So I'm real sick and there is no food and things in our house are very sad. But the fun doesn't stop there. Our mountain home is in bad shape, too. Utah and Salt Lake counties currently boast the worst air quality in the nation and it is so gross outside that I am occasionally moved to tears of desperation and disgust. The pollution is so horrendous that it is as if the whole valley is sitting around a campfire, except instead of logs we are burning petroleum and coal. Yuck. It's not safe for kids to go outside and I am pretty convinced it is a contributing factor to the hacking cough that has been keeping me up at night.
If you are interested in helping get signatures for a petition sponsored by Utah Physicians for a Healthy Environment and Utah Moms for Clean Air in protest of building ANOTHER coal plant in Bountiful just post a comment and I will email you a copy. It is easier for swingin' singles and students to get lots of signatures fast than it is for docs and moms! Tell your friends! Your swingin' single friends!
Tonight I came home from class and made a beeline into the house, trying to breathe as little as possible. I made some just-add-water (still vegan, high in sodium) dinner for Ryan and then went to visit my sister-in-law and niece in the neighboring building. When I returned an hour later it smelled more like burning inside my building than it did outside which, in these circumstances, is not good. And I knew.
Ryan's vegan, high sodium dinner was reduced to charcoal and our apartment was filled with smoke. Thank goodness I came home earlier than expected--I can only imagine how few minutes remained until the sprinklers went off. You see, I thought I had left the pot on the still-warm-but-turned-off stove to continue cooking for the last few minutes, but instead I had left the stove set to medium.
Being sick does not improve brain function.
Now I am sitting in a sauna of carcinogens. The sliding door is open to let the dinner smoke out (and the pollution in.) I am an idiot. An idiot well on her way to emphysema.
Sign my petition. And bring me dinner. We are hungry.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The last to know
I have a feeling I may be the last BYU graduate to know about this website, but if you are still out of the loop, you're in for a treat. It rilly reminds me of bean at the Y!
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Kodiak Cakes
Most of the time I have a pretty masochistic cooking ethic. I always say, why let someone else do it for you when you can spend a whole lot of time doing it yourself? This is why Ryan and I eat out all the time.
There is one instant indulgence I permit: Ryan's beloved Kodiak Cakes brand Big Bear Brownies. I remember clearly the day he spied the boxed mix with its rustic packaging, the picture of the Kodiak bear threatening anyone who dared add eggs and oil. I remember his excitement. He thought they were really, really cool. Made with ever-trusty whole wheat flour and sporting a picture of a vicious bear, Ryan decided that these brownies were somehow different from the varieties enjoyed by freshman fifteen bound college girls. No, these were no treat for fat kids, they were for the truly hardcore.
So we bought the brownies. He loved them. As far as I was concerned, they were identical to all the other not-from-scratch brownies I have eaten over the years, but Ryan, blinded by love for the brown box with the mad bear, claimed they were truly special.
Sometimes when I go shopping by myself I will pick up a box to have on hand should a special occasion (or a tragedy) require we have a treat at the ready. I made them the normal way the first time, but the second time I used applesauce in place of half the butter. Because I hate fun.
Today Ryan spied me back at my old tricks, trying to spoil his delicious cakes again. He saw the applesauce.
"They taste better the regular way," he informed me.
Oh, weird. They taste better with a stick of butter than they do with applesauce? WEIRD.
So I made them with butter. Now they are in the freezer, because he is sure they taste better frozen. The man is strange.
I wish I could find someone who sells spinach with a picture of an angry bear prominently displayed on the label. We'd have a Popeye on our hands.
There is one instant indulgence I permit: Ryan's beloved Kodiak Cakes brand Big Bear Brownies. I remember clearly the day he spied the boxed mix with its rustic packaging, the picture of the Kodiak bear threatening anyone who dared add eggs and oil. I remember his excitement. He thought they were really, really cool. Made with ever-trusty whole wheat flour and sporting a picture of a vicious bear, Ryan decided that these brownies were somehow different from the varieties enjoyed by freshman fifteen bound college girls. No, these were no treat for fat kids, they were for the truly hardcore.
So we bought the brownies. He loved them. As far as I was concerned, they were identical to all the other not-from-scratch brownies I have eaten over the years, but Ryan, blinded by love for the brown box with the mad bear, claimed they were truly special.
Sometimes when I go shopping by myself I will pick up a box to have on hand should a special occasion (or a tragedy) require we have a treat at the ready. I made them the normal way the first time, but the second time I used applesauce in place of half the butter. Because I hate fun.
Today Ryan spied me back at my old tricks, trying to spoil his delicious cakes again. He saw the applesauce.
"They taste better the regular way," he informed me.
Oh, weird. They taste better with a stick of butter than they do with applesauce? WEIRD.
So I made them with butter. Now they are in the freezer, because he is sure they taste better frozen. The man is strange.
I wish I could find someone who sells spinach with a picture of an angry bear prominently displayed on the label. We'd have a Popeye on our hands.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Fun Hatin'
One of the tasks that has slipped through the cracks lately has been my role as the one lady household food production team. I haven't produced. We have been getting by on smoothies and canned soup, but yesterday finally ran out. No matter, I thought. I'll just order a pizza! A HEALTHY pizza!
For those not in the know, Papa John's makes a whole wheat pizza crust these days. I figured I'd order a veggie pizza, whole wheat crust, hold the cheese.
Ryan and I have never actually ordered a pizza during our marriage- he is not a big fan. He says the cheese leaves a permanent nauseating smell on his face. I think he is insane, but I only like gluttony when it is shared with others, so that's been that. No pizza for the Lees. But yesterday, Ryan discovered a pizza he could really sink his teeth into.
"I usually hate the crust but YUM!!! This crust is so WHEATY! And TASTY! I actually quite like it! And without the cheese it doesn't have that gross smell...cow excretion...gross...mmmyummmhealthypizza..."
Bless his heart. He always likes the gross stuff and it will probably buy him an extra twelve years on this planet (he will be a widow, though, as I only like the un-gross versions of everything, like shortening in my cookies and cheese EVERYWHERE, but I digress.) I, on the other hand, had an existential crisis.
Well, Amy, I guess this is what pizza is now. You'll get used to it. You've learned to prefer whole wheat bread and whole grain pasta. You don't mind consuming two salads a day. You think smoothies count as a treat. It'll be ok. You'll get used to it...WAIT A SECOND. I like REAL pizza! The good-tasting kind! With the cheese! Am I going to be the mom whose kids' friends never want to come over because they only have gross food? Will my children even have friends or will I immunize them against those too?! Who am I?!?!?
It's cool, self. You've always been a fun-hater, not wanting to play with the neighborhood kids because you might get dirty and being afraid to jump off rope swings into rivers. It's just that now, well, you're just getting really, really good at it.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Sleepless
My mother always warned me that I would one day become an insomniac. She said when she was my age she could sleep on a plane, on a train, in a house, with a mouse. Then middle-age hit and WHAM! Insomnia.
Now here I am, twenty-seven. I didn't think that counted as middle aged until I started waking up at three in the morning all the damn time. Last night I was thrashing around like a dying carp until dawn, at which point I invariably fell back asleep only to be snatched from sleep forty five minutes later by a merciless alarm. It's my new thing that I do.
The worst part is how worthless I become without sleep (and I'm talking without like nine hours of sleep. I don't mess around.) When my roiling wakes Ryan up and he lays awake all night trying to coax my inexplicably neurotic body back to slumber he always manages to follow up with a productive day. He asks me questions like "What shall we do for dinner?" and I reply by drooling down my shirt and making a noise that hastens the image of barnyard animals. I spend nine consecutive hours on Facebook and have nary a new friend to show for it. I don't do my homework or laundry. I don't do anything.
If this is what happens when I miss one measly night, may I ask, what will become of my if I produce hypothetical offspring? I am told they suck on your breasts all night long. I am also told "you'll sleep right through it." Folks, I'm all for natural parenting, and we all know breastfeeding has a friend in me. But now hear this: if I ever have to nurse ANYONE or ANYTHING sixteen times in the night, do not be surprised when I administer a full dose of Nyquil to that one or thing to make it stop squalling because...I really, really have a hard time when I don't sleep.
Cue the violins. All you moms are thinking I am a real sucker. And you may be right, but I would add that I am a WHINEY sucker. A whiney, whiney sucker. With insomnia.
Now here I am, twenty-seven. I didn't think that counted as middle aged until I started waking up at three in the morning all the damn time. Last night I was thrashing around like a dying carp until dawn, at which point I invariably fell back asleep only to be snatched from sleep forty five minutes later by a merciless alarm. It's my new thing that I do.
The worst part is how worthless I become without sleep (and I'm talking without like nine hours of sleep. I don't mess around.) When my roiling wakes Ryan up and he lays awake all night trying to coax my inexplicably neurotic body back to slumber he always manages to follow up with a productive day. He asks me questions like "What shall we do for dinner?" and I reply by drooling down my shirt and making a noise that hastens the image of barnyard animals. I spend nine consecutive hours on Facebook and have nary a new friend to show for it. I don't do my homework or laundry. I don't do anything.
If this is what happens when I miss one measly night, may I ask, what will become of my if I produce hypothetical offspring? I am told they suck on your breasts all night long. I am also told "you'll sleep right through it." Folks, I'm all for natural parenting, and we all know breastfeeding has a friend in me. But now hear this: if I ever have to nurse ANYONE or ANYTHING sixteen times in the night, do not be surprised when I administer a full dose of Nyquil to that one or thing to make it stop squalling because...I really, really have a hard time when I don't sleep.
Cue the violins. All you moms are thinking I am a real sucker. And you may be right, but I would add that I am a WHINEY sucker. A whiney, whiney sucker. With insomnia.
Monday, January 12, 2009
A nasty wasty skunk!
During December I was twice detained from blogging, first by traveling with my in-laws and to see my own parents, and also by a plague that has smitten me with a fine smit. I was getting better for a second and then decided to eat ten cookies for dinner, providing every micro-varmint the ideal opportunity to multiply and replenish my body.
I've been behind on all kinds of stuff, blogging (naturally), buying my books, eating dinners out of cans (or, when times get real tough, baking sheets) and allowing a much needed run with a vacuum to go neglected. I thought we would all be ok, you know, make it through being a little behind for a while. But then I discovered that my negligence has been impacting not only friends and family, but my neighbors.
You may recall the bad behavior of my apartment complex's management during the summer months. Well, it turns out that they become vigilantes during the winter. I offer you exhibit A, found taped to our door this afternoon:
Dear Resident,
You are getting this notice because there are some things on your balcony that need to be removed as soon as possible. The items we are referring to are:
-Christmas lights.
Thank you for your cooperation in the matter. Please call the office with any questions or concerns.
Management
They haven't minded the ridiculous dead tomato plants and large pieces of plywood that have resided on our balcony for the 20 months we have lived here. And they sure as shootin' don't mind having the place heat up like an inferno in the summer when a simple request to KEEP THE DOORS CLOSED would fix the problem in no time flat. But, I guess that my single strand of colored Christmas lights is enough to raise their managerial hackles. Bah Humbug.
Time to pull the Grinch out of your bottom, Management. Methinks I will leave the lights up and see what other ideas they can come up with to get me to remove them. HA!
I've been behind on all kinds of stuff, blogging (naturally), buying my books, eating dinners out of cans (or, when times get real tough, baking sheets) and allowing a much needed run with a vacuum to go neglected. I thought we would all be ok, you know, make it through being a little behind for a while. But then I discovered that my negligence has been impacting not only friends and family, but my neighbors.
You may recall the bad behavior of my apartment complex's management during the summer months. Well, it turns out that they become vigilantes during the winter. I offer you exhibit A, found taped to our door this afternoon:
Dear Resident,
You are getting this notice because there are some things on your balcony that need to be removed as soon as possible. The items we are referring to are:
-Christmas lights.
Thank you for your cooperation in the matter. Please call the office with any questions or concerns.
Management
They haven't minded the ridiculous dead tomato plants and large pieces of plywood that have resided on our balcony for the 20 months we have lived here. And they sure as shootin' don't mind having the place heat up like an inferno in the summer when a simple request to KEEP THE DOORS CLOSED would fix the problem in no time flat. But, I guess that my single strand of colored Christmas lights is enough to raise their managerial hackles. Bah Humbug.
Time to pull the Grinch out of your bottom, Management. Methinks I will leave the lights up and see what other ideas they can come up with to get me to remove them. HA!
Monday, December 8, 2008
The last laugh
I have a final exam today at four. I have hardly begun studying. However, it is rainy and cozy and I would prefer to update this neglected blog than learn about the ACA ethical code's instructions in the case of a suicidal client. Can you blame me?
This morning I was greeted by the information that several delightful women I wish I knew better have teamed up to write a blog. Sarah and I should have been roommates in college. By that I mean both that we would have had a good time and that sheer probability favored our sharing a bathroom. She and I lived with all the same people at all different times. We share a few memories, one involving our bodies bobbing in the Great Salt Lake, immersed in brine shrimp, disgust, and giggles. I think she is great. Louise was one of my favorite teachers because she did not take herself too seriously, a trait I admire in a university professor. She has a great sense of humor. I think anyone who continues to stop by my blog from time to time would probably get a kick out of what these gals say and how they say it. Enjoy.
And now, a little story. Ryan's maternal grandmother is both aged and infirm. At 92, she has finally resigned herself to assisted living and has left behind a house filled with treasures. A few weeks ago we were invited, as her impoverished grandchildren, to loot the place. Grandma was a Tupperware lady. It was a fruitful looting.
One item I was uniquely pleased to find was a rice cooker. I do not own one, but I did in high school and have always thought I might like to own another, especially now that my ricing and steaming needs have increased. See rice cooker below:
Ain't she a beaut? I never quite got around to using it, though. I guess my ricing and steaming needs are less than I anticipated. Last night we opened the box!
A Christmas village! (I recommend you click on the picture for a more detailed view.)
A Little Bear! (In real life it is quite little.)
A Mormon church basketball trophy! Please note the Salt Lake temple behind the victor's head.
The box contained no rice cooker, but I was not disappointed.
It's nice to know Grandma got the last laugh.
This morning I was greeted by the information that several delightful women I wish I knew better have teamed up to write a blog. Sarah and I should have been roommates in college. By that I mean both that we would have had a good time and that sheer probability favored our sharing a bathroom. She and I lived with all the same people at all different times. We share a few memories, one involving our bodies bobbing in the Great Salt Lake, immersed in brine shrimp, disgust, and giggles. I think she is great. Louise was one of my favorite teachers because she did not take herself too seriously, a trait I admire in a university professor. She has a great sense of humor. I think anyone who continues to stop by my blog from time to time would probably get a kick out of what these gals say and how they say it. Enjoy.
And now, a little story. Ryan's maternal grandmother is both aged and infirm. At 92, she has finally resigned herself to assisted living and has left behind a house filled with treasures. A few weeks ago we were invited, as her impoverished grandchildren, to loot the place. Grandma was a Tupperware lady. It was a fruitful looting.
One item I was uniquely pleased to find was a rice cooker. I do not own one, but I did in high school and have always thought I might like to own another, especially now that my ricing and steaming needs have increased. See rice cooker below:
Ain't she a beaut? I never quite got around to using it, though. I guess my ricing and steaming needs are less than I anticipated. Last night we opened the box!
A Christmas village! (I recommend you click on the picture for a more detailed view.)
A Little Bear! (In real life it is quite little.)
A Mormon church basketball trophy! Please note the Salt Lake temple behind the victor's head.The box contained no rice cooker, but I was not disappointed.
It's nice to know Grandma got the last laugh.
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