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Malaise

Last night I broke my two-month cooking hiatus and actually prepared a scrumptious dinner for my husband, a dinner whose contents never saw the inside of a can and required forty minutes of face time with the oven. Betty Crocker better watch her back, is all I'm saying.

This is my second attempt at this dish; the first was in October and involved melting the face off our meat thermometer, so the fact that I didn't set off any smoke detectors this time around is reason enough to call yesterday's efforts a success. It's also a pretty simple recipe; all I did was slice some carrots and potatoes, toss the pork slab into my Pyrex glassware, shake some spices, and VOILA! Why aren't they all this easy?

Last year I was so fired up about learning how to cook; I actually enjoy being in the kitchen, measuring, chopping, mixing, and cleaning as I move from one directive to the next. I like the feeling of pride that goes along with serving a meal, knowing I created something that will sustain my body (and Luke's) for another few days. I like spicing up our food menu with something that isn't pasta, soup, or chicken. (Shocking, I know.) I like imagining what it will be like to cook for our children.

Hopefully I can get on that bandwagon again, but it's so hard to get motivated about anything these days: cooking, working, exercising, keeping in touch with family and friends. We're only eighteen days into the New Year and I'm already tired of 2007.

My big projects for the upcoming weekend include backing up the digital photography files currently sitting on Luke's desktop and archiving all the publications I've put together at work in the last year so they stop collecting dust in our closet. I also want to start printing our photos and getting them into albums so we don't have to sit in front of a computer to enjoy them.

I might even remove the Christmas cards surrounding our breakfast bar.

   

The rest of our decorations were taken down a couple of weeks ago, but there's something about seeing all the pictures and happy signatures of our nearest and dearest that tells me to leave them up just one more day.

I've Got A Food Attitude

For as long as I can remember, I've always been a picky eater. If a food possesses a smell, texture, or physical appearance that's not to my liking, it's blackballed from my palette and never thought of again. When I was a kid, this posed a lot of problems for my mother, who cooked the majority of our meals, because she often wanted to prepare something that wasn't chicken, spaghetti, tacos, or pizza, and I didn't want to eat anything other than chicken, spaghetti, tacos (on flour tortillas only), or pizza. There were a couple of times where her "You're not leaving until you eat that!" directive meant me sitting at the kitchen table for hours, staring at yellow paint and wooden panels, the antique knick-knacks perched on top of the cabinets, or updated school pictures fastened to the refrigerator because I was too stubborn to take even one bite of her refried beans and she was too stubborn to let a nine-year-old kid break her spirit. One morning she threatened bodily harm if I didn't just EAT THE DAMN SCRAMBLED EGGS, so eat them I did. And then promptly threw up.

We didn't struggle a lot over food after that.

As an adult, I've continued to sustain my body on a limited menu. I still love chicken, spaghetti, tacos (actually, most forms of beef), and pizza and eat 'em at least once a week. I love barbeque ribs and ham and bacon and cheeseburgers and potatoes in any form (read: french fries). I enjoy whole kernel corn, green beans, onions (required for Outback's Bloomin' Onion), sugarsnap peas, cheese, and various types of fruit. Dessert items rock my socks off.

The following foods will only find themselves on my plate if I'm dead:

• Seafood of any kind
• Eggs (Ah, memories)
• Macaroni and cheese (The smell is unlike anything I've ever experienced)
• Macaroni noodles (You know, because of the mac and cheese thing) and other "thick" pasta shapes
• Oatmeal (Tasty to-go bars don't count)
• Sauces with a non-tomato base
• Beans (Unless they're in chili, and even then I pick them out)
• Whole mushrooms (Chopped up on pizza is acceptable)
• Tuna (Except in tuna cassarole)
• Salami
• Burritos
• French toast
• Avocados
• Salad (Because I hate lettuce)
• Sour cream
• Mayonnaise (Except in my spinach dip receipe)
• Custard
• Cranberries
• Cottage cheese
• Tapioca (Thanks for reminding me, Bdogg!)
• Quiche
• Tiramisu
• Any sort of pot pie
• Omelets
• Indian food (Too afraid to try it)
• Most Chinese food (Though I do enjoy orange chicken)
• Most Japanese food (Unless it's beef fried rice, and I still pick out the egg chunks)
• Select meat-and-cheese combinations (Shredded cheese on tacos is delish; sausage-and-cheese croissants inspire my gagging reflex; meats with cheese stuffed inside of them are also gross. Cheese does not make everything better, people!)

I'm sure there are others, and there are a few exceptions, but them's the biggies. Any dishes outside of my love/hate radar are tolerable, I suppose, but why bother with them when I can get my taste on with something I one-hundred-percent enjoy?

My contentedness with not trying anything new never bothered anyone until I started dating, and it didn't bother ME until I started dating Luke. Our relationship has always embraced a liberal dining-out policy, meaning an oil change is reason enough to flock to the nearest Applebee's, so this topic comes up all the time. I usually go for American grill or Italian-style restaurants, while he's interested in trying out the little Thai place across the street from Wal-Mart. If I suggest a place, it's usually to satisfy a specific craving. Outback equals Bloomin' Onion. Ted's Montana Grill (my new favorite place) means a bison cheeseburger and fries. Don Pablo's? Steak quesadillas. (Another instance where I sanction the marriage of meat and cheese.) I'll go anywhere you want, but you can bet your mother's life I'll ask for a burger, ribs, or chicken strips, and that's after I guilt you into ordering the dip.

For Luke's sake, sometimes I want to throw caution to the wind and just try a crab leg already. I know he'd take greater pleasure in our meals out if I took a more open-minded approach towards food. He also gets sick of my wrinkled nose and "Oooh, I don't like that, how can you eat that?" comments every time he takes a bite of something that didn't originate from a cow.

But what if I don't like the crab leg? Am I going to shell out eleven ninety-five for another platter? Stare at my entree forlornly until it's time to pay the bill? My daredevilism could very well come back to bite me in the ass.

This evening, Luke and I are going to the Cheesecake Factory for my birthday. (Twenty-seven, thank you for asking!) It will actually be the culmination of a series of food-centric events held in the honor of my departure from my mother's uterus; the shenanigans started on Sunday, when we went to Ted's for dinner, and tonight Luke's making tacos, after which we'll visit the Factory for their to-die-for cheesecake. (I refused to try cheesecake until college because I thought it was literally a blend of cheese and cake. Like, American cheese. If that's not reason enough to loosen up, the only reason my passion for spinach dip exists is Luke's hankering for it on our first date and my unwillingness to rock the boat.) Our first visit was in December, when I feasted upon their brownie sundae concoction, a miracle because they also have banana cheesecake, and usually when I'm ordering a dessert I always go for the banana option. On that night, though, I could SEE the sigh in Luke's eyes as we considered our options, and I thought, "Oh, what the hell."

Because I subscribe to a strict "If it ain't broke, don't fix it" philosophy, I think I want the brownie sundae again. Or the banana. Or maybe I'll ask the Internets for their opinion.

Here is a link to the Factory's menu. While I wish I could say I'll go with the majority vote, I'll probably just do whatever I want. Nonetheless, feel free to de-lurk and offer a suggestion. I promise to think about it really, really hard.

Edited to add: I just re-read this entry and realized I listed my age as twenty-eight years old. I am only twenty-seven. Apparently "counting correctly" isn't on my list of ways to celebrate my birthday.

Bringing Stupid Back

After more than a week of soup, spaghetti, and take out, yesterday I decided to prepare an actual meal. "Pork and vegetables" was originally slated for last Monday, and since the main ingredients had already been purchased, pork and vegetables it was.

With a few dishes under my belt, the whole cooking thing is becoming much more enjoyable, thus making it easier to navigate through each step. It took just twenty minutes to cut the potatoes, slice the carrots, and "wedge" the onions, and according to my Pillsbury cookbook, the whole sensuous ensemble would be ready in the same amount of time it would take to recap the AMC episode of the day. Just stick the meat thermometer into the thickest part of the meat to verify it cooked all the way through, and the triumph of another successful dinner would be mine.

True to Pillsbury's word, the time went off just as Zach and Dixie's murder trial came to fruition. Hurriedly I ran to the stove, eager to show off my mad housewifery skillz to a husband who graciously launders ninety-eight percent of our clothes, and became dismayed to find the face of the meat thermometer glued to the top of the oven. "Oh, well, at least the meat is done!"

"What do you mean, 'At least the meat is done?'" Luke jumped up from his seat on the couch in time to see me extract a now-ruined thermometer from the pork's caboose. "You're not supposed to cook that with the food!"

"But the book said to stick it in the thickest part of the meat!"

"Yes. AFTER it's done cooking!"

"Then why did they include it at the beginning of the directions?"

Luke: Bangs head against wall, wonders if this incident provides sufficient grounds for divorce.

Frema: Doesn't blame him.

Poking Two Belly Buttons With One Finger (Or Some Other Equally Non-Violent Phrase That Implies Multitasking)

After writing The Blog Entry Whose Length Rivals The Bible And Also Possibly Caused You To Question My Sanity, I'm grease-lightening things up around here with an entry that both answers the following question posed by Mrs. S:

If you could eat all you wanted of one thing and never get fat or lack vitamins or whatever, what would you eat?

and fulfills a long-time request of Isabel's. Yessiree, Frema fans, it's the moment you've all been waiting for. I'm going to share my spinach-dip recipe.

In a perfect, bubble-butt-free world, the one food I would trust my nutritional livelihood to wholeheartedly would be this deliciously green (my favorite color! Our partnership was so meant to be) concoction. Introductions took place on April 28, 2001, exactly seven days after the auction, at TGI Friday's, the location for Luke's and my first date, except we didn't call it a date because both of us were awkward and shy and still signing e-mails with corny salutations like "Your pal, Luke" or "Your buddy, Bree." We'd just been seated after a twenty-minute wait and decided on ordering an appetizer to combat a predictably lengthy wait. The only other time we'd shared a meal was at Pizza Hut earlier that week, and he let me order our pizza topping (pepperoni, which he hates, a tidbit I wouldn't be privy to for another two months), so I figured it was only fair for him to choose the appetizer.

"How about the spinach dip?" he asked.

Obviously it was a budding courtship; otherwise Luke would've already known about my aversion to foods beyond the staples of the American grill palate and my fear of any vegetable other then corn or green beans. However, eating preferences had inspired several arguments with my last boyfriend, who if permitted would've injected the taste of crab legs directly into his veins, so I gave it a go and offered my approval. Luke ordered it, I loved it, and he loved that I loved it, until I was championing for dip fixes for every dinner out. Or lunch. Or trips to Dairy Queen. Eventually, the time came for me to self-medicate.

Ingredients

1 pack of frozen chopped spinach
1 can of quartered artichoke hearts
1 cup of reduced-fat mayonnaise
1ish cup of Parmesan cheese
Several good shakes of cayenne pepper
Several good shakes of garlic salt
1 bag of blue tortilla chips

Before I go on, it's important to note I've made several revisions to the recipe found in Betty Crocker's red cookbook. For starters, there are TWO dip recipes featured: one using spinach as the base, and one using artichokes. The first one calls for several off-the-wall items like vegetable soup, water chestnuts, and green onions, and since I've never sampled a dip that included any of those things, I just use the second one and add spinach because it's simpler and I'm crafty like that. I double the amount of cheese because duh, cheese makes everything better, and I threw in the cayenne pepper and garlic salt because I thought it would pump up the flavah volume.

Directions

1) Preheat your oven for 350 degrees.
2) Remove spinach from cheap paper packaging and place in large bowl for dethawing in the microwave (usually for three minutes).
3) Press spoon against spinach to squeeze excess water from bowl.
4) Use food processor to "puree" artichokes.
5) Mix artichokes and mayonnaise together, then add the cheese, and lastly the spinach. Following this order will allow for an easier combining of elements.
6) Shake cayenne pepper over surface until the smell burns the inside of your nostrils. Shake garlic salt until it effectively compliments the pepper. (Don't worry about adding too much of either. That's what milk is for.) Mix well.
7) Bake covered for 25 minutes. Or uncovered, if you're the type of cook who routinely forgets that sort of thing.
8) Feast on the goodness.
9) Share the goodness with others in the form of natural gas.
10) Don't say I didn't warn you.

Contraception and Religion: Good Alone But Better Together

OK, so I've already failed my Recommitment to Emptying the Junk in My Trunk plan, seeing as I didn't make it to the gym in time for tonight's hip-hop aerobics class. (Will I ever make it to this class?) Instead, I came home and prepared the barbequed roast beef sandwiches as directed by my online dinner menu, courtesy of Betty Crocker's famous red cookbook. It turned out pretty well, and I was delighted to see the recipe categorized as both fast AND low-fat, though I still prefer the trunk-friendly Sloppy Joe.

But enough of this nutritional nonsense. There are more important things to talk about than what's simmering on my stove. For example....

(Per Silly Hily) What is one thing that Luke does that drives you nuts and he knows it, but he still does it b/c that's "just him"?

Before I answer this question, let me be clear on one thing: when it comes to pitching in around the house, Luke is The Bomb. He cooks and does laundry and scrubs mold out of the grout in the shower without making a fuss, runs spontaneous errands without blinking an eye, and packs a lunch for me every day. I know any questionable housekeeping tendencies he might keep are due to unintentional oversight or ignorance of their existence.

That being said, he tends to splash water everywhere whenever he washes up for bed, and when he engages in his weekly hair buzzing, those hairs somehow end up on the walls, in the sink, around the ring of the bath tub, etc. Perhaps they become invisible once they're detached from his scalp. Maybe they sprout minds of their own and embark on treacherous journeys from the garbage can to the previously listed destinations, just to the spite the bitch who's trying to bring them down. Who's to say? I've spoken to Luke about this, but apparently it's a mystery to us both. He also has a bad habit of spilling coffee grounds on the floor near the garbage can.

I'm going to stop now, lest my husband reveal to the Internet any of MY bad habits, like my resistance to showering after returning home from the Y because when I wake up my hair is clean, yes, but flat and bent at odd angles, so why bother taking a shower when I'll just have to take one again in the morning to combat it all?

Whoops.

Are you on birth control now?

That's the million-dollar question right there. Many of you will remember the freak-out I had over Very Mom's post about possible effects of The Pill. I had been happily subscribing to this method of birth control for approximately eight years, and it only took twenty-four hours for me to swear off chemical contraception for the remainder of my reproductive years. Some might view my stance as overboard, but it's what allows me to sleep at night, so there you go.

Luckily, Very Mom's post also offered information about natural family planning via Taking Charge of Your Fertility: The Definitive Guide to Natural Birth Control, Pregnancy Achievement, and Reproductive Health. It's similar to the rhythm method in that it encourages women to watch for internal signs that ovulation is about to take place, but it differs in that it dismisses the conventionally held truth that women's cycles are typically twenty-eight days, a truth perpetuated by many doctors even today. (I'm a thirty-four dayer myself, thank you for asking.) After discussing matters with Luke, we decided to purchase the book and use condoms while I gave myself a crash course in the significance of waking temperatures and cervical fluid.

In the last seven months, my "crash course" has translated into devouring exactly fifty-two pages, two of which are dedicated to detailed graphics of male and female genitalia. Meanwhile, we continue to pump hard-earned dollahs into the convenience and protection offered by the latex industry.

I'll be the first to admit the situation's less than ideal. Condoms are for teenaged prom queens who want to safeguard their chances of pledging to an Ivy League sorority, not college-educated, properly wed DINKS with the financial means to support a child. Right? I was never fond of physical barriers to intimacy before I was married. I certainly didn't want to implement them with the man who's promised to love me for as long as we both shall live.

Here's the sticky part: As much as I desperately want to have a baby, I also have expectations I desperately want to follow in terms of child rearing. Meaning, I don't want to have to utilize daycare, which admittedly has more to do with my own needs than the baby's. I know plenty of little ones thrive in structured environments where they're regularly introduced to other children and adults besides their parents. I don't think a woman's role is serving her husband barefoot and pregnant, and I don't think a mother who works outside the home loves her children any less. My friend Gina recently opened up her own dance studio, and during our last phone conversation I remember thinking, "If I had a job like that, there's no way I'd want to leave it." Though if I did, the whole dilemma would be moot because I'd be the boss and as such could keep my offspring at my side all the livelong day.

As a writer, I'm lucky. My current job, boring as it may be at times, offers a lot of flexibility, and good thing, too, because between Luke and me, I make more money, so if we received a surprise package from Mr. Stork, and it was necessary for our well-being to do so, I could definitely work from home, even though the idea of juggling newsletter deadlines and screaming babies on a full-time basis is less than appealing. I want to change the diapers do the feedings read Beatrix Potter stories dance to Baby Mozart anytime I want to, because babies are only babies for a short time, and I don't want to miss any of it. Not one single minute.

Until we can make that happen, until we're in a place where we can bring a brand-new person into the world and raise him/her in the way we're most comfortable, I don't want to take any chances.

(Now, I could have spared you all that drama and simply said yes, we use birth control, but what fun would that have been?)

Have you and Luke found a church or a common ground in that area?

Another happy topic! Last time I mentioned this, I gave the impression of freeing myself from the perceived restriction of religious labels, opting instead to embrace all the practices in which my relationship with God can be strengthened. Today? Luke and I agree that our family's spiritual formation will most likely take place in the walls of a Protestant church, and we agree we want to have them baptized as infants in said church, but that's been the extent of it because I'm terrified of the day I can no longer call myself a Catholic. There's no other way to say it, and I'm still not sure how I feel about it. I know Luke is the man I want as both a husband and father (not my father, you sick bastard), and I have no doubts that God put him in my life to fulfill those roles for me. Therefore, I imagine He's counting on me to find a way to make it all work. I haven't yet. And that's all I have to say about that.

Did you watch Sex and the City? If so, which character are you most like?

At last, a serious question. I was beginning to think Hilary wasn't interested in who I am as a person.

According to this survey, I take after Miranda, which I'm pretty happy about because she has the snappiest comebacks, hottest husband, and the ability to deal with an unplanned pregnancy. However, her reputation is slightly tainted in my eyes due to the name she chose for her son. Sure, it was a nice gesture to give the kid Steve's last name, but by the end of the show they were married, and even if she kept her maiden name, what about the boy? Did he remain Brady Hobbes, or did he become Brady Brady? Seriously, if anyone can shed some light on this very important subject, you'll be rewarded with dreams of furry kittens and gobs of raw cookie dough.

Of course, if you made it to the end of this post, you pretty much deserve that, anyway.

Next thing you know I'll be vaccuuming in stilettos and falling asleep with plastic rollers snapped to one-inch sections of my hair.

So, the whole Weight Watchers thing? Has not been going so well. As in, I've abandoned journaling and point-counting in favor of Bits-N-Pieces milkshakes and frozen cheesecake goodness, with only occasional trips to the gym. Lately I've been coming home from work hungrier than YOUR MOM (ba dum bum ching) (sorry, the cheap shots are out of my control now) and eating whatever I can get my grubby little hands on, usually pretzel ties and Fig Newtons, even though dinner's just forty-five minutes away. Each day I recommit myself to an attitude of self-control, and each day all efforts crumble the moment I pull into my parking spot, approximately the same time my brain starts taking inventory of what little nourishment remains in the fridge.

However, after sorting through all the literature I accumulated from my weight-watching days, I decided there was one dish I owed it to my budding cooking skills and my cholesterol to tackle: the program's famous garden vegetable soup, known for its tasty, made-from-scratch, zero-points-per-serving, guilt-free attributes. I made it for the first time last week and it went swimmingly, except I forgot to buy the zucchini, and my carrots remained hard as nails even after sautéing them in chopped-up pieces of garlic and onion. Tonight I used the remaining ingredients to make a second batch and strayed from the recipe a little in regards to serving size, opting instead to just start throwing random amounts of shit into the pot--extra carrots, extra cabbage, extra broth, resulting in a soup abundant in carrots, cabbage, and broth, but with slightly less zing, as I only minced the two garlic cloves and half-cup of onion originally called for. It still rocked harder than your mom, though (I really am sorry), and in between hurling vegetables at my stove I even managed to fit in a side of Pillsberry dinner rolls, thus creating the illusion of a thought-out, well-balanced meal. For someone whose idea of gourmet is microwaving the leftover chicken Parmesan pasta from last week's hurrah at TGI Friday's, this is revolutionary. Today, soup; tomorrow, the world.

Anyway, all that extra's about to come in handy, because Luke is abandoning me for a business trip that begins tomorrow morning and ends Friday night, which means I'm on my own in the kitchen for the next three days. I've already purchased the necessary components for my best spinach dip yet, which I promise to share with you, and made a list of the ways I plan to utilize my alone time:

1) Pass out in a bowl of spinach dip.

2) Recover from the gaseous side effects of said spinach dip.

3) Finally tear into the first season of Murder, She Wrote on DVD.

4) Sweat my tushie off for Pam the Vietnam Vet Aerobics Instructor, who actually seeks me out to make sure I'm attending the regular Wednesday step session, which I always totally do, even though last week I saw a beetle crawling in the vicinity of my floor mat.

5) Decide whether or not to continue watching the catastrophe that is Celebrity Duets, the latest reality train wreck slash American Idol knock-off to debut on FOX. On one hand, this program assumes the fuzzy memories you have of jamming to Michael Bolton in fifth grade because rap was forbidden in your house, thereby FORCING you to memorize all the lyrics to "Time, Love, and Tenderness" against your will, is enough to peak your interest in the awkward pairing of B-list personalities with has-been A-list performers without any backstory on the pop-culture significance and/or hopes and dreams of its participants.

On the other hand, "Time, Love, and Tenderness" was a damn catchy album, and Michael Bolton's golden tresses saw me through some tough times. Plus, Little Richard's on the judge's panel, and based on several of tonight's comments, I'm convinced he's channeling the spirit of an inebriated Paula Abdul:

"Boy, you got to pull out the mustard and catch up!"

"You just made my big toe shoot up in my boot!"

"He's got what it takes and it takes what he got!"

"Woo woo! Umm, ah. Oh!"

6) Catch up on phone calls.

7) Revel in the glory of saving fifteen percent on my car insurance. (I really did!)

8) Pine.

Before I go: I know I've done something like this before, but seeing as I'm about to have oodles of nothing on my hands and Silly Hily's results have been so much fun, I'm asking anyone with deep, burning, personal questions about me (not your mom) to bring 'em on. All I ask is to keep in mind my husband's parents read this blog, and if it's all the same to you, I'd appreciate being able to look them in the eye at my mother-in-law's family reunion this Saturday. That being said, I've touched on religion, birth control, and my fat ass with little to no embarassment, so really, anything goes. Also in my favor, I've got the whole Labor Day weekend before Luke can decide to divorce me.

Edited to add: I now regret turning on the computer again at one o'clock in the morning to add the above disclaimer, as I'm afraid it'll scare you away from asking questions inappropriate for children under thirteen. What's a little thought-provoking discussion among friends, is my new attitude, and anyway, my in-laws are way cool, so now I'm begging you to send me to that reunion with a paper bag over my head. Really. I dare you.

Is It Possible To Get A Buzz From A Banana Smoothie?

No? Must be the wine, then.

The fact that I'm typing this entry means I survived yesterday's road trip intact. Turns out all my worries were for naught, as not only did a third coworker accompany us, thereby upping our chances for lively conversation, both of the guys were cool enough that we spent most of our car time swapping drunk-college stories. My worst drunk-college story dates back to freshman year when I got wasted for the first time off strawberry Boonesfarm, but that would've involved talk of bowel movements, and THAT would've involved the loss of my dignity. 'Twas best to save it for another time.

Tonight was relatively uneventful. I made it to the Y for the third time this week, and I'm surprised at how much I enjoy my time there. Sometimes it's hard to get motivated and out the door, but once I'm there, it's smooth sailing. My new routine is forty-five minutes of brisk walking on the treadmill (enough to work up a good sweat but not even close to a jog) and between twenty and thirty minutes of strength training, alternating between the upper and lower body; my goal is to go through that routine three times a week in addition to one aerobics class, mainly hip-hop aerobics, but I've haven't made it yet because I'm a chicken who's afraid of getting laughed at, although I had every intention of making it today and would have if I hadn't left my pocket book and consequently my membership card at home.

The last couple of hours have been spent racking my brain over what to bring for the lab's summer pitch-in tomorrow, as even people who don't know my last name can somehow recall my inability to boil water. (This MAY be because I told them, but still.) I finally settled on peanut-butter cereal bars because I remembered the lunch ladies at Saint Joe made them all the time and I loved them very much, plus there's no actual cooking involved, so I felt confident that the margin for error was slim to none.

But then Luke had to intervene when he saw I was about to measure one cup of corn syrup into a solids measuring cup, and my hopes for an incident-free no-bake experience were ruined.

They still look pretty damn good, though. I'd show you how good, except Blogger is being an a-hole AGAIN, leaving me no choice but to search for possible domain names right this very minute. Stupid free bastard software.

Bahsketti

Because Luke's birthday dinner on Tuesday seemed to go well, I thought I'd go all out and play chef two days in a row. The main course? Spaghetti. I know, I know--the possibilities with my Betty Crocker cookbook are endless.

Though I've made pasta several times before, I screw it up approximately 78.6 percent of the time because of the fact that I never remember the temperature at which the noodles need to cook. I always think I'm supposed to bring the water to a boil but then reduce it to a simmer once it's time to add the actual food. In every instance I think, this time will be different, this time I've finally got the steps down, this time there's no need to verify my course of action with the back of the spaghetti box. And in every instance, I produce a lump of noodles that give the illusion of being appropriately prepared but actually bear an uncanny match in taste and texture to the individual straw units that compose a barrel of hay. We should've just thrown the stuff straight from the pot to our front lawn and raced to see who could execute the best dive.

Luke and I made it through a collective seven forkfuls before scraping our plates into the garbage disposal. Later when I inquired about the pasta's chances of making a suitable lunch, he thought there was a good chance it'd be just fine, as sitting in the sauce overnight just might be the ticket to appeasing the taste bud gods.

At 11:36 a.m. I learned that the pasta was not just fine. I learned that if it tastes like straw on Wednesday, it'll taste like straw on Thursday, too.

This time I only got through two forkfuls before I raised a white flag and clung to the nutritional value of my Fig Newton two-pack and Capri Sport Ice Berry juice box. However, I was eating at my desk and couldn't bring myself to just throw the spaghetti away, what with all the starving children in third-world countries and not wanting to be labeled Messy and Wasteful by the man who changes my trash liner. So I packed everything up again with the intention of sending all the little noodles back to that great big pasta box in the sky later that night.

And it would've worked, too, if I'd actually remembered to accompany my lunch bag to the car. I'm taking a vacation day tomorrow and shudder to think what I might return to on Monday. Mice? Mold? Place your bets and freak out accordingly.

So Worth The Onions

I once broke up with someone the day after Valentine's Day. As a sophomore in high school, I dated Jon for one month and sixteen days, our courtship initiated on New Year's Eve while sitting on the stoop of my front porch. On February 15, we were hanging out in my room, and miracle of miracles, I was even allowed to shut the door. This was huge, as my parents preferred my dates to consist of me and my suitor playing Mortal Kombat on the Sega in the living room with my seven-year-old brother. I think they were just so happy I had attracted a boy who not only had a GPA higher than 1.7 but also intended to pursue medical school that the possibility of grandchildren conceived out of wedlock wasn't such a bad idea. With my track record, it wouldn't have been unreasonable to assume he was my last chance to cinch a connection to any man who dared to finish high school.

When it came to boyfriends, I had a few strengths. I knew how to make out, maintain awkward silences for as long as thirty minutes in order to avoid conflict (both on the phone and in person, how talented was I?), and pretend not to notice that joint sticking out the pocket of your flannel hoodie. Hell, I did it for five years. However, these strengths did not apply to transitional men, because life was too short, I wasn't that good an actress, and besides, Nick, The Boyfriend Who Went For Three Weeks Without Calling, was totally going to come crawling back to me sans hoodie and drug-free.

Anyway, we're in my room, me making small talk, him making a pencil sketch of fall trees in bloom as he was both a doctor-in-training and aspiring artist, and we fall into the topic of some bet we' recently settled. What the bet was about, I have not a clue; maybe we were gambling on whether or not Mel Gibson's scraggly mane in Braveheart was real or if Ross and Rachel were in fact each other's lobster. I only remember that the winner had the power make the loser do whatever he/she wanted, and I was the loser. Jon decides that he wants me to kiss the person of my choice. I decide that Jon has devised a clever way to propose our first kiss; also, that I have no interest in exploring a first of any kind with him.

"Can I pick the dog?" I ask.

Of course, this leads to The Talk, how it's not him, it's me, I'm in a Bad Place, blah blah blah. The poor guy was on the verge of tears, which back then I thought, "Soooo lame." If only he'd been a pot-smoking, comic-book reading, high-school dropout. Then I would've put him on a pedestal.

Stupid girl. Also, bitch.

Ten years later, my actions are much more appropriate for the occasion, only now it's less about Valentine's Day and more about it being Luke's birthday. Not only did I surprise him with some kick-@$$ presents, I also cooked a chicken fajita dinner ALL BY MYSELF, because I'm domestic like that, and bought a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream cake from Dairy Queen. Note to self: buying food is much, much easier. It's also less likely to smudge your mascara.

However, Luke had a kick-@$$ surprise of his own, which I discovered at work when pulling out the Care Bears fruit snacks from my lunch bag. It was a Charlie Brown Valentine's Day card with an inscription that read, "I love you so much, Frema, and I can't wait until the next Valentine's Day because we'll be married for that one."

I almost cried, which is really saying something, because you know me. I never cry.

"It Tastes Like Feet!"

Today provided a sort of break-through moment for me, as the technical director I have inwardly referred to as The Man Who Hates My Guts Or At Least Doesn't Like Me Very Much made it a special point to invite me to the company's Christmas breakfast, a breakfast I had originally planned to skip because there would be things like French toast and omelets and I don't like French toast and omelets and I didn't want to appear snobby by participating in a breakfast at which I didn't plan to eat.

However, I had been so sure that this man Hated My Guts Or At Least Didn't Like Me Very Much and was therefore so moved by this gesture that I could only smile, nod, and follow him to the breakroom, where he and another scientist were playing chef. I took in the scene: griddles with toast sticks, tubes of salsa, sheets of bacon, and frying pans for yucky, cheesy, surely-going-to-increase-my-cholesterol omelets. To my relief, though, there was also a healthy supply of muffins and bagels. Was there a chance I could survive this experience carbed up and unscathed?

"So, what'll it be?" he asked.

At that point a banana-nut muffin was already on my plate; yet, instinctively, I knew that wouldn't be enough to appease the emotional appetite of a man determined to feed me. So I did what many eager-to-pleasers have done before: play dumb to stall for time.

"You know, I've never even had an omelet. What goes into one?"

"Meat, mushrooms, cheese.... Whatever you want."

"Aww! I'm supposed to cut down my cheese intake," I said apologetically, all the while mentally high-fiving myself for pulling out the health card, because really, who has the gall to challenge the health card? Surely not The Man?

"We don't have to put cheese in it. We can cook it however you want. Really."

"Oh."

By now it's decision time and I'm panicked. I don't understand! I like meat, mushrooms, and cheese. But I don't like omelets. Why don't I like omelets? Tell me, Jesus, why don't I like omelets?

It wasn't until after I had agreed to my sentence that my eyes met his hand and my prayer was answered.

Ding Ding Ding Ding Ding! Eggs, you idiot moron! You know, that rubbery yellow $#@* that made you wretch on sight as a kid? The crap that even your mother stopped trying to forcefeed you because she was sick and tired of cleaning up your--

Amen.

I watched in horror as the eggs got eggier and the omelet got omeletier and pretty soon it was impossible to tell where one part ended and the other began. In mere minutes, The Man was presenting his finished masterpiece.

"You wanna put salsa on that?" he asked.

The hell? But there was no choice. In a desperate attempt to cancel out the substance's rubber plasticity, I drowned that mutha in Pace and never looked back.

Once at the table, I took my time. Had a drink of cranberry juice. Enjoyed a slice of bacon. Picked at the meat that had worked its way out of its taco-like coccoon. Checked to see if The Man was looking.

The Man was looking. And kept looking until a forkful of the stuff was in my mouth.

"How do you like your first omelet?" he asked, and I was immediately reminded of that episode of Friends where Rachel makes the beef trifle. It took all my energy NOT to disguise my gag reflex with belly rubs, head nods, and encouraging mmmm sounds.

Luckily, it only took one "It's good!" from me before he had to go back to work, and then my other colleagues were going back to work and I was on the path back to my cubicle, believing myself fortunate to escape the situation as intact as I did. The omelet sat on my desk for approximately twelve minutes before I wrapped it up in a paper towel and stuffed it in the trash.

One day, when The Man and I are bosom friends, I'll share this story and we'll enjoy a hearty laugh, just like how my former boss likes to bring up the time she found my doodle paper in the fax room, bearing scribbles that combined her first name with the last name of her last boyfriend. Just to see if it looked nice.

Frema Shook it Like a Polaroid Picture

The Shake 'N Bake I made last night, that is. For the first time in Indianapolis and only the second time in my life, I had me a glorious chicken dinner. Though unfortunately I was the only one who benefitted from this, there are four meals' worth of leftovers that will finish out my lunches and dinner for the rest of the week, so it was a worthy endeavor overall.

It was a good feeling, to eat something that I didn't release from a can or some sort of "pull here" packaging. Having grown weary of Campbell's Soup at Hand, Lean Cuisine teriaki bowls, and moldy-bread sandwiches, I decided to spice things up at the Super Target last Sunday and purchased ingredients requiring the operation of an oven and having nothing to do with spinach-artichoke dip (which still ROCKS!, by the way). Maybe it's silly to feel so proud. It's not like I broke a sweat or even created anything from scratch. Truth be told, though, I've always been a little afraid of cooking. The most I'd done as a child was microwave vegatables, and I didn't even enjoy that. Once I moved out of the dorms and into my own house, I tried a couple of different things--tarts, pumpkin pie, sweet potatoes--with mixed success.

Actually, this cooking phobia is just one instance that shows how unwilling I am to try new things. I can take a new job and move to a new city all by myself but refuse to check the air in my tires, install my printer, or change a fuse. Maybe it's because I've always had someone to do these chores for me. Maybe because I'm a girl. Maybe because I'm just that lazy.

However, I'm even more afraid of the idea of my future family living on KFC and frozen lasagnas, so this cooking thing must be overcome. My parents were wonderful at it; there were pot roasts, homemade apple pies, mashed potatoes actually mashed by my mother's own two hands. And it looked so easy! They never let on much calculating it took to bring a meal and all of its various parts together. The only side dish I prepared last night was Rice-A-Roni, which turned out OK, but it finished cooking ten minutes after I'd taken the chicken out, so everything was eaten in stages. Really, I had my own little play, A Dinner in Two Acts, with an optional third act in the form of an orange sherbet push-up at 12:30 in the morning.

I'll get there, future Frema family. Have faith. I'll get there.

Fruit Snacks and Spaghetti

Whether I'm rolling in the dough or counting out quarters from the change compartment in my car, I've realized that these food items remain constants in my kitchen cabinet. When I'm at the store, I automatically pick up a box of noodles and two to three jars of Prego sauce. Then when I'm back at home and putting groceries away, I find that there are still three jars of Prego sauce and at least two boxes of spaghetti still sitting on the shelf, with one of the boxes only half-used. But it doesn't end with Betty Crocker pouches and carbohydrates drenched in sauce - there's yogurt, applesauce, pudding, grapes, cereal, and a freezer filled with pre-made pizzas and Healthy Choice dinners. In a nutshell, my at-home menus consist of really fun side items (at least, the kind I was in love with as a kid) and main courses that are microwave friendly and have little desserts right next to the salisbury steak. The last time I had pot roast was probably at Saint Joe's cafeteria last year. Ribs? Smoky Bones. I can barely motivate myself to open a can of soup because I'm too busy thinking about the dirty pot I'll have to wash afterwards. The only thing I ever make "from scratch" is spinach dip (does that even count?), and even that never turns out quite how I'd like it to (just like Applebee's!). It's really very sad.

I assume that this attitude of mine will change once I'm in a kitchen with glorious counterspace and the world's finest ingredients at my disposal. I'll be eager to devour the secrets hiding out in my Philsbury cookbook and embrace a recipe that takes longer than 15 minutes to prepare. Right now, though, I'll continue to eat spaghetti at least once a week, munch on Fruit Smileys every single day (the fifth grader in me just adores them), and consider pre-cooked chicken nuggets a gourmet treat.

It's a good thing Luke can cook.