Pink Octopus Seeks Turquoise Pants

Today is Day Five of Banjo Playing and what better way to commemorate than with a new octopus!

Today is also Exactly Two Weeks from the Big Change. Some have asked me what I've been up to during this time off, and aside from banjo playing, the activities are a blur. In fact, when asked this question yesterday, I realized that I could not recall what happened between the hours of noon and 4pm. The thought of having four unaccounted-for hours was quite alarming; after all, at 31 I am too young to be having blackouts.

So a friend suggested that I log down my activities during the day:

7:42am: Wake up. Do isometric exercises while brushing teeth. Sweep bathroom floor.
8:00am: Do a load of laundry. Water garden.
8:25am: Arrive at gym, discover iPod is out of batteries.
9:00am: Return home. Add gravel to garden bed. Load dishwasher. Play Boil Down Them Cabbage ten times.
10:25am: Go to gym second time.
11:30am: Spray paint branches for wall art.
11:52am: Weedwack, finish mowing front lawn.
12:15pm: Eat lunch. Listen to This American Life.
12:40pm: Mop kitchen and bathroom floors.
1:00pm: Eat peach. Check email.
1:20pm: Finish hanging wall art.
2:00pm: Finish shower. Leave house to visit art galleries.
2:20pm: Pick mushrooms.
2:50pm: Go to Elderberry Park to look at mountains.
3:25pm: Photograph contents of purse.
3:38pm: Finish making marinated cucumber salad.
5:15pm: Upload photos. Finish banjo practice. Call friend on phone.
6:00pm: Eat dinner with friends.
8:20pm: Buy used lawnmower.
8:45pm: Mow half of backyard.
9:30pm: Stop mowing.
10:15pm: Practice banjo.
11:00pm: Read a few pages of Cold Mountain.
11:15pm: Sleep.

The varied directions of the day were consistent with the contents of my purse. If you've ever wondered what lies in a madwoman's purse:
That's right. Yesterday I was carrying around:
- 2 bolete mushrooms of questionable edibility
- 1 mosquito net
- 1 highlighter
- 1 black pen
- 1 mechanical pencil
- 1 tin labeled "MISC MEDS"
- 2 sets of Costco coupons
- 1 ear plug
- 1 unexplained dried kernel of corn
- 2 binder clips
- loose change
- 1 loose dollar bill
- 1 wallet
- 1 set of keys
- a handful of wildflowers
- 1 lens cloth
- mango lip balm
- gardeners' salve

The best thing since embarking in the New Direction is that my mind has been unfolding in unexpected ways. A person with a 9 to 5 job wouldn't be caught dead photographing the contents of her purse! I've decided that there is no better moment than now for a Period of Experimentation during which I will dutifully crawl into any nook or cranny to where my mind wants to wander.

In this State is how I arrived at Today's Experiment which was to peer at Life slowly through The Bottom of a Wine Bottle. I am five-two-and-three-quarters and admittedly of a certain ethnic descent that struggles with the metabolism of alcohol. Alcohol has made various appearances in my life, some planned, some unwanted, but never before had I decided to settle down in the day with a bottle of wine. I chose 12:19pm (when I took lunch) to open the gates.

Six hours later, I had neared the bottom of the bottle thanks to slow, deliberate sips taken over the course of the day. I stayed indoors and did artwork, avoid operating motor vehicles such as my lawnmower, and quite honestly, had a splendid time with myself.

During this Moment of Experimentation, I also decided to try wearing only monochromatic outfits. I chose pumpkin, also known as rust, or in cruder circles as "orange." What normal people who wear multicolor outfits don't know is that confining yourself to one color family is a way of giving immediate, comprehensible purpose to an otherwise insignificant activity: choosing what to wear. Although some women invest much efforts in this task, I am not one of them. Sometimes I look nice but much of the time I look frumpy.

Today, I was simply Orange.

So onward and upward through the colors of the rainbow! The Octopus needs some turquoise pants....

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Return To Civilized Life

It all ended, predictably, with a flash in the pan ... namely, with little bits of bratwurst frying in their own grease.

The truth is that Unprincipled Vegetarianism ended earlier in the week, on Day 17, after trying to make separate noodles for a vegetarian dinner guest. I suddenly remembered that I've spent 31 years believing that eating only vegetables is kind of crazy, and my vegetarianism, however unprincipled, might be giving people the wrong idea - namely that I believe in giving up meat. As my friends have pointed out, normally vegetarians are people who want to give up meat and hence vegetarianism makes them happy.

And so I ate shredded Chicken of Convenience on Night 17. Although I did not turn into Mr. Spock or any kind of bodhisattva, certain discoveries were nonetheless revealed during my brief bout of vegetarianism:
- I probably love meat.
- But I don't need meat.
- There is a special time and place for meat.

In fact, aside from eating out of convenience, even as I threw in the vegetarian towel, I felt no great urge to consume meat, except of course in the middle of a camping trip to Denali when we fried up that AMAZING bratwurst on a picnic bench near the Riley Creek Mercantile. Many a visitor smelled our bear bait dinner and looked wistfully upon our fare. I had a sudden flash of enterprising genius - we could make a tidy profit by selling off our bratwurst to tourists with an outrageous tourist mark-up. This must be how MA got started with his reindeer dogs.

But we did not sell the bratwurst, which was fine with me because on a rainy camping day, very few things taste as good as bits of greasy bratwurst. As I was frying the luscious bits, I observed that bratwurst, being made thoroughly of ground meat, would technically fall under the Small Bits Exception. A friend remarked that the next time I become an unprincipled vegetarian again, I could save everyone a lot of trouble just by eating hamburger. Duly noted.

The bratwurst was a fitting accent to a great weekend beginning in Talkeetna. Talkeetna apparently is the town on which Northern Exposure's Cicely, Alaska was based. I've learned this fact only recently even though for years, when people have asked me if life in Alaska is like Northern Exposure, I've always said, "I bet in Talkeetna it is." "Downtown Talkeetna" is actually a Main Street of a handful of blocks. In fact, if you are nodding off in the car, you might just miss all of Talkeetna. It's a cute little town situated by the Talkeetna River. At the "end" of town, you can get to the riverbank easily and when not overrun with ATVs and snowmachines, it is a great place to just be.

Unlike Anchorage, Talkeetna offers a very decent breakfast at The Roadhouse, which also boasts affordable modest rooms in addition to solid baked goods. For breakfast, I gobbled up some very satisfying biscuits and gravy in addition to the day's special, banana pecan sourdough pancakes. Unless you're a burly lumberjack, however (and often I think I eat like one), order the half-plate. Breakfast also comes with fresh juice and coffee included! You've got a love a policy like that.


Between Talkeetna and Denali is a long stretch of highway on which you can't get a decent cup of coffee regardless of how many times you try or how much you are willing to pay for it. During this time of year, however, the highway is lined with patches of brilliant fireweed, all reminding us that summer is in full swing and will be over before we know it. As is true with any highway in Alaska, during the ride you may also encounter some interesting characters.

And despite the bad coffee, of course the Park itself did not disappoint. You can while away an easy lifetime exploring the Park. As I drove along the road, I thought about the land teeming with all of those animals, the miles over which tourists from all over the world travel to see the Mountain and the creatures. Even at the height of tourist season, with people clogging the gift store and campgrounds, there is so much park out there that you can feel like you're alone, which is of course the nature of this state. Standing on the tundra, it is hard to figure out why anyone would possibly live anywhere else but Alaska. Before the day was over, I did finally manage to spot some wildlife. I think this little fellow may have been thinking the same thoughts.

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What Would the Europeans Say?

Italy: The Italians do not mix seafood with cheese. Although fond of their parmesan, no self-respecting Italian would add it, for example, to a seafood risotto. If you think about it, this prohibition makes a lot of sense. The cow and the fish are not natural neighbors. I had to have this point proven to me the hard way today when I ordered the Asiago Sole (probably an oxymoron) at lunch at Simon and Seafort in downtown. The dish had come recommended, but what I received what basically a chicken-fried sole, covered in crispy cheese, over a bed of mashed potatoes with roasted veggies on the side - standard accoutrements for roast chicken or steak but odd bedfellows for fish. The cheesy fish left me feeling heavy and tired, and I spent the rest of the day recovering from lunch. Yes, fried cheese tastes good, but it doesn't make a dish, and it doesn't go with fish. Those Italians know what they're talking about.

Greece: Summertime in Anchorage has made a real appearance in the last two days with temperatures above 70 degrees (positively scorching by local standards). Last night, we had a desire to dine with Summer, but I wanted to avoid turning on the stove. The solution: a fresh pasta salad with Greek elements: tomatoes, herbs, roasted red bell peppers, cucumbers, red onion, feta and halloumi, lemon juice, olive oil, salt/pepper, and of course, kalamata olives. The kalamata olive turned out to be the necessary accent to each bite and hence, midway through the meal, I decided to add them chopped rather than whole. The result: a summery shower of fresh tastes and flavors.

France: Today's experiment was a Marjolaine, a birthday request from a lover of hazelnuts and described by my cookbook as a "French pastry shop favorite." The Marjolaine is a torte, meaning mostly made of ground nuts (in this case, hazelnuts) folded into egg whites. I think only the French would pick nuts, pulverize them, take the white of the egg, whip it up, fold the everything together, and sell it at a pastry shop.

Although the Marjolaine was well-received, an afternoon of dealing with meringues, buttercream, and ganaches has led me to believe that the point of going to France is to indulge yourself with pastries you cannot make. Why mess with the Order of the Universe? If God intended me to make French pastries, he would have made me French and thin. He did neither.

But it is true that I've always had a personal weakness for French pastries. My most recurring "nightmare" is one in which I come upon a buffet of delicate, exquisite French pastries, but there is never enough time to eat them all. This dream dates back to my childhood. As a little girl, I was rather fond of the Napoleon and frankly knew the pastry before I knew the dictator. I suppose it is this recurring dream that initially drove me to become a baker (that and a gift of baking pans for my sixteenth birthday, courtesy of my mom and a major clearance at J.C. Penney). I wanted to achieve in my real life what I could not have in my dream life - lovely French pastries at the tip of my fingers.

Over the years, however, the only permanent part of my repertoire that is solidly in the French pastry category is the pate a choux, or as we Americans know it, the lovely cream puff. I like this pastry because for all of its delicateness and deliciousness, it is actually very straightforward and simple - the essence of a fine dessert.

In contrast, following the multi-step process of making a Marjolaine made it a little hard to fully appreciate the resulting torte. Sometimes too much knowledge of the background context can muddy the experience of the Exact Moment. In this sense, the guests get the best seat in the house - they sample a thin sliver of cake without closely experiencing the disaster of the kitchen or knowing intimately the calorie count that comes with French proportions of heavy cream and butter. In the end, the Marjolaine is the kind of cake where for the baker, the experience is perhaps the process, not consuming the final dessert. Still, it was lovely to pretend to be French, even if just for a moment in the afternoon.

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Still Ticking....

It has been four days since I nuked the lawn to no avail, ten days since I gave notice at work, eleven days since I became an Unprincipled Vegetarian, and over two weeks since a series of other emotionally trying events. Did I also mention I am also looking for a partridge in a pear tree?

This bundle of ridiculous milestones and efforts is really the kind of stuff that gives the Madwoman her name. But I am still ticking... more or less. Maybe I'm a time bomb?

After eleven days of Unprincipled Vegetarianism, I have learned that I will become extremely FAT if I continue down this path. No longer able to seek comfort in the arms of Meat, I have sought out the loving embrace of Butter, Ice Cream, and Pasta. Even worse, sometimes I find myself forced to fraternize with the likes of All Kinds Of Fried Food.

Take this weekend, for example, Day 8. An ill-planned drive through the butt-hole of Palmer (the Butte area) succeeded mostly in creating a carful of hungry passengers. We tried very hard to find edible food, but the Lonely Planet in my glove compartment had only two suggestions for "dining," and one of them was the neighborhood Carrs. Not encouraged by the prospect of lunching at the grocery store, we decided to take our chances and to look for a local German bar on the Palmer-Wasilla Highway - an octagonal log cabin atop a hill called Schawbenhof.

At the foot of the driveway up to the Schawbenhof bar is a sign boasting a counterfeit St. Pauli's girl. The costume is the same, but if you look closely beyond her steins, you'll notice that she looks more like an elderly version of the famous Frauline - maybe what Fr. St. Pauli might like after twenty-five years of bar fights and serving drinks to mouthy frontiersmen.

After the Old Miss St. Pauli welcomes you, you drive up a steep road that leads to the log-cabin bar. The bar itself has a great vibe. Although mostly empty on a random Sunday at 2pm, it nevertheless had all the marks of a place that has seen some good times. There is a wide open deck with a virtually 360 degree view of the Palmer/Wasilla/Butt area, which my friend from Nebraska said looked a lot like Nebraska (not exactly a direct compliment). But with 16 oz of beer in your hand, even the unobstructed view of Nebraska is spectacular.

Scwabenhof boasts a long list of beers and friends of beers. For a mere six dollars, you can sample four, each served in a cute little mini-stein. It also has the typical German fare for food. Bratwurst. Sauerkraut. And you might have guessed, not so much for the Vegetarian, Unprincipled or not. My friend on the left ordered the "1/2 Bratwurst" which was later explained to be a typo that should have read "1/2 pound Bratwurst." (Her brat was literally twice as long as her bun.) My friend on the left ordered a Pork Tenderloin sandwich. I sat in the middle with a cup of water (I was driving) and an order of "nachos" - i.e., tortilla chips smothered in Velveeta. I knew there was some danger in ordering nachos at a German bar, but this was the only vegetarian option aside from beer and sauerkraut.

I can't say much about how good the food is at Scwabenhof except that the meat options appeared to my hungry eyes to be truly delicious, and both my friends left feeling very satisfied.

Driving away from the German bar having escaped the arms of Meat, I must say I was surprised I survived. A test of will is a funny thing. Some people are impressed with the length of time a person is able to abstain from something desirable. But as time passes, new habits form, and dramatic pledges and vows actually become a matter of status quo. The spirit becomes stubborn even if the flesh is weak. Perhaps the most trying challenge is that initial moment one decides to choose change over The Way Things Are, for better or worse.

Certainly being a Schawbenhof survivor steeled my resolve to continue with the Unprincipled Vegetarianism. Later that day, we headed to Kincaid Park for a summer festival - Natsumatsuri - sponsored by the local Japanese society in Anchorage. The ambient smells of yakitori - skewers of grilled meat - filled the park, and for a while, I sat on the picnic bench tortured and unhappy. I had purchased a meal ticket which my friend exchanged for three skewers. My well-meaning friends tried coaxing me into giving into the yakitori (no doubt they are absolutely sick of my unprincipled vegetarianism), but I did not fold.

At the end of the day, the lure of yakitori was a false challenge. The smell of meat over an open flame is admittedly a call of the wild - an ancestral beacon that glows within us, tying us to our more primitive times and urges. It is true that the smell of grilled meat drives me crazy, much like the smell of fresh fried donuts (no ancestral explanation available here). But I am certain had I thrown it all in for a skewer of mediocre yakitori, I would have deeply regretted it. I did end up eating the meat-juice soaked grilled scallions (which fall under the meat juice exception) and made a joke about licking up the remaining yakitori meat juice, but really it was only a joke.

In the meantime, tick, tick, tick....

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Vote Yes On Nasturtiums.

As we approach mid-July in Anchorage, one might say we are at the peak of the growing season. My dandelion patch is thriving, and my late-planted seedlings are starting to look like at least a bit like adolescents. Weeds lining the sides of my yards are climbing over the chain link fence, forcing me to take to the weedwacker.

It is also the time of year when Mother Nature teaches me some humbling lessons. The Weedwacker is an excellent example of a Foolish Human Tool we use to fight against the Inevitable. I was happily wielding said Weedwacker this weekend to clean up Mother Nature's work when I accidentally nicked one of my precious fava bean adolescents.

The injury was as painful to me as if I cut my own flesh. I fought back tears and like any good Alaskan, got the duct tape out to make it all better.

Some might question this effort, but sometimes it feels better to put a bandaid on a hopeless boo-boo. I had so gently nicked the plant that it was still standing (barely), albeit critically wounded. I guess I was hoping that the duct-tape would encourage my fava bean friend to magically regenerate its xylem, make itself whole, and dutifully resume the transport of water!

I might as well have planted some magic fava beans, climbed up the stalk, and started laying golden eggs.

Mother Nature also threw me a curveball last night when I finally decided that it was time to nuke the lawn. The weed 'n' feed variety I use requires (1) 24 hours of dry weather, and (2) warm temperatures. Sunday demonstrated both, and Yahoo Weather promised no rain for the following day. As Mother Nature would have it, it is pouring today, and the rain is washing away my hard work before it had a chance to take effect. Even worse, the rain will have the effect of not killing the weeds but nevertheless feeding the fertilizer to their roots!

I may have unwittingly just created a Bionic Dandelion Patch.

Under these circumstances, it's hard not to throw in the trowel and just give up. It's as if someone sent Mother Nature a memo letting her know that I'll be gainfully unemployed in a matter of days, and of course, I would enjoy nothing more than spending all of my new free time mowing my dandelions-on-steroids yard! Had I tried not to interfere at all with the natural state of the world, maybe the memo would have slipped past Her desk unnoticed.

In fact, it may be true that the plants that are the most worthwhile in the garden are those which actually persist despite my efforts. It gives me no pride nor comfort to know that I may actually be the Anti-Gardener, but I can't help going back into the garden again and again. Unfortunately, there is no amount of duct-tape that will fix my dandelion lawn, physically or emotionally. Perhaps it would be best if I duct-taped my hands together so that they'll stay out of the garden or maybe I should duct-tape over my eyes so I can't see any dandelions.

I suppose it's some kind of human instinct to strive to feel something more than Inconsequential. I live in Alaska where nature is unparalleled; logic should counsel me to leave natural beauty to professionals like Mother Nature, but my mundane sense of identity as a homeowner motivates me to mimic her finest works (and fail miserably) in hopes of capturing some "beauty" in my own backyard.

But for every ten poor decisions made in the yard, Mother Nature occasionally lets me win one. This week: my first (and so far only) nasturtium bloom. What can I say? It's lovely.

And I'll admit it: well worth the wait.

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Save The Date

So it appears the time has come for me to make the Break With Reality that I've smelled in the air for so long now. I can think of no better way to mark the new era than with an umbrella, a fruit hat, a bowling ball, and a little music.

And let's not forget the importance of a proper disguise. No Big Life Change can be successfully executed without the aid of a good rubber nose and a fake mustache.

After I gave notice to my law firm of the last six years, many have asked me, So What Are You Going To Do Now? I think the hot pink octopus explains things pretty well. I may have to print some hot pink octopus business cards for this purpose.

Some, including myself, have pointed out that I am Too Young For A Mid-Life Crisis. I assure my friends and family that I am not trading in the Prius for a Miata - not yet. (Let's hope that if I do, I at least choose an interesting color.) Among the sophisticated "next steps" contemplated include:

• become a momentary vegetarian (see previous blog entries on the "success" of this idea),
• get the turquoise highlights I've wanted since I was sixteen,
• assert control over dandelion chaos in the garden,
• finally learn Spanish so that I can lift my prohibition on travel to Spanish-speaking countries,
• "work on my music and art" (e.g., be penniless while picking up a new instrument, working on my cartoon strip),
• see more of the Last Frontier.

In the meantime, I am also looking for odd experiences to add to my collection -- nothing is too odd. Try me.

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Kaghplut!!!

It's now Day Five of Unprincipled Vegetarianism, and results are inconclusive. My previous experience in giving up meat - namely, when I gave up my beloved pork in 2005 - provided all sorts of insight into who I am as a person, what I value, and my motivations for doing what I do.

This current abstention from complex muscle protein, however, has yielded no such deep revelations.

In fact, far from the wise and serene little bodhisattva I had hoped to become, I've turned a bit of a rabid dog. Chained like to my Unprincipled Vegetarianism (which because it is unprincipled, has no clear mechanism for coming to an end), I snap and snarl whenever I remember, oh yes, I've turned into an Unprincipled Vegetarian. The thought is quite annoying and has brought me no Eureka! whatsoever except to realize that deep down inside, apparently I am a raging carnivore who enjoys silently brandishing her canines.

Although I thought that eating meat had a causal relationship to being a feral beast, it appears that not eating meat has the same effect, if not worse. I've turned into a caged animal (albeit a vegetarian animal) rattling the bars of my confinement. In fact, more than being an Unprincipled Vegetarian, I do believe I'm transforming into the Most Annoying Vegetarian Ever. My friends are practically begging me to give up giving up meat.

Apparently, Miss Unprincipled Vegetarian is no Miss Congeniality.

There are many possible explanations for this.

1. I am feeling physically weak, even somewhat starved, because I have not been consuming muscle protein, and people who are starved lash out. (However, I am still eating eggs and some seafood and certainly my portions don't suggest that I am yet in need of United Nations relief.)


2. When robbed of my carnivorous cloak, I am exposed to the light of day as the true Raving Bitch that I am. (Disturbing, but can't be ruled out.)


3. There are natural sedatives in animal muscle protein.


4. I hate being a vegetarian.

Of these explanations, probably the last is the most likely. When I gave up pork, I did not hate myself because I was still a meat-eater who happened to be giving up her favorite meat for a while for personal reasons. But now, I am not a meat-eater (unless you count sauces, broths, seafood, etc., but clearly I don't). I don't suppose I much enjoy being this person; I feel neither virtuous or righteous, nothing like Mr. Spock my favorite Vulcan vegetarian -- just angry and bitter like a Klingon deprived of his blood wine!

Kaghplut!!*

(*Kaghplut is not actually a Klingonese word, but it adequately describes what I'm feeling inside.)

As many will agree, I make a Lousy Vegetarian.

Still, time flies. Day Five of Vegetarianism makes for almost a full work week. And had it not been for two slices of most deeeelicious Prime Rib last Saturday, it would already be Day Seven. Didn't even God rest on Day Seven?

In the meantime, I must continue to perservere... for absolutely no reason whatsoever....

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The Spirit Was Somewhat Willing....

Last week, I consumed a thick, giant hamburger which probably tipped the scales at over a pound of ground meat. It was luscious to behold and was certainly consumed with a great deal of gusto, but the feat of eating the entire thing left me empty inside (emotionally, obviously not physically). Every once in a while, I go through some kind of phase during which I simply feel not emotionally equipped to digest complex animal protein.

Logically, I decided the next step should be to have a brief period of vegetarianism. However, because I have been an avid meat lover since the day my tiny canines popped out of my pink baby gums, I knew that I should set realistic limits.

So I developed the following rubric:

• meat flavorings and juices OK (no point in cutting out harmless stuff like chicken broth and sauces)
• fish and other seafood OK (they have simple nervous systems)
• "Wild Game" exception (never know what kind of once-in-a-lifetime exotic meat might walk in the door).
  
  

This scheme is admittedly unprincipled in a moral sense, but in a technical sense, very principled in that it is at least quite rule-oriented. It boils down to a basic prohibition against bite-sized (or larger) chunks of commercial meat. My "vegetarianism" is also rather amorphous in that it lacks definite duration.

Personally I predict it will be a momentary flash-in-the-pan.

Some have asked why I don't just eat less meat.

That's not the point, I answer.

The decision to dabble in vegetarianism was an organic one, borne first out of a natural reluctance to digest meat in the near future and second out of a desire to clean up my life a bit. I once gave up the meat of my people - pork - for a short period of time and found that experience quite interesting. I discovered being a carnivore definitely makes me a feral being, more prone to barbaric tendencies and moods. For this bout of civilized vegetarianism, I declared no clear start date, but last Friday, found myself making veggie quesadillas and a green bean tomato salad for dinner. Saturday morning, in unprecedented fashion, I abstained from our traditional morning mcmuffins, which normally require two slices of Canadian bacon to achieve the necessary meat-to-rest-of-food ratio. The rest of Saturday would have passed without incident if not for a certain Prime Rib at an out-of-town wedding. I was able to resist the other temptations (admittedly, aside from the permissible salmon, the other option was prohibited chicken), but the Prime Rib loomed under the lights, glowing like an object of divine intervention, testing my resolve.

Unfortunately, my "resolve" (which had not been formally instituted) proved to be weak. I noted to my roommate with despair, "Prime rib! But I am supposed to become a vegetarian!"

She had an expedient solution, having earlier decided that my Unprincipled Vegetarianism was pretty much totally lame: "Start tomorrow. You can start tomorrow."

Having already secured two vegetarian meals under my belt, I felt this would be a major setback as well as being intellectually dishonest. "I can't start tomorrow!"

Luckily for me, the waiter shaving the luscious pieces of Prime Rib gave me unsolicited reassurance: "Believe me, you can start tomorrow."

I caved.

"OK!"

So I started "tomorrow." Sunday, the official Day One, passed without incident. At lunch on Day Two (today), I realized that this vegetarianism was not going to result in any health benefits. For one thing, not eating meat makes me psychologically ravenous and I end up grazing on any nearby snack. For lunch, I had:

1. half a veggie quesadilla,
2. a couple servings of vegetarian pad thai,
3. a brownie,
4. some baked potato snacks, and
5. a cheese puff.

It seemed that something deep inside in me was determined to nullify my vegetarian efforts by any means necessary. I could have eaten pure bacon for lunch and probably consumed fewer calories.

Tonight's meal, however, proved to be a real challenge. My friends and I had decided to go out, and I was envisioning a plate of hearty pasta with pesto sauce, but our Italian restaurant was closed, forcing us to choose Mexican. The thought of going Mexican without getting some beloved carnitas was more tearfully traumatic than I expected. In fact, I grumbled the whole time I stood in line, upset that this might be the first time ever I was going to get the dreaded "veggie burrito."

I settled upon the enchilada platter which looked like it had more going on, but out of the "beef, chicken, pork, or cheese" selection, I had to choose cheese option. Seeing my Unprincipled Vegetarianism wavering, my friends encouraged me to scrap the whole idea. However, I did experience some regret at the wedding after my second slice of Prime Rib (the first slice was admittedly deliciously perfect), so I stayed the course. I ordered cheese enchiladas.

What I discovered is that cheese is not a replacement for meat. I looked at my friend's chicken enchiladas, all fat and plump with shredded meat - and then my own deflated, impotent enchiladas, lacking the structural integrity inherent in a nice satisfying pile of meat. I shoveled on as much pico de gallo that my entree could handle and made do. All in all, the veggie dish was flavorful but left my heart empty and truth be told, left me rather bitchy.

With the July 4th holiday coming up, otherwise known as National Barbecued Meat Day, I wonder how the bitch is going to make it through the week with Unprincipled Vegetarianism. Stay tuned for Day Three ... if I get that far....

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Ode to the Little Brother

Often when I refer to "my little brother," people think I'm talking about a kid brother in grade school. My little brother, however, is twenty-six-years-old and thankfully finally out of grade school. At various times, I am his stern older sister, a disapproving surrogate parent, and on rare occasion, reluctantly a humbled peer.

My little brother, you see, is a little bit of a genius, but as his older sister, I have to keep that genius stomped down, much like the way I used to sit on him when we were kids. When my mother became pregnant with him at thirty-eight, I thought not much of the whole affair; it was entirely abstract until a rather tactless neighbor asked me, "So how do you feel about no longer being the littlest one?" I realized then, in a sudden moment of terror, that I would have to cede my title of Most Adorable One and Family Brat. There was a little bundle of joy on the way who, despite his complete lack of any sophisticated cognitive skills, was going to seize all of that glory from me.

His arrival was uneventful except that I remember that for whatever unrelated reason, my father's false tooth was missing the morning my little brother was born. There's nothing weirder than being told by your father while he's missing a tooth that you now have a new baby brother! I remember dragging a photo of my little brother's rather swollen newborn self to kindergarten, where I had never in the past participated in Show-And-Tell before. I sat shyly on Mrs. Schneider's lap, holding my puffy-eyed little brother's picture in front of my chest, letting the class put two-and-two together their own, offering only occasional affirmative nods to such probing questions as, "Is that your little brother?!"

After his initial arrival, I recall only other a few other memorable snippets. He was a pee fountain the first time he took a bath (pretty typical). If you put him in the swing and practiced your kindergarten reading skills on him, he would magically fall asleep. He preferred Pampers over Huggies. His favorite baby food was Gerber's Turkey And Rice. My little brother was undeniably cute. Even I could see this plain truth. I did also think that our baby pictures looked awfully alike, so perhaps I was only complimenting myself. To this day, I think my parents could have made millions if they had only exploited him in the media.

As the years went on, however, my little brother became more complex. He developed a penchant for biting - me - as well as his fingernails. I once caught him spooning a tub of margarine that he thought was ice cream. He had this strange habit of making a lot of noise when he breathed, a habit that I proudly forced him to break so that he would someday be a socially acceptable human being. (He still disputes whether I should be "thanked" for this.) I also began to notice that he was not exactly like me. For example, I once found him jumping on my parents' king-sized bed while playing his Fischer-Price recorder to an episode of Star Trek - entirely by ear! He also could draw like nobody's business - rendering pencil drawings of Michelangelo's sculptures at seven and a half. I had some modest talents, but nothing like this.

By the time he reached young adulthood, we were quite different, despite my diligent efforts at early brainwashing. He showed a fondness for snoring (so advanced for his young age!) and for sleeping long uninterrupted hours. He enjoyed laziness and lacked attention to detail. He broke my heart once when I was in college by running away from home. I later learned that he "ran away" in my mom's purple minivan with the family TV in the backseat. He is also the kind of guy who doesn't notice he's wearing two left shoes.

Despite all of this, in recent years, I've come to very much respect my little brother. I tortured him through his youth, forcing him to pretend to be my imaginary dog to whom I fed imaginary doggie kibble. I once reduced him to tears by accusing him of being a Democrat in a family of Republicans when he was too young to realize it was a good thing. But nowadays, I see how much we have in common, beyond our adorable baby pictures.

I think my little brother and I share a similar emotional universe, only mine is diluted, for better or worse. I find it ridiculous that we ever understand each other at all. His mind wraps around the world in a similarly odd fashion. In the end, perhaps I am just relieved that he is around to make me look just a little bit normal. And for this, thank you, Little Brother!

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