Dining with Divas

We had another meeting of the Dinner Divas. It’s been a few long months since our last one because a) one of our members realized she hated cooking and quit and b) another one had a baby. But now we are back in business and cooking like we mean it.

We take turns meeting at our houses for each meeting. This month's meeting took place way up the 15 in one of those eucalyptus-filled suburbs that are oh-so desirable and self-contained.

I am unabashedly geo-centric. I love California. I don't want to live anywhere else in the United States (outside the U.S. is another matter). Specifically, I love San Diego. I find other cities in California to be both beautiful and amazing, but I always want to come back to San Diego.

My geo-centricities become very apparent when I leave California. I know that other places in the U.S. have value. There are rich and amazing things to be discovered everywhere. But somehow what I know never matches up with how I feel or how I respond. When I moved to Florida a few years ago, I kept being amazed that this whole other state--this whole other coast--had the same things I was familiar with in California. One embarrassing moment that lasted about three months was my constant referring to the Gulf of Mexico as the Persian Gulf. Another time (and more recently, I am embarrassed to admit), I told a friend I was visiting in New York how it was "back home in America." Again, I knew the right names for things, but they just didn't feel right. I felt out of place. Out of my state both geographical and being.

In San Diego, my geo-centricities have taken a finer focus. I have issues going too far north and east out of the city of San Diego proper. My boundaries for living here are quite specific: I don't like to go north of the 8, east of the 805, south of the 94, and (of course) west of the ocean (note that Coronado is "west" of the ocean boundary, so I don't like to go there). I joke that I can't breathe beyond these boundaries, but in reality, it's only a half-joke. I love San Diego. I love the neighborhoods that make up this beautiful (albeit screwy city). And the area within I choose to conduct most of my living consists of the best and most diverse neighborhoods--the ones most true to the socio-economic and cultural diversity that makes up any large city. The places outside of my chosen boundaries do have some merit and cultural diversity, but many of these neighborhoods are just rows of cookie-cutter houses, strip malls, large chain grocery stores, Starbucks--in short, southern California suburbia at its worst and most homogeneous.

Of course, I do leave these boundaries when I have to; in fact, I go far far east of the 805 everyday to work in my lab. However, I've found loopholes/exceptions to my boundaries that work for daily functioning. Here are my rules:
1. I can leave my San Diego with impunity if I use public transportation (or if I am carpooling with someone else). This rule is how I make it out to SDSU Monday through Friday to work in my lab.
2. I can leave my San Diego if a neighborhood starts within my boundaries but ends outside of them. But I have to be walking.
3. I can leave my San Diego if I am going a) north of Del Mar, b) south of the border, or c) east of the Colorado River.
4. When I am going north, the 5 becomes my eastern border until I get to Sacramento. Then the Rockies become my eastern border. But once I get into Washington State, the 5 becomes my eastern border again.

I'm sure there are more rules. Quite frankly, I make them up as I go.

I've found that when I leave my San Diego outside of these rules, alcohol makes the air just a little bit easier to breathe. So for this Divas event, I made a booze dessert that ostensibly goes by the name of Strawberry Tiramasu. This desert also had the merits of using up all of the CSA strawberries I've been accruing.

1 1/4 cups strawberry preserves
1/3 cup plus 4 tablespoons Cointreau or other orange liqueur
1/3 cup orange juice
1 pound mascarpone* cheese, room temperature
1 1/3 cups chilled whipping cream
1/3 cup sugar1 teaspoon vanilla extract
52 (about) crisp ladyfingers (boudoirs or Savoiardi)
1 1/2 pounds strawberries, divided

Whisk preserves, 1/3 cup Cointreau, and orange juice in 2-cup measuring cup.

Place mascarpone cheese and 2 tablespoons Cointreau in large bowl; fold just to blend.

Using electric mixer, beat cream, sugar, vanilla, and remaining 2 tablespoons Cointreau in another large bowl to soft peaks. Stir 1/4 of whipped cream mixture into mascarpone mixture to lighten. Fold in remaining whipped cream.

Hull and slice half of strawberries.

Spread 1/2 cup preserve mixture over bottom of 3-quart oblong serving dish or a 13x9x2-inch glass baking dish. Arrange enough ladyfingers over strawberry mixture to cover bottom of dish. Spoon 3/4 cup preserve mixture over ladyfingers, then spread 2 1/2 cups mascarpone mixture over. Arrange 2 cups sliced strawberries over mascarpone mixture. Repeat layering with remaining lady fingers, preserve mixture, and mascarpone mixture. Cover with plastic and chill at least 8 hours or overnight.Slice remaining strawberries. Arrange over tiramasù and serve.

*Italian cream cheese available at supermarkets and at Italian markets.
Bon Appétit, April 2006

I added a lot more alcohol than called for (about double) and did more preserves than the recipe said. The desert was a hit. And the alcohol induced sense of well-being allowed me to appreciate the lovely home and neighborhood of a fellow Diva.

Because I Freaking Want to Post a Blog Instead of Stressing Over the Draft

So, here goes:

It's been a stressful week. I started working as a Real Scientist (no more teaching English or literature for me. I'm now a student again, getting my master's in biology--it's all in a blog I've drafted but have yet to post. Stay tuned.) and have been taking out my insecurities and lack of sleep on those I love.

It's not easy being a Real Scientist for a few reasons:

a) I am secretly convinced that Iamnogoodatscience. Really. I tricked the people in my undergrad when I graduated cum laude with a BS in biochemistry, and now I've tricked the people at my new university who accepted me into their program based on 5-year-old credentials and letters of recommendation. I know that really I probably am okay in science. That I will be able to hold my own in my lab and my classes. But I feel that what I know really isn't the case and that I will eventually be exposed like the man behind the green curtain for the fraud I am. And then I will be sent back to English purgatory where I will teach remedial composition for the rest of my life.

b) In addition to my emotional instability (see above), I have to juggle care for a family with commitment to my research (look at me, only a week in and I am already claiming to have research--but you get my point). I now feel guilty for every second I am either 1) not in the lab or 2) not spending with my son. So, I am getting up at an ungodly hour every morning to catch a workout before my son wakes up. Also, I am staying up to ungodly hours at night, prepping for dinner the next day (not blogging, I promise).

BUT

being a Real Scientist does have its ups:

a) telling other people who are not Real Scientists but fake ones (you know who you are) that you are Real (much like the Velveteen rabbit).

b) experiencing the joy of putting teensy tiny amounts of fluids (presumably containing genetic material and proteins and such) in itty bitty test tubes and then either 1) freezing said tubes or 2) putting them in a warm water bath.

c) no longer working for small private school with stringent employee drinking rules (i.e. you can't drink at all) so that now I can openly discuss my boozing and debauchery without fear of being fired.

d) no longer having students at a small private school for much of the above reasons.

e) riding the trolley to school. Seriously, the trolley rocks! I love public transportation. And I can finally feel good about owning my terrorist-supporting SUV because I am not driving it.

As you can see, the goods outweigh the bads. Which is often how life works.

To celebrate the first morning in 6 days where I didn't have to get up when it was still way too long before sunrise, I made a frittata of sorts. I'll have to admit, I got the base of this recipe from Atkins, but I do not in any way condone this diet. In fact, as a Real Scientist, I have to tell you this diet is way bad for you.

Actually, I really just don't like meat or eggs, so this diet never worked for me. But this egg dish doesn't actually taste like eggs so that is why I love it. Plus it uses whatever vegetables you have moldering in your fridge.

Frittata of Sorts

olive oil
1/2 onion, chopped
2 garlic, finely chopped
1 Serrano, finely chopped

5 mushrooms, washed and sliced
1 zucchini, chopped
1/4 c fresh cilantro, chopped
3 pieces bok choy, chopped
anything else you want.

4 eggs
1/4 c cottage cheese (but you don't have to use this. I've done it with or without)
dash milk

cheddar cheese, grated

Heat olive oil in a cast iron (or any other oven safe) skillet at med to med/low heat (use your judgement). Add onion, garlic, and chile. Saute for a bit. then add the rest of the vegetables.

While the vegetables saute, blend the egg, cottage cheese, and milk together. Add to pan. Stir once or twice and then cover. Check periodically to see if the egg has pulled away from the sides of the pan. Then add the cheese on the top.

Cover again for a few more minutes until the eggs seem firm. Then place skillet, uncovered, in the broiler for a few minutes until top is brown.

Serve with salsa and avocado.

And lots of coffee because you are still way exhausted from blinding people with science all week.

Sad Facts of Life

I've come to the realization that pretty much no one in the world reads my blog. Not that it really matters since I rarely actually post a new entry. But still, when you post a blog all about a friend's wedding, shouldn't she at least read it (and if you are reading this . . . oops)?

Okay, that's out of my system. Moving on . . .

Today is the kind of perfect San Diego day that gives this city the repuation for saccharine weather (seriously, everywhere I go, when I mention I'm from San Diego, the first thing out of any person's mouth is "oh you have great weather" or something to that effect). For the record, we do not have perfect weather. In the summer time, if you live near the beach, often you experience more cloud cover than Seattle because of the marine layer that smothers the life out of the San Diego coastline.

I live in on a hill that overlooks the San Deigo Bay and Point Loma. Some mornings I awaken to the rustling of the wind in the pepper tree in the neighbor's backyard, the shush of the 5, and sun--glorious sun--pushing through my window and into my bed. My first act (after reaching for my glasses) is to look out my window at the Point. More often than not, I can't see the Point because it is shrouded in the marine layer. So then I have a decision: dress for the weather at home (sunny and warm), assuming the marine layer may lift by noon, or dress for the weather at work on the Point (cold and overcast), assuming the marine layer will not lift. Whichever choice I make, it is the wrong one.

Sometimes the marine layer can be tricky. It can hide just behind the top of the Point so that I can't see it from my house. I'll then don my lightest summer fare, only to be greeted by gloom as I crest the hill on the way to work. Incidentally, my son also suffers from my matching-clothing-to-the-weather deficiency. He's gone to daycare so many times in sweaters and pants on days that are hot and in shorts and tees on days that are frigid (somehow, even though I pack his little back pack with a change of alternate weather attire, his care providers don't ever figure out that they should maybe take his sweatshirt off when his hair is soaked with sweat and his face is red from overheating).

But I digress.

Today, ah glorious today, makes everything ever said about how San Diego is the best place in the world true. And not because the stupid weather was perfect (it was) but that the quality of the air itself just causing you to feel good about being alive and in that exact physical location at that very moment.

Today I ran the race for kids who can’t read good but really want to. It was an interesting prospect considering I’d returned home from my 7 year wedding anniversary party not a little buzzed and then proceeded to pass out in my son’s toddler bed with him on top of me. I awoke at 1am, five hours before I would have to go to a race, make-up on, a million bobby pins pushing into my head, still in out clothes with a toddler lying on top of me who was producing more body heat than a volcano.

I deposited said toddler onto his bed and did the teethbrushing and bobbypin removal (must have been a million). Hydrated and slid into bed. Only to wake up at 530 to a full moon on my face.

The race went well. My son ran about 1.5 miles of the almost 5-mile race. He then did a knee-scraping face plant on the asphalt and traveled the remainder of the race in his stroller. The rest of the day followed with unfurling of simple pleasure after simple pleasure that only happens when you've gotten up ass early to run a race: breakfast at Cafe 222, good conversation, good friends, a good bask in the sun in the lingering heat of the day.

Tonight's warmth called for a farewell to winter fare (though my CSA will probably continue to swamp me with this stuff):

Roasted Vegetable Tacos (stole part of this from Vegetarian Times)

Marinade:
olive oil
apple cider vinegar
garlic salt
cumin

Veggies to Roast:
sweet potatoes, cubed
butternut squash, cubed
5 carrots, sliced
3 serrano chiles, chopped
onion, sliced
mushrooms, sliced
4 celery, sliced
5 cloves garlic, minced

Heat oven to 375. Mix the first four ingredients in a little bowl. Add half of that mixture to the next four ingredients in a large bowl. Mix until well coated. Spread on a baking sheet and bake about 25 minutes. Meanwhile, mix the last three ingredients in the same large bowl and add the rest of the oil/vinegar mixture. After the first 25 minutes are up, add this to the baking sheet and bake another 15 minutes until the potatoes and squash are fairly soft.

Meanwhile . . .
juice one lime
olive oil
applecider vinegar
1 garlic clove, minced
1 seranno chile, minced
cumin
chopped cabbage
matchstick carrots
radishes, thinly sliced

Mix the first six ingredients together. Mix the last three ingredients together. Combine.

slice an avocado; warm tortillas In a tortilla, layer the cabbage, roasted vegetables, and avocado (can add cheese if you want). Wrap up and enjoy.

A Nice Day for a White Wedding

I went to a wedding last week. Thought I'd record my thoughts.

I always forget the sensation of driving through winding back roads to a mountain destination. Yet whenever I experience it again, I realize that it is wholly familiar. It is like a shedding of my urban self. Each wind and twist in the road initiates a new layer of oldness falling away until I am raw and open to sudden attacks of beauty.

This time beauty showed no mercy. As I left the relatively bland scenery of the 8 for the contortions of the 78, it began to snow. First more rain than snow—slushy, dirty, heavy, lulling me into a sense that I wouldn't be vulnerable this time. That my armor—my I-don't-go-this-far-east attitude—would remain intact. But as I climbed, the snow became more concrete in the sense that it attained true snowness not that it gained any more heft because in actuality it got lighter, softer, quieter, more ethereal. And in that quiet, the absence of the staccato of the falling rain, I became suspended in time, as lightweight as one of the snowflakes that seemed to hover, frozen in air until the car slashed through its fall.

In that moment of white and silence and stillness, I either experienced a sense of no-time or a sense of being completely in the present. As temporary as a snowflake with no past or future. Only the fall. The here and now.

The lodge has that same sense of the here and now despite the hustle and bustle of the wedding. Or perhaps because of. An active removal from the anxious self, sequestered as it is up a hill, in the trees, down small and gnarled roads. It is the cliché of mountain lodge without the pretensions. In the bar: aged wood paneling, worn paisley carpet that pulls and bunches in the places it has experienced the most traffic, awkward greens and reds and golds like scattered paper after Christmas morning. There's a large stone fireplace complete with the smoke stains and scatter ashes in the grate. This fireplace is mirrored in the lobby/great room. Where the carpet gives way to deep chocolate wood floors that complain with squeaks or celebrate with resonating thunder as I walk over them. The walls are now the whitewashed plaster divided into squares with dark wood beams. The stairs (because of course there's an upstairs) are wide and shallow with the same dark flooring. Almost the entire south wall is windows that are screened the oaks and pines and dogwoods outside. Yet, even with the massing of trees and bushes, I don't feel closed in. Even without an expansive view there is the feeling of space: perhaps this place nourishes an expanse in the soul.

The word to sum up the rehearsal dinner is warmth. Fires, people, food, wine—even music. The best man played flamenco on the guitar for us. Very surprising yet perfectly suiting this place and time. The best man is quiet, unassuming, without the alternative flash and dazzle of the groom's other friends with their scruff, tattoos, and flannels. The best man is ubiquitous nice guy with his dress pants, tucked-in collared shirt (belt!), and close-cut hair. Yet when he played, he became warmth and fire and passion as his finger alternatively flew, stroked, or tapped the strings and board. Watching someone play flamenco is amazing. The passionate mixture of percussion/rhythm with melody. It is plaintive yet full of hope. And vulnerable. The best man became raw and open as he played, causing those who truly listened (as opposed to those who continued chatting) to become raw and open as well. Like good writing, souls could meet where this man played.

The cabin where I'm staying is similar to the main lodge in feeling: iron bed, wall heater, white paneled walls, heavy comforters on the bed, a coathanger made from a twisted piece of wood carved into a squirrel (the cabin is called "Gray Squirrel") with the knots at coat pegs, tiled floors in the bathroom, and an iron claw-foot bathtub(!).

On the morning of the wedding, the lodge woke up slowly and serenely. As I sat in the lounge, I chatted off and on as people came in and out of the semi-dark bar to grab coffee or help or just a friendly ear.

I'd have to say the main idea of of this wedding was to be in the present. A theme that fits nicely with the mood of separation and seclusion. Despite the brides's propensity to find drama and stress in large events, she was able to let go today and just enjoy the last minute preparations we did (folding napkins and putting colored paper rings around them, setting the tables, organizing place cards, etc . . .) as well as the fellowship with her close girlfriends as we got ready for pictures. Amidst laughter, hip hop music, and champagne, the girls helped each other with hair, make-up, and jewelry choices.

The bride was completely relaxed about everything that came up, completely in-the-moment, relishing this time with her friends and family.

The bride's cousin did the pictures. He used to work as a photographer for Victoria's Secret (he never shared what it was). Again, this time had none of the tension or hustle that usually accompanies wedding photography. With glasses of wine in hand, the bridesmaids toasted the bride as the photographer moved in and out of the room, quickly adjusting a smile here, a bow there, the curtain behind us. His mantra was "a little softer" for everything: smiles, head tilts, hand positioning. Pretty soon we were all leaning intently toward the camera, lips moist and slightly parted, our eyes half lidded invitations to sultry nights in revealing lingerie (perhaps he shared Victoria's secret after all).

After pictures, we mingled with guests in the bar (which had opened) for a while before moving to the staging area upstairs where we, at the bride's prompting, linked arms and prayed for this new chapter in her life.

The wedding was gorgeous. I know, I know, all weddings are gorgeous but this one had the added element of combining the unexpected with the traditional. As the groom's best woman said later in her toast, the bride and groom are the perfect combination of unlikely events and traits both individually and together—they are anomolies. Therefore, the celebration of their love would also be the perfect combination of unique yet not disparate things, unlikely yet not incongruous combinations. Sort of like jeans and blazers on the bridesmaids with a delicate lace wedding dress on the bride.

Even during the ceremony, the groom and the bride included a reminder for all to be in the present moment—to forget any stress or fatigue or future struggles and just enjoy the friendship and love that we had all come to Julian to celebrate. The officiant took a moment to ring a tiny brass bell three times. Each time fainter than the one preceding it. In each ring, we were told to listen to just that—the quiet call—and focus only on that instant.

My son as ringbearer was a champ. With the help of bribery and lots of attention, he powered through over stimulation and extreme fatigue and photographed and performed his ring bearer duties almost without a hitch. In a way, he also embodies that living-for-the-moment call of the bell. He expressed unmitigated joy for being with those he loved, but he also didn't hesitate to let us know when his moment changed to hunger or tiredness or just an urge to move around and dance.

And dancing did indeed ensue. After simple time of appetizers (two kinds of soup!!! Gaspacho and potato), the bridal party was introduced. The joy of the groomsmen and bridesmaids was evident. Everyone found a creative way to enter the hall (one bridesmaid rode on the back of her groomsman; my son was my partner-we did a runway intro (blazer flipped off the shoulders and a spin)). Though the bride wanted us to quiet down so that she could hear the MC's (a bridemaid (there were 11 of us!) and groomsman) introduce us, she gracefully realized that the boisterous mood of the party wasn't to be squashed and said with a cheerful shrug, "I'll get to hear it on the video." The two maids of honor, best friend and sister gave their toasts.

Then the groom's best man and best woman gave their toasts. All were heartfelt and full of love for the couple. The best woman made some fun literary references (we talked a bit that morning—she's an avid reader with very diverse tastes in literature. Way fun) of iconic romantic couples: Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde (or Tripod and Headcold as I call them), and another tragic pair I can't remember. She talked about how even though these couples represent epic love in our society, she wouldn't choose any of them as a model for love (suicide, death, incest, etc . . .); instead, she would wish a love like Beatrice and Benedict on the happy couple: one where two minds meet, may clash a bit but then are sharpened—where each heart needs the other to be whole—where love is nourished on respect. We then had a casual buffet dinner followed almost immediately by the bride and groom's first dance so that everyone could then party.

Yet another thing so right with this celebration was little stop and start to the party for the things like certain dances or cake cutting or whatever. Everything was seamlessly inserted into the festivities so that there might be a slight pause in the general merrymaking, but never a stop. This flow was greatly facilitated by the DJ. The guy was amazing. He never spoke. He just moved from one song to the next. Most of them were highly danceable tunes. Mostly along the lines of the girls' tastes of hip hop and rap but he did do a few trance and house tunes that I loved. I spoke to him towards the end of the night and asked him if he could play a few trance songs. He got so excited: "Oh yes, I'll squeeze some in. That's what I usually play when I do clubs." The song he picked wasn't that great, but it was still fun.

Not to brag or anything, but the bride's friends dominated the dance floor. The 'maids didn't stop until the DJ did. Even late at night, when most of the other people had retreated to their cabins, I watched during a lull in the music these 10 beautiful women in various shades of exhaustion continue to sway to the beat.

Sunday morning, I woke up slightly worn out but refreshed in spirit. After a shower in the claw-footed tub (memories of my old resident on State Street . . .), I headed to the lodge for coffee and further fellowship. As I entered the bar, I heard the sounds of Spanish guitar playing and thought what a cool music the lodge played. Then I turned the corner and saw the best man playing guitar in the corner. An involuntary "yes! Perfect!" escaped my mouth, causing him to stutter on the strings and blush. While my husband and son played darts, I skimmed Science, sipped coffee, and listened to the playing.

Later, the MOH gathered the 'maids around for our last duty as attendants. Armed with crepe paper, glass markers, and a large sign that read "Just Married/ A and S/ 04-21-07," we descended on the bride's Saturn VUE like 80's-era artists and gave it a thorough makeover.
The morning then peacefully progressed with further fellowship and camaraderie culminating in farewells that were comprised of the certain knowledge that with friendships like ours, farewells are never goodbyes.

Switching Gears

I have a habit of about faces in my life. I'm not sure where this trait comes from, but when confronted with an obstacle, I tend to do a 180 and move on to something completely different.

Example: Got in a car wreck, subsequently did very poorly at school, didn't get a lot of support from my faculty adviser, so I changed majors . . . five times -- before changing back to my original major (biochemistry) with the addition of a second one (literature).

Since this time, science and literature have vied for the primary place in my heart. Typically, literature has been winning. I got an M.A. in English; I teach it; I read it; etc . . . But a new development has occurred: my application to the PhD program in Literature at University of California, San Diego, was rejected.

In all honesty, I didn't have a huge chance of getting in. My literary interests don't really match that of the department's, and choosing a graduate school based solely on physical location (in this case San Diego) is not the wisest route. However, I figured I'd give it a try. Anything to be able to stop adjuncting. Even if that means I will be shifting from on field of study to another that is completely different.

So, now I am divorcing literature and returning to the love of my youth: biology. Biology is the science for lit majors: it doesn't have a huge amount of math and the math it does have is very basic. I made this decision about three weeks before the application deadline for Fall 2007 admissions at SDSU, so needless to say, I've been doing a bit of scrambling.

It's been five years since I've used glassware for anything other than vases or guacamole servers. It's been five years since I've talked about any chemical formula other than H2O (and that's only at cocktail parties when I wanted to impress someone with how scientific I could be). Five years since I've seen any bacteria purposefully grown (stuff in my expired yogurt doesn't count). Five years since I've read something talking about peptide libraries and P53 and understood it.

Frankly, I feel unready for this endeaver; however, I didn't get a BS for nothing (think about it: BS . . .). I can do that activity with the best of them. And my literary skills are holding me in good stead: I've been researching and reading up on faculty like a madwoman in the attic.

And all of this reading has been helpful in determining exactly which lab I'd like to join (think more bench work and less math) . . . as well as in insulting the professor whose lab I really really really want to get into.

I didn't mean to insult him. I came into his lab all smiles, ready to ask a few questions and answer a few.

"I cannot accept you into this program," he greeted me.

Taken aback, I stammered through my train wreck of a thought. Did he mean that I was so unqualified that I wouldn't get accepted into the school? Did he mean that he just didn't want me in his lab? Did he mean that I shouldn't take this interview as an acceptance into the program but it could only help me that we were having this interview?

Apparently he meant the last. But that didn't become clear for a bit. And in that bit, I managed to tell him that he didn't have that many publications--a deathly insult to anyone in academia.

I didn't insult him exactly in so many words . . . it just came out that way. And after back-pedaling and digging my hole all that much deeper, I decided to call that interview a loss.

Except apparently, it wasn't a loss. This faculty member decided he liked my grit and candor (my mom always just called it diarrhea of the mouth), so when I did get accepted into the Master's program at SDSU, he accepted me into his lab.

Oh happy day. I am now going to be a scientist. I am going to work with viruses. And I don't have to teach freshman comp ever again (if I don't want to . . .).

Who needs to cook today? I'm throwing the apron away and going out!

Company Cooking

There are some dishes that you save for company. These dishes either are so amazingly good that you don't want to waste them on a regular night. Or they are so amazingly complex that a regular night just doesn't have the time in it for preparation.

One of my dishes like this is enchiladas. At first glance, this dish doesn't seem complex enough to warrant its being classified as company food. I even used canned sauce (gasp!!!) rather than make my own homemade. Yet somehow I manage to make the seemingly simple steps turn into a situation whose complexity rivals that of the synaptic network of the human brain.

Luckily for me, I have a friend who a) I love very much and is way worth any complex company food I could ever make and b) is from New York so doesn't realize that canned enchilada sauce isn't the best ever and therefore c) requests enchiladas every time she comes to visit.

So while our boys played together, offering us a reprieve from the seemingly constant barrage of "Play with me, Mommy," she and I chatted while I used up every dish in the kitchen making enchiladas (which, by the way, uses exactly 0 vegetables from my CSA).

Green Enchiladas

Filling:
whole chicken, boiled then meat picked off of the bones (if you are feeling particularly productive, you can boil the chicken with leeks, carrot, celery, parsley, thyme, etc . . . and make a stock which you can freeze for other dishes)
onion, finely chopped
black olives, chopped
jack cheese, grated
sharp cheddar, grated
green chiles, chopped

Assembly:
oil
corn tortillas
canned green sauce (I like to mix La Palma (childhood brand my mom uses) with Hatch)
more cheddar and jack cheese, grated

Mix this stuff all up in a big bowl to taste. I like more onion and chile to my cheese and chicken.

Now this is where it gets way messy:
heat the oil in a small pan that is large enough to lay a corn tortilla flat in it. When the oil is hot, add a corn tortilla until it starts to soften. Transfer tortilla to a plate. Spoon a little sauce on it. The spoon a little filling on it. Roll it up and transfer to a baking dish that has been sprayed with cooking spray. Repeat this process until you have filled the baking dish. Pour the rest of the green sauce over the rolled enchiladas. Top with cheese. Bake covered in a 350 oven for 30 minutes. Then covered for another 15. Let it sit for about 15 minutes before serving.

Serve this will rice and beans and guacamole. Your New York friends will love it.

I Should be Grading

Right now I am trying my damnedest to not accomplish any work tonight. Yes, I am giving a final in one of my classes tomorrow. Yes, I will be recieving 50 10-page papers tomorrow to grade along with 50 finals that have ten short answer questions I will also have to grade. Yes, I have about 65 2-page papers to grade right now. And yes, I should really be grading so that I am not smothered, overwhelmed, drowned in to-be-graded essays over my spring break (next week).

BUT

I am not. I am browsing the web. I am looking at other blogs (two of note: http://www.susannassketchbook.typepad.com/ and http://www.mmarquis.blogspot.com/). I am chatting to mother and friends on the phone. I am decidedly doing the exact opposite of grading. I am living according to the maxims of that great philosopher Calvin . . . and his buddy Hobbes. Maxims I followed quite stringently when I was a student.

Here is one of them:

You can't read this image too clearly, unfortunately, so I'll recreate the text:

Hobbes: Do you have an idea for your story yet?
Calvin: No, I'm waiting for inspiration. You can't just turn creativity [or productivity] on like a faucet. You have to be in the right mood.
Hobbes: What mood is that?
Calvin: Last minute panic.

And indeed, I am waiting for that panic which will inevitably set in tomorrow about the time I am giving the final and handing out faculty evaluation forms (which I was supposed to hand out last class and completely forgot to do because I was so excited about how amazingly-freaking-awesomely I was wrapping this class up with a nice tie-in back to the very first lecture I gave in January).

Fortunately, my students are also accomodating my procrastination by frantically emailing me and calling me with last-minute questions about their final paper.

I hate to tell them that at 9pm the night before a paper is due there is absolutely no hope of their producing a great essay. It's like a victim of a decapitation being taken to the emergency room. Sure we might be able to attach the head, but really you ain't gonna live.

My New Year's resolution really should have been that I will focus and prioritize and get-things-done-in-a-timely-manner-so-that-I-am-not-a-frantic-mess. But it wasn't. Instead, I resolved to do two things I love on a regular basis: 1) listen to Science Friday on Talk of the Nation on NPR and 2) go to the Ocean Beach Farmer's Market every week. I have caught Science Friday once so far. I am doing better with the farmer's market.

Today is Wednesday. Farmer's Market Day in Ocean Beach. OB has the perfect-sized market. It is exactly one block. You can circle it twice (once to scope out what is being sold-once to make your purchases) in about an hour. Perfect for a toddler who measures the size of the market in cookies: two circles is two cookies (and a stolen strawberry) in length.

I love Farmer's Market day because it's the day I supplement all of the stuff I wish my CSA would give me and doesn't. I get onions, potatoes, mushrooms and garlic. Today, I also got olive oil, asparagus, and green onions. I did not buy lettuce. Not one tiny shred of lettuce since I have four heads mouldering in my fridge as we speak.

I love this farmer's market also because you can get to know the vendors who will then hook you up with what you need or want the next week. Case in point: I talked to the honey vendor today and asked if I could get honey in jars instead of those stupid bears. He said it was no problem and promised to bring two jars of honey for me next week. Way rad.

For dinner today, I did not make a salad. Rather, I made a winter vegetable soup from Epicurious. This soup was perfect because it used up a lot of CSA stuff in one handy swoop.

WINTER VEGETABLE (of course I have tweaks and didn't do any of the measurements)

olive oil
1 cup coarsely chopped onion
1 chopped leek
3 heads of chopped garlic
2 chopped seranno chiles

1 cup peeled, cored and coarsely chopped apple
1 cup peeled and coarsely chopped turnip
1 cup peeled and chopped butternut squash (seeds discarded)
1 cup coarsely chopped carrot
1 cup peeled, chopped sweet potato
chopped parsley
chopped cilantro
chopped celery
two rainbow chard leaves, chopped
all of the turnip greens that came with turnips, chopped

5 cups vegetable (or chicken) stock (enough to cover vegetables; use your judgment)
1/4 cup maple syrup (so don't need this much. just go to taste)

For soup, heat oil in a large saucepan on medium-high heat. Add onion, leek, garlic, chile and sauté until translucent.

Add all the vegetables; season with salt (don't really need to), then sauté 5 minutes. Add stock, bring to a boil and simmer, stirring occasionally, about 30 minutes or until vegetables are tender.

Cool slightly. Puree with a handheld mixer, food processor or blender. Add syrup to taste.

Nutritional analysis per serving: 289 calories, 12.5 g fat (4 g saturated), 40 g carbohydrates, 8.5 g protein, 4.5 g fiber

Makes 6 servings.
SELF

The calories are probably off. But who really cares. This soup is awesome. The perfect comfort food for my frantic grading in the coming days.

As for now, I will quite possibly start grading. Or I will quite possibly not. There is still time before tomorrow to find other things to do.