Archive: February 2008

This week, I completed my second new recipe for February with a batch of Russian tea cakes (courtesy of Deb), otherwise known as Mexican wedding cookies. I am not certain whether, out of the two names, one is a misnomer or if the two cultures independently devised similar confections, but I’m not letting myself get bogged down in anthropological details because the real victory here is that — ahem — I have finally finished Anna Karenina!

Thank you. You’re too kind.

Last night, as JG slumbered next to me, I sat Indian-style in bed, hunched over the last thirty pages of the book that has taken over my leisure reading for the past two months. The pink post-its marking the cast of characters (with pronunciations and nicknames) and endnotes were crinkled and worn, and the front cover developed a bit of a crunch from the clamp of my book light. At 11:35, I removed my index card bookmark, closed the book, and turned off my light. Done. And unfortunately, not that satisfying. Maybe I am just not smart enough for Russian literature. I had to read the cheater notes to get through Crime and Punishment in high school, and I barely made it halfway through The Brothers Karamazov during a half-hearted summer attempt at building literary character. I find the genre so dark and heavy, which wouldn’t be so unpalatable if every minuscule detail were not handed down in flowery sentences, scattered with French sayings, and speckled with endnotes about random visiting princes. That said, there were moments where I was completely captivated, and I was alarmed when the narrator hinted that one of the characters might die; I enjoyed probably 60% of the book. I’m pleased with myself for finishing, just 18 hours before book club tonight, but I doubt that I will put myself through it again.

Where was I?

Oh, right. What better way to celebrate crossing the finish line of page 817 than a platter of fluffy hazelnut cookies? Unlike Anna Karenina, these little bites are light and amazingly simple. Other than pulverizing the hazelnuts in a food processor, it was downright relaxing to beat and mix ingredients, chill the dough, and roll cookies. Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen smelled sweet and toasty, and my fingers were covered with confectioner’s sugar.

I halved the recipe because I could not imagine trying to get rid of 4 dozen cookies, but now I kind of regret it. The 2 dozen I bring tonight will be snatched up alongside cups of tea and coffee, and I will have no leftovers for snack times. I just have to hope that my book club mates will be satiated from a dinner that, according to our hostess, will include pierogi, smoked salmon and tapenade appetizers, borscht, stroganoff, Chicken Kiev, black bread, and champagne. Actually, I’m not sure how much dessert I will need after all of that.

I can’t help but wonder if my reading experience would have been improved with the addition of these cookies. Maybe I should give The Brothers Karamazov a second try after I’ve made another batch.

I have learned an important lesson this week. Apparently, pathetic is the way to win over the hearts of dog lovers, because my most pitiful post on record was honored with the 2008 Bloggie Doggie award for Best Dogarazzi! Ironically, because of my busy week wrapping up my old job, I spent the least amount of energy on that post. One picture, one FlickrToy effect, and a rambling diatribe of pity and boom — internet recognition! With this newfound knowledge, Ted will now use his manipulative tactic more than ever. We can only hope that it will be for good, never evil.

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A couple of weeks after we got Ted, we took him for his first trip to the pet store to pick up a tag. It was then that I realized that JG is a big softie at the pet store, and despite my best impression of a bad cop, we have always left with a new toy. On this first occasion, we bought a big, blue rope toy after Ted nosed around in that section, but his interest in the toy once we got home was rather fleeting. I chalked it up to his mouth being so small, and set the toy aside for when Ted might grow into it.

How times have changed! Playing with the rope toy has become one of Ted’s new favorite activities. It is the closest thing we can muster to playing outside, and I enjoy it very much because I can stand in one place or sit on the edge of the couch while Ted jumps for the toy. Even before we got a dog, I knew that I would not be the one who was going to run around with him in the back yard. I was content to sit with with our hypothetical dog and pet him, but I’m glad that I can handle this action.

Ted sits quietly until I tell him to “go ahead,” at which point he lunges at the toy with surprising brutality. He is incredibly adept with balancing on his hind legs, and he catches the bottom of the toy with his paws with such force that he has occasionally ripped it out of my unsuspecting hand. Then, I have to go over and yank the toy back, so that I can assert my dominance, and it’s annoying for everyone. Ted makes the funniest, would-be ferocious noises as he goes after the toy, as though he is trying to prove that he really is a big dog, and not a small terrier as in reality. Of course, me cooing, “Who’s a scary doggie?” probably doesn’t help his delusion.

Get your daily dog dose with Smalls, Kaya, Rufus, Ben, Gus, and Zapp!

In the space of just one morning, I have already whacked myself in the face with not one, but two heavy objects. First, a gust of wind blew my door into my chin when I got into my car. Later, I misjudged how much room I needed to get through a doorway, and one of the large mailing tubes I was carrying smacked me in the cheek. Unfortunately, I bruise really easily — “like a peach!” (anyone?) — but I haven’t checked a mirror yet to assess the damage. Face bruises are kind of high on my list of bad omens.

I need no second bidding to enter the land of fun possibilities and what-ifs, thanks to another lovely installment of Q and A.

Anna asked:

If you could trade places with anyone for one day who would it be and why?

My silly choice would be someone like Reese Witherspoon or Natalie Portman, because I love how they manage to avoid all of the stupid celebrity trappings like gossip, mug shots, and car chases while simultaneously being incredibly fashionable and career-savvy. I’m so curious how their everyday lives are. Maybe it’s more accurate to say that I’d like to observe them, in a non-scary way, than be them.

My lazy choice would be a dog with good owners, because seriously — that is the life, people.

However, I am currently struggling with the question of graduate school, and how it relates to potential but not guaranteed job growth, the financial consequences of taking out additional loans, and the investment of time and energy, so I am more inclined to make a boring choice. I would like to trade places with a pharmaceutical regulatory writer, so that I could get a glimpse into the career I think I want to pursue, and thereby have more insight into this grad school issue. Alternatively, I would like to trade places with someone who currently has whatever my dream job happens to be, so I can just figure that out already.

Operation Pink Herring asked:

If you could go back in time and change one thing you did, what would it be?

There are a handful of stupid, disrespectful, or downright awful things I did to my parents during my short-lived, yet fiery, teenage rebellious stage. I would like to go back to my seventeen-year-old self and prevent those events, if only to alleviate the annoying obviousness to my twentysomething self that, oh, I was such an idiot.

Also, for the sake of having a specific choice, I would not have run for student council in high school. It was such an overachiever thing to do, to run for vice president and president of my class, but that extra-curricular activity was the bane of my existence. My class was completely unmotivated to support car washes, buy carnation messages at Valentine’s Day, or dress up for Spirit Week, but they were totally on board with complaining about how lame our prom was. Plus, no one ever told me that the class president is responsible for planning reunions. Where was that in the contract? It doesn’t make sense for me to plan anything from 250 miles away, so I blindly assume that someone else will pull something together. I simply refuse to be in the reunion equivalent situation of rigging up a freaking balloon arch 45 minutes before the photographer gets there with his shiny fringe backdrop.

Previously: Lent

In the summers between years of college, JG and I worked at a camp called Pocono Plateau. Neither of us was intentionally looking for a camp job, but when a recruiter came to a campus fellowship meeting during the spring of our freshman year, it was one of those “what the heck?” moments. We signed on as lifeguards and program facilitators after one visit.

As true rookies — we were rare specimens of not having been previous campers — we learned how to facilitate the high-ropes courses, and we spent many, many hours coaxing kids up the rock wall or down the zip line. Somehow, I became the go-to person for little kids’ parachute games and nature hikes, and JG often found himself leading the compass navigation activity. We taught teenagers how to do trust falls and hoist each other over a wall. Every Sunday, we gritted our teeth through swim tests, which were the scariest moments of being lifeguards, by far. There were cozy campfires on the weekends, and someone always took a ritual Saturday trip to Wal-mart, which meant a good twenty-minute drive.

Lest I paint an inaccurate picture, it must be said that working at a camp is really hard work. It’s the type of job that should not be broken down into an hourly wage. Every morning, the whole staff raced to clean bathrooms before the campers returned from breakfast. Periodically, the waterfront staff spent the whole morning scrubbing scum off of canoes. Every Saturday, there was a mad rush to clean the entire camp in preparation for the next week of campers because we weren’t free to start our 24 hours of time off until everything was approved. Sometimes, counselor needs chipped away at our staffing resources, but we still had to do the same amount of work. The time that we only had six people for everyday operations lives on in infamy as That Awful Week.

Despite the inherent hardships of camp life, JG and I loved it. Even after the summers ended, we spent weekends volunteering with high ropes and in the kitchen. We met some of our best friends there, even to the point that camp people composed half of our wedding party. Best of all, we grew closer together as friends, and then as more. There’s something about scrubbing the bottom of a canoe that will draw people together. I’m not sure if it’s seeing that person with absolutely no pretense or the simple knowledge that that person is willing to hunker down and scrub, or maybe it’s both. JG left me notes in my mailbox when he knew I was having a bad day, and I still have them in a shoe box in my nightstand. Later, when one of us was away to be a counselor, we started to trade recordings. I walked along the lake on our favorite trail and talked into a tape recorder, and I left the whole set-up in his mailbox with a note to “press play.” A couple of days later, I found the tape recorder back in my mailbox with the addition of a set of earbuds “for discreet listening.” We had our first fights, discussed getting engaged, and received our first Christmas ornaments at camp. It’s a special place for us.

All of these memories flooded back when we watched last night’s episode of The Salt-N-Pepa Show, because they went on a retreat at our camp! We know the guys who facilitated their high ropes! We belayed those courses! We took our picture by that sign! We ruled over that waterfront! We cleaned that dorm! We sat on that double rocking chair! And Salt-N-Pepa were there!

Crazy.

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