My cousin gave me a small slow cooker and accompanying cookbook for Christmas last year. I decided to put it to use today by making turkey breast with cranberry-sage dressing. I chopped up my celery, shallots, sage, and parsley without issue. In fact, it gave me pleasure. The scent of freshly chopped sage is heavenly. And parsley is surprisingly aromatic. I mixed it with my dressing and chicken broth. It was just fine. But when I went to put the turkey breast in the cooker, I had problems.
The recipe specifically called for a 2-3lb bone-in turkey breast half, so obviously that’s what I bought. But the damn thing wouldn’t fit in my 2-quart slow cooker. Nevermind this book of recipes is made specifically for 2-quart slow cookers. Right. Have you seen a 2-3lb turkey breast half? It’s huge. So, I decided to cut off the meat and put it in the slow cooker.
I know why boneless, skinless chicken breasts are so popular. Setting aside all moral and PETA-related concerns, they make cooking easy and completely undisgusting. Bones make you remember you’re preparing the meat of a creature. Bones make you realize you’re cutting off flesh that was once alive. Bones make you realize that the meat you eat is attached by tendons. Bones make you realize that raw meat is gross.
I tried to get as much meat as I could , but it was attached to the bone and that made it difficult. I paid almost $10 for this piece of meat, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be eating about $6 worth. But if the smell of my kitchen is any indication, the meal will not make me make this face:
Before I got out of bed this morning, I felt like creating something. This often happens on Saturday mornings. I open my eyes and I have a craving to write something beautiful and insightful in a way that challenges things I previously held true to my heart. I want to edit old manuscripts. I want to turn all of my literary lists into lilting essays with just the right blend of story and musing.
So what do I do? I get out of bed. I make coffee. I make breakfast. I take my computer to the patio. I decide to see what’s going on in the blogosphere where I read and comment on twenty different blogs. Then I become distracted and end up not even touching my blog, my manuscripts, my literary lists, or a blank document.
I wanted to avoid distraction this morning, so I just reheated coffee from yesterday morning (classy, I know), made myself a bowl of oatmeal, and got back into bed. So far it’s going quite well. I’ve written three new paragraphs.
My bed is getting so much action this morning, you guys.
Now four.
Last night I went to a double feature with my friend Leo, who is an aspiring movie critic (check out his blog here). We saw The Master and Sleepwalk with Me. Both movies were great in their own right. The Master was a two-hour epic that was apparently an allegory for Scientology. I wasn’t aware of that while watching it. I saw that it was about a man returning from WWII, struggling with post-traumatic stress, alcoholism, and a tendency to drink paint thinner, who meets a charismatic man who with an adoring and wife (played by Amy Adams) and cultish following. He also enjoys making the vet walk back and forth touching a wall and window (didn’t really understand that part). It was a fascinating movie and I kept watching, waiting for some crumb of insight to fall, something that would enlighten me and give me direction and a new mantra. But it never happened. It was a great movie. But I wasn’t really sure why.
Yes. The music was great (the incidental violin solos throughout the movie made me want to pick my own up and regain my vibrato). The shots were beautiful and often breathtaking. The characters were compelling (though I was often distracted by the way Joaquin Phoenix made his skeleton look like it was made from wire clothes hangers). The story was twisted and combined with just enough dramatic tension and sexual undertones to keep me engaged. All of these combined to make a fantastic film. But at the end, I was still left thinking “What the fuck was that?”
I don’t know a ton about movies, but I’m pretty sure all the movies that critics rave about are the same films that leave me scratching my head, wondering what I just spent the last two hours watching.
But I’m not a movie watcher, and I admit that freely. Most of my ex-boyfriends will vouch that I can barely make it through any movie without falling asleep, so the fact that I saw two movies in a single night is absurd. But we traveled about two hours to Madison to the Sundance theater, a place that would probably make even a Madagascar movie seem charmingly pretentious. It was a great experience.
I loved Sleepwalk with Me. It was charming. It was endearing. It was just what I had hoped for when I saw the previews weeks earlier. I have a very special place in my heart for Mike Birbiglia. He’s my favorite comedian. I have an adoring sort of possession over anything he does because I’ve watched his comedy progress, deepen, and become more honest from Two Drink Mike to Sleepwalk with Me.
Sleepwalk with Me is the story of the disintegration of a romantic relationship, a burgeoning comedy career (which, incidentally, made me sort of want to be a comedian), and a sleep disorder. It was sad and beautiful in a way that made me feel like he was a close friend who kept knowingly making bad choices. The movie is based on Mike’s story that aired on This American Life and The Moth (both excellent podcasts, subscribe NOW), was developed into a full comedy album and book. I’m sure he’s sick of the story, but it doesn’t make it any less compelling.
I’m not really sure what else to say about it other than you should really go watch the movie. If it’s not playing in your city, it’s worth a two-hour drive to the nearest independent theater. Also, how could you not love a guy who wrestles with Ira Glass?
Anyway, I’m going to get to work on some serious writing. I apologize that my posts have been somewhat lacking in the last week or two. My life has been uneventful, uninspiring, and underwhelming. Just know that I’m working on it.
So, you know how my last post was about how I got anxious about driving and losing everything in a second? There was an accident on the highway yesterday morning. Thankfully, I wasn’t part of it.
But my car did die on the way to work. That word sounds so dramatic. Die. I suppose context doesn’t matter either. But in this context, it’s almost certainly not the right word, but I don’t know what else to say.
My car ceased to work on the way to work. My car lost power. My car decided to nap on the way to work. Instead of driving to work, my car preferred to overheat and force me to coast into a parking lot.
I tried to call my dad. And my brother, Corey. And my parents’ house. No answer at any of them. I was particularly worried about Corey, because he leaves for work around the same time I do, and his phone went directly to voicemail. I was half convinced he was in what Facebook updates lead me to believe was a 12-car pileup (he wasn’t).
I didn’t know what to do. I was about to change out of my heels into the flats I keep in my trunk to walk the mile to my parents’ house when I remembered that I know people outside of my immediate family.
So I called my grandma.
She sounded sleepy, so I just gave her my spiel. “Grandma? This is Ashley. My car just died on the way to work and I can’t get a hold of my dad or anyone else. Could you come pick me up and take me to my parents’ house?” Of course, I started crying too. Because I’m awesome like that.
“What?”
“I just need a ride to my parents’ house. I’ll be able to borrow one of their cars.”
“Who ah you?”
“Is this Grandma Bea?”
“Who ah you?”
“You’re not Bernice, are you?”
“Who ah you?”
I realized I had just cried to a strange asian woman. So I hung up. I called an aunt who was going to pick me up, but then my dad called me.
He saved the day, like he always does.
Of course later that day, my dad was able to get the car started and running without any problems. I love when that happens.
I just came home from work. I’m back to working overtime – 9.5 and 10.5 hour days. Which is really awesome. Awesome for my bank account. Awesome for my moral.
One of those was a lie.
The drive home was oddly anxious. It may have been a culmination of things – the fact that my stomach was growling, my wrists were sore from typing for 10 hours, my contacts were dry and I hadn’t used my drops…I don’t know. But I do know that the road was wet and that it reminded me of the car accident I was in last summer.
The short sweet story is that I reached for something behind my seat, then over-corrected when I saw that I was closer to the car in the left lane than I had expected to be.
The longer story is that I was distraught because I was on the first leg of the journey that would take my then boyfriend 900 miles away from me. My car was packed (and I mean packed) with the last of his things: namely drums and drum equipment (guess what he does?). It was drizzling. We were listening to Amy Winehouse. I was depressed and on the verge of tears, so I decided to distract myself by grabbing my chapstick from my purse that was behind me. I remember keeping my eyes on the road, but not realizing how close my car was to the one in the left lane. I turned the wheel right and that’s when the car started fishtailing. I remember having this sort of bemused sensation go over me. I just thought, “Oh, haha, this is happening right now. How silly.”
I don’t remember what Bill said other than “Ashley!” as the car flung itself across the two-lane highway, landing somewhat smoothly in the median. He had to tell me to turn off my motor because I was veering on hysterical, crying and heaving, but not getting any oxygen. I just remember thinking, “omigod omigod omigod I almost killed Bill.”
You know, like the movie.
I got off easy as far as damages went, I just needed a new tire and a my wheel banged back into place. I got a $175 ticket for inattentive driving, for which I actually thanked the officer. For the next day or two, I was made anxious by the very thought of driving. I didn’t really understand how it had happened. Sure, I got that I turned too much while traveling at 65mph, but it didn’t make sense to me. I’m a safe, responsible driver. I rarely speed more than 5 over. I prefer to have two car lengths between me and the car ahead. I don’t text and drive. I signal. I don’t make sudden lane changes. I check my mirrors. I had done everything right, except I had reached behind, distracting myself for an instant. And that instant could have completely changed the course of my life, Bill’s life, and any other number of drivers on highway 41 that day. It was so clear to me that everything I knew about my life could be irreversibly changed in a matter of seconds.
And for some reason, I kept thinking about that on the drive home tonight. I almost pulled over a couple times just to ease that anxiety. But I kept thinking about how ridiculous that would be, for me to pull over because I was afraid to drive on the highway. I’m a 24 year old woman who has put tens of thousands of miles between three cars. There was virtually no reason for me to be so uneasy about driving this evening. The highway was mostly quiet, only a few other cars, none tailgating me or swerving in front of me. I wasn’t looking at my cell phone. I wasn’t reaching for anything other than the heat settings.
I don’t want fear to ever hold me back from living my life. Especially with such little things. I can’t imagine my life being stunted because I’m afraid of driving on the highway. How would that change my life? My 20-minute commute would turn into a 45-minute one. Tag-teaming on roadtrips would be out of the question. The scope of my existence would shrink to a 30-40 mile radius.
So I just told myself to not let my emotions make me their bitch, get home, put on sweatpants, make myself some veggie spaghetti, and take a low-quality picture of myself while the noodles boil.
I’m spending the little that is left of my evening in bed with Infinite Jest. Good night.
I know why boneless, skinless chicken breasts are so popular. Setting aside all moral and PETA-related concerns, they make cooking easy and completely undisgusting. Bones make you remember you’re preparing the meat of a creature. Bones make you realize you’re cutting off flesh that was once alive. Bones make you realize that the meat you eat is attached by tendons. Bones make you realize that raw meat is gross.
distracted by the way Joaquin Phoenix made his skeleton look like it was made from wire clothes hangers). The story was twisted and combined with just enough dramatic tension and sexual undertones to keep me engaged. All of these combined to make a fantastic film. But at the end, I was still left thinking “What the fuck was that?”
Everything is Blooming 