Just busy and super-duper sleepy. If it weren't new-House-night, I'd be in bed already.
In my most recent testing news, my district has some f'd up standards (yes, I think my nod to profanity is warranted). And I don't mean content standards. Let me explain.
On Monday I administered my district's writing benchmark test. I get some leeway with it, so I wanted to front-load the rubric and all that. I copied the rubrics from the front cover and transferred them to overheads all in the 10 minutes before class (because the tests are kept under lock-and-key beforehand) because as a new teacher, I don't have a filing cabinet of all this stuff. So, there I am in front of my juniors and I unveil the rubric scale. It's a 6 level scale with some usual headings: Advanced, Proficient, Beginner -- I don't remember what-all -- oh, and Incompetent. Yes, the district is calling students who score a 1 "Incompetent". Not Emerging or Basic or even Below Basic. No. Incompetent.
Google "incompetent" (define: incompetent) and see what you find. I found definitions like "not qualified", "bungling", "unskilled" and my personal favorite, "not capable". Right, because we want to tell students that they are NOT CAPABLE of completing the assignments we give them. Not that they have a long way to go to become proficient (a reeeeeaaaaally long way, granted), but that they just can't do it.
Of course, the "Incompetent" students probably don't know what "incompetent" means, nor do they understand the finer points of language: like connotation. So, maybe it's OK. Except that in a district that is somewhere between 50% and 75% English Learners (many have been "exited" but will always carry an EL designation), many of my students are trying to succeed, but struggle with academic writing tasks. Should we berate our students for their faults, or bolster them in their attempts at growth? Hmmmm. I think I need to think on that one for a bit.
In my meeting today with other English teachers and my district's ELA support administrative whatever, I asked about this label. She was (rightfully) dismayed by the designation and went to check on it. Of course, neither she (nor the other English teachers) had ever, oh, NOTICED the use of the word on the FRONT PAGE of the test booklet. But, whatever. We're only English teachers. We don't need to do a close reading of anything.
Turns out, this rubric was taken DIRECTLY FROM THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA. Yup. Cali is labeling its lowest level students as incompetent. Something about that strikes me as, oh, classist? Racist? Prejudicist? Someist. Or maybe I don't need to coin a new word because "rude" works just fine. (I strive to make William Strunk, Jr. proud.)
One of these days, when I get a spare moment (maybe over Christmas break), I'm writing a letter to the peeps up in Sacramento. Because this s is totally f'd.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Ants and Light Summer Reading
Last summer I went on a bit of a rehab binge. Maybe it was all the Amy Winehouse on the radio or maybe it was just luck, but it seemed like every time I turned around, I was learning about extreme drug and alcohol abuse and what it's like to stop it. Well, all with a fairly good dose of fiction, because well, because. Who needs facts?
By far my favorite was Augusten Burroughs's Dry (which also happens to be my favorite Augusten Burroughs book; it's good; and hilarious). I also read A Million Little Pieces AGES after Oprah got mad at dude for lying (I forget his name and the book isn't around). Whatever. It was a pretty interetsting read. (I got it for cheap at the thrift store right before a plane flight.) And I also saw an MTV Real Life about drunk twenty-somethings. You know, while I was kwilting. I think there was other stuff in there, little hints and stuff, but those were the big three.
So, during all this reading I learned that one of the last stages of alcoholism is hallucinations, often of tiny, creepy-crawly things. I think Augusten (sure, we're on a first-name basis) said spiders were common, but I think ants would work to.
So last night, when I came home, I was hoping it was just late-stage alcoholism. (Well, not really *hoping*, but you know.) But no, it was actually ants. Everywhere. Especially on the walls around my ceiling. "Why," you ask? "What food do you keep along the edges of your ceiling?" "Why," I reply, "I didn't know I kept any up there."
Ugh. I didn't have ants (or roaches, or grasshoppers, or mice, or rats) in Oregon. And neither I nor my roommates were spontaneously clean or anything. But here? Leave out that empty pan of macaroni and cheese one night... So now my kitchen is covered with ant traps. They're working OK, but I forget which brand is better. I know one rocks -- either Raid or Combat -- but it's been so long. If anyone has any good intel, I'm all ears.
By far my favorite was Augusten Burroughs's Dry (which also happens to be my favorite Augusten Burroughs book; it's good; and hilarious). I also read A Million Little Pieces AGES after Oprah got mad at dude for lying (I forget his name and the book isn't around). Whatever. It was a pretty interetsting read. (I got it for cheap at the thrift store right before a plane flight.) And I also saw an MTV Real Life about drunk twenty-somethings. You know, while I was kwilting. I think there was other stuff in there, little hints and stuff, but those were the big three.
So, during all this reading I learned that one of the last stages of alcoholism is hallucinations, often of tiny, creepy-crawly things. I think Augusten (sure, we're on a first-name basis) said spiders were common, but I think ants would work to.
So last night, when I came home, I was hoping it was just late-stage alcoholism. (Well, not really *hoping*, but you know.) But no, it was actually ants. Everywhere. Especially on the walls around my ceiling. "Why," you ask? "What food do you keep along the edges of your ceiling?" "Why," I reply, "I didn't know I kept any up there."
Ugh. I didn't have ants (or roaches, or grasshoppers, or mice, or rats) in Oregon. And neither I nor my roommates were spontaneously clean or anything. But here? Leave out that empty pan of macaroni and cheese one night... So now my kitchen is covered with ant traps. They're working OK, but I forget which brand is better. I know one rocks -- either Raid or Combat -- but it's been so long. If anyone has any good intel, I'm all ears.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
The Nature of Competition
I had a rather successful lesson with my students this morning. (Actually, I don't know if it was successful in driving their learning, but it was successful for getting them involved and thinking.)
We played Analogy Relay Races. I put two posters with identical (fairly easy) analogies on the board and divided the class into two groups. Each group had to answer all the questions by taking turns. (No skipping people.) They could help each other, but they had to all participate.
And they did!
And the hilarious thing? One of the students, early on, said something to the effect of, "Why are we so worried about this?" And there was no reason for them to get excited about winning. I mean, the prize of one small piece of candy? Negligiable. The brag factor? Are you serious? Bragging about winning an analogy game in English class? Yeah, right.
But even knowing it was sorta silly didn't change their desire to win. The competition worked. They took turns. They helped each other out. They wanted to win (so they tried). I bet they at least had more fun than if they just worked on a worksheet. And maybe, because they were moving, a few of the kinesthetic learners got a shout-out. (I feel for the kinesthetic learners, being one myself. I think it's a shame it's considered rude to knit while sitting in boring meetings -- it actually helps me concetrate and remember information.)
I will admit, however, it wasn't quite as successful during the later class. It wasn't horrible, just not as wonderful. Still, it was pretty fun and not too hard on me (yay! student-centered) so it will probably make reappearances throughout the year.
We played Analogy Relay Races. I put two posters with identical (fairly easy) analogies on the board and divided the class into two groups. Each group had to answer all the questions by taking turns. (No skipping people.) They could help each other, but they had to all participate.
And they did!
And the hilarious thing? One of the students, early on, said something to the effect of, "Why are we so worried about this?" And there was no reason for them to get excited about winning. I mean, the prize of one small piece of candy? Negligiable. The brag factor? Are you serious? Bragging about winning an analogy game in English class? Yeah, right.
But even knowing it was sorta silly didn't change their desire to win. The competition worked. They took turns. They helped each other out. They wanted to win (so they tried). I bet they at least had more fun than if they just worked on a worksheet. And maybe, because they were moving, a few of the kinesthetic learners got a shout-out. (I feel for the kinesthetic learners, being one myself. I think it's a shame it's considered rude to knit while sitting in boring meetings -- it actually helps me concetrate and remember information.)
I will admit, however, it wasn't quite as successful during the later class. It wasn't horrible, just not as wonderful. Still, it was pretty fun and not too hard on me (yay! student-centered) so it will probably make reappearances throughout the year.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
TPS Reports
The other week I saw a snipet from Office Space and it is, along with The Wire, the kinematic masterpiece that most closes matches my current life. I'm still not sure if art is imitating life or the other way around, but let's just say I could be shrunk, zapped into HBO, and my life wouldn't seem much different.
Let's forget for a moment that I found myself jealous of Milton's pretty red stapler last week as I was attempting to fill my own sad, plastic, no-good, lame-ass stapler with it's sad, metal, no-good, lame-ass staples. I have three staplers -- they cost a combined total of $10 -- and they suck. Not one will staple more than 5 pages together let alone staple into my walls. The staples always end up falling sideways and getting jammed. They are mostly useless. Everyone knows that a good stapler is expensive -- and heavy enough to inflict bodily injury on intruders to your home, office, cubicle, or classroom. (Just a note for any of you thinking about Christmas presents already. Actually, a gift certificate to Office Max, Office Depot, or Staples would work. I'm sure I'll be out of paper by Christmas.)
But no, this evening I just completed what I will choose to call my TPS Reports. Everyday, after taking attendance on my seating chart and transferring it to my gradebook, I then go "online" to the 20-yr-old DOS program and input attendance there. THEN, after four weeks, the school sends me a print-out of what I input and asks me to verify it. Theoretically, everything matches perfectly. In actuality -- not so much. Or at leat not this time for me. I'm still learning EVERYTHING, so there were some corrections to make. Some stump me (I have no idea where I went wrong). Some I can tell were where I clicked on the wrong line. Some I thought were mistakes but really weren't because I was looking at the wrong line in my gradebook compared with the line on the print-out -- a hazard of working with 36 kids in a class. I know one was from when I forgot to click the super-secret date that actually *records* the information that I input into said DOS program.
And all of this just seems, so, well, like a waste of my time. Sure, I should get attendance right every time. I should. But I don't. And I'm sure I'm not alone in that. I know I'm not as bad as this person I heard about who just didn't take attendance for a month and a half -- this person is no longer employed at the school. But how do I know that what I put in my book is really any more accurate than what I typed in the computer (especially four weeks later)? I am so frantic during every class (what with the 35-37 students that I am trying to wrangle, teach, and talk to) that who knows if I put it on the correct line in my gradebook or in the computer. In a perfect world, I would have fewer students and more time to spend double-checking my work. But I don't. And I end up opting for spending more time monitoring my students than staring at a computer screen. I'm not saying it's the right choice, just my choice.
I guess I'll find out sooner (or later) if my attendance problems are enough to warrant administrative action.
But at lesat, as far as I know, my reports do not currently need a cover sheet. But I'm not holding my breath that that won't change.
Let's forget for a moment that I found myself jealous of Milton's pretty red stapler last week as I was attempting to fill my own sad, plastic, no-good, lame-ass stapler with it's sad, metal, no-good, lame-ass staples. I have three staplers -- they cost a combined total of $10 -- and they suck. Not one will staple more than 5 pages together let alone staple into my walls. The staples always end up falling sideways and getting jammed. They are mostly useless. Everyone knows that a good stapler is expensive -- and heavy enough to inflict bodily injury on intruders to your home, office, cubicle, or classroom. (Just a note for any of you thinking about Christmas presents already. Actually, a gift certificate to Office Max, Office Depot, or Staples would work. I'm sure I'll be out of paper by Christmas.)
But no, this evening I just completed what I will choose to call my TPS Reports. Everyday, after taking attendance on my seating chart and transferring it to my gradebook, I then go "online" to the 20-yr-old DOS program and input attendance there. THEN, after four weeks, the school sends me a print-out of what I input and asks me to verify it. Theoretically, everything matches perfectly. In actuality -- not so much. Or at leat not this time for me. I'm still learning EVERYTHING, so there were some corrections to make. Some stump me (I have no idea where I went wrong). Some I can tell were where I clicked on the wrong line. Some I thought were mistakes but really weren't because I was looking at the wrong line in my gradebook compared with the line on the print-out -- a hazard of working with 36 kids in a class. I know one was from when I forgot to click the super-secret date that actually *records* the information that I input into said DOS program.
And all of this just seems, so, well, like a waste of my time. Sure, I should get attendance right every time. I should. But I don't. And I'm sure I'm not alone in that. I know I'm not as bad as this person I heard about who just didn't take attendance for a month and a half -- this person is no longer employed at the school. But how do I know that what I put in my book is really any more accurate than what I typed in the computer (especially four weeks later)? I am so frantic during every class (what with the 35-37 students that I am trying to wrangle, teach, and talk to) that who knows if I put it on the correct line in my gradebook or in the computer. In a perfect world, I would have fewer students and more time to spend double-checking my work. But I don't. And I end up opting for spending more time monitoring my students than staring at a computer screen. I'm not saying it's the right choice, just my choice.
I guess I'll find out sooner (or later) if my attendance problems are enough to warrant administrative action.
But at lesat, as far as I know, my reports do not currently need a cover sheet. But I'm not holding my breath that that won't change.
Baby's New Knits
My friend M just had a baby. Well, two months ago, but still. And while I started a blanket for him back in June, I waited (of course) until yesterday morning to finish it. Yesterday morning as in an hour and a half before the baby shower. That is, after staying up until 1am working on it on Friday.
And because I'm me, I adapted the pattern from one I found online. So my gauge was a bit off. It's really hard to tell these things when the yarn is on the needles. And it's really hard to tell when you've only got one row cast on. Knit fabric stretches and it always seems much smaller with one row than with 150 rows. So... I ended up making it a bit too wide.
But, as I mentioned, I was running out of time. When it looked like I'd gotten it to an appropriate length, I finished up the border and cast off. And when it was off the needles, it became very apparent that the blanket was far more rectangular than square. Of course, had I just made it narrower by 30-40 stitches, that extra would have gone into the length and it would have been damn-near perfect. Drat. And I take such bad notes I don't even remember how many stitches I cast on in the first place. So the next blanket is likely to look the same (or too narrow for its long length).
However, J (the baby) doesn't seem to mind and M doesn't seem to mind, either. I am not-so-secretly hoping that this turns into a blankie (my blankie was one knit for me by my mother) and at that point, the size won't matter at all. A blankie can be any size; it's about the comfort, not the coverage (or the komfort, not the koverage). Of course, kids (cids?) will latch onto whatever they please, and the blanket might just get relegated to the bottom of the toy box -- and it won't even be personal.
Also, M's family is awesome. They invited me over for dinner after the shower, forced me to stay the night, then fed me breakfast. They also insist that I join them for Thanksgiving, even though M will be back in Utah by then. They are friendly, supportive, and offer everything one could hope for in a surrogate family including food, wine, and teaching materials. (Just in case any of you were worrying about my support structures out here in the valley.)
For those of you who have ever put me up for a holiday, know that the tradition of my crashing your family events survives.
And because I'm me, I adapted the pattern from one I found online. So my gauge was a bit off. It's really hard to tell these things when the yarn is on the needles. And it's really hard to tell when you've only got one row cast on. Knit fabric stretches and it always seems much smaller with one row than with 150 rows. So... I ended up making it a bit too wide.
But, as I mentioned, I was running out of time. When it looked like I'd gotten it to an appropriate length, I finished up the border and cast off. And when it was off the needles, it became very apparent that the blanket was far more rectangular than square. Of course, had I just made it narrower by 30-40 stitches, that extra would have gone into the length and it would have been damn-near perfect. Drat. And I take such bad notes I don't even remember how many stitches I cast on in the first place. So the next blanket is likely to look the same (or too narrow for its long length).
However, J (the baby) doesn't seem to mind and M doesn't seem to mind, either. I am not-so-secretly hoping that this turns into a blankie (my blankie was one knit for me by my mother) and at that point, the size won't matter at all. A blankie can be any size; it's about the comfort, not the coverage (or the komfort, not the koverage). Of course, kids (cids?) will latch onto whatever they please, and the blanket might just get relegated to the bottom of the toy box -- and it won't even be personal.
Also, M's family is awesome. They invited me over for dinner after the shower, forced me to stay the night, then fed me breakfast. They also insist that I join them for Thanksgiving, even though M will be back in Utah by then. They are friendly, supportive, and offer everything one could hope for in a surrogate family including food, wine, and teaching materials. (Just in case any of you were worrying about my support structures out here in the valley.)
For those of you who have ever put me up for a holiday, know that the tradition of my crashing your family events survives.
Inky's New Klothes
Inky got some new clothes this week. I finally got my sh*t together and got her her Cali plates. Sadly, they are much less pretty than her Oregon ones. Oregon's plates are blue and purple and green, with mountains and trees and a beautiful sunset. Cali plates, on the other hand, are very functional. The plate is a shimmery white with blue letters and a red "California" scribbled across the top. It gets the job done, with just the "appropriate" amount of patriotic coloring. ho-hum.
But that's not the good part.
Most of you know about my abiding love for UNC (go Heels!). Before I left the state, I stocked up on all sorts of Carolina paraphernalia -- sweatshirts and pants and t-shirts and hats and window decals -- and a license plate holder. I was all set to put it on the car in Oregon, but while North Carolina's stickers go on the top corners of the plate, Oregon's stickers go on the bottom. Thus, the license plate holder would have covered the very important stickers and might result in a traffic stop. :-( So, I just put the thing in the trunk and there it stayed.
Until Thursday.
Upon the sticking of the stickers in the upper corners of my new license plate, I realized that Inky could finally wear her Carolina gear. Worried that I had misplaced the cover during those five years (me? lose something? nawwww), I went straight to the box of junk in my trunk. (No, that is not a reference to my butt, but the actual box of random items in my car's trunk.) And there, under a pile of old wedding negatives (don't ask), was the "platinum" plate holder.
I must say, I had a very exciting evening on Thursday installing my license plate with my Carolina Alumni license plate holder (thereby defining me as a Tar Heel born and bred, and not just some fly-by-night bandwagon follower). I have been looking forward to this day for five years.
Inky looks just darling in her new outfit. Now if Michael will just buy me a new window decal to replace the one that's falling off and almost totally gone. I mean, he's working there now, how hard is it to walk across the Pit or over to Shrunken Head?
P.S. Go to Hell, State!
But that's not the good part.
Most of you know about my abiding love for UNC (go Heels!). Before I left the state, I stocked up on all sorts of Carolina paraphernalia -- sweatshirts and pants and t-shirts and hats and window decals -- and a license plate holder. I was all set to put it on the car in Oregon, but while North Carolina's stickers go on the top corners of the plate, Oregon's stickers go on the bottom. Thus, the license plate holder would have covered the very important stickers and might result in a traffic stop. :-( So, I just put the thing in the trunk and there it stayed.
Until Thursday.
Upon the sticking of the stickers in the upper corners of my new license plate, I realized that Inky could finally wear her Carolina gear. Worried that I had misplaced the cover during those five years (me? lose something? nawwww), I went straight to the box of junk in my trunk. (No, that is not a reference to my butt, but the actual box of random items in my car's trunk.) And there, under a pile of old wedding negatives (don't ask), was the "platinum" plate holder.
I must say, I had a very exciting evening on Thursday installing my license plate with my Carolina Alumni license plate holder (thereby defining me as a Tar Heel born and bred, and not just some fly-by-night bandwagon follower). I have been looking forward to this day for five years.
Inky looks just darling in her new outfit. Now if Michael will just buy me a new window decal to replace the one that's falling off and almost totally gone. I mean, he's working there now, how hard is it to walk across the Pit or over to Shrunken Head?
P.S. Go to Hell, State!
Monday, September 15, 2008
Adorable
It was a long day at school today. So long, in fact, that this morning seems like yesterday. But no, it was just this morning.
A brief word about why today was so long. It was Back to School Night! Actually, besides the whole "super long" thing, it wasn't too bad. The parents rotated through their child's schedule and spent 10 minutes in each class. I got to give my spiel about learning and policies, except instead of the blank stares of my students, I was met with the appreciative nods of my parents. I also got some phone numbers and emails, and they got mine. One mom was also very interested in volunteering in my class -- her son was not. But that's OK, because he's a Hellstudent. That would be at least one class where he wouldn't be Hellstudent. MWA-HA-HA-Ha-haaaaaaaaaaa.
Anyway, this morning we had a "William Inspection". Since I am now living in THE most litigious state in the Union, everything is controlled by one lawsuit or another. Sure, the intention is to give every citizen equal rights, but it's quickly becoming old. Sorta like getting transported back to the height of the PC movement.
ANYWAY. Back to Williams. This guy sued Cali because he (or his son) wasn't getting appropriate services. The school was rundown and the students didn't have their own textbooks. A deplorable situation, and one that should be remedied across this nation. (We called them "low-wealth schools" in NC, in Oregon they were just "failing".) But somehow, the solution is these inspections which make sure I don't have cords running across the floor and that all my students have textbooks to call their own.
What this means in practice is that I can't have a class set of books (regardless of whether or not my students can keep their books at home). So, I have to harass, cajole, threaten, and punish my students into bringing their heavy-ass (the technical term) books to class just to prove that we are not lying and they do indeed have them. It also means I have to spend two hours on a Saturday dressing cables in my classroom. Good thing I have all that TV experience, eh?
When they come to inspect the schools, they are supposed to do so quietly. But they didn't. A gaggle of inspectors (three inspectors and a school VP) burst into my classroom and actually took over. One lady was giving a pep talk while one dude was sitting at a desk taking notes and a third was harassing my students asking about their books. All of them had checked out books (thank God), but not all brought them. I've done my best, though; I have the consequences for not bringing a book posted on the wall and I write which book (big-ass text or kid-friendly soft-cover workbook) the student need on any given day. So, I probably won't get fired for the 5-6 kids who left their books at home (grrr).
But this is the adorable part. When the inspectors burst in my room and took over the show, I was desperately trying to figure out what was going on while the Hatchet Woman asked how many studnets I had in my class and I overhead the Ringleader asking my student about their teacher (me). The angels (ANGELS!) said I was a great teacher. Awesome. The best. I didn't even coach them on this. (I had no idea it would come up.) They didn't blink. Didn't miss a beat.
You don't even know how glad I am that the Big Show arrived during first period, and not fourth. Of course, they came back during second. Once is just not enough! And it seems they targeted the first-year teachers. Because I don't have enough to do or think about.
A brief word about why today was so long. It was Back to School Night! Actually, besides the whole "super long" thing, it wasn't too bad. The parents rotated through their child's schedule and spent 10 minutes in each class. I got to give my spiel about learning and policies, except instead of the blank stares of my students, I was met with the appreciative nods of my parents. I also got some phone numbers and emails, and they got mine. One mom was also very interested in volunteering in my class -- her son was not. But that's OK, because he's a Hellstudent. That would be at least one class where he wouldn't be Hellstudent. MWA-HA-HA-Ha-haaaaaaaaaaa.
Anyway, this morning we had a "William Inspection". Since I am now living in THE most litigious state in the Union, everything is controlled by one lawsuit or another. Sure, the intention is to give every citizen equal rights, but it's quickly becoming old. Sorta like getting transported back to the height of the PC movement.
ANYWAY. Back to Williams. This guy sued Cali because he (or his son) wasn't getting appropriate services. The school was rundown and the students didn't have their own textbooks. A deplorable situation, and one that should be remedied across this nation. (We called them "low-wealth schools" in NC, in Oregon they were just "failing".) But somehow, the solution is these inspections which make sure I don't have cords running across the floor and that all my students have textbooks to call their own.
What this means in practice is that I can't have a class set of books (regardless of whether or not my students can keep their books at home). So, I have to harass, cajole, threaten, and punish my students into bringing their heavy-ass (the technical term) books to class just to prove that we are not lying and they do indeed have them. It also means I have to spend two hours on a Saturday dressing cables in my classroom. Good thing I have all that TV experience, eh?
When they come to inspect the schools, they are supposed to do so quietly. But they didn't. A gaggle of inspectors (three inspectors and a school VP) burst into my classroom and actually took over. One lady was giving a pep talk while one dude was sitting at a desk taking notes and a third was harassing my students asking about their books. All of them had checked out books (thank God), but not all brought them. I've done my best, though; I have the consequences for not bringing a book posted on the wall and I write which book (big-ass text or kid-friendly soft-cover workbook) the student need on any given day. So, I probably won't get fired for the 5-6 kids who left their books at home (grrr).
But this is the adorable part. When the inspectors burst in my room and took over the show, I was desperately trying to figure out what was going on while the Hatchet Woman asked how many studnets I had in my class and I overhead the Ringleader asking my student about their teacher (me). The angels (ANGELS!) said I was a great teacher. Awesome. The best. I didn't even coach them on this. (I had no idea it would come up.) They didn't blink. Didn't miss a beat.
You don't even know how glad I am that the Big Show arrived during first period, and not fourth. Of course, they came back during second. Once is just not enough! And it seems they targeted the first-year teachers. Because I don't have enough to do or think about.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Truckin'
I was driving back from visiting M this morning, and I realized I was once again feeling like my old car-driving self. Back when I was living on the East Coast, I used to drive everywhere. Of course, when you live on the I-95 corridor, major cities that involve drives are still within easy reach (even if "easy" means 15 hours). Cities stack up on top of cities, at least if you're heading along a north-south axis. And I had people to see in all those places: mostly friends from home and college, with the occasional family member tossed in for good luck.
Then I moved west and I started slowing on the driving. After I stopped heading up to Seattle monthly, my travels slowed tremendously. I could carpool on hikes and climbs, so besides a yearly trip to Northern Cali for Christmas, I didn't drive very far. And then my Cali connection dried up, too. It didn't help that I took very poor care of my car during my Portland years. I wasn't that comfortable taking my un-maintained car on long trips for fear of catastrophic car failure.
So what's changed? First, I finally took my Ink Spot (so named because the mechanic called her a Crayola, so she needed a name befitting a crayon -- I find cars can really only be named by mechanics) in for repairs. I was leaving my Last Known Good Mechanic, and there's no telling how long it would take me to find another one I could trust. So, I put LKGM to work and got her all fixed up. Now I can feel comfortable driving Inky around again.
And then things are further apart here. In Portland, I didn't have to go far to see anyone I knew. I could shun an entire half of a city and still have friends to see and places to go. And there were many days that I did shun half of the city. At all times I shunned a good quarter of it. (There's nothing so important in the SW that I ever needed to go there.)
But here? You have to drive to get anywhere. Ikea? More than an hour away. The "discount" teacher-store? An hour away. Trader Joe's? Half an hour away. Cool, hip coastal towns? Forty-five minutes away. And I now have friends that live some distance away. I can't shun my far-away friends for my near-by friends because I have no near-by friends. (I'm sure that will change, it's already starting to, but I'm sure you get my drift.)
I never had to leave Portland, so I didn't. But now I have to leave home again. And it's kind of nice. I hate driving around town; I wish I could just get there already. But I do miss that time alone in the car on longer trips. The drive is part of the experience. I can listen to the radio and catch up on my music, plan my week, think about life. I have no responsibilities (except to not hit anyone or cause them to hit me). I can't do the dishes or laundry, I can't read a book, I can't get sucked into the TV. I can only drive.
How fitting that I'm re-bonding with my car here in Cali. Maybe I'll post one of my car-themed song lists one of these days.
Then I moved west and I started slowing on the driving. After I stopped heading up to Seattle monthly, my travels slowed tremendously. I could carpool on hikes and climbs, so besides a yearly trip to Northern Cali for Christmas, I didn't drive very far. And then my Cali connection dried up, too. It didn't help that I took very poor care of my car during my Portland years. I wasn't that comfortable taking my un-maintained car on long trips for fear of catastrophic car failure.
So what's changed? First, I finally took my Ink Spot (so named because the mechanic called her a Crayola, so she needed a name befitting a crayon -- I find cars can really only be named by mechanics) in for repairs. I was leaving my Last Known Good Mechanic, and there's no telling how long it would take me to find another one I could trust. So, I put LKGM to work and got her all fixed up. Now I can feel comfortable driving Inky around again.
And then things are further apart here. In Portland, I didn't have to go far to see anyone I knew. I could shun an entire half of a city and still have friends to see and places to go. And there were many days that I did shun half of the city. At all times I shunned a good quarter of it. (There's nothing so important in the SW that I ever needed to go there.)
But here? You have to drive to get anywhere. Ikea? More than an hour away. The "discount" teacher-store? An hour away. Trader Joe's? Half an hour away. Cool, hip coastal towns? Forty-five minutes away. And I now have friends that live some distance away. I can't shun my far-away friends for my near-by friends because I have no near-by friends. (I'm sure that will change, it's already starting to, but I'm sure you get my drift.)
I never had to leave Portland, so I didn't. But now I have to leave home again. And it's kind of nice. I hate driving around town; I wish I could just get there already. But I do miss that time alone in the car on longer trips. The drive is part of the experience. I can listen to the radio and catch up on my music, plan my week, think about life. I have no responsibilities (except to not hit anyone or cause them to hit me). I can't do the dishes or laundry, I can't read a book, I can't get sucked into the TV. I can only drive.
How fitting that I'm re-bonding with my car here in Cali. Maybe I'll post one of my car-themed song lists one of these days.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
While Everyone Else is Crying Today ...
... I am celebrating.
Yes, because it is September 11. But not because of September 11, 2001. No, you see, on September 11, 2000, I was divorced. A full 365 before September 11 took on much of any significance for anyone (well, unless you care about Chilean politics and the assassination of Salvador Allende), the best day of my life occurred.
Eight years ago, I became legally free of the Asshole. Sure, it was partly my fault: I shouldn't have married him. I was impetuous. But mostly, the man was a jerk. (Keep that in mind, all those of you who find it hard to break up with your whatever. It's not that hard. You just do it. I got a lawyer. I fought for two years. I lost a house and money. I got in knock-down, drag-out fights. I had all my wedding pictures broken on my bed -- you try to sleep on a bed of broken glass. And it was still the best thing I did. And it was still not that hard. I haven't run a marathon, but I got a divorce.)
Not only was it my anniversary, but I also got paid today! For the first time a couple of months, I got a paycheck! And, since I've been working at this district since early August (yes, it's now mid September), a paycheck is a good thing. (It's amazing that schools think it's OK to start the school-year in August but not pay new teachers until the END of September. If I hadn't done my extra (stupid) five days of meetings, I wouldn't have gotten this paycheck at all.)
So, I went out to dinner. Mich reminded me of the brewpub in town. (How can I --I-- forget about a brewpub? Well, I don't get out much anymore.) So I went and bought the steak special. It had everything a girl could want: sauteed spinach, mashed potatoes, bacon-wrapped steak, onion rings. Mmmmm.... Onion rings.... gleuuuuuuu. (That's the sound drool makes, if you don't know.) And, they were out of the IPA *sob* so I had the Pale. Still not bad. The food had oo much salt, too much oil, and not enough pepper (of course, I think that about just about everything I eat). I'll even go so far to say the potatoes had too much garlic -- I believe mashed potatoes should always retain some potato flavor, not be a mere vehicle for aromatics. But the onion rings (which should be salty and fatty) were almost perfect. I could have eaten an entire basket, and not just the handful on the plate (which I could do anyway, even with the bad ones). They were thin-cut, like the shoestring fries of the onion ring world, but with a well-seasoned, flaky batter. Not stupid, thick batter. They tasted like onion. (To be perfect, they would not be shoe-string, they'd be fat.)
And I chatted with the folks at the bar. Man, can I pick up an old man, or what? (Not to take home, ewww.) But me and old men? We can have some conversations. These particular barmates were supportive of my career. It's fun to toss out the teacher-card, you know?
As if this evening weren't enough. When I got home, there was a note from UPS. They'd left me a package. Me? A package? From whom? Why? Mr. Maybe sent me a present! It's now my favorite t-shirt: English doesn't borrow from other languages. English follows other languages down dark alley, knocks them over and goes through their pockets for loose grammar. It's hanging on my chair so I can look at it and giggle.
Sorry this blog is a bit parenthetical. I blame the beer.
(P.S. Why are divorces so expensive?
-- scroll down for answer --
Because they're worth it!
Thanks to Wait! Wait! Don't Tell Me: The NPR News Quiz for the joke.)
Yes, because it is September 11. But not because of September 11, 2001. No, you see, on September 11, 2000, I was divorced. A full 365 before September 11 took on much of any significance for anyone (well, unless you care about Chilean politics and the assassination of Salvador Allende), the best day of my life occurred.
Eight years ago, I became legally free of the Asshole. Sure, it was partly my fault: I shouldn't have married him. I was impetuous. But mostly, the man was a jerk. (Keep that in mind, all those of you who find it hard to break up with your whatever. It's not that hard. You just do it. I got a lawyer. I fought for two years. I lost a house and money. I got in knock-down, drag-out fights. I had all my wedding pictures broken on my bed -- you try to sleep on a bed of broken glass. And it was still the best thing I did. And it was still not that hard. I haven't run a marathon, but I got a divorce.)
Not only was it my anniversary, but I also got paid today! For the first time a couple of months, I got a paycheck! And, since I've been working at this district since early August (yes, it's now mid September), a paycheck is a good thing. (It's amazing that schools think it's OK to start the school-year in August but not pay new teachers until the END of September. If I hadn't done my extra (stupid) five days of meetings, I wouldn't have gotten this paycheck at all.)
So, I went out to dinner. Mich reminded me of the brewpub in town. (How can I --I-- forget about a brewpub? Well, I don't get out much anymore.) So I went and bought the steak special. It had everything a girl could want: sauteed spinach, mashed potatoes, bacon-wrapped steak, onion rings. Mmmmm.... Onion rings.... gleuuuuuuu. (That's the sound drool makes, if you don't know.) And, they were out of the IPA *sob* so I had the Pale. Still not bad. The food had oo much salt, too much oil, and not enough pepper (of course, I think that about just about everything I eat). I'll even go so far to say the potatoes had too much garlic -- I believe mashed potatoes should always retain some potato flavor, not be a mere vehicle for aromatics. But the onion rings (which should be salty and fatty) were almost perfect. I could have eaten an entire basket, and not just the handful on the plate (which I could do anyway, even with the bad ones). They were thin-cut, like the shoestring fries of the onion ring world, but with a well-seasoned, flaky batter. Not stupid, thick batter. They tasted like onion. (To be perfect, they would not be shoe-string, they'd be fat.)
And I chatted with the folks at the bar. Man, can I pick up an old man, or what? (Not to take home, ewww.) But me and old men? We can have some conversations. These particular barmates were supportive of my career. It's fun to toss out the teacher-card, you know?
As if this evening weren't enough. When I got home, there was a note from UPS. They'd left me a package. Me? A package? From whom? Why? Mr. Maybe sent me a present! It's now my favorite t-shirt: English doesn't borrow from other languages. English follows other languages down dark alley, knocks them over and goes through their pockets for loose grammar. It's hanging on my chair so I can look at it and giggle.
Sorry this blog is a bit parenthetical. I blame the beer.
(P.S. Why are divorces so expensive?
-- scroll down for answer --
Because they're worth it!
Thanks to Wait! Wait! Don't Tell Me: The NPR News Quiz for the joke.)
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Door Prizes
The library at my school had an open house on Monday. Yes, an open house. You know, come on by the library and see all the new books and resources, have some snacks, and chat up the librarians. My librarian is pretty tight. Woman knows her shiznit and is very helpful and friendly. And she's always getting supplies for use newbies. She's the school's new teacher resource/liason/leader whatever. Whatever you call her, she rocks.
Well, at said open house, I put my name in the hat for the door prizes. They had some really cool, useful prizes -- like the 16-pack of multi-colored Sharpies or the 8-pack of dry erase markers. Since I'm always up for a prize, I folded the corner of my slip of paper -- to make it easier to grab, right? That's a trick I learned at some conference once, not that I've found it all that successful.
Anyway, I hang out in the library at lunch, then run back to my 5th period class. No word on when the prizes will be handed out. The next morning, a student wanders into my room, looking a bit like Banquo hiding behind vegetation. Well, vegetables, to be honest. Glass vegetables, actually.
Yes, my door prize was a giant bowl of glass fruit -- just what every new teacher wants and needs. Especially a new teacher who doesn't even have enough desk space for all her pieces of paper. I couldn't stop laughing. My students thought it was a bit strange, too. Oh, and I really need fist-sized glass objects around my Hellclasses, right? Just in case they feel the need to start throwing things.
Anyway, I left one apple at school -- I figure I can be a cliche and have an apple on my desk, and took the rest home (for lack of a better storage space -- not that I have any storage space at home, either). Don't believe me? Check it out.
Well, at said open house, I put my name in the hat for the door prizes. They had some really cool, useful prizes -- like the 16-pack of multi-colored Sharpies or the 8-pack of dry erase markers. Since I'm always up for a prize, I folded the corner of my slip of paper -- to make it easier to grab, right? That's a trick I learned at some conference once, not that I've found it all that successful.
Anyway, I hang out in the library at lunch, then run back to my 5th period class. No word on when the prizes will be handed out. The next morning, a student wanders into my room, looking a bit like Banquo hiding behind vegetation. Well, vegetables, to be honest. Glass vegetables, actually.
Yes, my door prize was a giant bowl of glass fruit -- just what every new teacher wants and needs. Especially a new teacher who doesn't even have enough desk space for all her pieces of paper. I couldn't stop laughing. My students thought it was a bit strange, too. Oh, and I really need fist-sized glass objects around my Hellclasses, right? Just in case they feel the need to start throwing things.
Anyway, I left one apple at school -- I figure I can be a cliche and have an apple on my desk, and took the rest home (for lack of a better storage space -- not that I have any storage space at home, either). Don't believe me? Check it out.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Sunday Dinner
I'm gonna back-date this to Sunday, since that's when I made the food. And oh, was it oh-so-good.
For those of you who don't know, Hoppin' John is a Southern dish that in its most basic form is black-eyed peas with rice. I made the Crook's Corner version, myself. Having dated a former Crook's cook, he filled me in on the secret of this tasty dish. Black-eyed peas and rice (of course) but topped with shredded cheddar cheese and a "salsa" of tomatos and green onions. The green onions are key. Not red or yellow or white, but green. I put a little red pepper and cider vinegar in with the tomatoes and green onions, for an extra Southern kick. (I don't know if Bill Neal -- the founder of Crook's and a Southern food expert for those of you who aren't up on your Chapel Hill school of cooking -- would insist on going that far, but I do.)
I know that Hoppin' John is a New Year's tradition, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy it whenever possible. This time, it was a farmer's market inspired meal. I found (joy!) black-eyed peas at the market last week. I also found a bunch of other stuff, so it took me a week to cook them. They were so good, they're already gone. (Although I'm posting this as if it were Sunday, it's really Tuesday.)
Anyway. Yummy. Yummy. Yummy. I sauteed some onions in happy bacon grease, then added the peas and some chicken stock and water. And because I also make a mean veggie version (and this only had fat, not a ham shank or hock), I tossed in a piece of kombu (which adds many of the same flavonoids you get from ham). Just remember to take out the kombu after about 20 minutes, or it starts disintegrating and then it's really annoying. I was out of bay leaf, so I had to skip that. Then, a big tablespoon of miso (another veggie trick to add the flavonoids). So good.
Here's a picture. It makes me drool.
For those of you who don't know, Hoppin' John is a Southern dish that in its most basic form is black-eyed peas with rice. I made the Crook's Corner version, myself. Having dated a former Crook's cook, he filled me in on the secret of this tasty dish. Black-eyed peas and rice (of course) but topped with shredded cheddar cheese and a "salsa" of tomatos and green onions. The green onions are key. Not red or yellow or white, but green. I put a little red pepper and cider vinegar in with the tomatoes and green onions, for an extra Southern kick. (I don't know if Bill Neal -- the founder of Crook's and a Southern food expert for those of you who aren't up on your Chapel Hill school of cooking -- would insist on going that far, but I do.)
I know that Hoppin' John is a New Year's tradition, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy it whenever possible. This time, it was a farmer's market inspired meal. I found (joy!) black-eyed peas at the market last week. I also found a bunch of other stuff, so it took me a week to cook them. They were so good, they're already gone. (Although I'm posting this as if it were Sunday, it's really Tuesday.)
Anyway. Yummy. Yummy. Yummy. I sauteed some onions in happy bacon grease, then added the peas and some chicken stock and water. And because I also make a mean veggie version (and this only had fat, not a ham shank or hock), I tossed in a piece of kombu (which adds many of the same flavonoids you get from ham). Just remember to take out the kombu after about 20 minutes, or it starts disintegrating and then it's really annoying. I was out of bay leaf, so I had to skip that. Then, a big tablespoon of miso (another veggie trick to add the flavonoids). So good.
Here's a picture. It makes me drool.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
What Did I Get For My Troubes? A Case of the Clams
I had to go to Trader Joe's, and in this town, that means a trip to Monterey. Since it was a lovely afternoon, I decided I might as well do what normal adults do and have dinner as well. This town doesn't have a slew of dining options, so going to Monterey is my big chance for dinner-time treats.
I did a cursory online search and decided I'd hit up the Fisherman's Wharf for some seafood. What the hey? I grew up in tourist trap, I know what's what. And I also know that you can find some good chowdah in a tourist trap.
So I trip-trapped, trip-trapped across the bridge to see what goodies I could find. All the restaurants along the wharf (picture Kennebunk Port -- complete with Saxony Imports -- but jammed onto one pier) had out samples of their chowder. "Yee-haw!" I thought to myself, "Now I'll know which chowder is good."
The answer is none of them.
I don't know what it is about the West Coast, but you can not find good chowder out here. Maybe I haven't found that one perfect place yet, but I've been to Seattle, Seaside and Cannon Beach and Pacific City and Portland, Oregon, and now California, and the chowder is crap.
Let me explain. The best chowder in the word is found at a place called Chowderheads in Scarborough, Maine. It's a small place, tucked off the side of a strip mall along Route 1. It's a random place to find such good chowder, but good it is. I guess it's technically a fish chowder, but it's creamy and succulent with a rich, seafood flavor with a colorful, and tasty, dash of paprika across the top. I've also had good, brothy, creamy chowder at the Clam Shack in Kennebunk -- but I haven't been there since the Jacques let it go. In short, chowder should be milky -- creamy, not thick and starchy. It should not taste like flour and potato starch. It should taste like seafood, cream, fresh potatoes, and pepper. It should not be thick. It should be a soup, not a gravy.
The chowders at the Fisherman's Wharf were all starch. The first one tasted like a bag of flour. Ugh. The second one tasted like a bag of flour mixed with clam broth. (Very clammy, although I didn't see any clams.) The third one (which passed for edible) was still thick, but there was a hint of cream and some visible clam chunks. It was alright. Alright in a sort of a limited way for an off night.
I guess I just have to make my own. I make a mean clam chowder. And I've got to get back to Scarborough. Chowderheads is closed on Sundays so I missed it the last time I was in town.
I did a cursory online search and decided I'd hit up the Fisherman's Wharf for some seafood. What the hey? I grew up in tourist trap, I know what's what. And I also know that you can find some good chowdah in a tourist trap.
So I trip-trapped, trip-trapped across the bridge to see what goodies I could find. All the restaurants along the wharf (picture Kennebunk Port -- complete with Saxony Imports -- but jammed onto one pier) had out samples of their chowder. "Yee-haw!" I thought to myself, "Now I'll know which chowder is good."
The answer is none of them.
I don't know what it is about the West Coast, but you can not find good chowder out here. Maybe I haven't found that one perfect place yet, but I've been to Seattle, Seaside and Cannon Beach and Pacific City and Portland, Oregon, and now California, and the chowder is crap.
Let me explain. The best chowder in the word is found at a place called Chowderheads in Scarborough, Maine. It's a small place, tucked off the side of a strip mall along Route 1. It's a random place to find such good chowder, but good it is. I guess it's technically a fish chowder, but it's creamy and succulent with a rich, seafood flavor with a colorful, and tasty, dash of paprika across the top. I've also had good, brothy, creamy chowder at the Clam Shack in Kennebunk -- but I haven't been there since the Jacques let it go. In short, chowder should be milky -- creamy, not thick and starchy. It should not taste like flour and potato starch. It should taste like seafood, cream, fresh potatoes, and pepper. It should not be thick. It should be a soup, not a gravy.
The chowders at the Fisherman's Wharf were all starch. The first one tasted like a bag of flour. Ugh. The second one tasted like a bag of flour mixed with clam broth. (Very clammy, although I didn't see any clams.) The third one (which passed for edible) was still thick, but there was a hint of cream and some visible clam chunks. It was alright. Alright in a sort of a limited way for an off night.
I guess I just have to make my own. I make a mean clam chowder. And I've got to get back to Scarborough. Chowderheads is closed on Sundays so I missed it the last time I was in town.
Friday, September 5, 2008
The Look
We all know someone with "the Look", right? Our Moms all had the Look. The Look will stop you in your tracks. Even if you've done nothing wrong, the Look will make you think you have.
I have spent years perfecting the Look, and I don't even have kids. I have, however, spent far too many days and nights in the company of children masquerading as adults. From high school on, I have spent more than my fair share of time in the company of the male of the species. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy my time with boys: they're silly and funny and exuberant. But they have warranted quite a few Looks -- making me an expert.
So today, at the end of a less horrible time with my Hellclass, I was looking over at Spike. Spike has been a bane of my existence (I have more than one, if that's possible) since Day One. And there he is, making some bizarre face at me. So, I turn up the Look and remind him that he's got to spend some time with me after class. (Which I did en Espanol -- well, a little bit en Espanol.)
After class he tells me that I have this really "hard" look, like I'm "007" or something (his words, not mine). He was trying to imitate me.
He's actually pretty cute when he's not making my life a living Hell. Trying to imitate my Look. He obviously doesn't understand that men have a difficult giving the Look and he does not have enough experience to do it properly anyway. Poor baby.
I have spent years perfecting the Look, and I don't even have kids. I have, however, spent far too many days and nights in the company of children masquerading as adults. From high school on, I have spent more than my fair share of time in the company of the male of the species. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy my time with boys: they're silly and funny and exuberant. But they have warranted quite a few Looks -- making me an expert.
So today, at the end of a less horrible time with my Hellclass, I was looking over at Spike. Spike has been a bane of my existence (I have more than one, if that's possible) since Day One. And there he is, making some bizarre face at me. So, I turn up the Look and remind him that he's got to spend some time with me after class. (Which I did en Espanol -- well, a little bit en Espanol.)
After class he tells me that I have this really "hard" look, like I'm "007" or something (his words, not mine). He was trying to imitate me.
He's actually pretty cute when he's not making my life a living Hell. Trying to imitate my Look. He obviously doesn't understand that men have a difficult giving the Look and he does not have enough experience to do it properly anyway. Poor baby.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Literature Lessons
"'...My ass is tough and quarters is scarce." (Black Boy, Richard Wright).
In this quote, Wright is relating the story of a coworker who puts on an embarassing and masochistic act to get a quarter for lunch. The show involves bending over to pick up the quarter so the white man can kick the guy in the butt.
I feel like it's my personal motto.
In this quote, Wright is relating the story of a coworker who puts on an embarassing and masochistic act to get a quarter for lunch. The show involves bending over to pick up the quarter so the white man can kick the guy in the butt.
I feel like it's my personal motto.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
The Wire
I'm watching The Wire right now. Well, not *right now*, but on the weekends. If I had episodes in the house during the week, I'd never get anything done. I did the same thing with Six Feet Under a year or so ago, but then I had three roommates watching with me (actually, it was Scott's fault that we even started). At least I'm in better control of the rentals this time.
Anyway, for those of you who haven't let The Wire take over your life yet, it's the story of cops and thugs and other nefarious types in Baltimore. In later seasons (I've caught a couple of eps on TBS -- not the best way to watch an HBO show), a school gets involved in the plot, too. Anyway, the cops follow big cases against the drug dealers and smugglers and get in each others' way. And a lot of what you see is shot from the perspective of surveillance cameras.
So, there I was today, sitting in an expulsion hearing. Oh yes. And yes, it is only the third week of school. And not only were probation, gangs, and contraband the subject of the hearing, but then my administrator pulls out a reference to the school's surveillance footage. Right then, I realized I was living an episode of The Wire.
Now, if only I could find McNulty...
P.S. One of my students left me a nice note telling me that s/he didn't like my voice. Nice.
Anyway, for those of you who haven't let The Wire take over your life yet, it's the story of cops and thugs and other nefarious types in Baltimore. In later seasons (I've caught a couple of eps on TBS -- not the best way to watch an HBO show), a school gets involved in the plot, too. Anyway, the cops follow big cases against the drug dealers and smugglers and get in each others' way. And a lot of what you see is shot from the perspective of surveillance cameras.
So, there I was today, sitting in an expulsion hearing. Oh yes. And yes, it is only the third week of school. And not only were probation, gangs, and contraband the subject of the hearing, but then my administrator pulls out a reference to the school's surveillance footage. Right then, I realized I was living an episode of The Wire.
Now, if only I could find McNulty...
P.S. One of my students left me a nice note telling me that s/he didn't like my voice. Nice.
Monday, September 1, 2008
BLTs
Today, in celebration of summer, farm workers, and the land of milk and honey, I will eat nothing but BLTs.
The BLT is my favorite sandwich of all times. As a child, I mastered the art of the BLT. My family, loving as they are, took advantage of my youth and got me to make them thousands of BLTs. "Carrie," they'd say sweetly, "You make the BEST BLTs." And I, obliging youngster flattered by their praise, would promptly march to the fridge and begin the long process of constructing a towering, tasty treat. My Dad and my second oldest sister used that line the most -- and it worked for a long, long time -- until Beth ruined it for everyone by telling me one day that "I made the best glasses of water." The jig was up. I stopped falling for flattery and made my BLTs only for myself.
Years later my father confided that they did indeed flatter me into making them sandwiches, but that did not change the truth: I made the best BLTs.
Here are my tips for making "the best BLTs":
Is it any wonder my family tried so hard to get me to make them sandwiches?
So, for breakfast today, I had an open-faced BLET. That's a bacon, lettuce, egg, and tomato sandwich. I got the tomatoes and lettuce yesterday from the farmer's market. Oh, heaven in a piece of food. Nieman ranch bacon. And a light wheat, thick sliced bread from TJ's. It was the best BLET.
Lunch was sublime. Truly.
BLTs don't have to be sandwiches, you know. The homemade ranch-like dressing was my nod to mayo. I skipped the bread though. Crutons would have been a welcome addition, but I didn't plan well enough ahead. And it's Labor Day, so nothing is open. And if something is open, it shouldn't be. It's freakin' Labor Day!
The BLT is my favorite sandwich of all times. As a child, I mastered the art of the BLT. My family, loving as they are, took advantage of my youth and got me to make them thousands of BLTs. "Carrie," they'd say sweetly, "You make the BEST BLTs." And I, obliging youngster flattered by their praise, would promptly march to the fridge and begin the long process of constructing a towering, tasty treat. My Dad and my second oldest sister used that line the most -- and it worked for a long, long time -- until Beth ruined it for everyone by telling me one day that "I made the best glasses of water." The jig was up. I stopped falling for flattery and made my BLTs only for myself.
Years later my father confided that they did indeed flatter me into making them sandwiches, but that did not change the truth: I made the best BLTs.
Here are my tips for making "the best BLTs":
- 1. Use only red, vine-ripened, flavorful tomatoes. The tomato is the key to the entire flavor of the sandwich. This means you can only eat BLTs in mid-to-late summer, when your garden or farmer's market is overflowing with tomatoes. Anything less will result in a sub-par sandwich.
2. Use a lot of tomatoes. Slice those bad boys at least 3/8 of an inch thick and make sure you cover the entire bread. Cut the slices in half to fill in the corners if you need to. Every bite should be full of juicy, sweet tomato.
3. Avoid iceberg lettuce. You should avoid iceberg anyway, but especially in a BLT. I prefer romaine for its crunch and ability to stand up to the other flavors. Red or green leaf is fine, but it makes for a girlier sandwich.
4. This might go without saying, but don't scrimp on the bacon and make sure it's got some crisp. It doesn't need to be falling apart burned, but you don't want limp, flaccid bacon. Three to four strips should be plenty, depending on their thickness and how much fat they lose. I prefer Nieman Ranch bacon. They raise happy pigs. And happy pigs make for happy bacon.
5. I am a sucker for white bread. A good, heavy white sandwich bread is my favorite, however, in this era of whole grains and heart disease and what not, I usually use wheat. It breaks my heart a little, but the sandwich is still good.
6. Toast the bread. 'Nuff said.
7. Hellman's (Best Foods) mayo ONLY. All other mayonnaise is sub-par and will ruin your sandwich. Ruin. Forever. Don't do it.
Is it any wonder my family tried so hard to get me to make them sandwiches?
So, for breakfast today, I had an open-faced BLET. That's a bacon, lettuce, egg, and tomato sandwich. I got the tomatoes and lettuce yesterday from the farmer's market. Oh, heaven in a piece of food. Nieman ranch bacon. And a light wheat, thick sliced bread from TJ's. It was the best BLET.
Lunch was sublime. Truly.
BLTs don't have to be sandwiches, you know. The homemade ranch-like dressing was my nod to mayo. I skipped the bread though. Crutons would have been a welcome addition, but I didn't plan well enough ahead. And it's Labor Day, so nothing is open. And if something is open, it shouldn't be. It's freakin' Labor Day!
Welcome to Krazy Karoline's Kozy Korner
Yes, the long awaited Krazy Karoline Kblog (the "k" is silent) is here. Visit this page for Krazy Karoline's Kulinary Kreations, Krazy Kwilts, Krafts, and Knits (the "k" is NOT silent), and Kantankerous Kurriculum. Maybe you'll even see some Kool Klothes and Kicking Keds.
Amazing, isn't it, how useful the letter "k" is?
The whole "Krazy Karoline" thang started, oh, 5 years ago while I was still living in the Bull City. I am a horrible packrat, especially where stashes are concerned (fabric, yarn, paper, drywall screws -- I horde it all). I had finally started making a crazy quilt to use up my fabric scraps. I figured I could justify holding onto all those useful (yet so useless) ends of fabric if I made a crazy quilt. Deep down I knew it would take me at least 10 years to finish the quilt, meaning I was forcing myself into a decade-long relationship with four plastic tubs of fabric scraps. Meanwhile, I joined a stitch and bitch group. In a stunning coup, I was hosted stitch and bitch one night (oh, was Michael jealous -- it meant I was "in" you see). And, inviting them over to see Krazy Karoline's Krazy Kwilt seemed so much more fun than just "having some friends over for desert and knitting". And I thought the fame would keep me on track.
Well, it's been five years and I'm a good 12 squares in. Yes. 12. I've moved the darned (ha ha) thing four times -- once across the entire country. In that time I've finished three other quilts -- all for other people. One was hand quilted. Yeah. Do you see where I'm going with this krazy theme?
The moral of the story? Get married and I'll make you a quilt. Maybe I should take my own advice?
Nah.
That's krazy talk.
Amazing, isn't it, how useful the letter "k" is?
The whole "Krazy Karoline" thang started, oh, 5 years ago while I was still living in the Bull City. I am a horrible packrat, especially where stashes are concerned (fabric, yarn, paper, drywall screws -- I horde it all). I had finally started making a crazy quilt to use up my fabric scraps. I figured I could justify holding onto all those useful (yet so useless) ends of fabric if I made a crazy quilt. Deep down I knew it would take me at least 10 years to finish the quilt, meaning I was forcing myself into a decade-long relationship with four plastic tubs of fabric scraps. Meanwhile, I joined a stitch and bitch group. In a stunning coup, I was hosted stitch and bitch one night (oh, was Michael jealous -- it meant I was "in" you see). And, inviting them over to see Krazy Karoline's Krazy Kwilt seemed so much more fun than just "having some friends over for desert and knitting". And I thought the fame would keep me on track.
Well, it's been five years and I'm a good 12 squares in. Yes. 12. I've moved the darned (ha ha) thing four times -- once across the entire country. In that time I've finished three other quilts -- all for other people. One was hand quilted. Yeah. Do you see where I'm going with this krazy theme?
The moral of the story? Get married and I'll make you a quilt. Maybe I should take my own advice?
Nah.
That's krazy talk.
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