In all honesty, this is actually something I hate. The poor polar bears! But, as sad as the plight of the penguins saddens me, it didn’t snow much last year and it was over sixty degrees yesterday. I don’t even think about getting my big coats out. This is a sudden and wonderful change. In my youth, though I don’t remember much of it, I do remember snow. Lots and lots and lots of snow. There would be paths dug. You had to wear snow pants. It was awful. I hate snow. I hate winter. So, I’m really very enthusiastic about global warming destroying traditional Iowa winters. They’re kind of like very early Spring now and it’s marvelous. Yeah, I weep for the Arctic, I do, but…well…I’m really enjoying this weather.
When I first became a vegetarian, I had a hard time figuring out what to eat. I was so used to eating meat that I didn’t know what to do. As time went on, I learned to try new things and found delicious replacements for dishes I loved. I started using faux meat products, but I’ve gone past that now and am using mushrooms and chickpeas and lentils and all sorts of things to recreate the food I used to love. I thought I would never have boeuf bourguignon again, but I made mushroom bourguignon and it’s better. I thought I would never try steak au poivre, but mushroom au poivre is even better. Mushrooms are amazing and I eat them all the time. I love mushrooms. I should start growing mushrooms.
You all know how I want to be an archaeologist, right? I’m sure I made it clear in one blog or the other. I can’t think of anything better. Well, I’d rather be a beloved celebrity. But, if, for reasons that are incomprehensible to me, that doesn’t work out, I will accept the role of kooky, sexy archaeologist. I’d make Indiana Jones look like a nerd. Also, I’d probably have my own line of ancient world inspired menswear. God, that would great. Anyway, yesterday I started reading a book called Message of the Sphinx, which is about all sorts of various theories about the construction and origin of that wondrous sculpture on the Giza plateau. I’m loving it. I really should just go to school and do this. After my modeling career, perhaps? Call me, Tyra.
I’m still dying from this never ending cold. I don’t know why it won’t go away. I’ve tried everything. I’ve never been sick for so long in my life. I haven’t been able to properly sing Beyoncé for weeks and weeks and weeks and my nonexistent fans are getting upset that I haven’t been giving any treadmill concerts. Mainly because I don’t have enough energy to cross the street to go to my treadmill. I can’t wait for health to return. Maybe if I just drug myself and sleep all weekend I’ll return to the glorious epitome of health I was before? Yesterday, I left after a couple hours of work. I wash just feeling dreadful, so I went home, stuffed myself with grapefruit and went to bed. When I returned to the world of the living, I was starving. I wanted poached eggs. I love poached eggs, but I never make them. When I was in London, our hosts at the bed and breakfast made me wonderful eggs on toast. I decide to recreate that. So, I toasted a big wedge of good bread, slathered it with quality butter, and then poached two duck eggs. I don’t think I’ve ever made them before. They certainly weren’t beautiful, but they were effing amazing. Duck eggs are delicious for poaching and boiling. So wonderfully rich. I don’t like them for omelettes or quiche, but for simple things like that–divine. It’s my new go to late night snack.
Speaking of eggs, I also adore huevos rancheros! I’d heard of them ages ago on Will & Grace, but never really knew what they were.
Then one day at Casa de Oro, I ordered them looking for something new and meatless, not an easy task at a Mexican restaurant, mind you. I died. I went to heaven. They’re amazing. I’ve had different kinds of them all around. We have a huge Latin population, for which I’m ever thankful. Well, my stomach is ever thankful. Have you ever had a papusa? Lord, child, get that in your gullet right now.
My sick lemon tree:
I am getting sick to death of my lemon tree. I have done everything I can think of to make it healthy. I’ve grown it from a little twig and this year it finally blossomed. I was ecstatic, though I missed it because I was in Europe. I was so happy to see little lemons when I got home, but then one day, they all fell off. I could have cried. (I did cry.) I don’t understand. I don’t overwater or over fertilize. I give it copious amounts of sun. It is in a warm place and yet it goes out of its way to crush my soul. Last night there was one lemon left on it and I had hope for it, but this morning, it was on the floor. I think I’ll buy a more mature one that won’t constantly disappoint me. I just want to pick a lemon. I’ve never picked a lemon before. People in the South don’t know how lucky they are.
My never-ending cold:
I pride myself on being very rarely ill, maybe once a year. I relish in being a specimen of perfect health. All this is why I’m disgusted with my body currently. I’ve been sick for three weeks. I was sick before I left for Europe and while I was in Europe, I had a constant cough and runny nose, now that I’m back home, I’m redeveloping my old cold. I have a cough, my nose never stops running, I’m sneezing all the time, my throat is sore, and I haven’t had a nice singing voice in weeks. I love singing on the treadmill. Now I barely have enough energy to turn the treadmill on. Woe to me. My sad, sad life.
Cabin Style Architecture:
I can appreciate most design asthmatics, but there is nothing redeemable in the rustic look of a cabin. It’s awful. My father loves it. Whenever we see examples of cabins or cabins for sale, he always talks about how much he’d like a cabin. No thank you. Rough hewn logs and deer heads and exposed stones–not at all for me. I like refined structures with smooth walls and intricate ceilings. Perhaps a nice chandelier and a fireplace with a marble mantle. Anyway, I hate the rustic look of cabins. Rustic is just an excuse to be lazy. Don’t build cabins. Don’t buy cabins. Ignore their existence.
Breaking Pencil Lead:
I don’t really care for mechanical pencils. I prefer a real pencil, a Ticonderoga, if possible. Sadly, I’m out of those, so I have something called a Blackfeet Indian pencil. I hate it. I don’t really hate it, that’s a strong emotion for a bit of wood and graphite. I just don’t like it. The lead is very soft and it is constantly breaking. I’ll sharpen it, and a centimeter of it will just fall out. Aggravating. I need to go shopping for pencils.