In the last decade or so that I've been "on my own" in the world, I have lugged around the guilt that I feel each time I have to toss leftovers (or in some cases never used) food items that have gone bad.
I'm so sorry:
Half used cans of tomato paste. It's not my fault that every recipe only requires a tablespoon or two of you.
A few months ago an Epicurious recipe told me that some Indian potato and rice dish would yield four servings. Um, yeah, maybe they meant servings for FOUR SEPARATE FAMILIES because those leftovers took up more than half the fridge space. I tried valiantly to get through it all - even making a fritatta - but, alas I wasn't really wild about the meal on its first appearance.
More containers of milk than I can remember, from back in the day when I drank the mucus-inducing junk.
Various and sundry other items which I cannot recall yet still feel guilty about discarding.
I would like to say that the confessional helped me let go of some of this guilt, but there's just another batch in refrigerator creating moldly guilt as we speak.
Showing posts with label Habitual. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Habitual. Show all posts
4.25.2007
3.27.2007
Mission Accomplished, Sensei
We totally saw TMNT. And it was better than imagined.
Honestly, I'm not a movie reviewing blogger, but TMNT is worth the price of admission (besides the great story, it was simply the most beautiful animated film I've ever seen). And nachos. Oh, and don't forget your rum. But here's a tip: if it's a self-serve fountain, put the soda in first. Because if you, um, add the liquor first, it eats through the wax and you might - hypothetically, of course - spill soda all over the theater. And that, my friends, is no way to have a cowabunga-good-time.
P.S. To the filmmakers: did the actual conversation about April O'Neill go like this, "No, no. Make her arms skinnier and her RACK larger. No even bigger than that. And can you do something about her waist?"
Honestly, I'm not a movie reviewing blogger, but TMNT is worth the price of admission (besides the great story, it was simply the most beautiful animated film I've ever seen). And nachos. Oh, and don't forget your rum. But here's a tip: if it's a self-serve fountain, put the soda in first. Because if you, um, add the liquor first, it eats through the wax and you might - hypothetically, of course - spill soda all over the theater. And that, my friends, is no way to have a cowabunga-good-time.
P.S. To the filmmakers: did the actual conversation about April O'Neill go like this, "No, no. Make her arms skinnier and her RACK larger. No even bigger than that. And can you do something about her waist?"
2.05.2007
How I'm Like Harry Potter
I’m sorry, Environment. I admit I’m a long showerer. I recycle for You and use energy-saver lightbulbs, but I cannot get in and out of the shower in any fewer than 15 minutes. On a good day.
So today at about the halfway point of my long shower, Grandpaw and Dolly Parton went seriously berserk. Barking their little canine heads off. They were so ferocious I honestly started to get a little nervous that someone was breaking into the house. And suddenly, in the midst of their intimidating aural display, a shooting, burning pain zapped through my right calf. I instantly twisted around to look at it, thinking perhaps I’d nicked myself while shaving even though it really hurt more than that. But no, no razor nick. No blood. Just my usual leg with its perfectly shaped triangle scar.
Unlike some, I love 95% of my scars. There are one or two on my face that I might have laser resurfaced someday, but mostly, I like to be reminded of how Marta became Marta and scars are a nifty little roadmap to that end.
This particular scar – the calf triangle – is associated with one of my favorite histories.
About a year and a half ago, I was at MAGIC, hosting a series of segments for my old job. It was a true run-and-gun kind of shoot: just myself and a camera guy, running around the Las Vegas Convention Center for 2 days of blurry, breakneck shooting. Our last stop before racing to the airport to head back to LA was at the Chick by Nicky Hilton booth. We didn’t know if we were going to have enough time to get the interview and make the flight, but we had to try because, you know, Nicky Hilton is so huge and famous (or something like that, I’m told). Anyway, we were waiting in a line that wrapped around the booth with the other would-be interviewers when my triangle scar was singed into my leg forever.
There were little lights all around the base of the outside of the booth and apparently some Einstein hadn’t stopped to think about how surface-of-the-sun hot these little lights get and how someone might accidentally brush up against them. Like me. It was just a fraction of a second, but it left a hot, blistery burn that when it healed weeks later, left a perfectly shaped triangle.
So today when the dogs were barking, and my scar suddenly stung a lot at the exact same time, I thought, “Hmmm. Maybe Nicky Hilton is my Voldemort, perhaps she’s on the front steps right now and that’s why Gramps and Parton are losing their shit*.”
*Nope. Turns out it was just a bum rustling through the recycling.
So today at about the halfway point of my long shower, Grandpaw and Dolly Parton went seriously berserk. Barking their little canine heads off. They were so ferocious I honestly started to get a little nervous that someone was breaking into the house. And suddenly, in the midst of their intimidating aural display, a shooting, burning pain zapped through my right calf. I instantly twisted around to look at it, thinking perhaps I’d nicked myself while shaving even though it really hurt more than that. But no, no razor nick. No blood. Just my usual leg with its perfectly shaped triangle scar.
Unlike some, I love 95% of my scars. There are one or two on my face that I might have laser resurfaced someday, but mostly, I like to be reminded of how Marta became Marta and scars are a nifty little roadmap to that end.
This particular scar – the calf triangle – is associated with one of my favorite histories.
About a year and a half ago, I was at MAGIC, hosting a series of segments for my old job. It was a true run-and-gun kind of shoot: just myself and a camera guy, running around the Las Vegas Convention Center for 2 days of blurry, breakneck shooting. Our last stop before racing to the airport to head back to LA was at the Chick by Nicky Hilton booth. We didn’t know if we were going to have enough time to get the interview and make the flight, but we had to try because, you know, Nicky Hilton is so huge and famous (or something like that, I’m told). Anyway, we were waiting in a line that wrapped around the booth with the other would-be interviewers when my triangle scar was singed into my leg forever.
There were little lights all around the base of the outside of the booth and apparently some Einstein hadn’t stopped to think about how surface-of-the-sun hot these little lights get and how someone might accidentally brush up against them. Like me. It was just a fraction of a second, but it left a hot, blistery burn that when it healed weeks later, left a perfectly shaped triangle.
So today when the dogs were barking, and my scar suddenly stung a lot at the exact same time, I thought, “Hmmm. Maybe Nicky Hilton is my Voldemort, perhaps she’s on the front steps right now and that’s why Gramps and Parton are losing their shit*.”
*Nope. Turns out it was just a bum rustling through the recycling.
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