Kate Fails at Transporting Foodstuffs. Again.

At this point, you might or might not know that I occasionally fall victim to unfortunate situations involving baked goods. Today, I inadvertently expanded my repertoire to include unprepared produce.

Okay, to allay your suspense, this isn't really about the death of a piece of produce. There is no honeydew melon splattered on a sidewalk, no chalk outline of a pineapple. All my Trader Joe's bounty is intact, with the exception of the mango I devoured earlier, which was intact until I deliberately disemboweled it. No, this is about my bag.

I have this bag. It is a stupid little canvas bag from Wishlist in New Haven. In case you are not familiar with Wishlist, you should know that the majority of its shoppers are Uggs-and-Juicy-wearing 15-year-olds. In case you don't know me very well, I will note that I am neither Uggs-wearing nor Juicy-wearing nor 15 years old. That said, every once in a while, in a fit of dubious judgment, I used to buy something at Wishlist, including an overpriced teeshirt for my sister for her birthday. My sister is neither Juicy-wearing nor 15 years old, though she finally caved and joined the Ugg'ed masses. She claims it was in the interest of warmth.

Anyway, the moral of the story is that I should not like this bag. It is from a store that causes me embarrassment when I admit to shopping there. The handles are kind of awkwardly too long, so it drags on the ground if it's not over my shoulder. It has a silver peace sign on one side and 'Wishlist' in curly script in hot pink on the other side. It is an affront to me and everything for which I stand (which is not to say that I don't stand for peace, but you get the idea).

Which is why it makes no sense that I am so attached to this bag. Except that it is the perfect size for two boxes of Kashi, six apricots, and a pound of zucchini. And it was free, which means that I can take it places that I don't want to take my bags that I really love. And it's shockingly durable, having survived a department booze cruise (after which I thought I had lost it; my coworkers can tell you how upset I was-- though mostly because it held my Mount Gay hat) and a downpour that turned it green, thanks to a file folder inside.

Which is why I was a little stunned after work, when I went to pull The Little Beige Bag That Could out of the freezer in the 9th floor pantry, where it was keeping my three bags of cranberries safe (I love cranberries even more than this stupid bag). The thing to know about this freezer is that it is essentially a microcosm of the frozen food section of Trader Joe's, so there isn't much open space.

Given this circumstance, you can understand why I put my cranberries right next to the out-of-commission ice cube maker. And you can probably also understand my surprise when I realized that the ice cube maker had begun to ingest my bag.

Seriously, no one has taken an ice cube out of that freezer in at least two years, I'm guessing. In the little ice cube tray beneath the mechanism is a lone, leftover popsicle from an event about five months ago. I was convinced that ice cube maker was just decorative. Apparently, I was mistaken. I don't know exactly how that thing works, but it had that piece of canvas in its plastic jaw, and it was not letting go.

So you might be wondering what happened to my bag and its contents. I extricated the cranberries and went to work on the bag. But once it occurred to me to close the pantry door to muffle the sound of shattering plastic and pull as hard as I could--ice cube maker be damned--I decided that 5:30 on a Monday was possibly the worst time imaginable to attempt freezer surgery (the other contender being 5:30 on a Friday). So the bag is still in the ice cube maker, and I am going to have an interesting email to write to the operations staff tomorrow morning.

Kate Rails Against Pop Culture

So yesterday I bought a new song on iTunes. I was looking for something in the category of good music to play at the gym, and there, at the top of the most purchased songs list, was "Just Dance" by Lady GaGa. Now, right there we have some red flags. Lady GaGa? Seriously? Wtf kind of name is that? Furthermore, I suspected that this song was the one that came on the radio about once every fifteen minutes when I was home and that I immediately switched stations to avoid.

But the 30-second sample on iTunes was so catchy-- lots of profound lyrics like "just dance" and "spin that record, babe" and the ever-popular "daa daa doo doo." And I started speculating about the reason for the exhortation to "just dance." I decided that it was something girl power-y. Yeah, sure. I can do triceps dips to that. Click! Song bought. Excellent.

It was at this point that I listened to the first verse.

Holy shit.

Here are the highlights, along with my comments in parentheses.

I've had a little bit too much (well, okay)
...Can't find a drink, oh man (ah, the cruel irony of being too wasted to obtain additional booze)
Where are my keys? I lost my phone (umm... little bit too much?)
I love this record, baby, but I can't see straight anymore (ibid)
What's the name of this club? I can't remember, but it's all right

So, we are maybe a minute into the song and we have a girl who is blackout and can't find her stuff. Call me crazy, but that's bad. Especially when you consider that the solution to this situation is not call it a night and pound some water. Nope. What does our heroine decide to do? Just dance! Because apparently she got trashed on Red Bull and vodka.

In general, I am not particularly offended by glamorizations of drinking. I mean, last night was New Year's Eve; obviously I spent part of the night sitting around drinking champagne. But promoting--nay, celebrating-- the practice of getting wasted to the point of being unable to function is not okay for several reasons. There are the obvious health implications. And there are the nearly-as-obvious safety implications of young women getting out-of-control trashed. Nor can we ignore the extent to which drunk people think they're very talented dancers and the toll that belief takes on all of us. Moral of the story: we are reminded, once again, that pop stars are probably not the models for our behavior.

And, yes, I continue to listen to that song at the gym. It's just so frickin catchy. I am appropriately ashamed.

Kate is Betty Freakin Crocker

If ever you are trying to flour a baking pan and it doesn't seem to be working out, ask yourself this question:

"Am I using flour? Or am I maybe using confectioner sugar?"

Once you conclude that you are, in fact, using sugar to flour the pan, ask yourself if you're qualified to be using knives and appliances. This is why I don't usually try to bake early in the morning.

Kate Misses Yale; Cooking Ensues

Recently, I've found myself experiencing the pangs of Yale withdrawal. They started in the early fall when I realized that our neighborhood reminds me of Orange Street. (Yes, it's true, I was nostalgic for the grad school ghetto. I definitely felt a little twinge of sadness when I looked up 19th Street and saw the Hilton looming instead of East Rock.) They intensified when the leaves started to change and the air turned crisp.

But tonight, I reached a new low. And it hit me in the most surprising of places: the produce aisle of Soviet Safeway. It was there, standing in front of the vegetables waiting to be inspired, that I realized I would basically kill a man for a taste of the organic Indian-spiced cauliflower they used to have in the Davenport dining hall.

"Kate," you say, "you miss dining hall food? Have you discussed this with someone? Perhaps a mental health professional?"

I know, and I promise I haven't lost my mind. But seriously, that cauliflower was amazing. So I turned away from the anemic green beans and the squash that looked like it had fallen off the struggle bus. I grabbed some cauliflower and--after a detour for some curry-- headed home to reincarnate that delicious, delicious dish.

Mine turned out a little different from the Dport version, mostly because I used vastly less oil than is included in the original. But it was pretty good, so here is a vague guide. Really, these directions are probably not at all helpful, since I didn't measure anything except the oil, but you'll get the idea.

Curry Cauliflower, as inspired by Yale University Dining Services. (Really, stop laughing.)

1 head of cauliflower
1/2 tsp extra virgin olive oil (or really whatever oil you want, I suppose)
curry powder to taste
garlic powder to taste
onion powder to taste
salt to taste

Cut the cauliflower florets (technically, they're not actually florets, but whatever) off the head into large-bite-sized pieces. In a large skillet, heat the oil. Sprinkle curry, garlic, and onion powders into the oil; they will sizzle and brown. Immediately add the floret pieces and cook over medium-high heat for about 7 minutes, stirring often and adding additional curry, onion, garlic, and salt. (Do what looks good to you; I went with a light, even dusting of onion and garlic, a heavier coat of curry, and a pinch of salt.) After about 7 minutes--at which point the cauliflower should be a little bit browned but still pretty firm on the inside--transfer the cauliflower to a vegetable steamer. Steam for 8 to 10 minutes or until the cauliflower is as soft as you like it.

Serving suggestions: if, after finishing your cauliflower, you can get Billy to come sing his song or Joanne to compliment you on your hair...well, now I'm all nostalgic again.

Adventures in Christmas Spirit

There's nothing quite like the D.C. Metro, especially when its riders are dressed unusually. Tonight, Marissa and I were on our way home from a Christmas party, and--as luck would have it-- so were three Santas, two of whom followed us onto the train.

Given that my last Santa encounter involved bumming some Jack Daniels off Bad Santa at a Halloween party, I was pretty confident that Santas leaving Adams Morgan at 11:45 on a Saturday night would prove entertaining.

They nodded at us solemnly. "Merry Christmas."

"So, I have to ask," said Marissa. "Do you rent the Santa suit, or is this something you own?"

"Oh, you definitely need to own," said the more Santa-shaped of the two.

"Yeah," I said. "It seems like a good investment."

"Well, maybe, " said cute Santa, as he pulled a chunk of white faux fur from the trim on the jacket. "I don't really know how much is going to be left next year."

"Hmm, you appear to be molting." I know, I'm astute.

"Well," he replied, "the word 'molting' suggests that it might grow back."

At this point, it was time for Marissa and me to disembark--which was good, since the other Santa was starting to explain that a lot of the, um, fur loss was from the crotch region of his costume--but we nevertheless found it hilarious that we had encountered a.) multiple Santas and b.) a Santa who would challenge me on my diction. Merry Christmas indeed.

Today in Mixed Metaphors

Yes, it has been a big day in figurative language. And yes, I am a nerd for enjoying this stuff.

First, Hillary Clinton said that electing Republicans to fix the damage of the last eight years of government is like electing "the iceberg to save the Titanic." I thought that was pretty funny, especially since Titanic was on Friday night and I happened to watch the 45 minutes when the iceberg shows the Titanic who's boss.

But then, on came Rachel Maddow, my new favorite political commentator (exclusive of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert). I watched most of her show tonight, and I am a huge fan. That said, one of her rhetorical flourishes struggled a little bit. That would be the one about "deference has a place in journalism as much as vertigo has a place in trapeze." Ummm... really? Granted, now the only substitutes I can conjure are terrible and based in diagnoses (as much as dyslexia has a place in a spelling bee? as much as anorexia has a place in a competitive eating event?), but I'm just me, whereas she has a staff.

That said, I am willing to forgive this analogous stumble in light of a few things. Saying that church and state are like peanut butter and chocolate, except that they are two good things that don't go together? I like it. But the icing on the cake (since frosting is also a good thing, perhaps in this case comparable to judicial review, in that frosting goes better with chocolate than with church) was definitely the title of the I-hope-recurring segment with Pat Buchanan. And yes, I-hope-recurring pretty much solely for the purpose of repeating the title...

"It's Pat!"

YES. Rachel Maddow, if you can get a Saturday Night Live reference into every show, you'll be able to phase out that pop culture minute. And given that this is election season (really?), it shouldn't be long before you work in "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and--gosh darn it-- people like me!"

Overheard at Eastern Market

Or rather, addressed directly to me at Eastern Market:

"Were you in the Olympics?"

HA. I love it. I don't even care if the guy who said it was making fun of me for wearing gym shorts and a sweaty--and screaming orange-- tank top. Best, most hilarious comment ever.