nothing to see here

Tiredness seems to have caught up with me, so I should get to bed rather than trying to figure out something to write. (I am a slow writer at the best of times, and when I’m tired, I spend a lot of time just staring at the screen. For example, in the middle of that last sentence, I just stopped and stared for 25 minutes. And it took me another 25 minutes just to type “25 minutes.” If I keep at this, it will be next week before I manage to post this.)

So move along. There’s nothing to see here. (On the other hand, I did finally manage to upload to flickr last night. Over 2 weeks worth of project 365 photos. So there’s something to see there, if you want to move along there.)

washout

Water is essential to life on earth. Living in the developed world, I am lucky to have easy access to clean water. I know that too many in the world don’t have this luxury. Water is necessary. Water is precious.

Water is also trying to kick my butt.

I have refrained from sharing here the soggy details of my recent battles with water, in its various forms. Sure, I started a post about waking up to a steam-filled basement and a geiser of scalding hot water shooting from our hot water tank, and thoroughly soaking through a stack of dozens of boxes of books and papers and mementos, but I figured I’d spare you the damp whining. And then there was the follow-up post (that I also didn’t share) about how that incident, what with the water running for X number of hours in the night, had killed of the pump to our well and another water tank to boot. After all that, the dozens of leaks that our kitchen faucet sprang, spraying a shower of water each time we had to wash dishes or fill the drinking water pitcher, seemed quite minor. Almost cute. I hadn’t even gotten around to griping about the water we’d had leaking in through the windows over the winter, due to ice dams on the roof, and all the trials of dealing with more snow than we’d seen in the past several winters combined. What fun was all of this? I decided to move on to other things.

But water was not done with me yet. You may recall that this weekend was the dreaded yard sale. I dedicated practically my whole week to purging cabinets and closets and piles of things. I signed on to the town’s group listing. I planned. I publicized.

Then come Saturday…it rained. A lot. It was a cold, wet, rainy, wet, dreary, wet day. There was lots of water. It was wet.

Did I mention that it was wet?

I ended up having the sale on our front porch, with lots of things still crammed in boxes. I didn’t even manage to bring out everything that I’d purged from the house. It didn’t really matter that much, as traffic was slow. Only the really hard core bargain hunters, and some people coming to haggle over the last bits of baby gear we had. People enthusiastically bought a few items that I could have thrown out, and quibbled over a dollar or two for things that were worth 20 times as much.

As low as my expectations were, I wasn’t counting on the rain. What’s more, I’d signed up to have Sunday be the rain date in the town listing, so that more-or-less meant having the sale both days. And today was rainy too. (But I just worked on packing and re-sorting things, anyhow. Only one person came the whole day, but at least he bought a few things.)

The weekend wasn’t a total loss, but I still have my work cut out for me. I have to make arrangements to donate, sell, or otherwise dispose of all this remaining stuff. I blame the rain.

And would you believe that tonight I discovered a new leak in my basement? I can’t tell yet whether it’s water coming in from the rain, or from the plumbing.

All of this has left me feeling very stressed and cranky. I need to unwind. I’d think that a hot bath might be a nice calming thing, but who knows what perils would await me. Would I shrivel into a giant prune? Slip climbing out? Get washed down the drain?

Now excuse me while I get something to drink. Usually, I mostly just drink water. At this point, however, I’m not sure I should risk that much contact with the plumbing. I’m pretty sure that beer is safer.

…and now I’m even older.

For your enjoyment: They Might be Giants singing “Older.” And puppets. (via bittertwee.)

Warning: This song will get stuck in your head.¹

I realized that this would have been something good to post on my birthday, but seeing as I am now even older than I was then, it works just as well. (Though if I waited till tomorrow, I’d be even older.)

¹ Also, you will be older by the end of the song than you were at the beginning of the song.

Indulge me?

Last summer, WordPress made a change to my blog. They decided to phase out the theme that I had been using happily for several years for my blog, and replace it with a similar looking theme with more bells and whistles. They announced this change ahead of time, sending an email assuring me that I wouldn’t notice any changes to the appearance of my blog.

As it turned out, they overlooked a few differences between the themes, and my formatting got all whacko. One of the things that happened was that most of my sidebar widgets got seriously messed up. I recovered the contents of a few of the widgets, and eventually even put a few new images in the sidebar. Then WordPress realized what they’d done, and automatically restored my widgets, thus leading to some of the contents showing up twice. (If you scroll down, you may notice that my blogroll shows up two times. I haven’t bothered to fix it. How many people scroll down that far, anyhow?)

However, at least one of my widgets seems to have disappeared completely: my list of “favorite posts.” This was a list of links to posts of which I was particularly proud, and which I’d modified a bit over the years. There is still an automatically generated list of my “top posts,” based on frequency of views, but those are generally just ones that get a lot of search engine traffic from people looking for clipart or some such. That list is not really representative of what I consider to be my favorite posts.

So, I wanted to put a list back up. I could probably reconstruct the list myself, but I was wondering if you, as a regular reader or occasional visitor to my blog, could indulge me. Are there any posts that you remember that you feel would be worth highlighting on my front page? Or types of posts that you have enjoyed? Every once in a while, someone has mentioned to me, sometimes days or months after I posted, that they found themselves remembering something that I wrote. This has really meant a lot to me. (Someone remembered what I wrote!) Or if you are new to visiting this place, you could instead tell me what brought you here.

And then I also just want a bit of indulgence. Today is my birthday, and comments in my inbox would make a great gift. [Hint, hint.]

p.s. I also just added something new to my sidebar: a link that goes to a random post. I wonder if you might come across something you like that way. [Hint, hint.]

I heart artichokes

Having just posted pictures of artichokes two days in a row, I might as well go one further. In fact, I might as well come right out and confess: I love artichokes. My list of 40 things I like would be incomplete if I did not include artichokes.

I don’t remember the first time I tried an artichoke. I was born in California, where artichokes grow on trees. Well, not really. They grow from the ground in big spiky plants. (They are thistles, and the part you eat is a flower bud.) But in California, they do at least grow. And so it was that I got to have them on occasion. I loved them. They weren’t just my favorite vegetable, they were my favorite food. (You may recall my anecdote about being featured in a class newspaper under the headline “Girl Likes Artichokes.”)

I’m not terribly fond of marinated artichokes. They are okay, but not at all in the same league as fresh artichokes. My favorite way to have artichokes is steamed, accompanied by a small bowl of melted butter for dipping. (I’m even appending my own instructions.)

I can’t say what it is about artichokes that I love so much. I know what it is, but I’m not going to say. (No, not really.) They are just ineffably yummy.

Some people don’t understand the appeal of eating a vegetable that is so much work. (In case you’ve never eaten a fresh artichoke, the typical way to eat one is to peel off the leaves one by one, and scrape the small tender bit at the base of each leaf with your teeth.)

For me, the process is part of the appeal. You start of by eating the outer leaves, which are typically a bit tougher, and work your way in to the more tender and flavorful ones. Then you pick up speed, as the leaves get soft enough to bite through. Then you pluck off the ring of spiky inner leaves, and then scrape out the hairy choke with the utensil of your preference, finally reavealing the heart, which is worth all the trouble. I cut it up and roll the pieces around in whatever’s left of my little bowl of melted butter after I’ve dipped each leaf. Then I try to eat it as slowly as I can, because it is always over too quickly.

How I cook artichokes:

  1. Wash the artichokes
  2. Cut the stem close to the bottom of the artichoke. The stem, while close to the heart, is usually pretty tough and fibrous.
  3. Trim the spikes. I use a combination of a knife and kitchen scissors. With the knife, I saw through the tightly bunched tops of the artichoke leaves. With the scissors, I go around to the outer leaves and snip off the tips. Cutting the spikes off is not necessary, but may prevent bloodshed during dinner.
  4. Steam in a covered pan. I use one of those metal steamers that has sort of petal-like bits. I place the artichokes with the stem side down.
  5. To start, I fill the pan with water to just about the bottom of the steamer surface. Typically, I have to add water before the artichokes are finished. (It is not uncommon for the water to boil away.)
  6. The amount of time it takes to steam depends on the size of the artichoke. For a big artichoke, about 40 minutes is probably typical. I’ve had small artichokes take more like 20 minutes.
  7. You can tell that they are done by pulling at the leaves with some tongs. If a leaf come out easily, it is proabably done, but you should probably test it to be sure. You can also try poking at the bottom of the artichoke with a fork, but this involves lifting out the artichoke, which can be tricky.
  8. Serve with the dipping sauce of your choice. I vote butter.
  9. Share your artichokes with me.

A note of warning: whatever you do, wash your hands after you handle a raw artichoke. The residue is extremely bitter. If you, say, lick your fingers, you will get a nasty shock. On the other hand, some people may like this bitterness. I once bought a bottle of Cynar, the liqueur flavored with artichoke. I was curious, naturally. I can safely say that it was one of the nastiest tasting beverages I’ve ever tried. It tasted like licking a raw artichoke. (Not that I’ve ever done that.)

This post is the second in my generally unordered series of 40 posts about things I like.

she takes after me

I’m not sure I was ever that cute, but Phoebe certainly takes after me in many ways. For one, she has inherited my deep love of artichokes. (These were some photos from April. I had this idea to try using the water from steaming artichokes as an Easter egg dye. Usually the water is an intense, often bluish, green. Of course, that time the water was a dingy gray brown, so we opted not to try for olive drab eggs. Remind me to tell you about the cabbage experiments, though. They were more colorful.)

Tonight, we finally got around to eating the artichokes I trimmed yesterday, the most lethal-looking of which was featured on America’s Most Dangerous Vegetables. Theo, who loves to eat breakfast but has decreasing interest in food over the course of the day, has been wary of trying new foods at dinnertime. This was the first time we managed to get him to try artichoke. I’m quite happy to say that he was instantly taken with them, too. (Though it is a happiness tinged with sadness, as we will no longer be able to eat his unclaimed artichoke. And, alas, our pan can only hold 4 artichokes.)

(I have more to say, about artichokes, even, but I need to get to bed. I’ve had an exhausting day of digging through cabinets and closets looking in preparation for Saturday’s event of terror.)

America’s Most Dangerous Vegetables

I think that would be a catchy name for a TV show. America’s Most Dangerous Vegetables. Each week, the show could highlight some sort of menacing produce: murderous-looking rutabagas, carrots with vicious points, or dainty new potatoes that pose a threat as choking hazards. All of them would pale in comparison with this week’s monster:


This artichoke does not want to be eaten.

Check out the size of those spikes! This thing tore through a reusable produce bag…and drew blood! I felt like I was declawing it rather than trimming it.