Fall 2007

Lakeville, Indiana. Taken in September 2007.

Done

Thank god November isn't one of those thirty-one-day months. I'm spent!

M__________ will ___ attend

In what may possibly be the ultimate in useless internet-aided pseudo-voyeurism, I've spent some time browsing other people's dropped and discarded grocery lists. Fascinating stuff. I bet some enterprising sociology student could make a thesis out of this gold mine. Here's one of my favorites, because I too have the habit of using old wedding invites and the like for my grocery lists. I know, I know, people put so much time and effort and money into those things! But really, they make great lists! They're heavy! They don't crumple! They're easy to fish out of my bag! I just wish it had occured to me to save all of our RSVP cards like these people apparently did, because they would have lasted for months (if not years!) of list-making.

Not your daddy's Jack Daniels

So the Times did this whole article on bourbon, and even went out of its way to clarify that bourbon does not have to be from Kentucky to be considered bourbon, contrary to popular belief. But do they bother to include any Tennessee bourbons in the tasting? Ahem. NO. But never fear, because we have made it our goal to sample the best bourbons that Tennessee has to offer and report on our findings. Such public servants we are. And so far? Our favorite is a brand called Dickel.

And I will leave you with my interpretation of a quote from Anchorman, with apologies to Ron Burgundy:

I love bourbon. Bourbony, bourbon, bourbon. Here it goes down, down into my belly.

And no, I haven't had a thing to drink tonight. But I've now posted every day for twenty-eight days, which is the blogging equivalent of rehab.

Splat!

Click here to unleash your inner Jackson Pollock. C'mon, click it -- I promise you won't regret it!

Standing up for the little guys

From a list of the top 10 bowl matchups that ESPN would like to see:

USC vs. Hawaii: The Trojans' defense hasn't merited all-time status but it still has been outstanding, especially late in the season. USC, led by ferocious NT Sedrick Ellis, has been getting pressure on everyone of late. The Trojans are tied for ninth in the country in sacks (36), and they have the kind of athletes in the back seven who would provide a challenge for any passing team. Seeing what Hawaii QB Colt Brennan (3,732 passing yards) would do against a team that has allowed just seven TD passes all season (fewest in the country) would be a lot of fun. Plus, a Hawaii win would go a long, long way toward helping the cause of any unbeaten mid-major down the road.

So basically, ESPN, what you're saying here is that a bowl win by Hawaii would help pave the way for future unbeaten mid-majors and earn them respect that they otherwise are denied? Pardon me, but I think I'm experiencing deja vu here. Consider the 2006 Boise State Broncos:

- Unbeaten in the regular season.
- From a mid-major conference (in fact, the same one as Hawaii).
- Outplayed and outsmarted Oklahoma, a higher-ranked and more respected team from a major conference, to win the Fiesta Bowl in what has been described as the best game ever.

You would think that, by ESPN's logic, Boise State's 2006 Fiesta Bowl win would have had the effect that ESPN predicts a 2007 bowl win by Hawaii will have -- gaining respect for unbeaten mid-majors like this year's Hawaii team. But here we are (it's like Back to the Future!) a year out from Boise State's win, and it seems to be forgotten in the eyes of the BCS-powers-that-be, and poor Hawaii is in exactly the position that Boise State was in last year -- unbeaten, but still scrounging for respect and little piece of the BCS pie. I don't know whether ESPN is disingenuous or just has the memory of a flea, but either way, I have very little faith that a Hawaii win will have the effect that ESPN predicts.

[Yes, I am a bandwagon Bronco fan. But I'm entitled, I married into it. And yes, I am looking for anything to distract my attention from the dismal performance of my primary college football team this season. Let's just say I was thrilled when the last game of the season was in the books, so that Notre Dame is officially 0-0 going into 2008.]

Note to self

So, do you see that little bar that Blogger sticks up along the top of the page? Do you see the button that says "Next Blog"? Well, I don't know if you've ever clicked that "Next Blog" button, but essentially every time you click it, it sends you to a random blog that's also hosted by Blogger. So you can click it and maybe you'll come up with some random site in Finnish, or Cindy Jo's Tricks for Raising Octuplets on the Cheap, or a techie site that you can't understand a word of, even though you know it's in English.

Now, I never (and by never, I mean hardly ever) surf the web at work. Hardly ever, I swear. And only if it's work-related. (And if it just so happens to occur to me at work that I don't know the first names of Ralph Wiggum's parents, then looking that up is clearly work-related, no?) Anyway, so there I am at work one day, and it occurs to me to click "Next Blog" out of sheer curiosity. Genious. Pure fucking genious. I KNOW how that button works. I KNOW it will give me something random. I KNOW I have no control over it. I also KNOW that people post porn on the web left and right. And I KNOW that looking at porn at work is ABSOLUTELY DEFINITELY A NO-NO. So you would think that, with all of this knowledge, it would occur to me NOT to click the Next Blog button? But no, I blithely go on ahead and click that button. And what do you know? Surprise surprise, it's NSFW all the way, baby.

CLOSE THE WINDOW. CLOSE THE WINDOW. CLOSE THE WINDOW. CLICK. Closed. Phew. Now let's just hope that no one is tracking my web usage too closely.

And please, take this as a lesson: as tempting and innocent as that little "Next Blog" button may seem, DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, SUCCUMB to the temptation to click it at work. You never know what might pop up.

An accounting

category	melissa	j-p
vacation locale	beach	mountains
color (non-political)	red	blue
comfort food	pasta	potato
comfort wear	sweatshirt	tshirt
season	summer	winter
sports (watching)	football	soccer
sports (playing)	none of them	all of them
reads for fun	cookbooks	comic books
reads weekly	new yorker	economist
reads daily	dooce	sports guy
instrument	piano	clarinet
eats	good food	cheap food
drinks	cheap beer	good beer
application	word	power point
can't handle	the cold	the humidity
coast	east	west
evening companion	jon stewart	stephen colbert
running back	curtis martin	curt warner
condiments	food enhancement	food
rainy day movie	dirty dancing	die hard
wes anderson flick	the royal tenenbaums	rushmore
snacky snack	dumplings	nachos
solo activity	crosswords	solitaire
bedside material	fiction	science fiction
granular material	sand	snow
snarky cartoon	south park	the simpsons
hometown sound	bruce springsteen	built to spill
origin	half-ital	half-canuck
element	water	fire
sign	gemini	sag
foodie type	omnivore	former herbivore
a*******	street	family

I think it was successful

Before:


After:

Gobble gobble

I can't decide whether this is hilarious or just gross. I'm leaning towards hilarious. Our turkey, however, will be doing its sunbathing in the buff so as to achieve a nice, even, all-over bronze.

I know they're a novelty, but really? Gross.

Someone brought Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans into work. And man, the sardine flavor really tastes like sardines. And not in a good way. I'm too icked out to try the others.

Ummm. Are they serious?

I'm sorry, but am I the only one who finds the whole president-pardoning-the-turkey thing a tad ridiculous? Are we really going to do this every year for, like, ever? And doesn't the president have better things to do than pardon a damn bird, never mind the time and money spent to bring the turkey to the White House and set up the cameras for the photo-op and whatnot? It seems like a colossally stupid waste of time to me.

Plus, there's this wacky animal rights undercurrent to the whole thing, as if we ought to feel sorry for eating turkeys on Thanksgiving, or any other time, for that matter. And anyway, a turkey can't really be pardoned in the first place. I mean really, what exactly is the turkey guilty of -- biological terrorism by salmonella? Sure, maybe the turkey has been spared, but pardoned? I don't think so.

Did you know that actually two turkeys are pardoned? -- the official national turkey, and an alternate, in case the official turkey can't perform its responsibilities. What is this, fucking Miss America? What responsibilities does the national turkey have? I for one would like to see the thing dressed up in a sash and tiara promoting some feel-good platform. Now that would be a sight.

But it's a tradition! some say. It started with Truman! It started with Lincoln! We have to keep it around! But those are just urban legends, and the fact is that it's only been around since Bush I. Seriously. That's less than a generation, and that does not a tradition make, especially not when the tradition is as dopey as this one.

And anyway, it turns out that the pardoned turkey usually is a factory-farm-raised behemoth that is engineered by genetics, hormones, and feed to grow so large that its bone structure and organs cannot support its mass. So the pardoned turkey doesn't end up living some cushy life running free in a grassy pasture. Instead, it ends up hobbled, literally crushed by its own weight, and dies less than a year after the pardon. Nice, real nice. It seems to me that the far more merciful route would be to butcher the sucker, cook it up, and serve it with some nice mashed potatoes and gravy, rather than subjecting it to a drawn-out and painful convalescence.

But it turns out that this year's turkey will at least have one brief moment in the sun before it withers away. You see, after receiving its pardon, this year's turkey will fly first class to Disney World. There is something that is just SO WRONG about this, and I really don't think it's just me!

And that ends this pre-Thanksgiving gripe. You may now resume your currently scheduled activities.

The big show's heading south

One of next year's presidential debates will be coming at you live from Nashville. It probably won't be as star-studded an affair as last week's Country Music Awards, but at least I'll recognize the stars of this show.

It's just too bad Colbert won't be joining the fray.

My belly's rumbling already

We're celebrating this Thanksgiving in Nashville with a motley crew of friends from different parts of our lives, and we can't wait.  We've planned the meal with a focus on local ingredients -- the turkey, most of the vegetables, and some of the cheeses are from nearby farms, the ravioli come from our friendly neighborhood pasta maker, Lazzaroli, and, of course, the bourbon.  I'm getting hungry just thinking about it:

Antipasto:
Cheese - a brie, a blue, a cheddar
Roasted vegetables
Prosciutto
Olives
Shrimp cocktail

Pasta:
Sweet potato ravioli with sage butter

Salad:
Mustard greens and spinach salad with pine nuts, lemon, and goat cheese

The Rest:
Bourbon and orange brined turkey and gravy
Herbed mashed potatoes
Sauteed brussels sprouts
Creamed pearl onions
A****S***** stuffing
Cranberry maple sauce

Dessert:
Outsourced! YAY!

Free the Lynchburg Two(-thousand)!

Oh, antiquated Tennessee liquor laws. I can live with the no-wine-in-grocery-stores rule and the no-ice-in-liquor-stores rule and the no-liquor-on-God's-holy-day rule. But seriously, dumping out hundred-year-old bottles of Jack? Now that's a crime against humanity.

Happy birthday, G-Cos!

I won't tell the internet how old you are, but let's just say that I'd have to post every day for almost three months to equal the number of birthdays you've celebrated. I love you!

A window into crazy

My husband thinks I'm a walking, talking version of the Worst Case Scenario Handbook. And, truth be told, he's pretty much right, especially when it comes to (1) travel and transportation and (2) natural disasters. Like when we were on the beach in Thailand, and of course I was worried about tsunamis. In Nashville, it's tornadoes. And don't even get me started on airplanes.

I know it's ridiculous, but I can't help it. Anywhere I am, I just automatically picture the worst thing that could happen, and then try to figure out exactly how I'm going to escape whatever inescapable force of nature I'm faced with. And then I tell J-P my escape plan, just so he's on board when we need to put the plan into action. And then he tells me I'm crazy. Again.

When we were in Peru, I was worried about earthquakes, not to mention all those long bus rides on mountain roads of questionable provenance. I mean, have you ever thought about what would happen if you were on a bus on the edge of a mountain, and there were some huge earthquake? Nothing good, I tell you, nothing good. So when I read about the earthquake in Chile and people trapped in tunnels and whatnot, my first thought was about a good friend of ours who lives in Chile, and how frightening it must have been to live through this. But my second thought, I have to admit, was to feel a little vindicated in my crazy. Shit like this happens, babe, and you should feel lucky to have a wife who will be prepared!

[Quick followup: Our friend in Chile and his family are all fine. They are in Santiago, hundreds miles from where the quake took place. And though "a lot of infrastructure got fucked up," as he put it, the loss of life thankfully was not huge.]

Medium-WTF?

The 12South Taproom is supposed to have one of Nashville's best burgers. But after trying it, I'm convinced that if this is the best Nashville has to offer, that's not saying much for the state of burgers here.

Things went south before I'd even gotten my burger. When I ordered, the waitress asked how I wanted it cooked but added, more brusquely than was necessary, that the kitchen "won't go below medium." Huh? Are you serious? I understand the need to be careful with meat, particularly ground beef, but to REFUSE to serve a burger cooked below medium? How can a restaurant that prides itself on its burgers not serve them below medium? That's crazy talk. I mean, just put some kind of disclaimer on the menu about eating undercooked beef like a normal restaurant, and give me my goddamn burger medium-rare.

As far as I'm concerned, 12South Taproom was pretty much out of the running for best burger as soon as I heard they wouldn't cook it below medium. But I ordered it anyway, thinking that perhaps this burger was so outstanding that its superiority would be evident despite the fact that it was overcooked.

But no, no such luck. First off, the burger arrived far closer to well-done than to the promised medium. Worse, the flavor of the burger was no better than that of a pile of ground beef slapped on the grill by some backyard pitmaster swilling an MGD. No particularly special flavor, no nice char on the outside, and it certainly wasn't juicy. I don't need to pay $10 for that kind of burger, thanks very much. And so the search for Nashville's best burger continues.

Mormonism round-up

For the past few years, I've been fascinated by all things Mormon -- the temples, the missionaries, the HBO series, you name it. (I know, I know, polygamists aren't mainstream Mormons, I get it. But they do share a history and, to some degree, a religious faith, and so they are part of my whole fascination thing.)

Anyway, I'm not sure why I'm so fascinated by Mormonism (note I did not say "interested in" in the evangelical sense), except that here's this very tight-knit subculture that, in one sense, is uniquely American and that, in another, is more different from the America with which I personally am familiar than any other group I can imagine. And what with all the Mormon politicians (not to mention the not-mainstream-Mormon-but-still-Mormon-ish-polygamists) in the news these days, it seems that Mormonism is the new Scientology.

Anyway, I happened to come across a number of interesting Mormon-related tidbits in the last day or so. So, from the most serious to the least, we have first a particularly cogent article from the New Republic about Mitt Romney and how some Mormons feel that he is selling out his faith in a bid to attract evangelical Christian voters, with whom Mormons historically have sparred on matters both doctrinal and cultural.

Second, the recent change of a single word in the introduction to the Book of Mormon significantly alters Mormon doctrine regarding its origins and those of American Indian peoples (via Blurbomat). By the way, if you know nothing about the origins of Mormonism and want to read more, here's an overview you may find helpful.

Finally, although this one is more about Utah and less about Mormonism specifically, I had to include it because it's funny -- the Utah Baby Namer, featuring winners like Dwendle and Nightrain Lane for boys, and FloEllen and Krescentia for girls. Seriously, it's the list that keeps on giving.

A perfect Monday

A federal holiday, a rainy evening, a bowl of popcorn, three Law & Orders, and the Seahawks on Monday Night Football.

Merry Christmas, Leon

Every year when my grandma decorates for Christmas, she brings out a set of four red and green ceramic letters that, properly arranged, spell out "NOEL." And every year, at every opportunity, my sister rearranges the letters to Grandma's great frustration. "OH VALERIE," she'll say, as she rearranges the letters yet again so that they convey holiday tidings as they were intended. But no matter how hard Grandma tries, no matter how much attention she pays when my sister is visiting, she's never managed to catch Valerie in the act, and she can't figure out how Valerie manages to rearrange the letters without her ever noticing.

We were doing a little window shopping this weekend here in Tennessee and we came across a store window already full of Christmas decorations. And it seems that there's only one logical explanation for what we saw in the window -- clearly, my sister is some kind of secret Christmas decoration agent who transcends time and space to leave her own personal mark on Christmas displays everywhere:

How do you say "quarterback sneak" in Latin?

I'm reading this case where the Cincinnati Bengals and the NFL were sued by the local county commissioner over the Bengals' new stadium. The judge wrote a dissertation about the history of football in Cincinnati that included this great line: "The modern-day Bengals have played in three different home stadiums. (True fans do not speak of football 'stadia.')." How true, how true.

Game, set, and match

Need something to keep you occupied this afternoon? Check out Layer Tennis (AKA Photoshop Tennis), where two graphic designers swap a file back and forth every fifteen minutes, adding to and expanding upon the elements of the design with each volley. A winner is declared after ten volleys. The match starts at 3pm EST.

Ruhlman rocks

Here's a great interview with one of my favorite food writers (and judge on The Next Iron Chef), Michael Ruhlman. He's witty and informative all at the same time and talks about his new book, The Elements of Cooking, which he modeled loosely after that great grammar and usage bible, Strunk & White's Elements of Style. Oh Michael, food and grammar in the same breath -- you sure know how to get me all hot and bothered!

Del.Icio.Us

In the process of braising pork tenderloin and apples in red wine. We'll see how it comes out, will post if it's any good. (And methinks this is well on its way to morphing into a food blog.....)

Ironic?

When someone eating a Totino's Pizza Roll spies your veggie burger and says, "What's IN that thing?"

Dinner with my paisans

A few weeks ago, we flew into Boston for a friend's wedding. We got in around 10pm and were starving, because peanuts and bloody mary mix do not a dinner make.

I mentioned to J-P that I remembered a restaurant in the North End -- Boston's Italian neighorhood, not too far from the airport -- that I'd been to once years ago. This place was known for a zillion preparations of calamari, or squid, or whatever. I loved this place, especially the squid ink pasta, but I was a little nervous that it would be gone, would be closed, or, in the absolute worst case scenario, would not measure up to the memory I had of it.

Of course, I didn't remember what the place was called, or exactly where it was. I knew it was on the North End's main drag, but I didn't remember the name of the street. But I was pretty positive I could find it, because when it comes to food I have better tracking than a bloodhound on Ritalin. And J-P had faith in me, so off we went to the North End.

In the night's first miracle, we found a parking spot IMMEDIATELY. It's easier to find a Yankee fan at Fenway than to find a parking spot in the North End, so we were pretty pleased. In the night's second miracle, we stumbed upon an Italian bakery that was still open, where we picked up cheesecake for J-P and a sfogliatelle (that's shfoy-a-DELL) for me to eat for dessert after we'd found the elusive squid-o-rama.

We finally made it to the main drag (turns out it's called Hanover Street), and were faced with the choice: left, or right? We took right and crossed the street. (Because, naturally, I knew which side of the street the place would be on. I don't know how I remember shit like this, but I do.) Anyway, just a few storefronts down we stumbled on the Daily Catch. THAT'S IT! I screamed to J-P. I recognized the open kitchen where they cook pasta over a glorified camp stove, the plastic tablecloths, the blackboard menu that they used long before it became cool to use a blackboard menu.

They were still open (Miracle #3, if you're counting), and we sat down to a glass of wine, clams on the half shell, sauteed broccoli, and, the piece de resistance, squid-ink pasta puttanesca. This pasta puttanesca was everything I'd been dreaming of since my first trip to the Daily Catch. We're talking thick, al dente strands of pasta (more fettucini than linguini) flavored and colored black with squid ink, served with a tomato sauce made heavy with ground anchovies and garlic. Oh sweet jesus. After seeing the crap that passes for Italian in Nashville, it felt like heaven.

Hopping mad

GRRR. I am SO MAD about this I barely know where to start.

There is a little take-out restaurant in Nashville called Spudz that serves dozens of different kinds of baked potatoes. It's owned by Eric Brown, a guy was in his mid-thirties who put himself through school, saved up to start his little restuarant, and opened the place with help from his family. J-P and I had read about Spudz and its enterprising owner, and were looking forward to checking it out.

Unfortunately, we never got the chance. A few weeks ago, Brown was killed during a robbery at the restaurant. The police haven't found the culprit, but they are still investigating.

Then this week, the Nashville Scene published this bullshit article blaming the victim because he happened to have a criminal history. Basically, some two-bit reporter at the Scene managed to dig up the fact that Brown was arrested six years ago for possessing a handgun and marijuana. He was indicted and received probation. He has not had a run-in with the law since, and his long-term girlfriend, whose kids he'd all but adopted, didn't even know about his criminal history.

So our idiotic reporter has the gall to suggest that this guy wasn't a victim and that his past "caught up with him" simply because he has a criminal history dating back SIX YEARS. I mean, my goodness. Here he is the victim of a senseless crime and there is ABSOLUTELY NO EVIDENCE that it was anything other than a robbery gone bad. The man has paid his debt, his crime is ancient history, he has had a spotless record since then, and he is by all accounts a devoted family man and small-business owner. Is he not ever allowed to free himself of the stigma of a mistake he made years ago? Is it not possible for a person with a criminal history to be a murder victim without having every bad thing he's ever done dredged up to call into doubt the circumstances of his death?

It's as if the Scene reporter ignored all the facts of Brown's life other than his criminal record, as if that one bit of history trumps everything else he has accomplished since then. It's really no wonder that recidivism rates are so high and that people with criminal histories have such a hard time becoming fully productive and contributing members of their communities once they've served their time -- too many people aren't willing to ever give them that chance.

Since moving to Nashville, we've become accustomed to the prevalence of knee-jerk conservatism, racism, and xenophobia, which are all too often combined with a twisted hyper-Christianity, among a certain segment of the population here. That's not to say that there aren't liberal enclaves, and we're slowly developing a social and professional network of liberals in town (and, believe it or not, a few odd libertarians).

But what KILLS me is that the local weekly rag -- the Nashville version of the Village Voice or the Philadelphia City Paper -- publishes such inane and speculative blame-the-victim crap. Hell, even the Boise Weekly is more liberal than the Scene. Here we were counting on the Scene to be a voice of reason in an otherwise insane world, and instead it's as if NPR started airing Rush Limbaugh right after All Things Considered. *SHUDDER* Now that would be a nightmare.

And it comes to this

Navy just beat Notre Dame for the first time in forty-three years. I honestly never thought I would see Notre Dame lose to Navy in my lifetime. This is beyond embarassing.

Halloween, part 2

For most of my life, I have been what you might call Halloween-challenged. It's not really my fault, I just happened to have been raised in a family that took no great pleasure in Halloween. My mother freely admits that she hated coming up costume ideas, and that she hated coming up with costumes even more. I think she looked at Halloween as a once-yearly chore that she dreaded more than any other -- more than ironing the curtains, more than hauling the Christmas gear down from the attic, more than putting up the awnings. And with that kind of anti-Halloween spirit in the house, I couldn't help but be influenced by it.

For a stretch of many years between middle school and law school, I hardly dressed up at all, and when I did dress up, it was usually some half-assed costume that I put together an hour before going out. Not a lot of creativity going on. Then in law school, I had some friends who were, you might say, Halloween-obsessed. And so I was dragged, kicking and screaming, into celebrating Halloween and putting slightly more thought into it than I was used to. But still, participation was not so much a choice as a requirement.

And then, the moment that changed my life forever: I married a Halloween-obsessed man. J-P is one of those people who plans his costumes months in advance. In fact, he'd been thinking about and planning this year's costume for TWO YEARS. That's almost as long as I've known him. That's just crazy.

And so, for Halloween this year, we went all out. First, there was a party on Saturday night and the drag race at the Lipstick Lounge in East Nash. You've already seen my costume, which, I must say, was the best costume idea I've ever come up with independently and the best-executed costume I've ever had. J-P debuted his much-anticipated, long-planned Mugatu costume:


The drag race was a ton of fun. Here's me with one of the racers, though I'm not sure who she's dressed as:


And our friends, Smurfette and Dirty Uncle Smurf:


This is BraDog, who I think needs to put a little more effort into his costume next year:


Then, for the real deal on Wednesday, we decked out the house. It looked awesome. Note the hand coming out of the television in the window -- it freaked a few kids out real good:


And of course, to keep with the Halloween spirit, we wore the "costumes" designed for us by J-P's family and friends for our rehearsal dinner -- I donned my Idaho lingerie, and J-P broke out his cleverly modified jacket (one trick-or-treater did recognize that the buttons are actually condoms -- thanks a LOT, Auntie Bev and Auntie Gloria!):


I was sorely tempted to use the Dick in a Box again because it was such a great costume, but what with all the little kiddies about...um, that's just creepy, and not in a wholesome trick-or-treat kind of way, but in a dirty hey-kid-do-you-want-some-candy kind of way. So it's packed away, for now, and I'm already starting to brainstorm for next year.

Keep me honest, people!

I'm going to try to observe NaBloPoMo this November. Because I definitely don't have the time or inclination to observe NaNoWriMo, although I am going to contribute to NaBloShoeMo. (Any other important Na****Mos I'm missing?)

Seeing as how I've maintained an average of 2-3 posts a week since getting this baby up and running, that means I'm going to have to more than double my output to pull this off. Yikes. Good thing I have a backlog of posts in draft or idea form to get me through the first week. And good thing this little intro counts for November 1.

And of course, if any of you out there reading this in silence feel like commenting on any of my thirty posts this month, please do so, and feel free to credit that toward National Delurking Week in January.