the eggs and vanilla in the refrigerator, knowing that a) I could be there and back in under 20 minutes; and b) this particular cookie dough needs to chill at least 1 hour before baking anyway - so the stint in the fridge was going to happen, anyway. No worries, right? At the grocery store, I chatted briefly with the clerk about cooking-prep whoopsies (he had once started making white chocolate macadamia nut cookies only to find that he had no macadamia nuts), and headed home. I added the cooking oil, blended the wet ingredients, and began mixing the dry ingredients in a separate bowl.
It was then that I discovered that I had no flour in the house. None. Not any.
Well, shit.
Back on went the sandals, back out went me, tromp tromp tromp to the grocery store. For the second time in 30 minutes. I got a big bag of flour and headed up to the express lane (same one I used before.) The clerk looked at me, looked at the flour, nodded in commiseration, and said, “Yeah, that’s kind of key, hm?”
I got home, mixed all the dry ingredients, and slowly blended the dry and wet stuff. However...the results looked a little bit off. While I had never made sugar cookies before, I was fairly sure that the dough wasn’t supposed to stick together in largeish crumbly clumps. I’m familiar with cookie dough that is a bit smoother. I tried kneading the stuff by hand, just in case the power mixer wasn’t doing its proper job; and the dough felt awfully grainy. Well, I reasoned, it’s sugar cookie dough. Maybe it’s supposed to feel a bit like this? I transferred the dough to a smaller bowl, set it into the fridge to chill the requisite one hour, and started on a second batch. This time I had all the ingredients, and wouldn’t have to leave in the middle of the mixing. If it came out the same, then...well, I’d have the answer to that question.
The second batch of dough looked quite a bit more like I expected...but I wasn’t willing to just pitch the first batch. After all, it contained edible ingredients. It might all bake up okay. (I remained impressively optimistic...a sure sign of a novice baker.) I transferred the second batch to a different container, set it in the fridge with its cousin Lumpy, and left them to chill 
while I prepped the spice cookie dough. That also would need to chill for at least an hour, so I had some downtime baked into my schedule.
(The management wishes to apologize for the preceding pun, which — besides being a pun — is a particularly lifeless example of the species. It wasn’t unavoidable; but after yesterday, the blogger is a bit punchy and little outbursts are bound to occur.)
My friend Monkeybard came over and we sat and chatted for a while. I had originally hoped to have some cookies ready for her to take to the cast for that evening’s performance; but this was just not happening. She brought over some of her own baking in the containers I’d used to transport the brownies to last week’s play, and I promised her that I’d have cookies for her tomorrow. If nothing else, I’d have the drop sugar cookies, right?
Once she headed out to finish her own bajillion errands, I tackled the actual “baking” portion of the day’s event. I had difficulty getting the first-batch cookies into nice rounded drops, but dutifully slid the half-sheet into the oven for ten minutes. What came out...well, it wasn’t pretty
. Then again, I justifiedreasoned, if they don’t look like you expect, they might taste okay. I left this sheet to cool while I prepped another sheet — from the second batch of dough, the batch of dough that looked reassuringly normal for something that wasn’t supposed to be rolled out and cut — for baking. The second batch was easier to work with, and looked nicer. A whole hell of a lot nicer
. Still, I was a tiny bit worried about being too picky. Cookies are cookies are cookies...and the boiled-cookes recipe I’m planning on making later produces cookies that look a bit like hunks of semi-dried mud; but when not constrained by something like other people or someone taking the cookies away or nausea from overeating, I can and have gleefully chowed down two dozen of those things in one sitting.3 So prettiness, or lack thereof, does not spell doom for a cookie.
As I waited for the cookies to cool enough for a proper taste test and prepped more sheets from the second batch of dough, I made an executive decision: after spending this much time in the kitchen, I was eating out. I’d bought some chicken breasts on my first trip that morning, thinking that I’d just marinate one and give it a quick fry-up for dinner. Nope, nope, and nope. I had just enough money to have salmon stir-fry, a pint of rice, and some potstickers delivered from the Chinese place a few blocks up. I cleaned up the kitchen, called in my dinner order, put in the final sheet of cookies from the “good” batch into the oven, and sat down to watch a rebroadcast of Torchwood on BBCA.
Once the second commercial break hit, I was wondering why I hadn’t heard the timer yet. I was sure that I’d set it...right? (This is never, ever a good thought to have anywhere near a kitchen, much in the same way “I turned the oven off, didn’t I?” is never, ever a good thought to have when you’re two hours’ drive away from home.) I went into the kitchen and didn’t smell burning. I opened the oven door and smoke didn’t come billowing out. The cookies were there, but a bit darker than their predecessors. Not burnt, precisely; but not the way I was used to seeing them. Well, they didn’t look burnt, they didn’t smell burnt, there was a chance they’d be edible. Right?4 Maybe if I frost them, they won’t be as visually unappealing...or I’ll just keep these dozen for myself. Yeah. That will work. Why waste the cookies? (Ten minutes later I tried to get one off the cookie sheet. They were extremely hard, and broke into pieces rather than coming off cleanly. Considering that this recipe usually yields cake-like cookies, this was Most Definitely Wrong. Not even frosting could save these kids.)
After dinner and a second episode of Torchwood, I tried one of the cookies from the first batch of dough. Upon cooling, they didn’t look all that bad. Unfortunately, the ingredients didn’t get mixed very well. The taste wasn’t hideous, but it was definitely a botch job. I would give these to someone who was starving, but not to my friends (or to people whom I wanted to have neutral-to-good opinions of me.) They weren’t quite at the level of “eat this before I give it to an animal”, but they were close.
I ended up making about half the dough into cookies, and chucking the rest. I plan to give them to the folks in the front office. I’ve been up there, I’ve seen the plates of munchies they have. They (probably) won’t eat any of them, they’ll just pass them out to anyone who comes to the office. Maybe the extras will be given to a church group or homeless shelter.
(Oh — and apparently, if you make cookies bigger than a half-dollar, the drop-sugar cookie recipe yields about seven dozen cookies, not twelve.)
Tomorrow: the other cookies!5
Footnotes:
1: If you bake large quantities of things, or have limited counterspace, think about getting yourself a set of these. Just about any good baking supply store should carry stacking cooling racks. I used mine to maximize cooling-space on top of the refrigerator...the only place reliably out of the cats’ range. [
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2: ...not that it helped much. Duh duh duh. Get the allspice and orange peel — and an electric hand mixer — but completely forget flour? Oh geez louise… [
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3: There will now be a pause for disgusted faces, exclaimations of “gawd, what a pig!”, and general noises-of-condemnation. All of which will be more convincing if you wipe the crumbs off of your face. [
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4: There goes that novice-baker optimism again. Isn’t it stupidly endearing? No? I didn’t think so, either...but I had to give it a go. [
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5: This feels like the first proper Holidailies entry I’ve done all month. That could mean that I just needed something interesting about which to write. Or that I work better when fuelled by embarrasment and a sugar high. Or nothing at all. Take your pick, really.
Keywords: | home | Holidailies | futility |
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And not just the reality stuff, either.
Dec 11, 2007
One year, I was helping Mom-thing man her booth at a homeshow. This was a higher-end show: there were decorators, muralists, window treatments, that kind of thing; but also rec-room furshings (billiards tables and bars) and home theatre equipment. The latter was across the aisle from Mom-thing’s booth. They had chairs, a huge flat-screen TV, and would periodically show portions of movies. They were a big draw for the dads and yard-apes. (Yeah, surprise there...)
At one point, Mom-thing pointed over to the booth and said to me, “Look at the little kids.” Two small children sat in the chairs, completely absorbed in Indiana Jones (the bit where he’s in the South American temple ruin): eyes glazed, faces slack, mouths hanging open. “Now,” continued Mom-thing, “look at the big kids.” She pointed to a booth across the way, displaying custom doors. The two twentysomething boys manning the booth were standing, staring across at the big-screen TV, eyes glazed, faces slack, mouths hanging open…
Keywords: | Holidailies |
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...and other tales from the trenches
Dec 10, 2007
A few years ago, just as the economy was recovering from the dot-com crash, I worked for a company as a document production person. In some ways, it was below my ability level, as document production is fairly routine. In others, I was starting from ground zero: it used a software tool with which I’d previously had about four months’ worth of experience, and the job required some advanced knowledge of the tool. It wasn’t in any kind of career path I wanted to follow, it wasn’t at a company that made me think, “Wow, this will look good on my resume and teach me a lot of things.” It was just a way to get a paycheck.
I loathed this job. Not because of the duties — but because of the boss. This person was not a good boss. They had been promoted to their personal level of discomfort, and left to make their way as best they can (it was the same all the way up the line. You know that anecdote about ”turtles all the way down”? Well, this company was “lobotomized ostriches all the way up”.) It wasn’t the worst way to get a paycheck, but there wasn’t much future in it...not only did the company have a reputation for burning out its employees, but if I had gotten promoted, I wouldn’t have been any closer to anything resembling clear information.
I left that job after just over two years (I actually had an interview on my two-year anniversary). I stayed as long as I did not because I wanted a career change, nor because there were no other jobs (at about the one-year mark, things were really picking up. I probably could have found something else fairly easily.) I stayed put because of my co-workers. I’ve had jobs before where I’ve had good co-workers, competent co-workers, co-workers with whom I may grab the occasional bit of lunch. However, I hadn’t ever worked in a place where I liked and really strongly respected just about all of the others in my group. These people were not just competent, they were scathingly competent (and yes, I know that’s a weird word pairing, but work with me here. I’m still on my first coffee of the day.) Everyone in the group was busy — at times ridiculously so — but everyone in the group had time to answer questions. We shared tips and tricks for the software packages we used. What one person in the team knew, the others stood a good chance of learning. It was like working with geeks: as long as the question showed that you put some thought into it, it got answered and answered well. And did I mention “scathingly competent”? Our most productive times were when the boss was working from home, or from another location: when Boss-thing was out on vacation for two weeks, then immediately went to another continent and worked out of an office there for another two weeks, we worked more efficiently than when the boss was present.
We also got on fairly good. I’d go into work dreading the astigmatic-Janus behavior of the Boss-thing; but I’d also be looking forward to finding out how T’s kids’ latest antics, or talking with C about geeky stuff, or sharing jokes with D and V. We griped and grumbled and shared horror stories when we were working together, and passed work back and forth (as the group’s “floater”, I helped anyone that needed helping. I did a lot of copy-paste, manual data checking, minor edits, and spellchecking...but at some point, I worked with everyone in the group.) We’ve been to picnics and gatherings at each others’ places, we’ve been out to dinner as a group, we’ve had several lunches since we started trickling away. Even though one of us has moved to a noncontiguous state, we all still stay in touch. It’s pretty cool. I got my current gig because of knowing these folks, and I may pick up a contract gig through my connection with another. This is the first time in my life that I’ve actually gotten work through networking with former co-workers. I’d also happily work with any of these people again...or all of them. (Just not Boss-thing, please.) While almost all of us can think of a co-worker or five with whom we’d work again, how many times in our careers can we honestly say, “Yeah - I’d love to work with that whole team again, any time”? I learned a lot from these folks, and really enjoyed working with them.
The one thing I miss about not living where I used to live is that it’s that much harder to get together with these folks for lunch. It didn’t happen often (maybe once every two months?), but we did enjoy the chance to catch up...and reminisce about some of the horror stories from Ye Olde Hellhole. We even had plenty that didn’t involve Boss-thing (pseudo-random bit stream? clockblock? multi-warhead? dinning room? bad perm?).
Maybe when I head back there this summer I’ll see if folks are able and amenable to a lunch meeting?
Keywords: | work | Holidailies | friends |
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Step away from the frozen foods.
Dec 09, 2007
Mom-thing didn’t like to cook. Point of fact, she didn’t know how to cook when she got married. She did teach both me and my sib the basics of cooking (the basics being “meat + vegetable + breadything = balanced meal"), but beyond that, food and the preparation thereof was always something of a chore. From my end, eating was never much fun, either. Dinner interrupted my playtime, and since I never really saw Mom-thing enjoy cooking, I didn’t enjoy eating. It held as much appeal as dusting (a chore I got to learn at an early age. My strong dislike for curlicued, detailed furniture stems directly from having to dust all that crap when I was a smallhuman.) As a result, when I moved out on my own, my experience at keeping myself fed was limited to soup, fast food, or very simple things that I could microwave. I never really learned how to think about combining ingredients to achieve a particular result, or even how to make minor changes in a dish using different spices. In HTML terms, I knew how to use the most basic features of FrontPage, but anything else was far beyond my abilities. Knowing that, it’s perhaps not so surprising that I’m only now beginning to look up recipes on the internet and, occasionally, try them out.
I love salmon, so shortly after I moved in I bought a salmon fillet, found a relatively simple recipe, and tried it out. Not only did I not injure myself or burn anything, it actually turned out well. (Sadly, I cannot justify eating salmon every night...and realistically, I’d probably get sick of it fairly quickly.) I’m still eating a bit more ready-meals and nukiefood than I really should, but...baby steps.
One of my other food-cheats is to buy a rotisserie chicken, strip off all the meat, and have chicken sandwiches and salads for the next few days. I did this last week, and Fog was delighted. She stayed right by my feet, talking to me the whole time. When I say “talking”, I mean just that. She sounded like one of those cheap dolls that says “mama” whenever you turn it upside down...except that, being a cheaper model, you don’t get much in the way of accurate consonants. The second time she did this, I gave her some of the chicken skin. (In hindsight, this was a mistake, as Fog now believes that she has made progress in my training program and gets quite upset whenever my behavior regresses.)
Keywords: | Holidailies | food | family |
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...or whatever they're calling it now.
Dec 04, 2007
I am a grown person. I have a bank account, checkbook, credit card, all that crap. I own a car. I pay my taxes. (I don't help my landlady with her garbage.) My personal weakness is writing instruments: pens, markers, gel pens, glitter pens, metallic inks, rich jeweltoned pigments with or without embellishment. Adults are quite able to buy pens — even colored pens — and no one thinks a thing of it. But just let an adult step up to the register with a box of crayons and people will wonder which child will be receiving them, and what for (birthday? completing their chores? eating their vegetables? an improved report card? what?)
Damn you, people, those are MY crayons!!!
I've always loved coloring. I'm not talking your standard children's coloring books, with houses and kids playing and toy balls and twee pet animals. No. The more simplistic, the less interested I was. When I was about 7, an aunt and uncle gave me Altair Designs and a set of markers for my birthday, and I was over the moon. Altair Designs weren't merely intricate, they were abstract - utterly abstract, geometric designs. Sure, I could have 'found' regular figures like monkeys and trees and so forth. I preferred to pick out other patterns. I'd spend hours meditating on what patterns to bring to the fore, what colors to use, how to elaborate on the design I'd started the previous day. A few years later I received some other coloring books — now utterly lost to history, I don't even remember the titles — with fanciful designs of alien landscapes, Escheresque patterns of stylized dragonflies or overlapping octopods, and utterly odd, off-the-wall drawings that, when colored, would either send psychoanalysts into fits of fearful twitching or given a psychology student a fairly good dissertation topic.
Coloring remains my favorite meditation-relaxation technique. It lets me be still; it keeps me thinking; it engages enough of my imagination-brain to keep me from being bored but not enough to make me feel distracted, overwhelmed, or busy; it lets me work through whatever issues I have lingering in my subconscious; and sometimes I come up with extremely cool things. I prefer markers (Pentel, set of 36) because of the smooth delivery and even distribution of pigments...but some times, crayons are the best tools to use. I own several boxes: one of 120, and two of 96. I managed to get some sets before Crayola went on the renaming binges of the 1990s, so I actually own crayons with the following names (now of hallowed memory):
- burnt sienna
- raw umber
- brick red (okay, I give up...why'd they change this color's name?!??)
- blue grey
- mulberry
- thistle
- violet blue
I think that some of the 'new color names' are just too faddish, abstracted, or twee. Mauvelous? Razzmatazz? They sound like rejected nicknames for Mouseketeers. Is 'tumbleweed' a dry, dead tannish, or slightly yellow-white? Tickle Me Pink? That one's straight out of Crayolas: the Porno Edition. These color names do not belong in any box I will ever own. They are Plain D. Wrong.
I tend to color while sitting in my living room, the paper on my lap desk and the markers beside me. I'll sometimes go outside, though, if there's a park close by. Once I tried coloring at a coffee shop, but got too many odd stares from other adults on their way to work (and one slightly jealous glance from a girl of 10 or 11 who, apparently, didn't read the subclause stating that coloring is never, ever not cool.) If you ever spot me sitting and coloring, feel free to pull up a chair and join me. It's a great way to relax, I don't criticize anyone's coloring technique or chosen medium, and there's no lines or traffic.
Just don't break any of my crayons.
Keywords: | Holidailies | habits | colors |
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The two songs that actually have English lyrics, that is...
Jul 20, 2007
Feast of Silence
There is a storm coming
And it is headed straight for our shore
Hold on to your heart
I’ve seen the signs before
How wicked these hours
These time we’ve seen before
How we built these odes
To our God
Wasting our tears
And chasing our fears
I look at these
And wish this was gone
Don’t say another word
Some things are better kept silent
Don’t say another word
Leave in silence, let me live in this silence
There is nothing left
In this beggar’s hands
I gave like I give
To my God
But nothing is sacred
Within these walls
That I built, and you built
In our shame, in our fear
In this room
Full of yesterday’s ghosts
Who am I, I ask
As I shatter and fall
Don’t say another word
Some things are better kept silent
Don’t say another word
Leave in silence, let me live in this silence
Let me feast in this silence
The Reaper and the Flowers
There is a reaper, whose name is Death
And, with his sickle keen
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath
And the flowers that grow between
And the flowers that grow between
“Shall I have naught that is fair?”, saith he
“Have naught but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me
I will give them all back again.”
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes
He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the lord of paradise
He bound them in his sheaves
“My Lord has need of these flowerets gay”,
The Reaper said and smiled;
“Dear tokens of the earth are they
Where he was once a child
They shall all bloom in fields of light
Transplanted by my care
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear.”
And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love
She knew she would find them all again
In the fields of light above
Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath
The Reaper came that day
‘twas an angel visited the green earth
And took the flowers away
‘twas an angel visited the green earth
And took the flowers away…
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