After sitting through five hours of paid training this morning, I was issued a company regulation uniform, to be worn in my service over the next month as a seasonal employee of the United Parcel Service. Swimming in my men's uniform, I look and feel unusually tiny, and worry a bit that, should I meet my driver/supervisor tomorrow, he or she will take one look at me and wonder, "Is this little tiny person really going to be able to assist me in delivering heavy packages at a fast pace during the busiest time of the year?"
My position title: driver helper. Of the thirty new hires who attended the employee orientation at the UPS distribution center with me this morning, I was the only female. This didn't make me feel insecure or discouraged, but it did have the effect of drawing my fuller awareness to the fact that this is a job with a reputation for being highly physically exacting. In the event that I do start work tomorrow morning (my start date being determined by the current demand for driver helpers in my area), I will be riding in a UPS truck, helping the driver to make hundreds of deliveries within a highly constrained slot of time. This job has a potential to be extremely stressful and almost certainly completely exhausting.
So why do it? Though a paycheck is always helpful, living with my parents puts me in a position where I could very easily continue to live off my savings for quite some time. Why work if I don't have to?
For starters, it's part of the Plan (the full extent of which I am still emotionally unprepared to disclose). And yes, sitting around the house watching old shows on Netflix day after day has been wearing on me for well over a month now. But, most importantly, it's a new experience, a new opportunity to learn and see and do things outside my normal realm of existence. And, if I'm really going to "live twenty-five to the fullest," I want to have as many of these types of experiences as possible.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Breaking Code
A few days I reread the self-stated mission of this blog and felt a sickly sense of malachievement. Somewhere along the line (undoubtedly, it was when I realized that some of my friends were actually reading and keeping up with my posts), my focus shifted and I became less concerned with the task of pounding out my best writing for the day every day regardless of how I feel about it, and more concerned with the task of not disappointing my readers with my incapacity for consistent pizazz.
The condition is exacerbated by my recent development of a merciless case of writer's block. I simply can't seem to have a single original thought that is interesting enough to write down. I blame it on the generally uneventful nature of my life at the moment. It's all too easy to blame the former condition on the latter. And yet, when life is eventful, I excuse myself by saying that I am too busy to write.
I find myself dancing precariously close to being in violation of one of my self-imposed regulations regarding this writing project--the prohibition against berating myself in a manner that could be interpreted as "pessimistic drivel." That isn't what I want to do. It is so much contrary to what I want to do, in fact, that I just spent the last hour trying to use this paragraph as a springboard into a much more optimistic exploration of the beauties and joys of life. I wrote several paragraphs toward that effect, but, upon reading what I had written, felt immensely unsatisfied with it and forced myself to stop.
What happens to a blog when its author has writer's block? I guess we'll just have to see.
The condition is exacerbated by my recent development of a merciless case of writer's block. I simply can't seem to have a single original thought that is interesting enough to write down. I blame it on the generally uneventful nature of my life at the moment. It's all too easy to blame the former condition on the latter. And yet, when life is eventful, I excuse myself by saying that I am too busy to write.
I find myself dancing precariously close to being in violation of one of my self-imposed regulations regarding this writing project--the prohibition against berating myself in a manner that could be interpreted as "pessimistic drivel." That isn't what I want to do. It is so much contrary to what I want to do, in fact, that I just spent the last hour trying to use this paragraph as a springboard into a much more optimistic exploration of the beauties and joys of life. I wrote several paragraphs toward that effect, but, upon reading what I had written, felt immensely unsatisfied with it and forced myself to stop.
What happens to a blog when its author has writer's block? I guess we'll just have to see.
Disappearing Days
"What did you do today?"
It's the most anxious moment of my day. My mother sits behind the family computer, eying me with half-interest. It's the part of the day when I must make an account of my idleness. Another uneventful day. I usually respond with something like, "I did all the dishes. And I read." But today, when my mother asked me that dreaded question, I drew an unexpected blank.
"I can't remember," I told her. "It seems like the whole day just evaporated."
It did seem that way.
Today I read a little. I practiced the piano a little. And I...I...
I lost a day.
And so I approach the second most anxious moment of the day--writing time--with a tinge of regret.
It's the most anxious moment of my day. My mother sits behind the family computer, eying me with half-interest. It's the part of the day when I must make an account of my idleness. Another uneventful day. I usually respond with something like, "I did all the dishes. And I read." But today, when my mother asked me that dreaded question, I drew an unexpected blank.
"I can't remember," I told her. "It seems like the whole day just evaporated."
It did seem that way.
Today I read a little. I practiced the piano a little. And I...I...
I lost a day.
And so I approach the second most anxious moment of the day--writing time--with a tinge of regret.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Nabe Flop
According to the cookbook, Japanese Cooking: Contemporary & Traditional, by Miyoko Nishimoto Schinner (from which I derive most of my Japanese recipes), nabemono (hot pot) dishes "are designed for communal eating" (120). Indeed, in light of my experiences eating nabe in Japan, it never would have occurred to me to think of it as a dish that could possibly be enjoyed without a group. Everything about the way it is prepared and served indicates that it is meant to be partaken of communally. So, to me, the very thought of eating it by oneself is laughable.
Yesterday, as it drew near dinnertime and the hour for my family members to begin returning from their respective jobs, I enthusiastically began to chop vegetables and tofu in preparation for a dish I was sure would truly impress. Nabe is the perfect autumn meal; the entire process of preparing and enjoying it warms the body and the spirit. Typically, all the ingredients are cooked together in a large earthenware pot over a portable burner that sits in the center of the table and continues to warm the soup throughout the meal. Generally, this meal lasts a couple of hours.
I don't own a nabe pot, nor do I have a portable burner that can be used indoors. But I figured--no bother--I would simply prepare the soup in a ceramic pot over the stove and bring that to the table. My family and I could keep a lid on it to retain warmth and even reheat it on the stove intermittently, if necessary.
However, much to my dismay, each member of my family, upon returning home, informed me that he or she had a prior engagement that that evening and could not stay for dinner. And so I was left to eat my nabe by myself. Nobody in my family could understand why this should make me laugh and shake my head so much. They, never having partaken of an authentic nabe experience, could not possibly grasp the absurdity of the present situation.
I ate my nabe alone. Kimchee nabe: The best kind. It tasted good, yet everything about it was...wrong.
I need some San Diego friends.
Yesterday, as it drew near dinnertime and the hour for my family members to begin returning from their respective jobs, I enthusiastically began to chop vegetables and tofu in preparation for a dish I was sure would truly impress. Nabe is the perfect autumn meal; the entire process of preparing and enjoying it warms the body and the spirit. Typically, all the ingredients are cooked together in a large earthenware pot over a portable burner that sits in the center of the table and continues to warm the soup throughout the meal. Generally, this meal lasts a couple of hours.
I don't own a nabe pot, nor do I have a portable burner that can be used indoors. But I figured--no bother--I would simply prepare the soup in a ceramic pot over the stove and bring that to the table. My family and I could keep a lid on it to retain warmth and even reheat it on the stove intermittently, if necessary.
However, much to my dismay, each member of my family, upon returning home, informed me that he or she had a prior engagement that that evening and could not stay for dinner. And so I was left to eat my nabe by myself. Nobody in my family could understand why this should make me laugh and shake my head so much. They, never having partaken of an authentic nabe experience, could not possibly grasp the absurdity of the present situation.
I ate my nabe alone. Kimchee nabe: The best kind. It tasted good, yet everything about it was...wrong.
I need some San Diego friends.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
The Best Day
But it didn't start off that way. I awoke at 7:30--a good two hours earlier than my unemployed self has lately become accustomed to--feeling groggy. I was up late the night before, turning my room upside down in search of a manila envelope that contained the important personal documents I would need to have on hand for my job interview this morning. I lost a good hour and a half of sleep and was ready to call off the search before the obvious place finally occurred to me. All that for a tiny little piece of paper with my social security number written on it? I went to bed in a foul mood.
This morning, I was assembling my usual breakfast of yogurt, granola, and raisins, when Lindsay, running out the door on her way to work, explained apologetically that the dog had "puked his guts out" all over the living room and, though she'd tried to clean it up a little, she didn't have time to finish the job. I looked at the clock: I was intending to head to my interview in half an hour, but I still needed to eat, get dressed, blow dry my hair, and write down directions. "Okay," I told her, "I'll do my best to clean it, if I have time."
I cleaned up the dog's vomit (which resembled, much to the misfortune of my gag reflex, the granola I'd just eaten), slipped into a half-ironed shirt, skipped the blow dry, jotted down what turns to take after the freeway exit, and dashed out the door about fifteen minutes later than I'd intended. I made it to the interview location exactly on time.
Fortunately, it was a group interview and the group was large, so nobody took much notice of my lack of punctuality. It was mostly an information session for a seasonal position with UPS, which, as it turns out, I may or may not qualify for on account of the area where I live. We'll see.
Gloriously, however, the interview location was in Kearny Mesa, a part of San Diego that is a veritable heaven to a recently repatriated former English teacher in Japan (like me). Immediately west of California 163, off Balboa Avenue, is a more than satisfying conglomeration of Japanese shops and restaurants, including a discount variety store and a used book shop that also had locations in Moka, Japan! Immediately after leaving the UPS warehouse, I headed down to Daiso, where I simply basked for about an hour in the familiar foreignness of it all, reading labels in Japanese and listening to small children speaking to their mothers in a language that I am remorsefully rapidly forgetting.
I left Daiso without purchasing anything and headed next door, to a Japanese market. After perusing the aisles, my mouth literally watering the entire time, I concluded decisively that tonight is definitely going to be a nabe night. I bought the soup base, tofu and vegetables I would need--including five kinds of mushrooms--and went across the street to lunch on fresh authentic hot udon noodles at Kayaba in the Mitsuwa Marketplace. As I headed back to my car, I couldn't help but dance a little through the parking lot from the utter joy that this noontime excursion had brought me. True, it's not the same as a trip to Japan, but, for a fraction of the cost, it comes delightfully close.
This morning, I was assembling my usual breakfast of yogurt, granola, and raisins, when Lindsay, running out the door on her way to work, explained apologetically that the dog had "puked his guts out" all over the living room and, though she'd tried to clean it up a little, she didn't have time to finish the job. I looked at the clock: I was intending to head to my interview in half an hour, but I still needed to eat, get dressed, blow dry my hair, and write down directions. "Okay," I told her, "I'll do my best to clean it, if I have time."
I cleaned up the dog's vomit (which resembled, much to the misfortune of my gag reflex, the granola I'd just eaten), slipped into a half-ironed shirt, skipped the blow dry, jotted down what turns to take after the freeway exit, and dashed out the door about fifteen minutes later than I'd intended. I made it to the interview location exactly on time.
Fortunately, it was a group interview and the group was large, so nobody took much notice of my lack of punctuality. It was mostly an information session for a seasonal position with UPS, which, as it turns out, I may or may not qualify for on account of the area where I live. We'll see.
Gloriously, however, the interview location was in Kearny Mesa, a part of San Diego that is a veritable heaven to a recently repatriated former English teacher in Japan (like me). Immediately west of California 163, off Balboa Avenue, is a more than satisfying conglomeration of Japanese shops and restaurants, including a discount variety store and a used book shop that also had locations in Moka, Japan! Immediately after leaving the UPS warehouse, I headed down to Daiso, where I simply basked for about an hour in the familiar foreignness of it all, reading labels in Japanese and listening to small children speaking to their mothers in a language that I am remorsefully rapidly forgetting.
I left Daiso without purchasing anything and headed next door, to a Japanese market. After perusing the aisles, my mouth literally watering the entire time, I concluded decisively that tonight is definitely going to be a nabe night. I bought the soup base, tofu and vegetables I would need--including five kinds of mushrooms--and went across the street to lunch on fresh authentic hot udon noodles at Kayaba in the Mitsuwa Marketplace. As I headed back to my car, I couldn't help but dance a little through the parking lot from the utter joy that this noontime excursion had brought me. True, it's not the same as a trip to Japan, but, for a fraction of the cost, it comes delightfully close.
Friday, November 12, 2010
The Best Hummus Recipe Yet
After years of trial and error, at last: a hummus recipe worth sharing. I've yet to perform a side-by-side taste taste to gauge whether it's as good as my favorite store-bought brand, but if you were to throw a few toppings on there--say, some pine nuts, roasted red peppers, and chopped parsley--it would likely surpass the competition.
The main problem with a lot of hummus recipes that I've experimented with in the past is that they call for crushed raw garlic--an ingredient that gives the finished product a flavor that I personally find too intense and spicy. And if I, a devout garlic lover, feel that way, imagine how a picky eater like my mom would respond to it. I've tried substituting fresh garlic with powdered, or using garlic salt instead of regular table salt, but it seems the end result lacks a certain dimension in freshness and texture.
Roasted garlic to the rescue! Yes, roasting the garlic beforehand requires additional time and preparation, but the outcome, I believe, is well worth the effort. This recipe is excellent as is, but it also works well as a canvas for additional flavors and mix-ins.
The main problem with a lot of hummus recipes that I've experimented with in the past is that they call for crushed raw garlic--an ingredient that gives the finished product a flavor that I personally find too intense and spicy. And if I, a devout garlic lover, feel that way, imagine how a picky eater like my mom would respond to it. I've tried substituting fresh garlic with powdered, or using garlic salt instead of regular table salt, but it seems the end result lacks a certain dimension in freshness and texture.
Roasted garlic to the rescue! Yes, roasting the garlic beforehand requires additional time and preparation, but the outcome, I believe, is well worth the effort. This recipe is excellent as is, but it also works well as a canvas for additional flavors and mix-ins.
Triumphant Roasted Garlic Hummus
Ingredients:
• 4-6 cloves freshly roasted garlic
• 1 can chickpeas or 2 cups cooked chickpeas
• 1/2 cup liquid reserved from can or cooking pot
• 2 tbsp tahini
• 2 tbsp olive oil
• juice of 1 lemon
• salt and pepper to taste
• paprika and additional olive oil for garnish
Method:
Allow roasted garlic to cool before proceeding so that you don't burn your fingers. Combine all ingredients through salt and pepper in a blender or food processor and pulse until smooth. Transfer to a bowl and garnish with paprika, olive oil, parsley, pine nuts, roasted red peppers, jalapeños, or what have you.
Enjoy immediately, with some nice crunchy carrot sticks. Or, cover and place in the refrigerator for a few hours. I don't know if this is really a thing; but, in my head, this allows the flavors to "set."
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