The Weather

One of my writing professors at Long Beach once told my class that the way they narrowed down six applicants from 200 was by reading the first paragraph of the story; if there was any mention of the weather, they set it aside.

Being from the Midwest, I am prone to have long conversations with the peeps back home about the weather. My aunt has said it's because I come from farmers whose whole lives depended on the weather. Thus, they liked to dish about it. I tend on the side of boredom during these conversations, where the temperature is relayed at least three times with a vocal exclamation mark. This is happens especially with my grandma. She obsessively watches the Weather Channel, although now that she's lost most of her hearing, she watches it on mute. This is just one of the many things I love about her. While I have always enjoyed watching the "Tropical Update," I've never watched it for seven hours consecutively.

So since this is all in my blood, this weather talk, let me tell you how lovely it's been around here lately. Russ and I spend a lot of our minimal free time outside in the backyard, trying to make it sustainable, edible, and beautiful. It feels good to pull Bermuda grass, battle earwigs (which we have in legion), and exorcise lurking alley cats and their ass faces. But Russ took it to a whole new level this weekend by providing a lunch for about 150 people that was all sustainable, edible, and beautiful. Using produce grown on Cal Poly's campus, meat from a semi-local California ranch from a local butcher, and all recyclable-compostable dishes and flatware, he threw a lunchtime gala without the usual trash bags that follow. He didn't do all this himself, of course -- he had help from volunteers, but when it all comes down, he was the hands carrying it all out, from harvesting the veggies to designing the menu to barbecuing the meat during the event. For me, it was a new way to experience from the farm to the table -- and let me tell you, it's a lot of work. Processing lettuce and cabbage is especially taxing. The snails and slugs hide inside the deepest layers and most of the leaves need to be removed in order to get at them. I have a new appreciation for farmers, especially the herb lady at the Pasadena Farmer's Market.

Russ had to plan a menu around the weather -- he was hoping for peas and beans, but because LA had a little bit of chill-n-rain over the last few weeks, they hadn't grown as fast as expected. He had to rearrange the menu at the last minute, figure out how to pull it all together without what he expected. But he was excited about that, strangely, becaues it reminded him that we're so used to having what we want available, we rarely have to rearrange in such a way. And I was struck by just how good it was to chat about the weather and not be bored.

Extended Eulogy

When I first read Kurt Vonnegut, I was in college. Someone showed me the cover of Breakfast of Champions - I think it was Melissa, Carlos, or maybe Natalie - and then opened up the page to one of the famous drawings -- the one that looks like this:

*

If you've ever read Vonnegut, you know what that means.

And that was all it took. Life-long fan.

Working on a Full House

My house is like a Garth Brooks song right now. We found a dog last week and this dog has been living here for the last two weeks, disrupting the delicate balance of small housedom in which Russ, Tanya, and I exist. The three of us are like one pulsing mind -- we each know that space is sacred, as is downtime, and we each take it in our respective corners. Me with a book, Russ with his computer, and Tanya with her giant pillow. People always say that having two dogs isn't so different than one, but I beg to differ. This new dog does not need this sort of alone time or space. She is not so much chilling in her corner as under my feet, scratching me with her claws, which I haven't cut because I'm afraid of animal claw-cutting and the splurting blood that usually follows.

But, she is sweet and wonderful and full of cuteness, and she doesn't walk on a leash as much as skip. She is an incessant shaker. She loves to prey on birds and has the bad habit of wandering into people's houses when not supervised. She has a mustache, a clear identity crisis for a she-dog, which is also endearing. We think she rather looks like one of the founding fathers as well as Robert E. Lee. We've been calling her "Puppy Goo-Goo," as a tribute to the best Simpsons character of all time. And now that she has a new owner which she'll be joining this weekend, I realize that despite her I-don't-quite-fit-into-your-separate-corners household, I will miss her cute little antebellum face.

Eulogy

God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut.

Further Up and Further In

On Sunday, I'm looking forward to getting into my car and turning on the radio.

You see, about 40 days ago I had this it-seemed-brilliant-at-the-time idea that it would be spiritually beneficial to give up all noise in the car. The thought was that since I often distract myself with NPR and sing-along-songs, if I didn't have them, I would have nothing to do but meditate, pray, center myself, commune with the universe. And that would give me at least two 45 minute times per week where I did nothing but all this wonderful, soul-improving work.

But I'm not so cool as all that. I wish that I was the sort of person who, when faced with silence, did nothing but turn her attention to her soul and God and the needs of others. Because I want very much to be that person. I know people like that and find myself astonished and admiring by them. But when I found myself in the silence, I found, more often than not, my only thoughts were about myself. And those people directly affecting me. And all situations that I would be in that day. Sometimes, I even found myself thinking about situations that I'd handled badly mere hours or even days before. I had plenty of time to catalogue my own mistakes, missteps, and bonehead moments. Welcome the mild obsession.

I've found, over the last few years, that I am like that old movie The Three Faces of Eve. I am usually inwardly and outwardly laid-back about most daily grind kind of things (Eve White), but then, there are a few that I get in my head and can't stop focusing on (Eve Black, sort of). For instance, I'm taking care of a stray white poodle right now while other friends and I look for a new home for her. She's a sweet dog, but she's had diarrhea for the last day and a half and now, our carpet is covered with small splotches of carpet cleaner and remnant stains. And I've been thinking about it and gritting my teeth over it when really, it doesn't matter because we have a guy coming to professionally clean our carpets today. This is mild obsession at its worst -- thinking about what is already under control.

This is a rather new experience for me, actually. As I get older, I find myself more and more often feeling this type of stress. It's a sucky, black-hole experience and I'd be glad to forgo it. I don't think, though, no matter how much you pray or meditate or tell yourself that you're ultimately out-of-control anyway, that you ever forgo your own bodily and/or emotional makeup. Or maybe I'm just not there yet. So I'm stuck with me and the clingy webs of reptitive details and, for the last month and a half, I've been doing this more often than not because it's either that or watch how incredibly slow LA traffic can be.

Solitude is a discipline that I've always been okay with, but never silence. I'm okay with being minus a plus-one because my own inner monologue has always been so active. As a child, I was sort of lost in my own head most of the time, writing the details of what was happening around me (and yes, sometimes rewriting with delusions of grandeur), and at some point, I think I just got used to hearing my own voice all the time. My thoughts have turned on me, though; instead of friendly narration, there's now hyperlinking between concerns of how I'm handling all aspects of my life. Damn you, adulthood and responsibility cluttering my imagination.

I guess the funny thing that I've walked away from this experience with is two-fold. One is a better knowledge of myself. Obviously, this is the point of any discipline -- self-awareness and thus, more perspective. I see myself a bit more clearly, I think, and while I may not want to, this is clearly a good thing. And two is a realization of the sanctity of NPR. No really. Cutting NPR out of my life, even for forty days, has really turned my focus inward. What I thrive on, what I gain energy from, oddly enough, is extending out and hearing about people all over the country, nee the world -- it continually pulls me out of my own skin, exposes me to newness and thus, I grow. I learn. I cry with other people and laugh a little bit, too. While the same thing happens at church, NPR is with me daily in my car. It's a form of the great commandment, to love others as yourself and when I'm aware of what's going on out there, I'm excited, grieved, empathetic, and above all, more concerned about the world around me instead of the world within me.

One Angry Sarah

I got served today. My first jury duty ever.

I figure it will finally put to use all my detectiving skills from years of Nancy Drew and the Boxcar Children. Currently, my skills are pretty much put to use solving cases involving missing chocolate chip cookies that I put in the refrigerator for a day and time of my choosing. But with Tanya lacking opposable thumbs, it's a pretty open-and-shut case in a house of two.

So this should be much more challenging.

Saturday Morning Shins

I was at The Grove with Kristan yesterday, walking around eating homemade-store bought ice cream (oh so delicious) when I noticed the impending apocolypse. But then I realized it was just a fire cloud. This phenomena is common enough, say, in September when the whole of California is yellowish-brown and snaps like an uncalcified bone, but in March-almost-April? Rare. My first thought was that the parking garage, in which I had hesitantly parked, was on fire. Hesitantly, I should say, because whenever I drive in one, I'm always reminded of the story that Jeremy told me about being trapped inside a Long Beach parking garage for hours and hours on 9/11. And as you may know, I'm into scenarios so this really doesn't mix well. As I was walking from my car to the stairs yesterday, I also imagined all the ways in which I might die in this coffin-y space: being hit by a car is the obvious. Mugged/assaulted/womanapped was less likely, but still possible in a lull. Death by explosion is always an option in a town where thousands of people have grudges and prepetrate environmental hoo-ha. But in my run-down of death (which sounds much darker, now that I'm typing it, and not just cutely aware), I never even considered death by fire. Which, to me, is the absolute worst way to die (besides Fargo, feet-first).

Anyway, the parking garage wasn't on fire. But most of Universal City was. I spent an hour on the 101 pondering it, which was one of the least fun hours of my life. Russ and I hiked to the top of Alta Vista Drive last night and looked out over the valley to see what we could see. But, there was a foothill blocking the northwest vista and all I could see was downtown and out to San Pedro. But the sky was swirly pink and purple and we saw a group (gaggle? toggle? murder?) of deer eating rich people's gladiolus and snapdragons. So that was fun.

Today, I read that this fire was started by Illini here on vacation. Damn Illinis.

I happen to be listening to the Shins' "Chutes Too Narrow," which I just got yesterday and like mucho. I'm drinking coffee at home for the first time in months. Our coffeemaker broke a few months ago and sadly, we got into the habit of just walking to Starbucks or driving to Peet's to get our morning cuppa. We would often comment on how this reinforced the whole stereotype of what Russ once got called by an old man passing him while having breakfast with a friend at Europane in Pasadena. "So," this old grump said, "is this where the young and priviledged hang out?"

We were living the young and priviledged life. It was decadent and I think partly because we gave up music and sound in the car, we needed some other habit to fill the void (which I will be blogging about this next week, it being Holy Week and such). So, coffee it was. Just for fun, I was making a spreadsheet of our expenses the other day and figured out how much per month we were spending on coffee-related beverages. And now we're drinking it at home again.

I told Kristan this story yesterday and when I was at the part after I figured out how much we were spending, I stopped and said, "Why was I telling you this again?" She, all kindness and patience, smiled and said, "Umm." And here I am, telling it again. And maybe you're saying "Umm." But that's okay.

Again and Again and Again and Again...

I'm sitting here right now, in a rare non-planning, non-writing moment. I just wanted to say that I'm still here, that personal apocalypse has not occured and that I'm, as the saying goes, doing my thing. There is much to discuss, though, including my trip to Chicago, where I successfully played Mom for a day (I even had a Ford SUV), embarked upon the search for the perfect (open) pizza joint, and partied with the Shipshewana Amish; the oddity of seeing old friends on TV shows; why a martini should never be drank before the Oscars; and my Lenten discipline of silence in the car, which is probably the most difficult thing I've ever taken on and hits at the absolute core of my obsessing time. Also why, despite my best efforts, I cannot give up caring about American Idol.

As a preview, here's one of my favorite shots I took in a football-obsessed city:

Proud and Punchy Like a Persian Cat

Russell's been working hard this week in collaboration with top-notch designers in his field on a (competition) design for an Interspiritual Chapel. It turned out beautifully and, all proud and punchy, I wanted to share it.


Check out the boards and Ken McCown's explanation of this project.

My Weekend Was Bigger Than Yours, Part Two-nyas

Right now, as I write this, I have a chihuahua next to me, curled into a comma, with her furry head resting in the nook between my thigh and tummy. I just realized, tonight, as I walked her to the library park and back, that she is less of a dog and more of a friend. I realize, yes, that my last statement is popular with the crazy population. Also those people packing stuffed animals in the back windows of their cars. So I would love to deny this, thereby making myself more cool and less crazy, but the dog is less canine and more of a I-swear-she-understands-English dog-body, human-brain hybrid.

I find myself, more and more often, talking to Tanya like she's a person who can respond. More and more often, on our walks, I'll ask her questions -- for instance, when we pass a heap of poop that someone neglected to pick up, I'll ask her what she thinks. She usually takes the widest route around other dogs' poop as possible, which, to me, seems like a sort-of answer. As in, "Dog poop is gross." And the section in my heart (that deals with love alloted to canines) beats with a little faster, because, darn it, I feel the same way.

She licks my face way too much, obsessively and for long minutes, and she takes the high jump to new heights when I walk through the door after even a minute of being parted. She wags her tail so hard, her body ends up changing directions. Sometimes, when she goes to Pet-Smart and I pick her up, the workers are unwilling to let her go, giving her kisses and mounds of gobbledy-goo-goo and tell me that she's their dog now. She's a likeable dog, and it's a bonus that she can doggy-beg for chicken strips.

So it kills me just a little when her quirkiness, manifested in a hatred of cats, other people who aren't Russ and I when Russ and I are around, bikes, skateboards, black (murderer) gloves, loud noises, children younger than 4, senior citizens with canes, men with dreds, men with large piercings, Golden Retrievers, and questionable hand gestures, is what my best friends mostly see when they're around her. I know they understand and I know they are caring, patient people who have nothing against a rogueish chihuahua, but I always feel just a little embarassed that she's my dog. And I start to think, if only I'd had her as a puppy, she wouldn't be this way, if only she was the shiny, happy R.E.M.-like model instead of the scary indie band. Which, of course, she would bark incessantly at, were they in her presence. Probably the shiny, happy models, too. And most likely, Jesus (long hair/sandals) and Buddha (shapely figure) and Barack Obama (big smile).

In spite of this, she's still my dog and I feel the need to defend her honor constantly. It's insanity, this canine-caring stuff, and I partially understand why the mothers of petty criminals maintain, despite all the evidence, that their children are good-hearted people who wouldn't do a thing like this. When you get so many licks to the face, so many waggy smiles, it's hard to accept otherwise.

My Weekend Was Bigger Than Yours, Part One-sers

About 90 feet bigger. Maybe even 120.
I am lucky enough to know Emilio (happy birthday!), who totally hooked us (Christina, Josh, Russ, myself) up with an all-access pass to the Owens Valley Radio Observatory this weekend. It's not for mere mortals, but for Carl Sagan, Mike Brown (not FEMA, but Pluto), and Jodie Foster. And now, us. I am lucky enough to be counted among the ranks of the world's most elite scientists (Emilio included) as one of their pluckiest hangers-on. Because let's face it, a writer such as myself can only spell words having to do with science and is crippled by the simplest ventures, such as starting fire in a BBQ. Luckily, I didn't have to do that this weekend. My most scientific duty involved stirring soup. And there was an automatic burner, so there was no burning of my digits involved.


I got to ride with Josh, which was fun because I got to learn a lot of things about him that I didn't know, like why he loves Mitch Hedberg so much (I now count myself a fan), what the experience of getting hit by a car is like (not cozy), as well as a few other things that are a matter of global security and must be kept in-kog-nito. It's too bad I can't write about it, though, because it was epic and changed my life and maybe it would've changed yours, too. Ah, well.


Behind the house that we stayed in this weekend was a river that Christina remarked was just the right speed for an intertube and fruity drink with a pineapple chunk and umbrella sticking out of it. That last part was all me, not Christina (although she may be game). I think it would also be appropriate to be in a sprawling woman-hat with oversized sunglasses while immersed in said intertube with said fruity drink. These daydreams were sadly out of season, seeing as it was about 40 degrees on land and even colder in the water. A dead cow sprawled on the bank was also somewhat of a tubekill, but suprising and beautiful in its mortisy rigor.

While I have no aptitude for performing science, I like looking at it. So I probably annoyed the whole crew by loudly suggesting that we visit the geothermal pools up the street (like 50 miles), but they really are the sort of sight that you can appreciate with a barely-passing grade in high school chemistry. Hiking down, I always feel as if I'm descending into a kind of hell, if you imagine hell like a Spinal Tap concert without the funnies, while Josh and Russ both imagined it as the primordial soup of life.

I always chafe at the warnings, the flimsy gates and barriers that stand between the trail and the magma pools. It's not the sweet smell of sulfur that draws me to the edge, but the need to touch and connect with the earth. I do this all the time, to my own detriment. Two summers ago, I decided that I needed to pinch a cactus, just to see what it felt like, and spent the next two days plucking invisible hairs out of my thumb, index, and middle finger. And there was the day in third grade when I decided that all that tongue-sticking-to-metal in cold weather was merely an urban legend. I stood out in the freezing cold for an hour because I couldn't pull it off the metal banister on the back porch stairs and no one could hear me hollering, minus tongue. If there were no barriers at the zoo, many friends would attest to the fact that I'd be dead by now. Some are surprised I've lasted this long with my innate need to touch and my college-like invincibility complex.

I really wanted to jump through the barriers and head down to the pool that was bubbling like the witches' caldron in MacBeth, but Russ talked me out of it by reciting his process of guilt when torn between interacting with nature and following the designated path. Since he functions as my conscience half the time, I try not to call him a wuss. He also mentioned that the citation that I would receive - because I always, always get caught - would come out of my monthly clothing budget and that sealed the obeying-the-law deal. But I didn't like it and I never will. What made me feel better about not being able to touch the 93 degree Celsius water was that some college students with a magnified invincibility complex, heavily aided by the beer they were openly drinking, bragged about their plan to cross the barriers and go down to the water's edge, or, as I think he called it, "the motherfucking hot tub." I watched them crawl through the fence and stand on the water's edge and felt glad that I was not an asshole, at least not outloud.

It's Just A Pool of Mushy Goo, Like Spaghetti-O's

Over my break, between working on a novel and working on a syllabus, I've had occassion to snack. Just a little. That's also why I haven't been posting much later. My brain, by the end of most days, is drained of words and expanding like a nebulae. It's like the face-scraper that Elisabeth Shue's character in Adventures in Babysitting describes as a making his victims into a "pool of mushy goo." My brain is often pool-like, mushy, and gooey.

That is not to complain. It's so fun to work on a novel and I love how the one I'm working on is turning out. And working on a syllabus is, um, fun. A different kind of fun. Like reading wikipedia-fun, or checking the friends section on Netflix-fun.

Anyway, all this fun requires some sort of brain food. And, contrary to what the title might have you believe, it's not spaghetti-O's. Although I do have some very happy memories involving spaghetti-O's, my sister, and table wars. But my perfect brain food these last few weeks has been Salsa Especial and Tortillas Salsa, both from Trader Joes. The tortillas are organic white corn, dusted with some sort of perfect spice (think Doritos), and in a bag that lasts for multiple weeks of snacking pleasure. You have to have a strong constitution for spicy and a non-aversion to cruddy fingertips, but if you can hack it, you have hours of snacking fun ahead of you.

I like the salsa so much that I talk to people at Trader Joe's about it, recommending that they try it. I usually have a policy of non-engagement with others at Trader Joe's, but really, when a combination of tomatoes, garlic, salts, and chiles is so good, there's nothing to do except act like a slightly crazy person in public.

Just Call Me Cyber-Sleuther

After a little online sleuthing today, I found a photo of Tanya's puppy, Penny. I did this merely with two facts: 1.) The name of the rescue Tanya came from and 2.) That Penny was adopted by a family who lived in Arizona.
This, plus the fact that it's immediately apparent that they're family. The ears have it.
Penny:
Tanya:

My Kind of Girl

Last Saturday, I met up with my aunt for lunch, shopping, and a gift exchange. We sat out on the patio in Brea, a place ripe with collegesque memories and my best hair ever (because Stev lives and works there), and while I gave her a bunch of items for her upcoming trip to Italy and France (a trip I will perhaps be joining her on), she gave me the first season of Veronica Mars.

"I saw it on your wishlist, but I've never heard of it," she said.

"I've never seen it, either," I said.

I could see the confusion crinkle in the middle of her forehead.

"It's about a high school girl detective, whose alienated from the rich kids in school, and who solves mysteries," I said. "Plus, she's spunky."

"My kind of girl," my aunt said.

She's mine, too. I'd been watching Joss Whedon's Firefly, but was in between Netflix discs and so, last Saturday night, popped it in V.M. for a preview. Russ rolled his eyes. He thinks my fascination of high school noir with a side of overblown, soapy drama is weird. Actually, when I just wrote that, it does sound weird. Downright creepy. But I don't mean fascination in an oogly way. I just mean, I love watching high school dramas writted by a group of 30-something writers with a kickin' grip on the subtleties of the English language. I love how raw and surfaced all the emotions of high school are. I love that the Mars Investigations office liberally invokes shades of Sam Spade and the Maltese Falcon. I love that Veronica is Nancy Drew with a better wardrobe, better technology, and better comebacks, and that the writers make no bones about that fact:

Kelvin (bully-jock who's just been kicked off the basketball team for testing positive for drugs): "If you won't help me, who else am I supposed to go to?"

Veronica: "Encyclopedia Brown? I hear he's good."

I love that within an episode, Russ was even more hooked than I was. That's what you get for rolling your eyes.

Russ and I finished Season 1 in a blaze of glory on Thursday night. I actually stayed up until 3:00 a.m.; he fell asleep at 12:00 and I held the cliffhanger-outcome over his head the whole next day. I don't know that I've stayed up until 3:00 a.m. for a TV series, not even for Buffy or Lost or Freaks and Geeks. It's really that good. Not only was I completely wrapped up in the mystery of the show, but I was emotionally tangled over the love triangles and broken relationships. It's the kind of show that makes you feel as if you're the one being broken up with, being lied to, having to watch your parents tighten their own noose, and even falling in love. It's a replay of high school, but since I never broke up with or fell in love with anyone - though I did get tricked into kissing a certain guy - it's like catching up on the residual drama of high school. Except I don't have to go back the next day and no geometry.

If you have a spare week and want nothing more than to be caught up in some detectivey high school rollercoaster, I suggest renting this series. If you have faith in how much you love high school and dramatic mysteries, throw it down and buy the series. Don't roll your eyes. It's really that good.

A Rosey New Year To You

As I've said before, New Years Eve seems to be the most overhyped semi-holiday of the year. You get all excited about being dressed up, excited about thinking over the significant moments of the year. Then it begins to dawn on you that maybe you didn't grow all that much and you didn't get to those pesky resolutions, or at least, not as well as you wanted. You begin to ponder how totally fubar the state of the world is, how much of the year you spent sleeping (approx. 47 days), and by the time you get to March, it all begins to feel a little futile. I think that's why the whole drinking yourself into oblivion thing is so tempting.

But I love New Years Eve and no, it's not just because it's the one night of the year when Russ often drinks too much and gets excruciatingly funny. I love it because I get to spend it with good friends - who just happen to live a block from Colorado Blvd., the Rose Parade route - who like to talk and eat good food and play silly trivia games with me. Last year, it was a game turning real titles (of movies, books, etc.) into porno titles, an idea inspired by my friend Josh and an avenue for endless fun, especially if you're not averse to words like member. This year, I was going for a more sentimental, remember-the-year-that-was. Here, for example, are a few of my trivia questions:

What date did James Brown die in 2006?
For a bonus point: What year did Beat Dominator come out with their song “James Brown is Dead”?

Who is Kim Jong-Il?
For bonus points, draw him in his favorite outfit of 2006.

What month was Al Queda leader Abu Musab al-Zarkowi killed?
For double bonus points, if you were to induct the word “zarkowi” into the English language, what would your definition be?

The next morning, the Rose Parade started with the roar of the jets flying what sounded like inches above the house. The bright sun was a treat, since we stood to watch in the rain last year and there's no downer like watching dancers with mascara streaming down their cheeks. I love picking a grassy knoll along Madison and Colorado, munching on Christina's cardamom bread, waking up with a strong mug of coffee, and waving to all the marchers like they're old friends. Madison is usually ripe with non-Californians, who come to cheer on Michigan or Texas or Nebraska, and so, it's always entertaining when USC marches by. This year, the float with their cheerleaders and yellleaders (as I was instructed to call male leaders in my youth) stopped right in front of us and you could see on the USC leaders' faces that they were just a little nervous about all that navy blue and gold surrounding them. Russ kicked it up a notch by yelling for Cal Poly Pomona, to which a short blonde woman in a beret yelled Cal Poly SLO back and shook her fist a little. Luckily, it didn't escalate further.

Our whole crowd agreed on one thing, besides the deliciousness of the cardamom bread: The Star Wars floats, Star Wars band, and the Star Wars dancers were the coolest part of the whole parade. Lucas wins again.

Environmental Munchies

Last night, Russ and I finally watched An Inconvenient Truth, interrupted periodically by the kitchen timer letting us know that our espresso snowcap cookies were ready to come out of the oven.

It is a combo that I highly recommend. An Inconvenient Truth is, by turns, a bit hokey and surprisingly touching. It was a docu-presentation that I'm glad I watched, if not only for a bit more insight into the history and issues surrounding global warming. And how can you not love a man with a drawly Tennessee accent? (I'll tell you, for me, it's just impossible.)

Our cookie choice fit in well with the images of polar ice caps melting and dramatically crashing into the water below them. I'm usually relegated to the land of dishwashing and cleanup, but these were so easy, even a kitchen-phobe like me thought they were a breeze. A gentle, clean breeze with no poisonous greenhouse gases.
Espresso Snowcap Cookies

1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
4 teaspoons instant espresso (We used Folgers Decaf Instant Crystals and it turns out well)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/8 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, room temperature
2/3 cup packed light-brown sugar
1 large egg
4 ounces bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, melted and cooled
1 tablespoon milk
1/2 cup confectioners sugar, for coating

1. In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, cocoa, espresso, baking powder, and salt. With an electric mixer, beat butter and brown sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in egg until well combined; mix in cooled chocolate. With mixer on low speed, gradually add dry ingredients; beat in milk just until combined. Flatten dough into a disk; wrap in parchment paper. Freeze until firm, about 25-45 minutes.

2. Preheat oven to 350°. Shape dough into 1-inch balls. Place confectioners’ sugar into a medium bowl; working in batches, roll balls in sugar twice (the more sugar, the better).

3. Place balls on prepared baking sheets, 2 inches apart. Bake, rotating sheets halfway through, until cookies have spread and coating is cracked, 12 to 13 minutes; cookies will still be soft to the touch. Transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.

Makes 18 small-medium sized snowcaps
(Adapted from Everyday Food Collectible Cookie Edition)

Kung-Fu Boogie

Russ and I received this as a gift and I'm looking for any (and all) creative solutions to properly destroy it. You know. Accidentally destroy it.

Snow Days in the Southwest

As I've been telling everyone that I meet in a five-mile radius who doesn't looks like a secretly plotting rapist, I loved Miracle in the Andes, almost as much as I loved the movie Alive. Actually, honestly, much more so. I've realized that I love anything that includes crashes, certain death, a surgery scene, and a hopeful tune somewhere in the middle, that sounds like "We're gonna die/Shoo-bop-shoo-wa/But I'm gonna get us out of this situation with total craziness and moxy/Shoo-bop-do-wa-wa..." And so on. I don't know why tragedy has to be set to 50's style pop. I guess it doesn't. I'm sure that there are some tragedy-narrative fans who hear the hopeful tune, as sung by Hank Williams or Sarah McLachlan or maybe even Fifty Cent.

Anyway, after this, I've been obsessed with moutain climbing. So, of course, I've been rabidly following the developments of the three (now two) missing climbers on Mt. Hood. If I could have a secret earpiece with five-minutely updates, I totally would, but so far as yet, the CIA and Madonna have been unwilling to lease me this technology, so I'm stuck with Internet updates. Until I got to Russell's parents house in Arizona and was blessed with the semi-miracle of cable TV. Ahh, news. Ahh, Discovery channel.

Which is how I became hooked on another climbing-related fix: the show Everest: Beyond the Limit. Last night, there were lots of frostbitten toes and fingers (some of which had to be removed), egos the size of the mountain that refused to descend even when they were running out of oxygen and falling asleep in the snow, and most disturbingly of all, climbers who had given up and laid down on the sides of the trails at Everest's summit to die. The climbers descending have to pass these climbers, sometimes still breathing, and instead of being able to do anything about it, they have to keep descending. Because the sad truth of it is, those people laying down can't be carried and won't get up and walk.

Even freakier? Because the summit of Everest is 29,000+ feet, there's no mold or heat and thus, the bodies don't decay. So one climber relayed the surrealness of climbing the summit and seeing, sometimes near the trail, the dead bodies of past climbers, perfectly preserved, still laying in the snow.

Stickshifts and Safetybelts

Yes, I know, it's that one Cake song that we all put on mix CDs for our crushes in college. But even more so, it's been my nighttime activity this last month.

I grew up in a family that drove American-made, beast-like automatics. Cadillacs and Oldsmobiles, mostly hand-me-downs from other relatives. I think there was this general feeling among that hand-down-to-me generation, who were all mostly farmers or farmer offspring, that driving cars had to be automatic.

I learned how to drive on my grandma's Cadillac Seville and my parents' Pontiacs, so there was no way that a manual transmission came into the picture for a moment. They were definitely automatic people. I don't think I would've even known that manuals existed, if it weren't for my friend Diana. I was with her as she learned how to drive stickshift in her aqua Saturn. I was with her when she stalled on a few roads, intersections, and drive-throughs, while learning. I thought, at the time, that it was all rather stressful. Why would someone choose a car where you have to think that much?

Here I am now, an Angelino who relies on her car and has discovered that stickshifts are not just about being cheap and overthinky. They take less gas, they cost less money, and -- well, there's generally a less-is-actually-more associated with all aspects of stickshifts. They make sense (as opposed to cost cents).

In addition, Russell drives a stickshift. In fact, almost everyone I know drives a stick. I am a lone holdover from another generation with my Nissan and its $45 gas fill-ups. One day I was thinking about what would happen if I, in some unlikely hypothetical situation (situations that I, with my love of scenarios, come up with daily), had to drive somewhere and Russell's car was my only option? I wouldn't even be able to leave the driveway. I hate these sorts of realizations because it means that I take myself out of the hypothetical and decide upon one of two responses:

1.) Stay exactly in my present state of automaticy, feel the shame of knowing that I could better myself, but was just too lazy/unmotivated/ignorant to do so
or
2.) Put my money where my mind is and start asking for help to learn how to drive stickshift (and as a bonus result, also feel empowered, excited, and -- well, I can't think of another e-word, but basically, good).

I hate option two. But it's the only one that lets me function without anxiety-induced bodily gas.

So I've found myself driving around empty parking lots on weekend nights, with Russell in the passenger seat, giving me directions while I stall and have near misses and get laughed at my the security guard in the golf cart (who incidentally, doesn't drive a stick, so although I would technically be able to tell him to go suck it, I can't because his golf cart is electric and thereby, unsucky). I've never driven a truck before, so even being up high is a change of pace for this down-low (sedan) girl. Nothing, though, has rocked me harder than learning the fine art of, in Russell's words, "let up on the clutch, push down on the gas." Actually, those are Russell's dad's words that we laugh about because of how frustrating they can be, repeated in rapid succession in monotonation. What Russell actually says, as my stickshift guru, is that there's a moment when the clutch "catches," and once you feel that catch, you let up gently on the clutch and press down on the gas.

It all sounds like goobey-frubu to me. At least, it did at first. Then, I had my moment of catch while zooming through the lot a few weeks ago and I figured out what he meant. One day, when I'm a stickshift guru, I will tell my inductees that this catch means convergence. When both the gas pedal and clutch are at the same place at the same time, it's this magical moment. Then, they must continue and move away from each other again, thus breaking said magic. But it's a beautiful moment when they're together and they catch. Maybe it's what catching a wave while surfing feels like, although I'll never know since I draw the line at learning new skills that may include shark attack. In the end, it's knowing I made two disparate elements come together, just for a moment -- call me gear-heard, but it really is a thrill.

Don't let me fool you entirely with my fresh-faced idealism, though. This stickshift business is tough. There's a new place in my brain that I have to break into in order to mentally understand and get up the gusto to go do this driving. Sometimes, I get frustrated with myself, Russell, the security guard and I know I've done some damage to Russell's transmission. But I'm going to continue practicing because, as far as my life goes, driving a stickshift catches.

The Joys of Teaching

Today, I was teaching a lesson on not relying on "to be" verbs in essays and I used an activity which required my students to write and then, revise a statement, one that most likely included a lot of versions of "to be" verbs. It was harder than they thought; a few of them even claimed it was impossible.

But then, the light came on and they saw what I was getting at (it helped that I told them exactly what I was getting at). The light coming on in one student sounded like this: "Hey -- is this what we're supposed to do in our papers?"

(This was also the student who posed the question: "So if Jesus says he's coming back when the world ends and it takes 48 nuclear bombs to blow up the entire world, then if we detonate all those bombs, wouldn't that mean that Jesus has to come back?")