No one in our little blogosphere seems to be writing much these days - click those links to the right, and you'll find very few updates. We seem to be transitioning, in one way or another, into this gross "real world" place. Is the shock of adulthood getting to anyone else?
Here I am: beached, borrowing internet, stealing hummus, dreaming of chutney, procrastinating online, and paralyzed by the terror of grad school applications.
It really is a horrible process. I have to construct three concise Statements of Interest that will hopefully seduce one academic adviser or another - but I have no idea what I want to do with my life. Or rather, there are too many things that I'd like to do, and making choices - narrowing scopes - makes me bitter (and a little insane).
The "big question" keeps changing. Growing. Becoming more impossible to contemplate:
"What do I want to do next year?"
"What do I want to do in the next ten years?"
"What do I want to do with my career?"
"What do I want to do with my life?"
"What do I want from life?"
""WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE?"
Oh, COME ON!
It's been hard enough trying to narrow my scope of study (my career?) to one discipline, one stream, one topic, and finally one research plan. Now, the meaning of life?!!
It's time to struggle back to square one. Where I can continue to gouge Statements of Interest from the mush of my brain. Select potential advisors based on the colour of their shirts. Remind myself: it's only one year. The opportunities for future choices, terrifying moments of paralysis, and identity crises are practically endless and certainly inevitable. Get a grip.
Right now, I'm thinking that fieldwork in India might be nice - but maybe chutney for lunch is all that I need.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Monday, October 06, 2008
My Writing's Filled with Profanities
One of the places I've applied to work has requested some writing samples - and it was difficult to scrounge them up. That made me sad about how little writing I actually do. Of course, I have oodles of academic papers on file - but some diversity would be nice, and something to show that I can operate outside the ivory tower (even if I can't).
In the end, I took something from this blog and tweaked it to make it more employer-friendly! Hurray for the blog!! Hurray for possible employment!! Tomorrow I have another interview scored through the Jess connection (thank you Jess!).
As for the pickling, that predictably didn't happen. But I did successfully adopt some old-school shelving units, AND I made an extremely satisfying mission to the Indian Spice Store. Yummmmm.
Next Stop: Parent's kitchen.
Mission: Commandeer canned goods.
In the end, I took something from this blog and tweaked it to make it more employer-friendly! Hurray for the blog!! Hurray for possible employment!! Tomorrow I have another interview scored through the Jess connection (thank you Jess!).
As for the pickling, that predictably didn't happen. But I did successfully adopt some old-school shelving units, AND I made an extremely satisfying mission to the Indian Spice Store. Yummmmm.
Next Stop: Parent's kitchen.
Mission: Commandeer canned goods.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Dying Days of Basil
I missed La Nuit Blanche for pesto.
The days have been cold, crisp, beautifully autumn. At night, my breath coalesces in fleeting mists, not quite hanging in the air - not yet. My landlady has already turned on the heat, cranked the furnace with such Venezuelan vengeance that my first night in my new apartment was a thick and sweaty one.
I had to come back to London to get another truck-load of stuff. This move has been casually gradual, with the knowledge that London is only a couple of hours away. I don't have to fit my life into suitcases - I have weeks to pack it, bit by bit, into my parents S.U.V.
I have no deadline for the move, but the pending frost added urgency to my trip. "Don't freeze," I prayed to the weather gods. And on Friday, I raced back to London in time to save the basil, the peppers (I recently learned that green peppers are under-ripe orange, red, and yellow ones), and dozens of green tomatoes. I may have missed La Nuit Blanche - but I made six batches of pesto yesterday, and my dreams of pickled green cherry tomatoes are solace enough.
Realistically, my pickling dreams might die in the flurry of packing and cleaning that's left to be done. But in the very least, I'll be eating fried green tomatoes tomorrow night.
Gardens are delicious. I don't have space for one at my new place, but I know a few boys with a patch of grass awaiting garden love.
The days have been cold, crisp, beautifully autumn. At night, my breath coalesces in fleeting mists, not quite hanging in the air - not yet. My landlady has already turned on the heat, cranked the furnace with such Venezuelan vengeance that my first night in my new apartment was a thick and sweaty one.
I had to come back to London to get another truck-load of stuff. This move has been casually gradual, with the knowledge that London is only a couple of hours away. I don't have to fit my life into suitcases - I have weeks to pack it, bit by bit, into my parents S.U.V.
I have no deadline for the move, but the pending frost added urgency to my trip. "Don't freeze," I prayed to the weather gods. And on Friday, I raced back to London in time to save the basil, the peppers (I recently learned that green peppers are under-ripe orange, red, and yellow ones), and dozens of green tomatoes. I may have missed La Nuit Blanche - but I made six batches of pesto yesterday, and my dreams of pickled green cherry tomatoes are solace enough.
Realistically, my pickling dreams might die in the flurry of packing and cleaning that's left to be done. But in the very least, I'll be eating fried green tomatoes tomorrow night.
Gardens are delicious. I don't have space for one at my new place, but I know a few boys with a patch of grass awaiting garden love.
Monday, August 11, 2008
BBQ Song
Here's a pretty sweet little food-inspired song, "The Barbecue Song" by Rhett & Link & The Homestead Pickles:
I wanted to post some footage of the propane fire in Toronto too, but as my brain draws connections between barbecues and propane, I realize that the "Barbecue Song" might not be the most appropriate partner for footage of the explosions. Or perhaps it is appropriate, but entirely without tact.
Forgive the lack of tact then, and the coincidence of my discovering these videos, because these explosions are simply too mad to miss (skip to the 1:50 mark for a truly crazy scene):
I wanted to post some footage of the propane fire in Toronto too, but as my brain draws connections between barbecues and propane, I realize that the "Barbecue Song" might not be the most appropriate partner for footage of the explosions. Or perhaps it is appropriate, but entirely without tact.
Forgive the lack of tact then, and the coincidence of my discovering these videos, because these explosions are simply too mad to miss (skip to the 1:50 mark for a truly crazy scene):
Monday, July 28, 2008
Moustache!
Occasionally, when it's not masturbating over the recent union of Tim Best and Mayor Anne Marie DeCicco, the London Free Press writes something worthwhile: moustache! The online version of this article is significantly less thrilling than the hardcopy, since it lacks the priceless photos of moustache greats that caught my attention in this morning's paper.
For many years, I ceased bothering with the LFP; but I've returned to its world of journalistic mediocrity and depressing Letters to the Editor (these are the opinions of my city-compatriots?!!), because I have to wait half an hour after taking my garlic pill before I can eat breakfast. Yes, I could be doing something more productive in that half-hour - but to be perfectly honest, I'm useless before food. I'm useless; the London Free Press is useless - we make the perfect pre-breakfast union.
Consider the opening paragraph of the paper's article on yesterday's Pride Parade (which I'm very confused about, since various city events listings had cited pride as happening a week ago - sabotage??):
"Londoners Grace and Neal Vangalen stood in silent witness as a parade of tattooed and tarted-up humanity passed by them on Dundas Street yesterday."
Oh, London...
I sadly missed the Pride fun, due to my confusion over the dates. I did make it to the Indian Festival at the Market on Saturday, where I was tempted by many forbidden treats. I managed to resist on Saturday, only to succumb to an Indian lunch buffet on Sunday. Needless to say, the results were vomitrocious. Eventually, the pain of eating Indian food might beat-out the joys. Certainly, this weekend's gastrointestinal revolt has inspired the planning of a homegrown Indian feast, slotted for sometime this week. Bhajis in the deep-fryer, veganized gulab jamun - what more could this girl ask for?
Aside from the ability to grow my own rockin moustache.
Tom
Rollie
For many years, I ceased bothering with the LFP; but I've returned to its world of journalistic mediocrity and depressing Letters to the Editor (these are the opinions of my city-compatriots?!!), because I have to wait half an hour after taking my garlic pill before I can eat breakfast. Yes, I could be doing something more productive in that half-hour - but to be perfectly honest, I'm useless before food. I'm useless; the London Free Press is useless - we make the perfect pre-breakfast union.
Consider the opening paragraph of the paper's article on yesterday's Pride Parade (which I'm very confused about, since various city events listings had cited pride as happening a week ago - sabotage??):
"Londoners Grace and Neal Vangalen stood in silent witness as a parade of tattooed and tarted-up humanity passed by them on Dundas Street yesterday."
Oh, London...
I sadly missed the Pride fun, due to my confusion over the dates. I did make it to the Indian Festival at the Market on Saturday, where I was tempted by many forbidden treats. I managed to resist on Saturday, only to succumb to an Indian lunch buffet on Sunday. Needless to say, the results were vomitrocious. Eventually, the pain of eating Indian food might beat-out the joys. Certainly, this weekend's gastrointestinal revolt has inspired the planning of a homegrown Indian feast, slotted for sometime this week. Bhajis in the deep-fryer, veganized gulab jamun - what more could this girl ask for?
Aside from the ability to grow my own rockin moustache.
Tom
Rollie
Sunday, July 20, 2008
I'm chewing on a mouthful of stale marshmallow, warding off morning hunger pains until my family leaves for a stomach-stretching brunch mission at the Delta Armouries (my favourite brunch destination of all time - freaking delicious).
Afterwards, my mom and I are driving to The Pinery to camp until Thursday. I'm looking forward to some peace and quiet among the trees, some time for decompression, with my hermit-sensibilities of the past year struggling to adapt to my return home. I was hoping to find some calm in Manitoba - but that didn't pan out; I played entertainer and playground to my cousin's 3- and 5-year old girls, shaping them into pretend pizzas, pancakes, and cupcakes, lifting them in and out of pretend ovens over, and over, and over again; my arms were never still, my lap was never empty. I couldn't keep up with their fruit-snack, juice-crazed sugar highs; I couldn't cope with their veggie-less, fibre-light sugar lows. Note to caregivers everywhere: Ketchup (with every meal) shouldn't replace vegetables.
So, I'm looking forward to a good old fashioned camping trip, where I don't have to lock myself into a bathroom for a moment's relaxation. And I'm looking forward to the flavours that a campfire adds to camp food. Our cooler is full of fixings for foil-dinners, banana boats, fire-grilled quesadillas, and hummus with everything. Delicious indeed.
Afterwards, my mom and I are driving to The Pinery to camp until Thursday. I'm looking forward to some peace and quiet among the trees, some time for decompression, with my hermit-sensibilities of the past year struggling to adapt to my return home. I was hoping to find some calm in Manitoba - but that didn't pan out; I played entertainer and playground to my cousin's 3- and 5-year old girls, shaping them into pretend pizzas, pancakes, and cupcakes, lifting them in and out of pretend ovens over, and over, and over again; my arms were never still, my lap was never empty. I couldn't keep up with their fruit-snack, juice-crazed sugar highs; I couldn't cope with their veggie-less, fibre-light sugar lows. Note to caregivers everywhere: Ketchup (with every meal) shouldn't replace vegetables.
So, I'm looking forward to a good old fashioned camping trip, where I don't have to lock myself into a bathroom for a moment's relaxation. And I'm looking forward to the flavours that a campfire adds to camp food. Our cooler is full of fixings for foil-dinners, banana boats, fire-grilled quesadillas, and hummus with everything. Delicious indeed.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Goodbye Bananas
Reading through my weekly dose of foodie e-mails and updates, I came across this article about the banana and its impending demise.
The banana industry, from what I know of it, epitomizes corrupt and irresponsible food cultivation on many levels: banana companies have long pillaged the environment, exploited their workers, and developed techniques of cultivation that are thoroughly unsustainable.
Bananas offer a perfect example of what can go wrong when commercial interests trump sustainability and food diversity. Although many, many species of bananas exist, a single species - the Cavendish banana - has been developed for sale in North America. Unfortunately, since the Cavendish banana is seedless and cultivated with clippings (a practice that produces clone plants), there is insufficient genetic variation among Cavendish trees to provide protection against evolving pests and disease.
Panama Disease - a fungus that enters plants through their roots and cannot be eliminated with pesticides - is rapidly spreading among Cavendish banana trees. In all likelihood, Cavendish bananas will cease to be economically viable within a decade or so. No economically viable alternatives currently exist.
Sure enough, my Dad came home from the store yesterday, disappointed: "They had no bananas." Today, he made a trip to a second store and came home with two - the last two.
Well, not the LAST last two... but soon. What will life taste like, without bananas?
The banana industry, from what I know of it, epitomizes corrupt and irresponsible food cultivation on many levels: banana companies have long pillaged the environment, exploited their workers, and developed techniques of cultivation that are thoroughly unsustainable.
Bananas offer a perfect example of what can go wrong when commercial interests trump sustainability and food diversity. Although many, many species of bananas exist, a single species - the Cavendish banana - has been developed for sale in North America. Unfortunately, since the Cavendish banana is seedless and cultivated with clippings (a practice that produces clone plants), there is insufficient genetic variation among Cavendish trees to provide protection against evolving pests and disease.
Panama Disease - a fungus that enters plants through their roots and cannot be eliminated with pesticides - is rapidly spreading among Cavendish banana trees. In all likelihood, Cavendish bananas will cease to be economically viable within a decade or so. No economically viable alternatives currently exist.
Sure enough, my Dad came home from the store yesterday, disappointed: "They had no bananas." Today, he made a trip to a second store and came home with two - the last two.
Well, not the LAST last two... but soon. What will life taste like, without bananas?
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