Monthly Archives: September 2009

by

More Buffy themed eats!

Some themed eats are loosely based on characters; others are pulled directly from the canon. The first one here is one of Spike’s favourites — a delicacy they serve at the Bronze, which he describes as “a sort of flower-shaped thing they make from an onion. It’s brilliant.” It fascinates him endlessly: its dichotomous existence, simultaneously onion and blossom, seems to resonate with Spike, or at least confuses him in an entertaining way. “See, the genius of it is, you soak it in ice water for an hour so it holds its shape. Then you deep-fry it root-side up for about five minutes.” (Mine was baked in a beer batter, but same same.)

Xander: I believe it was vanilla, a cupcake baked in a cone and topped with (vegan) buttercream, raspberry coulis, and chocolate.

And a Weaponry Roast: Mr Pointy parsnips and roasted garlic.

by

Picnic

The boy person friend and I took his dog for a picnic the other day. I had an extremely fine veggie burger from the takeaway bar, with avocado and so on: it was lovely. The BPF had some sort of pie-like substance, and Monty had a jerky chew and some chips.

by

Regrettable Food: because people who forget history are doomed to have it repeat on them, or something

What would the interwebs be without the Gallery of Regrettable Food? Not much, that’s what. My personal favourite bit is Jello Confronts the Depression, but to each his own.

Jello

 

“It’s clear what the surprise is: a Jell-O mold as big as your torso. Note that the cover picture shows the woman in the act of creation, gently pulling the metal mold from the quivering newborn confection. She looks down with confident serenity; the Jell-O came out well, and all is right with the world.”

by

My MbTs are dead

Well, it took four years, but my Masai Barefoot Technology shoes have finally given up the ghost. Boy, will I miss them. As well as looking like smallish tugboats, they kept my feet toasty warm and my Raynaud’s at bay. Check out how nice they were.

They didn’t exactly go gently into that good night, but they’re gone now. May they rest in peace.

by

Doomy thought of the day, courtesy Joseph Pilates

The fabled Joseph Hubertus Pilates, father of modern Contrology, inventor of numerous exercisical gizmos, trainer of boxers, dancers, and POWs alike,  had something on his mind one day in 1934. He put it in his book. English was not his native tongue, but, as readers will soon appreciate, he had by even this early stage mastered the gist of the language, with the help of a co-writer and an ego the size of his chest. He tackles the problem of modern molly-coddled unnaturally-nurtured children.

These children grow up lacking normal initiative, appetites, passions and the stress of competition. Figuratively speaking, they slowly sink to a low level, never experiencing the thrills of life, never experiencing the glory of successful accomplishment, and never enjoying the fruits of over-flowing vitality and health that should be theirs if taught the problems of life and the proper control of the body.

Later on, when their vitality is at a low ebb, they begin to shrivel at their extremities, their blood pressure is either subnormal or abnormal. Their heads get too warm, their feet and hands get too cold. Their mentality waxes and wanes and they are, so to speak, more or less animated clothes racks. This is a mighty serious problem. Think it over. It is deserving of every person’s consideration.

Joseph H Pilates, Your Health, 1934, p. 25

This is a mighty serious problem. Think it over. Keep that in mind and you can’t go wrong.

by

I have a tiny wee crush on Augustine

He knew what’s what, I tells you. When I read him, I find myself gazing fondly at the words in a demi-fugue state, as if tasting caramel. I’m not worried: these little crushes never last, of course, although it has been a wee while…

Great are you, O Lord, and exceedingly worthy of praise; your power is immense, and your wisdom beyond reckoning. And so we men, who are a due part of your creation, long to praise you – we also carry our mortality about with us, carry the evidence of our sin and with it the proof that you thwart the proud. You arouse us so that praising you may bring us joy, because you have made us and drawn us to yourself, and our heart is unquiet until it rests in you.

 
Grant me to know and understand, Lord, which comes first. To call upon you or to praise you? To know you or to call upon you? Must we know you before we can call upon you? Anyone who invokes what is still unknown may be making a mistake. Or should you be invoked first, so that we may then come to know you? But how can people call upon someone in whom they do not yet believe? And how can they believe without a preacher?

…

Who will grant it to me to find peace in you? Who will grant me this grace, that you should come into my heart and inebriate it, enabling me to forget the evils that beset me and embrace you, my only good? What are you to me? Have mercy on me, so that I may tell. What indeed am I to you, that you should command me to love you, and grow angry with me if I do not, and threaten me with enormous woes? Is not the failure to love you woe enough in itself?

 
Alas for me! Through your own merciful dealings with me, O Lord my God, tell me what you are to me. Say to my soul, I am your salvation. Say it so that I can hear it. My heart is listening, Lord; open the ears of my heart and say to my soul, I am your salvation. Let me run towards this voice and seize hold of you. Do not hide your face from me: let me die so that I may see it, for not to see it would be death to me indeed.

by

Job interviews: the final saga

Thursday dawned for my job interview. I had a 7am Pilates lesson, a duo, which was lovely: whatever else happens, I will always have a warm and loving relationship with spinal extension. Few things in life are not improved with a backbend, don’t you find. Following this, I watched my boss having a lesson, and then I taught a newish client.

So far, so good. I had to wait a bit for a bus, and I had to catch the Mairangi Bay one, not the Windsor Park; that meant I had to hasten up the hill on my feet once I got there, which was inclined to leave me pinkish in the cheeks of my face. Fortunately, all three of my interviewers were stuck in traffic, so I got to sit peacefully on the couch for a wee while.

As readers are aware, the interviewers know me quite well, and so it was not necessary to discuss my personality defects or perceived or actual intelligence in any depth; I breezily described a few scenarios in which I have recently (a) forced someone against his will to do something unpleasant, such as eating vegetables or washing, (b) worked in a team, (c) used my perceived or actual intelligence to accomplish some important task, (d) withstood mind-altering boredom, and (e) other things like this. They delicately inquired after any warning signs I am likely to display just before I asplode from stress, and then we devolved into chatting for a moment or two.

Then I walked home, and on the way I discovered the Milford mall, which has quite the reputation as malls go around here; so I went in, and found it was dimly lit but well-stocked with swanky shops, which I did not peruse; I was making my way out when I received a call from the alpha interviewer, who offered me the job.

So there it is. Betty has a job. Onwards and upwards.

by

Gettin’ Wiggy with it

Rather lyrically, the Auckland bus system decided to solve the dilemma of my trying to leave work at eleven and get to the psychologist at eleven-thirty by having a strike. If I were merely, say, the drummer in a band, I would simply have suggested that the others record their album without me, but as it was, I think the psychologist would have been likely to notice.

Fortunately, my useful friend Alan lent me his car. I had not driven for months, but what of it? I made it safely to the potential workplace, which, incidentally, operates from a rather expansive church complex with a snazzy cafe filled with young mothers and upmarket strollers; it appears to serve very good coffee. I made a slight bish with the psychologist by taking his opening remark, a breezy yet avuncular “Who is this Betty? Why is she here? What makes her tick?”, as a rhetorical comment. While I sat politely waiting for him to put the tips of his fingers together, it turned out he was waiting for the answer.

No matter. He’d pretty much only just sat down when he got up again to draw bell-curves on the whiteboard, indicating my perceived and actual intelligence with asterisks, and then he went through the crannies of my personality in detail; nothing scary, he was careful to say a few times, although if I’m even triple as tense as I said I wasn’t, I’d still be dead on the floor, apparently. I am not of a clerical bent, should stay far away from accounting, have no particular interest in being a travel agent, and am highly sensitive, aesthetic, and sentimental. Most importantly, I have the requisite V pattern on the Kodus and don’t appear to be, as he delicately put it, “too screwed-up”. I’m still in the running toward becoming Auckland’s next top support worker with the stars.