On the first bite, I was like, “I would ask this soup to prom.” The second bite was also good, but with each subsequent bite, it tasted less like soup and more like dessert.
That didn’t stop me from eating two bowls, but I wondered how I might cut the sweetness next time. I tappity-typed out a comment on the webpage, and just before I hit Post Comment, I thought to myself, “Self, you’re doing great. I don’t want to take anything away from the amazing progress you’ve made in the kitchen. But. When something doesn’t turn out quite right—I’m not saying always, I’m not sayingalways—just a lot of the time, or all the times I can remember right now, it’s because you’ve made a misstep.”
I considered where I might have gone wrong, and the only sweet thing in there was coconut milk, so I looked at the can.
Guess what was made of coconut “juice”, sugar, polysorbate 60, a variety of diglycerides, propylene glycol alginate (that sounds healthy), sorbitan monostearate (good for preventing tennis elbow, I’ve heard), guar gum, and locust bean gum. Two kinds of gum. Both guar and locust bean.
There is no food whose name so belies its evil constitution as hushpuppies.
You have hush, as in “quiet”, as in “calm”, as in “mama singing you to sleep”. And then you have puppies, and who doesn’t love puppies?! OMG puppiiiiiiiiiiieees!
Speaking of which, I got to hold this chihuahua-pug puppy on Friday! He was 8 weeks old and so scrambly and smoochy. He wouldn’t stop smooching me on the face! I hated it. Hahahahahahaha.
Seriously, look at how cute he was! He was the size of that pint! And he got passed around the table, and he scrambled and smooched everyone so hard, until he fell asleep in a little ball in my friend’s arms—waaaaaaaaaaaaaah I want him.
OK, I got derailed.
Yes, hushpuppies. What an innocuous name for something that hurtsmy very soul. But also/mainly my stomach because they’re full of gluten and sweet, sweet crack cocaine so I can’t stop eating them.
Last night I walked out of Squid’s, unzipped my pants, and drove home with my angry gut spilling out over my lap.
And at The Q Shack, where they have that honey butter Country Crock business that you dip ’em in—nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.
Let me paraphrase Louis C.K. here and say, I’m not done with hushpuppies when I’m full. I’m done with hushpuppies when I hate myself.
They’re probably one of those foods that I should just make off-limits.
But who am I kidding? I could never live like that because what’s life without the delicious fried goodness of bloatdragons every now and again?
I’ll have to find my man some other way. Thinking I might build a trap.
With all my dating woes, people frequently ask what I’m looking for in a man, and remarkably (considering how generally wordy I am), I’ve never been able to put it into words, you know? I mean, I want funny, but funny’s not enough, as evidenced by a recent two-date sequence. He has to be physically attractive too, but my taste in what’s physically attractive is (1) not all that conventional (I ain’t got no problem with bald, and sometimes a big nose just works) and (2) varies widely (lithe rock climber, sure; Viking with a mead gut, also good). He should be smart but not an übernerd. Kind but not a pansy. I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW.
But then yesterday, I was stopped at a stoplight, and I saw this.
Pretty sure I could be down with any man who says, “Amy, you and your parts come first.”
Thanks, Sport Durst.
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Three years ago, I discovered that I was NCGS. That’s like NCIS but infinitely less badass.
Ran across a blog post today titled Worst End of School Year Mom Ever. I can relate. I think most teachers feel like bad teachers at the end of the year.
Main reason: standardized testing. It’s The Worrrrrrrrrrst. Bad for kids, sure, but as I tell the kids: “At least you get to DO something. I just have to SIT THERE.” In fact, read I Got Middle Schooled for a little taste of what teachers and proctors go through. It’s horrifying and hilarious.
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Three years ago, I shared my experiences with anti-depressants. The magic bullet I mentioned was amino acids—a monster truck load of them per day—which I took for several years, and they definitely helped. But they were super-duper-expensive and not-at-all covered by my super-duper-crappy health insurance. I weaned myself off them within the last six months, and I think I’m doing OK. I have my moments, but between CrossFit, food choices, and workin on mah shit, I’m maintaining a pretty healthy level of sanity.
In my professional life, I’m graded on a rubric. Did you know that? There are six standards upon which teachers are evaluated, and for each we are deemed Developing, Proficient, Accomplished, or Distinguished.
A couple weeks ago, I was out with some friends, one of whom is also a teacher, and we got to talking about the rubric. For shits and giggles, I suggested we use it to rate ourselves in other aspects of our lives.
Honestly, I can’t remember much—we were a couple cocktails in—except that Meg rated herself Distinguished in both Being Alone and Handling Her Shit (a super-accurate self-assessment), but I’ve been thinking about it lately, and here’s my self-evaluation.
Developing
1. Dressing myself. I still don’t know what looks good, what to buy, or how to put it together. It takes a ton of emotional effort for me to dress up. All I want to wear is jeans, my Obama hoodie, and
these guys.
But I’m getting better. I wore skinny jeans, for Christ’s sake.
2. Dating/being in a relationship. You know how everybody’s always like, “Gahd, another Taylor Swift break-up song?! When is she gonna realize that the only constant in all these situations is her?”?
Yeah, I realize it’s me. I do. I’ve done a lot of work and put myself out there, but clearly I need more practice/support/guidance.
To that end, two things:
(1) In a maneuver I’m calling Amy’s Last-Ditch Campaign to Get Inseminated by a Dude She’d Like to Chill with for Awhile/Maybe Forever (ALDCGIDSLCAMF, for short), I joined Match Fucking Dot Com. For one month. ONE MONTH, and end scene—I shall forever abandon my Sisyphean online dating endeavors.
And (2) to quote Homeland Security: If You See Something, Say Something™. Friends, you have to tell me when you see the metaphorical spinach in my teeth, OK? If there’s some invisible-to-myself road block I’m throwing up, let your girl know. For real.
Proficient
1. You know, as recently as a few months ago, I would’ve put cooking in the Developing category, but I’ve had some pretty consistent victories lately. ‘Member those carnitas? <licks chops>
Also, I marinated chicken. (Me, out on the town with friends: “You guys, I’m marinating chicken right now.” Friend: (pause) “Is it… is it in the fridge?” Hahaha. I couldn’t blame her for checking—I’ve made some questionable judgment calls in the past.)
I made Chinese chicken salad with it.
There’s marinated chicken up in there somewhere, swear to god.
That sludgy business in the jelly jar? Homemade sesame-ginger motherfucking salad dressing. Booyah.
I mean, every once in a while, mistakes are made.
In hindsight, there were a number of points at which a different decision could have rendered a more desirable outcome.
But for the most part, I’m feeding myself yummy, healthy things, so I’m gonna go ahead and declare myself Proficient in the cooking department.
Hubris? Probably.
2. CrossFit. Listen, I’m never going to be competitive. That’s OK. But I’ve been lifting heavy objects for nearly three years, and I’ve got pretty skrong, y’all (265-lb deadlift last night—what what!). And my form on most things is solid. Coach Rich watched me doing snatches the other day, and he said, “God, you’re so good at that.” :)
3. Storytelling/hosting storytelling events. If you’ve seen me at the Monti, I think you’d agree I’m getting better and better.
Accomplished
1. Teaching. I’m a good teacher. I’m not an exceptional teacher. I don’t take work home with me, and I don’t blaze any pedagogical trails, but I try to do cool things with my students, and I work hard to improve my practice every year.
2. Fostering dogs/getting them adopted. Git yer dogs here at Amy’s House o’ Pit Bulls!
3. Blogging. I have a readership. It’s small but, based on a pie chart I only sort of understand, I believe very loyal. (Thanks, guys!)
Distinguished
1. Jackshit.
Except one thing that I won’t share here because this is a family show. ;)
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Now you go. Don’t be shy. This is not about judgment. It’s about personal growth.
This afternoon I made breakfasts, lunches, and dinners for the week. I win everything.
Let’s start with breakfasts. Take eight eggs, scramble ’em. Mix ’em with half an onion (diced), a cup of chopped spinach, some salty-pepper, and either cheese or crumbled bacon or chopped up breakfast links. (I’ve done all three. The only one that didn’t work was when, instead of tossing in crumbled bacon, I decided to line the cups with bacon strips. I’d seen it in a magazine or something. I ended up with perfectly cooked eggy cups wrapped in mostly raw bacon. Mmm, trichinosis.) Fill sprayed muffin tin cups about 2/3 of the way full. Bake at 350 for half an hour. Voila!
So remember when I had norovirus? Yeah, this çoup was amongst the things that I barfed up, so I was worried my palate would say NOPE, but phew. Still delicious.
It was a little touch-and-go there for a minute at the end because the recipe asked for broiling. But once I figured out where the broiler was (It’s that drawer! Under the oven! That’s not just storage!) and got Redford’s giant skull out of the way, I was broiling! I broiled! I’m a broiler!
I wanna kiss you all over/And over and again/I wanna kiss you all over/’Til the night closes in.
I put it with a little chopped cilantro and white onion and some tortilla chips.
The other day my friend Dori posted a recipe for chorizo and kale soup on Facebook. I looked at the ingredients and was like, “Yes. Yes. Um, yes. Oh hell yes.”
Tonight when I went to the grocery store, I looked for the meat but couldn’t find it, so I eventually went to the meat guy and asked where he kept his linguiça. (No, I didn’t really ask like that! I learned my lesson about crafting one’s requests of the grocer.) He stopped what he was doing, walked out from the behind the meat counter and down the aisle to show me, so then when I remembered I was actually supposed to be getting chorizo, not linguiça, I was too embarrassed to go back and ask again. Didn’t matter didn’t matter SO DIDN’T MATTER ONE BIT.
Linguiça and kale soup!!
Nom nom f-bomb.
You guys, make it. Make this çoup. I’m pretty sure this çoup is one of the reasons why we’re here on this earth.
I’m meeting Mr. One Big Duck next week. Like I said, it’s (with 95% certainty) a no-go, but I just have to. His message was/profile is so great, not to mention he’s real easy on the eyes — I just want to assure myself that prospects like him actually exist.
Plus, there’s that goddamn 5% chance that he’ll be so fantastic that I’ll overlook the duck.
Look at me, breaking my Don’t Write About the Good Ones policy. But it’s minimal and nebulous so it’s OK, right?
Speaking of OKCupid, I got fed up with it three years ago and posted a profile on Match.
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Two years ago, I over-indulged and wondered whether it was worth it. This continues to be a struggle. Nowadays I participate in a weekly event I like to call Gluten Sunday because Sunday means brunch, and you can tell me that an omelet or other eggy dish will do just as well but those are lies — LIES — because brunch means French toast and/or biscuits and/or pancakes and/or waffles. And I’m always groggy after, but it’s not so bad. As long as I can lay off the gluten the rest of the week. Which continues to be a struggle.
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Probably going to get somebody a flock of chicks again like I did a year ago but also a year of school. YEAR OF SCHOOL.
Hey, visually-oriented Bruxistists, what do you think about the link color? I tried purple, but it didn’t pop. My graphic designer suggested hot pink, but it looked a little too Miami Vice for me. Burnt orange? Does it go with the other colors? If not, what does?
The Mexican braised beef that I cooked(!) is delicioso. I’m eating it in lettuce wraps with radishes and cilantro. The only sad thing is there’s all this nom-nom sauce left over, and it’s begging for a big hunk of bread to sop it up. Drinking it would be frowned-upon, right?
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I missed 12% by six-thousandths of a pointthree years ago. Got it a year later, but what a crock. Getting my National Boards didn’t make me a better teacher. You know what has made me a better teacher? (1) Wanting to become a better teacher, and (2) working with good people who also want to become better teachers. That’s it.
Now I feel kind of trapped by the 12% (#FWP). I can’t move out of my Middle Child Generalist certification area (3rd-6th grades) and keep the salary bump. And I don’t know if I really want to teach Middle Children anymore. Middle Earth Children would be fun.
About three times a month, somebody tells me I’ve lost weight, like they did two years ago. And five, ten, and twenty years ago. Now I just say, “Huh. I wouldn’t know. I don’t weigh myself.” They usually try to reassure me that their assessment is correct. Then I just look at them and shrug and look baffled. Then they awkwardly walk away. It’s fun.
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A year ago, I participated in a CrossFit competition against my cousin. Except that the whole thing happened inside my skull because I’m very crazy. She posted on Facebook recently that she’d gotten her first muscle-up…
Yeah. I’m not ever, ever, ever, ever going to be able to do a muscle-up.
And I’m actually OK with that. I was telling a friend recently that I grew up feeling inferior because my elder siblings were smarter than I was. After therapy and transformational seminars and inspirational quote-of-the-day calendars, I decided that was untrue! I had made it up! Empowerment!!1!
But later, I realized, it is true, and that’s OK.
Because the fact is I’m smart enough AND — they’d tell you this too — neither of my siblings could/would get up and host the Monti StorySLAM, and I can/do. I’d love to be intellectually brilliant like my brother and sister, but I have other talents. So it is with my cousin. Nobody’s good at everything, but everybody’s good at something. Or as my buddy Phil said recently, everything something nobody.
