Happy New Year!
We had our big Chinese New Year feed. I worked like a Dog to bring in the Year of the Dog.
Menu:
Sichuan shrimp
Sichuan Eggplant
Stir Fried Chinese Cabbage
Rice
Chinese Almond Cakes
Egg Plant Sichuan Style Recipe
Serving Size: 4
1 large Italian Eggplant
2 teaspoon Salt
4 tablespoon Peanut or corn oil =(or more if needed)=-
1 tablespoon Soy sauce
1 tablespoon Sugar
1/4 cup Chicken stock
2 teaspoon Grated fresh peeled ginger
1 tablespoon Minced garlic
1/4 teaspoon Dried red chile flakes
1/4 cup Chopped water chestnuts (peeled) -- preferably fresh
3 Green onions trimmed and chopped
1 tablespoon Red wine vinegar
1 tablespoon Sesame oil
1 tablespoon Toasted black sesame seeds (for garnish)
CUT EGGPLANT into 1/2-by-2-inch strips. If using Italian eggplants, peel skin.
In a colander, toss eggplant with salt; drain for 30 minutes. Squeeze gently
to remove excess water. Pat dry with paper towels. In a small bowl, mix soy
sauce, sugar and chicken stock. Preheat wok until hot over high heat. Add 3
tablespoons of the oil, tilt wok to coat sides. When hot, add 1 layer of
eggplant, stir-fry until seared and tender (about 3 minutes).
Remove to colander. Drain over a bowl to catch juices. Cook remaining eggplant in same manner adding more oil if needed. Reheat wok over medium-high heat. Add remaining 1 tablespoon of the oil, ginger, garlic and chile; cook gently but do not brown . Add water chestnuts and half of the green onions; stir-fry together for 5 seconds. Increase to high heat, add reserved soy sauce mixture and eggplant juices; bring to a boil. Return cooked eggplant; toss quickly over high heat until most of the sauce is reduced and absorbed into eggplant (about 1-to-2 minutes). Fold in vinegar and sesame oil. Remove to serving dish. Top with remaining green onions and sesame seeds. Serve hot or cold.
The dessert recipe follows: This comes from Betty Crocker’s Cooking for Two Cookbook that I got as a shower present a million years ago. It has stood the test of time.
Chinese Almond Cakes
1 cup sifted flour
½ cup shortening (half butter half Crisco)
½ tsp. salt
¼ cup plus 2 T. sugar
½ tsp. almond extract
1 egg yolk
1 T. water
¼ cup blanched almonds
Place flour in bowl. Cut in shortening finely. Use hands to work in salt, sugar and almond extract. Shape into long rolls, 1 inch in diameter and wrap in waxed paper or plastic wrap. Chill about 1 hour.
Mix egg yolk and water.
Heat oven to 400 degree. Cut roll into ¼ inch slices. Place 1 inch apart on lightly greased baking sheets. Brush each slice with egg yolk mixture. Press ½ blanched almond into the top of each cookie. Make 8 to 10 minutes until light golden brown.
The dough may be made up in advance, refrigerated, then baked.
There was 3 hours of cooking and ½ hour of eating. Something’s wrong with this picture. At least there will be enough for tomorrow.
Woof!
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Take a Bath to Classical Music
Thisbe, the younger, more sensitive feline, bathes to classical music. She is not the first cat we've owned who liked to bathe to the beat, so to speak. A former cat once took a bath for an entire symphony, and never missed a note. Last Sunday the New York Times Sunday magazine had an article on the scientific study of animal's personalities. Anyone who has ever spent time in the company of a creature assuredly knows that it has a personality, a distinct personality.
Among the little herd of Scottish Highland cattle, we have Old Mama, who is aggressive and don't take no you-know-what from anyone. There is the sweet young bull who rubs noses with the others and doesn't realize that he could be, well, a bully. The formerly shy cow was formerly shy, but in the meantime has integrated herself into the herd. Last year's baby gets bullied by everyone except this year's baby, who is still sweet and big-eyed. Old Mama won't share handouts with her, either.
When we lived in Illinois, we had several families of raccoons who came for nightly treats. They, too, had distinct personalities. On the bird feeder, we had the War Dove, who was very aggessive and chased the other birds off the feeder. A mean dove? Yup.
Everyday I open the mailbox with anticipation, but no word from any agents. In the meantime, while the writing does not exactly "flow," the pages of the new novel are piling up, and it's beginning to look like a "real" manuscript. What will happen when I am awash in unsold manuscripts? Maybe they can become a long, long memoir. The lives of a cyber-sleuth?
Tomorrow we celebrate the Chinese New Year with a meal of Sechuan shrimp, eggplant, rice and stir-friend veggies. And almond cookies. I have been doing this for years, and it's always fun. The Year of the Dog. What do you think that means? I'm a rabbit myself.
Nibble, nibble.
Grapeshot
Among the little herd of Scottish Highland cattle, we have Old Mama, who is aggressive and don't take no you-know-what from anyone. There is the sweet young bull who rubs noses with the others and doesn't realize that he could be, well, a bully. The formerly shy cow was formerly shy, but in the meantime has integrated herself into the herd. Last year's baby gets bullied by everyone except this year's baby, who is still sweet and big-eyed. Old Mama won't share handouts with her, either.
When we lived in Illinois, we had several families of raccoons who came for nightly treats. They, too, had distinct personalities. On the bird feeder, we had the War Dove, who was very aggessive and chased the other birds off the feeder. A mean dove? Yup.
Everyday I open the mailbox with anticipation, but no word from any agents. In the meantime, while the writing does not exactly "flow," the pages of the new novel are piling up, and it's beginning to look like a "real" manuscript. What will happen when I am awash in unsold manuscripts? Maybe they can become a long, long memoir. The lives of a cyber-sleuth?
Tomorrow we celebrate the Chinese New Year with a meal of Sechuan shrimp, eggplant, rice and stir-friend veggies. And almond cookies. I have been doing this for years, and it's always fun. The Year of the Dog. What do you think that means? I'm a rabbit myself.
Nibble, nibble.
Grapeshot
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Mirror, mirror on the Wall
The Elizabethans (I think) were somewhat obsessed with holding up a mirror to society. If we look at our poetry, our popular music, our literature (A Million Little Lies), our television and the obsessions of our popular culture, (Paris Hilton and her fellow celebrities) then we can discover who we are. Oh dear! That’s not who I want to be.
Every week I clip a few coupons out Sunday's paper. This week, gearing up for Super Bowl Sunday, there were Coupons Galore! I took a step back and really looked at them. Is this a mirror of what we eat? What we are supposed to eat? Yeechhh! What crap they trying to get us to buy?
Out of 147 coupons:
Regular food, nothing fresh but nothing too disgusting: 16 coupons
Snack food: Sweet Baby Ray's Gourmet Sauce and a $10 mail in rebate for the indoor crock-pot bbq-pit led off the ads. I couldn't decide whether Weight Watchers Frozen Novelty bars, Manischewitz chocolate covered tam tam crackers, or the cans of Pringles were the most disgusting. It's a tie! 15 coupons
Garbage food you'd never want to actually eat: Another tie between any product named "country crock" something called Manwich, or beef stew in a can. Eeewwww. Tofu Steak? Gross 15 coupons
Cleaning products: to get rid of the mess left from opening all those cans, bags and boxes. Tidy up the microwave. No one actually cooks anymore. Not in Snackland, USA. 15 coupons
Vitamins and patent medicines: to counteract all the non-fresh, non-food food, like a "country crock spread." What in god's name is that, anyway? Spread? As in middle-aged? I don't know. Buy some Gas-X 12 Coupons.
Dog and Cat: Best one was the St. Francis Pet Medal for your cat or dog. I am not making this up. 11 coupons
Mouth and Teeth: after ingesting the plastic snacks and other garbage, it's always a good idea to practice oral hygiene. How do you spell hygiene anyhow? Rinse away the stuck particles. 11 Coupons
Cosmetics: kids, after all that junk food, you don't look so good. Take remedial action. 11 Coupons.
Hair: Maybe good hair will disguise bad nutrition. 10 coupons
Air Fresheners: While I was writing books and stuff, a whole new product class came into the coupon world. Somebody tell me what a sensories machine and the senories discs are. Sounds like snake oil. Does the house really smell that bad? Hey, buy some of the cleaning products and cosmetics. Give Fido a bath. Stop smoking. Docsphere air freshener? Make the house smell like new mown hay. 7 coupons
Paper Products: ho hum. 5 coupons
Icky Clothes. Reverse the aging process with ugly bras and girdles and miracle therapy gloves. Active Joe relax slax? You go girl! 4 coupons
Cloy: 1) Good Fortune Charm Bracelet, 2) Irish Nativity 3) Eyes of Love (smarmy dog painting) on a plate 4) and Paw Prints on our Hearts. It doesn't get more saccharine that this. 4 Coupons
Soap and Deodorant: For you, not the house. Take a shower with a friend. 4 coupons
Photos: Take before and after you use the hair and cosmetics, and definitely before you eat all that crap 3 Coupons
Diapers: baby don't need new shoes: 3 Coupons
This is a mirror into our society. Take a good look. Run like hell.
Every week I clip a few coupons out Sunday's paper. This week, gearing up for Super Bowl Sunday, there were Coupons Galore! I took a step back and really looked at them. Is this a mirror of what we eat? What we are supposed to eat? Yeechhh! What crap they trying to get us to buy?
Out of 147 coupons:
Regular food, nothing fresh but nothing too disgusting: 16 coupons
Snack food: Sweet Baby Ray's Gourmet Sauce and a $10 mail in rebate for the indoor crock-pot bbq-pit led off the ads. I couldn't decide whether Weight Watchers Frozen Novelty bars, Manischewitz chocolate covered tam tam crackers, or the cans of Pringles were the most disgusting. It's a tie! 15 coupons
Garbage food you'd never want to actually eat: Another tie between any product named "country crock" something called Manwich, or beef stew in a can. Eeewwww. Tofu Steak? Gross 15 coupons
Cleaning products: to get rid of the mess left from opening all those cans, bags and boxes. Tidy up the microwave. No one actually cooks anymore. Not in Snackland, USA. 15 coupons
Vitamins and patent medicines: to counteract all the non-fresh, non-food food, like a "country crock spread." What in god's name is that, anyway? Spread? As in middle-aged? I don't know. Buy some Gas-X 12 Coupons.
Dog and Cat: Best one was the St. Francis Pet Medal for your cat or dog. I am not making this up. 11 coupons
Mouth and Teeth: after ingesting the plastic snacks and other garbage, it's always a good idea to practice oral hygiene. How do you spell hygiene anyhow? Rinse away the stuck particles. 11 Coupons
Cosmetics: kids, after all that junk food, you don't look so good. Take remedial action. 11 Coupons.
Hair: Maybe good hair will disguise bad nutrition. 10 coupons
Air Fresheners: While I was writing books and stuff, a whole new product class came into the coupon world. Somebody tell me what a sensories machine and the senories discs are. Sounds like snake oil. Does the house really smell that bad? Hey, buy some of the cleaning products and cosmetics. Give Fido a bath. Stop smoking. Docsphere air freshener? Make the house smell like new mown hay. 7 coupons
Paper Products: ho hum. 5 coupons
Icky Clothes. Reverse the aging process with ugly bras and girdles and miracle therapy gloves. Active Joe relax slax? You go girl! 4 coupons
Cloy: 1) Good Fortune Charm Bracelet, 2) Irish Nativity 3) Eyes of Love (smarmy dog painting) on a plate 4) and Paw Prints on our Hearts. It doesn't get more saccharine that this. 4 Coupons
Soap and Deodorant: For you, not the house. Take a shower with a friend. 4 coupons
Photos: Take before and after you use the hair and cosmetics, and definitely before you eat all that crap 3 Coupons
Diapers: baby don't need new shoes: 3 Coupons
This is a mirror into our society. Take a good look. Run like hell.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
P'Town in Winter
Crappy week with mucho traumas. S.O. and I needed some down time, and this January Saturday was warm and party sunny. We decided to drive to the Cape (Cod) which is something we usually do once in the winter.
Not much traffic, and before you know it, there's the Bourne bridge! We took the mid-cape highway. Sparse sun, rather bleak in fact, but we won't quibble when the temperature is 55 degrees. Still tooling along without much traffic.
Had thought about a seafood meal in Orleans, but decided to wait until we got to Provincetown. Had AAA guide and checked for waterview restaurants open in winter and naturally for lunch. Found two! Parked and set off for first choice. Ooops! Shut up tighter than a drum. Closed and no sign. Gone, baby, gone!
Walked down to second. Closed for lunch. Curses.
Forget the guidebook. Wandered into non-Starbucks coffee place and asked woman behind the counter. She gave us two choices, but said she liked Ross's, so to Ross's we went. Getting hungry after hiking up and down the street. Another hike into the center of town and to Ross's. On second story overlooking water. Funky, friendly maitre'd with about 16 black bracelets on his arm. Hardly a table. Everyone talking to everyone else. Locals. Well, what would one expect in p'town in January?
We order wine (excellent) and Wellfleet oysters, which are even more excellent, as in to die for. Folks, we are talking very fresh and delicious and not often found on menus. I had a blackened salmon sandwich with white bean salad. S.O. had fish and chips. Stole a handful of his chips. Good. Looked around and the luncheon steak looked generous and tasty, burger so big you could never get it into your mouth without major effort. Insalta Caprese looked good, but who eats tomatoes in January?
We were bad and shared the banana bread pudding which was on a par with the oysters. Friendly service, nice cold, bleak winter view across the water. The cares of the week had fallen away, leaving a feeling of contentment.
Stopped at the coffee place and told the woman we loved Ross's Grill. Bought a cup of coffee to counteract the wine and off we drove. Took the northern backroad all the way to the bridge. Scenic villages and inns and galleries.
Great sunset. A little more traffic. Had others gone to the Cape for lunch, too?
Skipped dinner. Thoughts of the Wellfleet Oysters persist. It was fun walking along Commercial St. in the town. Off season but somehow cheerful and lively.
Decided P'town in winter would be a good place to set a few scenes in a book. A writer's day is never wasted. Not totally.
Aloha,
Grapeshot
Not much traffic, and before you know it, there's the Bourne bridge! We took the mid-cape highway. Sparse sun, rather bleak in fact, but we won't quibble when the temperature is 55 degrees. Still tooling along without much traffic.
Had thought about a seafood meal in Orleans, but decided to wait until we got to Provincetown. Had AAA guide and checked for waterview restaurants open in winter and naturally for lunch. Found two! Parked and set off for first choice. Ooops! Shut up tighter than a drum. Closed and no sign. Gone, baby, gone!
Walked down to second. Closed for lunch. Curses.
Forget the guidebook. Wandered into non-Starbucks coffee place and asked woman behind the counter. She gave us two choices, but said she liked Ross's, so to Ross's we went. Getting hungry after hiking up and down the street. Another hike into the center of town and to Ross's. On second story overlooking water. Funky, friendly maitre'd with about 16 black bracelets on his arm. Hardly a table. Everyone talking to everyone else. Locals. Well, what would one expect in p'town in January?
We order wine (excellent) and Wellfleet oysters, which are even more excellent, as in to die for. Folks, we are talking very fresh and delicious and not often found on menus. I had a blackened salmon sandwich with white bean salad. S.O. had fish and chips. Stole a handful of his chips. Good. Looked around and the luncheon steak looked generous and tasty, burger so big you could never get it into your mouth without major effort. Insalta Caprese looked good, but who eats tomatoes in January?
We were bad and shared the banana bread pudding which was on a par with the oysters. Friendly service, nice cold, bleak winter view across the water. The cares of the week had fallen away, leaving a feeling of contentment.
Stopped at the coffee place and told the woman we loved Ross's Grill. Bought a cup of coffee to counteract the wine and off we drove. Took the northern backroad all the way to the bridge. Scenic villages and inns and galleries.
Great sunset. A little more traffic. Had others gone to the Cape for lunch, too?
Skipped dinner. Thoughts of the Wellfleet Oysters persist. It was fun walking along Commercial St. in the town. Off season but somehow cheerful and lively.
Decided P'town in winter would be a good place to set a few scenes in a book. A writer's day is never wasted. Not totally.
Aloha,
Grapeshot
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
At Long Last Some Pretty Good News
The good news came via email. A agent whom I had spoken with in November at a writer's conference likes the first 30 pages and wants to see the entire manuscript of Promiscuous Mode.
A few morsels of interest: a) agent did not seem terribly enthused by the concept, but said he would look at it anyway, because the "writing might be good." b) agent changed jobs between the time I sent the pages and now c) I tracked agent to new job and reminded him of my submission.
This manuscript has been read in toto by one other agent who really liked it but was gun shy due to being a brand new agent and had submitted stuff which editors did not like.
I still have a few queries out there for this novel, including one that will soon be two (or is it three) years old; a requested manuscript to an agent who refused to respond to phone call and email until I finally gave us. Gosh, a simple "sorry not for me," would have sufficed.
On the Festival Madness front, I cranked out 12 pages over the past two days and rewrote them about 15 times each, well, maybe only seven. It is fun to see the improvement in each draft.
A few morsels of interest: a) agent did not seem terribly enthused by the concept, but said he would look at it anyway, because the "writing might be good." b) agent changed jobs between the time I sent the pages and now c) I tracked agent to new job and reminded him of my submission.
This manuscript has been read in toto by one other agent who really liked it but was gun shy due to being a brand new agent and had submitted stuff which editors did not like.
I still have a few queries out there for this novel, including one that will soon be two (or is it three) years old; a requested manuscript to an agent who refused to respond to phone call and email until I finally gave us. Gosh, a simple "sorry not for me," would have sufficed.
On the Festival Madness front, I cranked out 12 pages over the past two days and rewrote them about 15 times each, well, maybe only seven. It is fun to see the improvement in each draft.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Two People and One Ham Equals Eternity
We don't have a ham, but we have an open can of Adobo Chilis. A big can. Now, if you've ever cooked with these, you know these are jalapenos in a smoky adobo sauce, and they are hotter than old Billy be danged, so you can't dump half or even a quarter can into your recipe, you use one or maybe, living dangerously, two. Significant Other and I have had spicy food week. Mexican, Indian, and what have you. Our eyes water and our lips burn, but the food is terrific. White chili from the South Beach Diet rates 3 stars. The vegetarian cauliflower we had tonight was a winner, a North Indian recipe. We had adobo shrimp to die for. And the chilis are not even diminished by half. Fire will come out of our ears. Our lips will blister, but those chilies have to be eaten. Eternity!
Gasping for water,
Grapeshot
Gasping for water,
Grapeshot
No News Is No News
The mailbox has been empty of agent responses for nearly a month. Christmas bills, more catalogs and appeals from charities arrive daily, but no news from the agents I've queried.
It takes patience to acquire patience and I've never had enough to get some.
On the good news side of the house, I finally found an FBI contact and quizzed him about procedures enough to be able to sit down and write 9 (count 'em, nine) pages about the FBI raid on the office where my protag is consulting. The raid was actually supposed to happen in the last third of the book, but I realized that introducing everyone in the office one by one was going to get deadly dull real fast. Needed an event where I could describe people reacting to a crisis. So I plunked the raid down on page 24 (we're already had a murder and some sexual innuendoes) and things seem to be humming along quite nicely, and I have just about 40,000 words which must mean I've half through. We'll see.
Grapeshot
It takes patience to acquire patience and I've never had enough to get some.
On the good news side of the house, I finally found an FBI contact and quizzed him about procedures enough to be able to sit down and write 9 (count 'em, nine) pages about the FBI raid on the office where my protag is consulting. The raid was actually supposed to happen in the last third of the book, but I realized that introducing everyone in the office one by one was going to get deadly dull real fast. Needed an event where I could describe people reacting to a crisis. So I plunked the raid down on page 24 (we're already had a murder and some sexual innuendoes) and things seem to be humming along quite nicely, and I have just about 40,000 words which must mean I've half through. We'll see.
Grapeshot
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Being a Bum Isn't All Bad
New publisher to query. Wants the first three chapters. They say they want something "different." We'll see. I am almost ready to start writing again. No more excuses. Repeat after me. No more excuses. Point finger and say, "no more excuses."
You are absolutely right. No more excuses.
This week I've kicked 'way down and relaxed. Sleep until after 8:00. Read the Globe in bed drinking coffee and talking to the cat. Breakfast at 9:00. Email at 10:00. Not a productive way to start the day, but sooooo nice.
I'm still dealing with issues like last paycheck being fouled up and a few post-retirement financial things. Nothing can ever be done in a phone call or a letter. It takes 4 phone calls or one letter and 3 phone calls. You have to make a pest of yourself.
Beautiful day today. Non-Januaryish 55 degrees. S.O. and I drove down to Providence to visit the RISD Museum, a little jewel box with a great exhibit. We were there to see the Degas and 6 Friends at Dnieppe, before it disappeared on the 15th. Artists always seek each other out. There was a little coterie at the French seaside in Dnieppe in the summertime. Everyone knew everyone else. Very congenial with lots of cross-pollination. Late enough in the game that photographs were part of the exhibit. The men were handsomer than the women, although there was a very nice painting of Virginia Wolf.
We had a cheap lunch at the Eurocafe. Sandwich and soup, no wine. The "no paycheck" budget has kicked in.
This evening we watched a weird movie about the Marquis de Sade called "Quills." Too much violence for my taste, but it did have its moments. Sade was one for the books. Literally. Figuratively. Obsessively. However you like. Haven't read him since I was in college and then in French. Compelling but repulsive as I recall, kind of like the film.
The Marklin train we want to see is now set up on the dining room table, waiting for photography and parts inventory. I hope it's not there for the duration on winter. If it looks like weeds are beginning to grow up through the tracks, I can always have a dinner party.
I have four 5 South Beach Diet recipes and one Dr. Atkins type casserole to cook for the coming week in hopes of dropping the pounds gained over the holidays. The cookies and candy are all gone. That should help.
Well-rested and chubby,
Grapeshot
You are absolutely right. No more excuses.
This week I've kicked 'way down and relaxed. Sleep until after 8:00. Read the Globe in bed drinking coffee and talking to the cat. Breakfast at 9:00. Email at 10:00. Not a productive way to start the day, but sooooo nice.
I'm still dealing with issues like last paycheck being fouled up and a few post-retirement financial things. Nothing can ever be done in a phone call or a letter. It takes 4 phone calls or one letter and 3 phone calls. You have to make a pest of yourself.
Beautiful day today. Non-Januaryish 55 degrees. S.O. and I drove down to Providence to visit the RISD Museum, a little jewel box with a great exhibit. We were there to see the Degas and 6 Friends at Dnieppe, before it disappeared on the 15th. Artists always seek each other out. There was a little coterie at the French seaside in Dnieppe in the summertime. Everyone knew everyone else. Very congenial with lots of cross-pollination. Late enough in the game that photographs were part of the exhibit. The men were handsomer than the women, although there was a very nice painting of Virginia Wolf.
We had a cheap lunch at the Eurocafe. Sandwich and soup, no wine. The "no paycheck" budget has kicked in.
This evening we watched a weird movie about the Marquis de Sade called "Quills." Too much violence for my taste, but it did have its moments. Sade was one for the books. Literally. Figuratively. Obsessively. However you like. Haven't read him since I was in college and then in French. Compelling but repulsive as I recall, kind of like the film.
The Marklin train we want to see is now set up on the dining room table, waiting for photography and parts inventory. I hope it's not there for the duration on winter. If it looks like weeds are beginning to grow up through the tracks, I can always have a dinner party.
I have four 5 South Beach Diet recipes and one Dr. Atkins type casserole to cook for the coming week in hopes of dropping the pounds gained over the holidays. The cookies and candy are all gone. That should help.
Well-rested and chubby,
Grapeshot
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
A Day in the Life
Playing catch up. Finally made it to the health club. Remember, "wellness" is not a word in my vocabulary.
There are lots of rude people at the club. No one is supposed to use a cell phone except in the lobby. A while back a guy was making call after call on the treadmill. Loud voice. Inconsiderate. Wanted to slap him. Dirty look instead. Women in locker room on the phone constantly. Leave wet towels all over. How hard is it to walk 4 steps to the laundry hamper and deposit towel? Disgusting. Worst is when people yak with each other for endless minutes, tying up equipment. I have started saying, "are you finished with this?" or "my I use this?" Even the personal trainers are guilty. Bah, humbug! Today there were some rap lyrics (energetic music always playing) with the f-word endlessly repeated. Is this really necessary?
No letters from agents since well before the holidays. Emailed one who said he still had my stuff and would get back to me. I need to send out some more queries. This is not a fun activity and time consuming. Naturally, being rather anal I have a spread sheet with all the data and the response with dates, etc. Boring but necessary.
We finally finished the "garbure" a hearty Basque soup with beans, potatoes, bread and cabbage. And some ham. A meal in a bowl. Hearty and filling. Next week it's the South Beach Diet for us. Tolerable recipes. No grumbling allowed.
Significant Other has the toy train set up in the living room. We want to sell it, which means making sure everything works and inventoring and photographing everything. Prices were higher before Christmas. He is having fun. I am looking at the clutter. The cats are having fun, too.
I am gearing up to write a scene with an FBI raid. Hard to imagine. Have been all over the Web trying to find descriptions without much luck. Bummer.
Tomorrow it's off to an art exhibit as the RISD musuem. Hey, this not working business ain't all bad.
Grapeshot.
There are lots of rude people at the club. No one is supposed to use a cell phone except in the lobby. A while back a guy was making call after call on the treadmill. Loud voice. Inconsiderate. Wanted to slap him. Dirty look instead. Women in locker room on the phone constantly. Leave wet towels all over. How hard is it to walk 4 steps to the laundry hamper and deposit towel? Disgusting. Worst is when people yak with each other for endless minutes, tying up equipment. I have started saying, "are you finished with this?" or "my I use this?" Even the personal trainers are guilty. Bah, humbug! Today there were some rap lyrics (energetic music always playing) with the f-word endlessly repeated. Is this really necessary?
No letters from agents since well before the holidays. Emailed one who said he still had my stuff and would get back to me. I need to send out some more queries. This is not a fun activity and time consuming. Naturally, being rather anal I have a spread sheet with all the data and the response with dates, etc. Boring but necessary.
We finally finished the "garbure" a hearty Basque soup with beans, potatoes, bread and cabbage. And some ham. A meal in a bowl. Hearty and filling. Next week it's the South Beach Diet for us. Tolerable recipes. No grumbling allowed.
Significant Other has the toy train set up in the living room. We want to sell it, which means making sure everything works and inventoring and photographing everything. Prices were higher before Christmas. He is having fun. I am looking at the clutter. The cats are having fun, too.
I am gearing up to write a scene with an FBI raid. Hard to imagine. Have been all over the Web trying to find descriptions without much luck. Bummer.
Tomorrow it's off to an art exhibit as the RISD musuem. Hey, this not working business ain't all bad.
Grapeshot.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
A Million New Personas, Maybe a New Wild Query
This week news broke in the literary world of two “alleged” frauds. First was the announcement that the confessional memoir, "A Million Little Pieces" had been “shaped” to be more sensational, more in your face, more, shall we say outrageous that the true story. Oprah grabbed this book and ran with it, and it became a best seller. Memoir is a shape-shifting genre. Life, even a drug, drinking, promiscuous life, doesn’t necessarily come in three acts, and memoirists frequently add a bit here, subtract a bit there, kind of like body sculpting in print to make the story fit the story arc. How much one can outright lie, I have no idea.
The second jolt to the confessional scene was the “unmasking of JT Leroy.” According to Monday’s New York Times, he is a she and not a former truck stop prostitute and HIV positive novelist who stunned the literary establishment with the portrayal of his life, but a middle aged rock musician. Maybe. Who wrote the fictional fiction is still not established. We will know soon.
Now, anyone tapped into the literary culture, no matter how far out on the edge, knows that young, sexy, "damaged" writer will have a much easier time getting agented and published than a staid middle-aged writer. A pretty face, male or female, is a ticket to dine, to publish, and all that good stuff. Any celebrity with or without (usually with) a ghost writer can add a huge advance to his/her already substantial wealth and publish drivel while the midlist writers starve. This is a fact of American literary life.
But maybe, just maybe, Sucking It Up is not the only option.
Grapeshot was seized with an awful terrible but tempting idea. No longer a computer nerd, a suburban housewife, a white bread kind of woman who made Basque Garbure for dinner yesterday and then went to her writing group, Grapeshot could become an ageless rock and roll groupie, drugged, diseased, formerly drunken, anorexic, name-any-interesting-current-affliction. She could find a cute twenty-something ninety-eighty pound young lady to front for her. Throw a lot more sex, rock and roll, drugs and dementedness into her computer crime novels. Get an agent, a publisher and a huge advance.
She could publish. She could lie. She could make Saturday’s little episode of refusing a seat to the lame look like Sunday school.
I had a friend who jazzed up her biography with wild boar hunting in Mexico. Always been tempted. I mean, who would ever know? I am more of a hiking in the Berkshires person who heads for a nice restaurant for dinner, a plant-a-garden-feed-the-birds kind of person. For me, living dangerously is that third glass of wine. White bread. Suburban. Nice. BORING.
Still, the scientist in me will be awfully tempted to create two queries, and see which one gets the agent. The bad bad girl or the responsible good citizen. Which do you think would tempt the agent most?
We both know.
Grapeshot
The second jolt to the confessional scene was the “unmasking of JT Leroy.” According to Monday’s New York Times, he is a she and not a former truck stop prostitute and HIV positive novelist who stunned the literary establishment with the portrayal of his life, but a middle aged rock musician. Maybe. Who wrote the fictional fiction is still not established. We will know soon.
Now, anyone tapped into the literary culture, no matter how far out on the edge, knows that young, sexy, "damaged" writer will have a much easier time getting agented and published than a staid middle-aged writer. A pretty face, male or female, is a ticket to dine, to publish, and all that good stuff. Any celebrity with or without (usually with) a ghost writer can add a huge advance to his/her already substantial wealth and publish drivel while the midlist writers starve. This is a fact of American literary life.
But maybe, just maybe, Sucking It Up is not the only option.
Grapeshot was seized with an awful terrible but tempting idea. No longer a computer nerd, a suburban housewife, a white bread kind of woman who made Basque Garbure for dinner yesterday and then went to her writing group, Grapeshot could become an ageless rock and roll groupie, drugged, diseased, formerly drunken, anorexic, name-any-interesting-current-affliction. She could find a cute twenty-something ninety-eighty pound young lady to front for her. Throw a lot more sex, rock and roll, drugs and dementedness into her computer crime novels. Get an agent, a publisher and a huge advance.
She could publish. She could lie. She could make Saturday’s little episode of refusing a seat to the lame look like Sunday school.
I had a friend who jazzed up her biography with wild boar hunting in Mexico. Always been tempted. I mean, who would ever know? I am more of a hiking in the Berkshires person who heads for a nice restaurant for dinner, a plant-a-garden-feed-the-birds kind of person. For me, living dangerously is that third glass of wine. White bread. Suburban. Nice. BORING.
Still, the scientist in me will be awfully tempted to create two queries, and see which one gets the agent. The bad bad girl or the responsible good citizen. Which do you think would tempt the agent most?
We both know.
Grapeshot
Monday, January 09, 2006
I Don't Suck It Up - I Hold Fast
Back from Atlanta, which was a nice break, climate-wise, from frosty New England. The trip was not as stressful as I had anticipated, and by going there, I confirmed I had done the right thing, which was to conduct a bit of family business not germane to this blog.
I am organized when I travel, with itineraries, addresses, phone numbers, maps, packing lists, water, a small snack, luggage tags, a hostess present, all of the small but necessary things to ease the way on the road and at the destination. On the way down, I was squeezed into the middle seat of a full plane, not much fun, and I was glad to see an aisle seat on the way home. The flight was about an hour late departing, and I boarded with my zone number.
Usually I am a nice person, accommodating and even gracious, going out of my way to do a good deed. But sometimes I am still the selfish only child, and one of these times occurred on the plane home.
A floozy woman pushing hard into middle age came down the aisle, stopped and pointed at the middle seat. I stood and let her in. She was fifty pounds overweight and had a bare midriff which bulged fore and aft out of her tight top. Wild thick hair. She was hobbling, with an elastic bandage wrapped foot. Besides a handbag, she was schlepping a soft drink container, and a carton of fast food. Greasy chicken from the smell of it. And a big brown (fake) fur coat. In Boston in winter, with a bare midriff and sandals, you need all the fur you can get.
I offered to put her coat in the overhead bin, which she let me do. This accomplished, she asked to trade seats. Don't believe she said please. Don't think it was a word in her vocabulary.
I said no. No thoughts, just an instinctive no. Actually, I didn’t want to sit within ten rows of this woman. Well, you would have thought I had murdered her children and left her in a snow bank to freeze. Loud voice expressing what an ungracious, thoughtless cruel beast I was. She kept repeating that no one lives forever. I wasn’t sure if that meant me, her, the planeload of people or what.
Resolve not to trade seats stiffened. She got up to use the bathroom while the plane was still loading, telling me she would have to go a lot and I would always have to move.
“No problem,” I said, resolve now steely.
Flight attendant came by and I asked if it was possible to change seats. Not possible, due to 100% full flight. Woman returned and complained to the attendant that I would not accommodate her. Attendant said this would not help because her foot would still not be able to rest in the aisle.
Big brouhaha until attendant finally found someone a few rows down in the aisle who would sit in the window while the girl setting in our row’s window seat graciously (unlike Grapeshot) took the center seat. I jumped up and let the exchange take place. Heard loud conversation with my nemesis new seatmates about my heartlessness. Screw it. People craning necks to see me, the monster. Sat down again and opened my book.
No explanations to new seat mate, the pretty young girl from the window seat. I just said, “You are a saint.”
Rest of flight normal. Chatted with girl who was coming back from 3 months in Columbia, Costa Rica and Panama. Student from Canada. Wonderful trip. She had a tight connection and I actually swapped seats at the end of the flight so that she could dash for her plane. Nice young man in the window seat en route to a job interview.
Wondered why crazy woman had not pre-boarded. Wondered why she didn’t order wheelchair. Wondered why anyone would go to Boston in January with a bare midriff. Wondered if she ate the smelly chicken. Glad my life is not as chaotic as hers.
We both have a story to tell now.
I am still waiting for answers from agents. I am retired. Lots of do and miles to go.
Aloha.
Grapeshot
I am organized when I travel, with itineraries, addresses, phone numbers, maps, packing lists, water, a small snack, luggage tags, a hostess present, all of the small but necessary things to ease the way on the road and at the destination. On the way down, I was squeezed into the middle seat of a full plane, not much fun, and I was glad to see an aisle seat on the way home. The flight was about an hour late departing, and I boarded with my zone number.
Usually I am a nice person, accommodating and even gracious, going out of my way to do a good deed. But sometimes I am still the selfish only child, and one of these times occurred on the plane home.
A floozy woman pushing hard into middle age came down the aisle, stopped and pointed at the middle seat. I stood and let her in. She was fifty pounds overweight and had a bare midriff which bulged fore and aft out of her tight top. Wild thick hair. She was hobbling, with an elastic bandage wrapped foot. Besides a handbag, she was schlepping a soft drink container, and a carton of fast food. Greasy chicken from the smell of it. And a big brown (fake) fur coat. In Boston in winter, with a bare midriff and sandals, you need all the fur you can get.
I offered to put her coat in the overhead bin, which she let me do. This accomplished, she asked to trade seats. Don't believe she said please. Don't think it was a word in her vocabulary.
I said no. No thoughts, just an instinctive no. Actually, I didn’t want to sit within ten rows of this woman. Well, you would have thought I had murdered her children and left her in a snow bank to freeze. Loud voice expressing what an ungracious, thoughtless cruel beast I was. She kept repeating that no one lives forever. I wasn’t sure if that meant me, her, the planeload of people or what.
Resolve not to trade seats stiffened. She got up to use the bathroom while the plane was still loading, telling me she would have to go a lot and I would always have to move.
“No problem,” I said, resolve now steely.
Flight attendant came by and I asked if it was possible to change seats. Not possible, due to 100% full flight. Woman returned and complained to the attendant that I would not accommodate her. Attendant said this would not help because her foot would still not be able to rest in the aisle.
Big brouhaha until attendant finally found someone a few rows down in the aisle who would sit in the window while the girl setting in our row’s window seat graciously (unlike Grapeshot) took the center seat. I jumped up and let the exchange take place. Heard loud conversation with my nemesis new seatmates about my heartlessness. Screw it. People craning necks to see me, the monster. Sat down again and opened my book.
No explanations to new seat mate, the pretty young girl from the window seat. I just said, “You are a saint.”
Rest of flight normal. Chatted with girl who was coming back from 3 months in Columbia, Costa Rica and Panama. Student from Canada. Wonderful trip. She had a tight connection and I actually swapped seats at the end of the flight so that she could dash for her plane. Nice young man in the window seat en route to a job interview.
Wondered why crazy woman had not pre-boarded. Wondered why she didn’t order wheelchair. Wondered why anyone would go to Boston in January with a bare midriff. Wondered if she ate the smelly chicken. Glad my life is not as chaotic as hers.
We both have a story to tell now.
I am still waiting for answers from agents. I am retired. Lots of do and miles to go.
Aloha.
Grapeshot
Test of New Software from Word
Back from Atlanta, which was a nice break, climate-wise, from frosty New England? The trip was not as stressful as I had anticipated, and by going there, I confirmed I had done the right thing, which was to conduct a bit of family business not germane to this blog.
I am pretty organized when I travel, with itineraries, addresses, phone numbers, maps, packing lists, water, a small snack, luggage tags, a hostess present, all of the small but necessary things to ease the way on the road and at the destination. On the way down, I was squeezed into the middle seat of a full plane, not much fun, and I was glad to see an aisle seat on the way home. The flight was about an hour late departing, and I boarded with my zone number. Usually I am a nice person, accommodating and even gracious, going out of my way to do a good deed. But sometimes I am still the selfish only child, and one of these times occurred on the plane home.
A woman came down the aisle, stopped and pointed at the middle seat. I stood and let her in. She was fifty pounds overweight and had a bare midriff which bulged fore and aft out of her tight top. Wild thick auburn hair. She was hobbling, with an elastic bandage wrapped foot. Besides a handbag, she was schlepping a soft drink container, and a carton of smelly fast food. Greasy chicken from the smell of it. And a big brown (fake) fur coat. In Boston in winter, with a bare midriff and sandals, you need all the fur you can get. I offered to put her coat in the overhead bin, which she let me do. This accomplished, she asked to trade seats. I said no. No thoughts, just an instinctive no. Actually, I didn’t want to sit within ten rows of this woman. Well, you would have thought I had murdered her children and left her in a snow bank to freeze. Loud voice expressing what an ungracious, thoughtless inhuman beast I was. She kept repeating that no one lives forever. I wasn’t sure if that meant me, her, the planeload of people or what. Resolve not to trade seats stiffened. She got up to use the bathroom while the plane was still loading, telling me she would have to go a lot and I would always have to move. “No problem,” I said, resolve now steely. Flight attendant came by and I asked if it was possible to change seats. Not possible, due to 100% full flight. Woman returned and complained to the attendant that I would not trade seats. Attendant said this would not help because her foot would still not be able to rest in the aisle. Big brouhaha until attendant finally found someone a few rows down in the aisle who would sit in the window while the girl setting in our row’s window seat graciously (unlike Grapeshot) took the center seat. I jumped up and let the exchange take place. I heard loud conversation with my nemesis’ new seatmates about my heartlessness. Screw it. People craning necks to see me, the monster. Sat down again and opened my book. Sucked it up. No explanations to new seat mate, the pretty young girl from the window seat. I just said, “You are a saint.” Rest of flight normal. Chatted with girl who was coming back from 3 months in Columbia, Costa Rica and Panama. Student from Canada. Wonderful trip. She had a tight connection and I actually swapped seats at the end of the flight so that she could dash for her plane. Nice young man in the window seat en route to a job interview. Wondered why crazy woman had not pre-boarded. Wondered why she didn’t order wheelchair. Wondered why anyone would go to Boston in January with a bare midriff. Wondered if she ate the smelly chicken. Glad my life is not as chaotic as hers. We both have a story to tell now. I am still waiting for answers from agents. I am retired. Lots of do and miles to go. Aloha. Grapeshot
I am pretty organized when I travel, with itineraries, addresses, phone numbers, maps, packing lists, water, a small snack, luggage tags, a hostess present, all of the small but necessary things to ease the way on the road and at the destination. On the way down, I was squeezed into the middle seat of a full plane, not much fun, and I was glad to see an aisle seat on the way home. The flight was about an hour late departing, and I boarded with my zone number. Usually I am a nice person, accommodating and even gracious, going out of my way to do a good deed. But sometimes I am still the selfish only child, and one of these times occurred on the plane home.
A woman came down the aisle, stopped and pointed at the middle seat. I stood and let her in. She was fifty pounds overweight and had a bare midriff which bulged fore and aft out of her tight top. Wild thick auburn hair. She was hobbling, with an elastic bandage wrapped foot. Besides a handbag, she was schlepping a soft drink container, and a carton of smelly fast food. Greasy chicken from the smell of it. And a big brown (fake) fur coat. In Boston in winter, with a bare midriff and sandals, you need all the fur you can get. I offered to put her coat in the overhead bin, which she let me do. This accomplished, she asked to trade seats. I said no. No thoughts, just an instinctive no. Actually, I didn’t want to sit within ten rows of this woman. Well, you would have thought I had murdered her children and left her in a snow bank to freeze. Loud voice expressing what an ungracious, thoughtless inhuman beast I was. She kept repeating that no one lives forever. I wasn’t sure if that meant me, her, the planeload of people or what. Resolve not to trade seats stiffened. She got up to use the bathroom while the plane was still loading, telling me she would have to go a lot and I would always have to move. “No problem,” I said, resolve now steely. Flight attendant came by and I asked if it was possible to change seats. Not possible, due to 100% full flight. Woman returned and complained to the attendant that I would not trade seats. Attendant said this would not help because her foot would still not be able to rest in the aisle. Big brouhaha until attendant finally found someone a few rows down in the aisle who would sit in the window while the girl setting in our row’s window seat graciously (unlike Grapeshot) took the center seat. I jumped up and let the exchange take place. I heard loud conversation with my nemesis’ new seatmates about my heartlessness. Screw it. People craning necks to see me, the monster. Sat down again and opened my book. Sucked it up. No explanations to new seat mate, the pretty young girl from the window seat. I just said, “You are a saint.” Rest of flight normal. Chatted with girl who was coming back from 3 months in Columbia, Costa Rica and Panama. Student from Canada. Wonderful trip. She had a tight connection and I actually swapped seats at the end of the flight so that she could dash for her plane. Nice young man in the window seat en route to a job interview. Wondered why crazy woman had not pre-boarded. Wondered why she didn’t order wheelchair. Wondered why anyone would go to Boston in January with a bare midriff. Wondered if she ate the smelly chicken. Glad my life is not as chaotic as hers. We both have a story to tell now. I am still waiting for answers from agents. I am retired. Lots of do and miles to go. Aloha. Grapeshot
Monday, January 02, 2006
2006 Comes Rumbling In
You can have a happy new year or not, as you please. Don't think I am demanding it of you. I make few demands of my readers at any time of year. Just please don't eat margarine or worse yet, imitation margarine. Eat bravely and truly and authentically.
Of course, along with 80% of the populace, I have resolved to drop 10 pounds. Now that my time is more my own, I can create a gym schedule to my liking, with some classes and trying some of the jazzy new machines. Can't do those funny things where you aren't exactly running or cycling or walking but a weird combination of the above. They give me a permanent charlie horse in the left thigh. Can't do the ball, either. Makes me want to vomit when I lean back.
Let us discuss my winter sports career, which was pretty abysmal. I tried to learn to ice skate wearing a friend's brother's old hockey skates, which did not fit. The occasion was totally dreadful, i.e. late getting home in spite of my mother's imprecations, missing a girl scout function after the leader had bragged to everyone how reliable I always was, and being abandonned by my faster skating chums in mid-lake with the ice cracking under my buckling ankles. That was it. Major guilt, major trauma, didn't need no more of that shit.
Many moons later, I tried skiing. Because I thought I should, not because I really wanted to. You don't want to hear about my first chairlift ride anymore than I want to remember it, or waiting for the chairlift in the 10 degree with wind Illinois/Wisconsin winters. Actually I always preferred the rope tow. I had achieved a modest snowplow on the beginner's slope (never more), and was contentedly practicing same, when a pro ran out of the ski school, collared me, said they had been watching me and I was the most awkward looking, klutziest skier he had ever seen in his entire ski pro life, and he wanted to give me a few pointers on the spot. Made me feel really good. So good I never strapped on downhill skies again. I enjoyed cross country skiing for a few years. Almost had the hang of it when we moved and I never went out again and then my ski boots rotted.
Actually sports and me were never on terribly good terms. One tennis pro said I had the worst forehand he had ever seen, and whoever taught me should be banned from the profession. Once I hit the tennis ball into my own eye. Well, you get the idea.
I had a good time fencing and won the class night school tournament. Might have done well if I'd kept it up. Wonder if it's too late. Trying to skewer people with a pointy metal thing is actually fun.
It's awkward when your parents were both good athletes and you have somehow inherited the two left feet klutz genes. Could happen to anyone. At sixteen, I managed to pass Red Cross senior life saving, my only athletic triumph outside of fencing. I never did get the hang of going head first off the diving board, but my running belly flop was not too painful.
So when I go to the gym and stride along on the treadmill or lift some weights, this is a real triumph of optimism over experience. Haven't fallen off the treadmill yet. I did smash my finger with a weight and the nail turned black, but that was when I was adjusting the weights, not actually lifting.
I haven't fallen down since that hike last September. God, it's embarrassing when you go down so hard the ground shakes. I am not THAT heavy. At Burning Man I only fell off the bicycle twice. Well, maybe thrice.
Give me credit for trying. And it if pleases you to do so, make something of 2006. Hash, mincemeat, win an oscar. And if you play the game like I do, give it up.
On the other hand, I lift a wine glass with grace and charm and savoir faire.
Grapeshot
Of course, along with 80% of the populace, I have resolved to drop 10 pounds. Now that my time is more my own, I can create a gym schedule to my liking, with some classes and trying some of the jazzy new machines. Can't do those funny things where you aren't exactly running or cycling or walking but a weird combination of the above. They give me a permanent charlie horse in the left thigh. Can't do the ball, either. Makes me want to vomit when I lean back.
Let us discuss my winter sports career, which was pretty abysmal. I tried to learn to ice skate wearing a friend's brother's old hockey skates, which did not fit. The occasion was totally dreadful, i.e. late getting home in spite of my mother's imprecations, missing a girl scout function after the leader had bragged to everyone how reliable I always was, and being abandonned by my faster skating chums in mid-lake with the ice cracking under my buckling ankles. That was it. Major guilt, major trauma, didn't need no more of that shit.
Many moons later, I tried skiing. Because I thought I should, not because I really wanted to. You don't want to hear about my first chairlift ride anymore than I want to remember it, or waiting for the chairlift in the 10 degree with wind Illinois/Wisconsin winters. Actually I always preferred the rope tow. I had achieved a modest snowplow on the beginner's slope (never more), and was contentedly practicing same, when a pro ran out of the ski school, collared me, said they had been watching me and I was the most awkward looking, klutziest skier he had ever seen in his entire ski pro life, and he wanted to give me a few pointers on the spot. Made me feel really good. So good I never strapped on downhill skies again. I enjoyed cross country skiing for a few years. Almost had the hang of it when we moved and I never went out again and then my ski boots rotted.
Actually sports and me were never on terribly good terms. One tennis pro said I had the worst forehand he had ever seen, and whoever taught me should be banned from the profession. Once I hit the tennis ball into my own eye. Well, you get the idea.
I had a good time fencing and won the class night school tournament. Might have done well if I'd kept it up. Wonder if it's too late. Trying to skewer people with a pointy metal thing is actually fun.
It's awkward when your parents were both good athletes and you have somehow inherited the two left feet klutz genes. Could happen to anyone. At sixteen, I managed to pass Red Cross senior life saving, my only athletic triumph outside of fencing. I never did get the hang of going head first off the diving board, but my running belly flop was not too painful.
So when I go to the gym and stride along on the treadmill or lift some weights, this is a real triumph of optimism over experience. Haven't fallen off the treadmill yet. I did smash my finger with a weight and the nail turned black, but that was when I was adjusting the weights, not actually lifting.
I haven't fallen down since that hike last September. God, it's embarrassing when you go down so hard the ground shakes. I am not THAT heavy. At Burning Man I only fell off the bicycle twice. Well, maybe thrice.
Give me credit for trying. And it if pleases you to do so, make something of 2006. Hash, mincemeat, win an oscar. And if you play the game like I do, give it up.
On the other hand, I lift a wine glass with grace and charm and savoir faire.
Grapeshot
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