Ignorance is Bliss

Dear Pepperidge Farms,

I agree that you have captured the essence of a great pretzel with your Baked Naturals Pretzel Thins.  I am a fan. However, your packaging department leaves a lot to be desired.  It seems that on average there were about 12 wholly intact thins in my box. This is a problem.You see, I have this new app on my iPhone that allows me to track my caloric intake for the day.  I've become a bit obsessive about it. (I tend to do that.)  It's become like a game...it even has a bar code scanner.  So you see, I scan your little box of carby-crack...ahem...pretzel thins and there it comes to my iPhone...11 crisps 110 calories. I dutifully dole out my allotted 11 crisps. For a brief moment, I marvel at how health conscious and responsible I am being. My first few crisps are too soon replaced by a gaping void on my paper towel. I want MORE. Those are soon added to the carbohydrate cue waiting to become inches around my thighs. I reach my hand into the box to repeat process but all that my hand grabs are pretzel shards. How am I supposed to keep caloric track of these? I'm not. I don't. It is soon a prezel-shard free-for-all. I then realize that almost the entire box is gone. There's no point in saving this piddly amount - I might as well finish it off. Quickly assessing the salt to crumb ratio at the bottom of the bag I opt for the old "down the hatch" motion tipping the bag up to my mouth (my mother who tortured me with "etiquette school" would be so proud...no really, she did. ). Really bad idea...which brings me to another point. Could you please foresee that gluttons like me need protection from ourselves and either (1) make the salt actually affix to the pretzels in the first place or (2) dye the salt a bright neon color so that I may better assess ratio in the future.

and no this has nothing to do with lack of self-control. Thank you.

Southern Comfort

There's just something comforting about being home.Your body melts from holding the attention stance of being in an unfamiliar place. There is a lightness to your step and an effortlessness about your behavior.  You have conquered this place and know exactly what to expect from it. This is where you are rooted.

The drive from Bluffton to Charleston is a spiritual one for me. It used to be 45 miles of two-lane road along the coast of South Carolina. Breathtaking views of the Coast are interspersed with miles of forest and remnants of towns that once thrived in the Old South.  For most of the drive, the land revealed no signal of time or era or having been touched by man.  I feel a twinge of anger and regret at the sight of the large cranes and orange cones as they manipulate this beauty to bend to man's whim. I fear it will never be the same. It will never be the same. Almost as soon as a pit starts to rise in my stomach, the sultry smell of pluff mud and sweet grass brings calm over me. My lips begin to mouth the words of a familiar country song that comes across the radio as if it is an innate response.  I open the windows in order to take in every moment.  The chirr of the cicada signals it is summertime and sunset is coming. The whoosh of thick, warm air envelops me as if offering a hug.  I smirk at my moment of nostalgia thinking this, too must be the thought of each generation enduring "progress." So I concede to the four-lane highway like many Carolinians before me. Our beloved Carolina will never be the same but it will always be beautiful.  It will always be home.

Protection from the Witness Progam

Jehovah's Witnesses - a force of nature that will make most humans hunker down as if the words "Hurricane Warning" had flashed across the TV. Seriously, I put it to you, who out there hasn't drawn the curtains, turned off the TV, and recoiled into the deepest part of the house at the mere mention of these heralds.  I was out walking Ollie the other day and saw a group of of nicely dressed individuals leaving the front stoop of a house. Not an unusual site in the city.  In fact, I'm a little surprised I noticed them at all, but they were walking rather slowly. Congregating. Carrying books. Formulating a plan. Oh dear Lord. I quickly reigned Oliver in, switched direction and darted home. Must warn Lewis! I attempted to be crafty with the direction I took.  I didn't want them to see what house I went in to. Then they'd know we were home.  We'd be sitting ducks!  No sooner do my feet cross the thershold than I warn Lewis of the impending forecast, "Juh-hovuh's Witnessessssss. Dohhn't ahhnser thuh door!"

Why is it that these prophets of the pamphlet strike such fear in our hearts?  Does it hail back to medieval times when we felt the need to protect our castle? After all, the Witness only becomes scary when he's in your neighborhood, close to your castle.  If you happen to drive by while in the safety of your car and see some poor sap about to answer the door, do you not chuckle to yourself, and think, "thank gawd that wasn't me?!" You do.  Or is it that we just don't want to hear it?  After all, the spiel is never a quick one. Perhaps if it was, "Hello. God loves you. Come to our church if you'd like. We have doughnuts on Sundays. Have a nice day," maybe then we'd answer? I mean, how many times do these agents of Jehovah really gain a follower? I can't imagine the odds are in their favor. Maybe they should try the doughnut idea.............or a pitcher of Kool-Aid.

Caroline-the Human Voo-Doo Doll

I'll get you, you little yuppie you...muhaaaaahhaaaah!

While on my soapbox for a moment, I want to say that I think there is a lot to gain from other cultures and being open to multifarious ways of thinking. [ok, I totally know what you are thinking right now..."isn't she showing off with that big word?!" and you are right...I am. But hey, I tortured myself by memorizing all these ridiculous big words when studying for the GRE and only think it is fair to get my money's worth by using one here or there] However it is also good to know one's limits. As many of you know, I recently ventured (way) out of my comfort zone and tried acupuncture. While I consider myself to be a completely healthy person, I do have certain pesky ailments that -truth be told- many of us are haunted by, specifically to me...muscle tension and (pretty chronic) sinus infections. However, what actually prompted me to dip my toes in this latest sector of "medicine" was a crippling pain in my neck that began a few weeks ago. [ok...maybe not "crippling"per se...I do have a tendency to be a bit on the dramatic side, it is one of my many charms really, but the condition did leave me walking around like an 80-year-old woman...not exactly attractive for a newlywed woman pretending not to be on the brink of her "early 30's"]  I digress...So, looking into exploring other doctrines, I happen upon <dah...dah...dunnnnnn> acupuncture. Why not? After all, (I justify to myself), if I had grown up in China this would be the norm...the only reason why I rely on a person in a white coat with a "dr." in front of his name is because that is what I grew up with...what I am accustomed to. <Insert self-congratulations here...aren't I becoming the self-reflective one?!> So I make myself an appointment.

Her name was Rebecca. Normal enough, right? I walk in, seems like a typical San Francisco apartment/working space. We go in. She asks me if I want a cup of tea. I think to myself..."awwww, how cute! How very-Chinese-medicine of her...tea!"  We sit down and she asks me the pro forma questions about why I am there, including a question about my "stools" I'll have you know, and is very thorough about getting to know all about my health. Then she places a white towel over the desk and asks me to place my forearms on it. She will take readings on my pulse for the next 4 minutes.  Ackkkkward. Should I be making conversation? Does she need to summon the spirits at this time? Shit. What do I do? Great. Now my pulse is probably racing and she can tell that I am nervous. Is she going to extra-stick me with needles?! Am I giving a false reading?!!! OH LORD!!!! Ok, Caroline, relax. Maybe you should have taken her up on that chamomile tea. Fast forward...awkward pulse test over. great. let's get to the meat and potatoes of this little project. I'm clearly through the awkward part....oh wait....what's that? You need to look at my tongue? Jeez. I would have used one of those fancy tongue scrapers and Listerined if I had known this! Ok, fine, I swallow and stick out my tongue. man, this is weird.

Finally on the table, which now I'm convinced will be the most comfortable part of the session, she begins with the needles. Needle One. Not so bad. Ok, I can TOTALLY handle this!  Needles TWO, THREE, FOUR. I am congratulating myself on how completely hardcore I am...whoa, this is nothing! Needles are being inserted into my flesh and I can totally handle it! GRRRRRR! I AM SHE-RA! She continues to ask me if I feel the needles. Not wanting to portray myself as a total wuss, I report, "well, kinda, but it's not bad, really." WRONG ANSWER! Apparently you are supposed to feel it...in a not-so-zen kinda way...like numbness, dullness, or a shooting sensation in your muscles! Every time I would report back that I didn't feel a certain needle meant that she would either dig that needle in further or remove it and, (with much more vigor) replace it into an adjoining "meridian" until I reported feeling it and therefore, as I would not soon enough learn, establish my "chi." So much for trying to be hardcore, I was quickly learning to cry "uncle" at every opportunity.  Ok, so my previous idea of this being a relaxing Chinese-medcine-zen kinda' thing was very quickly going out the window. But wait. I had researched this on youtube and youtube wouldn't let me down, right?! The people on youtube said this wasn't supposed to hurt! They even said that most people fall asleep! Damn! This doesn't seem right! Rebecca clearly does NOT want me to be zen let alone FALL ASLEEP!  WHERE AM I?! Is she going to incapacitate me and harvest my organs (especially since they are now tenderized)?!  UNCLE! UNCLE! UNNNNNCLEEEEEE!

In-humanely Human?

So many of you have been wondering what I've been doing with my newly found spare time. May I humbly say that I think you'll be very impressed. You see, dear readers, I have embarked on the momentous endeavor of reeducating my pets to believe they are human. If Orwell can do it with pigs, I can certainly do it with these superior species. No folks, these photos are not doctored...they are completely legitimate. Yes, that is my dog (skeptically) READING the "Litter Kwitter" box which reports that cats will be completely trained within 8 weeks (and he called it...I will admit, we are well beyond week 8), that IS my cat using the toilet (and quite unhappy with the breach of privacy), YES that IS Oliver sporting the latest in doggie fashion, the Rain Barka,  all while secretly plotting my demise. (get it? "Barka" like parka...ok, you're right, this post is going downhill quite rapidly) Look out Caesar Millan, this is novel material right here. 

BAM! is Not a Magic Word

So delving deeper into my newly found hobby of cooking, I torture Lewis with a trip to Bed, Bath, and Beyond for a pressure cooker. From the moment we walk in the door, I am like a spastic 4 year-old child who is distracted by all the shiny toys. My previously focused adult brain is now consumed with one thought - "I want it!" Knowing that my hubby has an extremely low threshold for shopping, I attempt to regain focus and head toward the intended direction of the pressure cookers. However, out of the corner of my eye I see a bright yellow package with a beeeeeutiful cast iron grill-top inside. I don't have one of those. I want one of those. I NEED one of those. Now here's where the story gets slightly shameful. I pull out all of those powers of persuasion towards husband that we girls are pretty much born with. I hit'em right in the gut with "honey, we haven't had a steak in FOREVER! (which is true since the grill is still buried in the mountain of boxes in the garage that I like to pretend don't exist) Wouldn't it be great to have a nice steak for dinner...and you wouldn't even have to set up the grill?!"  Feeling the stage has been set, I continue my sell. "Oh and we still have a credit here from that gift card we got for the wedding!" Hubby picks up the box to examine it. To my complete delight it bypasses being put back on the shelf and is slam-dunked into our cart. success.

After a stop at Whole Foods for all the components of our favorite steak dinner, I am excited to be home and play with my new toy. It is cast iron after all, and any southerner knows that a good cast iron pot must be well-seasoned. I research how to speed-up this process and head back to kitchen to commence seasoning. After two hours of basting oil and baking pan in 350 degree oven, I am ready to get these beauties on the grill! Turn on gas burners, await pan to start to smoke per directions, and add steaks. sizzle. smoke. louder sizzle. more smoke. check timer. wait another two minutes. thicker smoke. open window. close bedroom door to muffle sound of smoke alarm. flip steaks. admire grill pattern left on cooked-side. flee kitchen to wipe tears from smoke-tortured eyeballs. check timer. pull steaks. sit down to table. ahhhh. time to feast. take first bite of steak. really really want to be impressed. not impressed. have undercooked, grey steak with faux grill patterns. oh and a REALLY messy grease-encrusted stove. DAM!

The greatest kitchen innovation?

Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to...onion goggles. You see, I have a love-hate relationship with onions. I love to cook with them, in fact I am hard-pressed to think of a recipe in my repertoire that doesn't call for one. However when I chop them they fight back with potent chemical warfare.  I know that most people tear up when slicing these bad boys, but me, I look like I have watched the ending of the La Bamba for a week straight. Ugly crying, mucous pouring...not exactly appetizing. I have tried all the tricks - cutting them under cold water (not exactly easy, I might add), lighting a candle, rinsing the knife, opening a window, you name it, I've tried it. Finally fed up, I turn to that ever-faithful search engine with all the answers...Google. I weed through familiar wives' tales and Hark, I happen upon "onion goggles." Apparently these beauties seal around your eyes preventing those vexatious vapors from wreaking havoc on your membranes. <cue choir of angels, please> oh...and they come in pink. Hallelujah!