Loving (only) the idea of you.

So this is what happens when you take a three and a half hour nap...inspiration and thought. I had forgotten how comforting the quietness of night can be. For many years I found myself swaddled in darkness, yet afraid of the Universe. But one night we went walking and three things happened. The first, was a shooting star passed overhead-- the first I had seen as an aware young adult. So of course I took this as a sign of fate that we were somehow destined to be on this walk together. I in turn wished for your love. (Now, six years later I am remembering the phrase, 'Be careful what you wish for.') While you did in fact later love me, I believe that that very wish which forced you to love me, blinded my ability to see and feel what real love was. That passing star and subsequent wish lead me to wishing on every future star, never fully-able to be content with what I had. I previously mentioned that three things happened on this fateful night. The first, the darkened shooting star. The second, the birth of 'star-planet'. The reddish glow of what I believed to be a star of my very own was your first opportunity to point out harshly that I was wrong, and it was in fact a planet. What seemed to be specially placed in the sky for me was in fact the birth of a symbol of your constant criticism. But I, the ever-naive and optimistic teenager, took this disagreement as another sign of how you were meant to love me. But the wish I cast on that shooting star and the birth of star-planet did not create the picture-perfect romance I predicted. They were instead the backdrop to a mini-universe of chaos, pain, and suffering...a fact I would not realize for nearly four more years. The third thing that happened during this midnight walk was the moment when I convinced myself you were someone I should love. I had asked the universe for your love, but I had not asked to be able to love you. Instead, I fell in love with the idea of loving you. We were two jaded, bruised, and scarred individuals who had no business being in love; but I was convinced you could love me and I could love you...and in the end, we would save each other. For two painful years, I found myself cursing the stars and wishing for a lost happiness, without realizing I was never meant to love you; I was never meant to find happiness with you. As I gazed up at tonight's sky, I reflected on the person I was six years ago and compared her to the person I am today. I no longer wish on stars. I no longer vie for love. I am content walking among the stars alone or in the company of my wonderful husband and dog. The love I have for my husband was not concocted on a wish, it was found at first-sight...the best kind of fate; and over time it grew deeply within each of us individually and as a pair. While it may seem ideal to wish for love on a shooting star, you are never certain of what you may end up with. I find it best to just leave it to fate.

Dreaming of Reality

Many branches of psychology were developed from the idea that a person's dreamscape can give us a little hint to what is truly going on beneath the conscious thoughts of a person's mind. Some early branches of psychology argued that dreams were the only true glimpses of truth a person would ever share. Our conscious thoughts and expressions were shallow-- untruthful even. But our subconscious and our unconscious thoughts and feelings certainly made up how we truly feel. I like to think those psychologists published mostly bold-faced lies to prey on young women who seemed "unsettled" for their time period, but who am I to really know? Sometimes when I find myself dreaming, I am so certain that what is happening in my dreamscape is what I desire to become reality. Other times, I am so terrified by that possibility because of what my dreams are about. A few months ago I was suffering from severe nightmares-- a troublesome habit I suffered as a child too. I googled every dream I had, asked my husband and friends what they thought the dreams could mean, and each of them reassured me that my dreams were not some unfulfilled desire that my unconscious mind was pushing to the surface. Regardless of the origin of these dreams, I was able to push them out of my mind after a trip to the crystal store and some seriously restorative yoga sessions. The past two nights I've had the most haunting, yet uplifting and self-realizing dreams I've had in a while. For those of you who can remember your dreams, and for the fewer of you who try to rationalize them throughout the day, you know what kind of dream I'm talking about. In case you are neither of these two types of people, I will share with you what I mean. Dream #1: Animal Abuse I'm trapped in a mansion that looks oddly familiar to a modernized version of Belle's Castle. I am trying to make sure that my infant child is not stolen from me, so I try to take her up the grand staircase to the second floor. While walking up the stairs I come across a snake with large fangs. It begins to hiss at me, striking at my ankles. I should also probably add that the snake has two arms near its head. I begin stomping the snake and even manage to pick it up and throw it down the stairs. Enraged, it comes at me faster...so I snap its arms in half. Wincing and crying out in pain, the snake begins to take on a new form. It grows hair, its teeth multiply, and it grows two more feet. I somehow pull a knife from my back pocket and stab it in the leg, tossing it down the stairs once more. But then I see that the snake is no longer a snake-- but a frail and whimpering puppy...its leg broken in half. I break into tears and rush to its aid. Because of the abuse I had just given it, the puppy turned away from me and tried to run up the stairs, whimpering with every movement. I scooped it up into my hands and cradled it back to life. (Somehow my child ended up safely upstairs...) The only conclusion I was able to make about the origin of this dream is how people view different forms of animal abuse. Some people think that killing animals for food is abusive-- and maybe it is. Others think that abusing domestic animals is a horrific event...and I agree with them. But what about the other animals we mindlessly kill all the time? The ants we squish in the house, the spiders we trap in jars to suffocate for entering our home, the snakes and possums we beat to death in our yards? Just because they have sharper teeth or venom we get to decide they don't deserve to live? I had never really thought about them this deeply before, but clearly I was moved in the dream because I broke out into tears after realizing I cared more for the wounded dog than the wounded snake. It was a closed-eyes eye-opening experience to say the least. Dream #2: Dreamscape City I'm at school with husband, in his classroom. His desks have all been pushed together so that his figurines all fit in the same area. Each type of figurine has been divided into areas, or townships-- the soldiers, the Old-School Action Figures, the Presidents, the Marvel Super-Heroes, the Villains, the Nintendo characters, and the DC Super-Heroes. For one reason or another, husband decides that the town can no longer get along and he motions to a disfigured and somehow plastic version of Stretch-Armstrong that, "It's time." Stretch, with one arm bent in a terrible ninety degree angle, picks up his dismembered leg, and moves into the Marvel region. He smashes the Hulk with his bent arm, engaging him into a fight. Because the two tower over so many other figurines, they naturally begin to involve everyone else. The regions break into war; explosions are seen; fires are started; figurines are screaming. Pretty soon the desks are covered in ashes, and smoke fills the air. I turn away sobbing, and the song "Let It Be" begins playing. I turn to husband with tears in my eyes and ask him how he could let that happen, and with a swift wave of his hand he tells me to, "Wait and see." A familiar yet unfamiliar song begins to play in the background as animated spears of asparagus begin to take the shape of a fence around the perimeter of the desks. New figurines begin to take form-- but this time, with the them of "Through the Ages". There is an area for the dinosaurs, extinct animals, evolving men, the Presidents of the United States, baseball teams, and even female role-models. When the song ends, I realize there are two things missing. Because I now know that there needs to be music for the magic to happen, I begin to sing "All You Need is Love" and a region full of heart-shaped Kirbys begins to grow. Then I see the Dinosaurs are missing one thing, and I break into "Yoshi's song" and soon enough an entire flock of Yoshis has appeared. I could not believe how beautifully the lands were created, and I could not believe how awfully the previous ones had been destroyed. Conclusion drawn? The Universe is an ever-changing and living being. Our world is constantly adapting to kill off the weak and promote the strong. Husband was able to spark an event that destroyed many regions of his figurine world; he was also able to reconstruct those worlds into better functioning environments. Bad things happen in the world everyday; people kill each other, women are raped, children are abandoned, and the list can go on forever. What I have tried to focus on lately is living in the present-- appreciating what I have been given by the Universe, both good and bad. This dream serves as a reminder to accept that circumstances change, and nothing is ever a constant except our will to positively perceive. Dreams can serve as a window to many different types of opportunities. A nightmare can foreshadow a bad day, or warn you of potential danger. A sad dream can remind you of what makes you truly happy. Whatever the dream may bring, it is always a good idea to pay attention and interpret all possible meanings. Do I think that dreams represent my subconscious thoughts? To some degree. Do they reveal hidden secrets about me? I guess I'll find out tonight... Currently Listening to: "Make Me Lose My Mind" by Disclosure ft. London Grammar Current Mood: Insomnia-tic

Second chances.

Far too often I find that those who give second chances in life, do so intermittently-- unfairly, and almost always purely subjectively. But I have to stop and wonder: What actions constitute allowance for a second chance? What type of person warrants a second chance? Does the first offense have to be insignificant enough to not affect many people? Or does the offense simply have to be a certain distance from the chance-giver that they themselves are not affected? I know that I am far from perfect-- that I have been far from perfect at least a time or two. And sometimes I was rewarded a second, even a third chance. But more often than not, I was cast aside and judged-- denied a second chance to rebuild trust, to build trust from the start. But then I have to pause and consider what other types of people are given second chances: convicted felons, cheating spouses, those who use and abuse women like trash receptacles. The list is endless. Felons have epiphanies in prison and convince the world they're changed men and women. So they are offered a job and full trust from their employers. Cheating spouses woo their way back into the heart of the low self-esteemed partner who cannot seem to see the truth. Women who are victimized no longer see themselves as human beings, and therefore give second chances as if begging for a chance at living their own life. Yet, when it comes to most situations in a person's life, there is a very short list of truly 'forgivable' acts: white lies, accidental foolishness, drunken comedic streaking, and the occasional too-close-to-home-friendly-personal-jab. Everything else is ground for immediate expulsion. You forget to call on their birthday? Ditched and dismissed. They heard you may have broken someone else's heart but aren't really sure? Judged as a heartless wench, never to be good enough for your friend to date. Completely and utterly subjective. But where do we draw the line? I'm no saint when it comes to letting go of grudges, but I like to think that I am fairly lenient when it comes to second, third, and in some unquestionably vapid situations, fourth chances with people. Humans are prone to error. We are complex, thinking beings and we mess up. A lot. But that doesn't mean we are incapable of changing our habits; changing our heart; changing our minds. One mistake does not have to turn into two. And even if it does, a pattern of mistakes does not have to follow. This world has become so filled with instant gratification and an ability to find an answer on a search engine in a matter of seconds that we ourselves have re-programmed our minds to make snap judgments about other people within seconds. No longer do people take the time to get to know one another before judging character. No longer do people understand that mistakes are common and that people can change. No longer do strangers give the benefit of the doubt to other strangers. Me personally? I'd rather be called a fool for having faith, than a cynic who dampers every ounce of positivity left in this world.

Let's call these: Moderate-Amounts-Of-Sugar Added Apple Streusel Muffins

Good morning and Happy Friday to you all :) I should be studying right now, but I had to make something for breakfast, and I'm getting a bit tired of eggs with toast or cereal, and I happen to have a ton of apples in my house at the moment.

After last night's battle with fried apples, I decided I needed to lower the sugar content in whatever I was going to make. But I knew it would be next to impossible to make an apple streusel muffin with no sugar...so I decided on trying to add a lesser amount. Which ended up making the recipe a more moist than normal sugar would have done, so I'm basically a winner.

Let's begin, shall we? I have about eight more muffins to consume before track practice at 2:30.

Start by peeling, coring, and slicing/dicing apples. I chose to make very very small pieces so I had a ton of apples in every bite! This also helps to prevent the cake from pulling away during baking because of the moisture in a larger apple chunk. I used two small gala apples today, but any kind of apple will work. I ended up with about a cup or so after chopping.

Then, combine the wet ingredients in a small bowl, and the dry ones in a bigger bowl.

Wet: 2 tbs. honey, 2 tbs. no sugar added applesauce, 1/2 cup milk, 1/4 cup vegetable oil, a dash of vanilla, and 1 egg. (Whisk together until all of the various textures make a nice pale yellow color)

Dry: 1 1/2 cups flour, 2 tsp. baking powder, 1/2 tsp. cinnamon, 1/4 tsp. salt (whisk together until airy)

Then, fold the apples into the dry ingredients. This will coat the apples to lower their moisture content before adding the wet ingredients.

Pour in all of the wet ingredients and fold until just combined. The consistency should be slightly on the wet-paste side. Next, pour half of the batter into 12 muffin tins. And here comes the fun part.

Combine 1/3 cup brown sugar, 2 tbs. butter, 2 tbs. flour, and as much cinnamon as you desire. Crumble the mixture on top of the batter, reserving about 3 tbs.

Then, pour the remaining batter on top. Finish by topping your muffin tins with a bit more streusel. (Yes, I'm still working on getting the streusel recipe to be slightly healthier, but you could probably substitute the brown sugar for sugar in the raw, just don't use Splenda!! It will boil and bubble and end up causing your muffins to sink!)

Pop 'em into a 400 degree oven for about 17 minutes. I took mine out at 15 minutes after thinking the poor little tops looked too brown, but some of the centers are too moist.

Enjoy with a hot cup of coffee or your favorite morning beverage. If you're not overly concerned with the sugar content, spread a little apple butter on top while still warm....DEEE-VINE.

I'm very very pleased with this recipe and I encourage you to make it for yourself. Every bite I took I had cinnamon, streusel bits, and of course about three or four apple chunks. If you want to crank up the nutritional value more-- add a few of your favorite nuts. I can imagine almonds or walnuts would be great mixed into the streusel center and topping.

Have a healthy dose of happiness on this gorgeous Friday.

Peace, love, and sexy muffin tops,
Mlle Phipps

Bacon-Palooza

One day in English 209 Section N, also known as my Creative Writing 8 am class, we were assigned a ten-minute spill. The spill could be about anything, but to help mould our hazy minds, my professor told us to think about what we had for breakfast, or something we loved to eat for breakfast. So of course my mind went to bacon. Greasy, crispy, delicious bacon. And then my mind wandered to baking. The most simplistic ingredients come together to form decadent creations. Eventually I made the connection between the salty and savory flavors of fried bacon and the rich smooth flavors of chocolate. And then it hit me. Why not put the two together?

I know people have put chocolate with bacon before but this was the first time I myself realized it could be done. My writing then took me to a place I call crazy-town. I decided I would attempt to write a bacon-brownie recipe with less than three minutes left in my ten-minute spill, during a class that I was hardly awake for. But I did it. And boy was it a mess. The ingredients were definitely all there, but the amounts would have made the worst possible brownie ever. When I got home I scrapped the entire recipe, except for one thing.

That one thing? Bacon grease. Brownies usually use oil, at least the ones I like do. Butter is great, you all know how much I love me some butter, but there is something about oil that makes a brownie that much richer in flavor. So in my fury of half-asleep writing I decided to substitute the oil in a typical brownie with bacon grease. Yes, I did in fact consider how many hearts I would stop with this type of recipe.

I dawdled and messed with the recipe for a couple of weeks, and then finally got the gaul to go out and buy bacon. And I decided today was the day for Salted Caramel Bacon Brownies.

First I had to fry the bacon, and preserve all of the grease. The house was filled with smoke and I swear I saw Miss Di drooling more than Tachey. I may have even drooled a bit while leaning over the stove trying to soak up all the bacon fumes.

Then later tonight after track practice I got together all my traditional dry ingredients. 1.5 cups of flour, 2 cups of sugar, 2/3 cup cocoa powder, and 1 tsp. salt.

For the wet ingredients I changed things up a bit. Because I used 1/2 cup of bacon grease, I used 1/2 cup of vegetable oil. Typically I would use four eggs, but to make up for some of my heart-disease prone friends I decided to use only two eggs and then 1/2 cup applesauce. The moisture in the applesauce is a perfect substitute and let's be honest, it counts as a fruit right? Then I mixed in 2 tsp. of vanilla. After stirring it all together and almost gagging at the site of it I just poured it in and started mixing.

And what I got from all of these funny ingredients was the darkest, richest looking batter I've seen. I've made a lot of brownies, but this batter was smoky, rich, and deep in flavor. Which of course terrified me.

But then I poured half of the batter into the pan and threw on some chopped bacon and my worries dissipated. This is after all chocolate and bacon we're talking about, right? Into the 350 degree oven for thirty minutes it went!

As the concoction baked, I attempted to make a caramel drizzle sauce. And it was a total disaster. The first step was easy. Make a simple syrup, bring to boil, and shake until it turns an amber color.

But then when I tried to add the milk, not heavy cream, which was probably my biggest mistake, the mixture basically exploded and made my kitchen smell like bacon, chocolate, AND scalded milk. Gross. And of course my simple syrup thingamabob went hard and didn't mix with the milk.

But after a little cooing and a lot more whisking, the mixture loosened up. So into the pot went some vanilla and butter. Then I got this.

Which was basically liquid caramel, but after an hour or so it started to solidify. And then I wasn't so worried about keeping these brownies completely naked. With only crumbled bacon to cover up the naughty-bits.

So with a little patience, and a little bit of melted down leftover cream cheese frosting, I eventually ended up with a sexy-topping for my already diabetes-causing brownies.

Then of course Miss Di and I just had to dig in. And here's what we found:

1. A half of a cup of bacon grease is wayyyy too much. More like a quarter cup next time.
2. Sugar content could be reduced, especially because I decided to use applesauce.
3. Bacon should be fully crisped and not have a soft center.
4. Bacon grease takes longer to bake in the oven than expected.
5. Eat with caution. And without knowing the true ingredients.

Bacon Brownies
1.5 cups flour
2 cups sugar
2/3 cup cocoa powder
1 tsp. salt
2 tsp. vanilla
1/2 cup bacon grease
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1/2 cup applesauce
2 eggs
3-4 strips of chopped bacon

Mix all ingredients together in a large bowl. Pour half of the batter into a greased dish. Sprinkle with bacon bits, reserving some for topping. Pour the remaining batter into the dish and bake in a 350 degree oven for 30-40 minutes, or until completely cooked in the center.

Salted Caramel Sauce

3/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup water
1/2 cup milk
1 tablespoon butter
dash of salt
pour of vanilla

Combine sugar and water, bring to boil over medium-high heat. Shake the mixture until it reaches an amber color. Remove from heat and whisk in milk. Place over low heat if the sugar clumps. Add in butter and vanilla. Once combined, cook and bring to boil for 2 more minutes. Remove from heat and allow to cool before serving.

I really need to go workout tomorrow morning. Desperately.

Peace, love, and food-comas to you all,
LP

Ramblings from a rookie.

I think it's time that I write something about my newest adventure. It may not take me out the country, or even to the other side of the city...but for now I think I'm okay traveling less than a mile to the high school up the street. About two weeks ago I was offered an amazing opportunity, one I thought I had been passed by for months ago, to coach the girls' track and field team at South Miami Senior High School. As a second semester senior at UM the opportunity for a 'real job' took me by immediate surprise. The pay is slightly higher than my current part-time job and the hours are less flexible, but a little less demanding. And of course the job itself comes with many perks and a few greater difficulties.

1. There is no track at South Miami Senior High. Problem? Not really, actually. Luckily for us there is a gigantic football/soccer field that happens to be pretty oval in shape, which makes for a lovely (yet short) impromptu track. Oh, and Tropical Park is only about a mile or two away. Which makes those practices a 2 for 1 deal.

2. There is no budget for uniforms. A few years ago the team fell into some bad luck and had most of their uniforms stolen. So that means what we do have is outdated and won't cover the entire team. Luckily for me though is I spent most of my high school career trying to fundraise for marching band, JV cheerleading, Varsity cheerleading, and even sometimes for track. So I will be using a few of those tricks I have hidden up my sleeves.

3. Age difference. I was mortified to think that some of my new athletes would be barely three years younger than I am. But again, luckily for me, most of my athletes are freshmen or sophomores and the few that are seniors-- have hardly figured out just how close in age we are.

4. Experience. I've never coached a track team before. Sure I know how to put together a running program for myself or another person, but I've never truly run a track program from start to finish while trying to accommodate at least ten people. But here's where my somewhat-annoying habit of keeping everything falls into place. Not only did I write down the majority of my running workouts from high school track, but I also wrote down the majority of my lifting, running, and jumping workouts from UM. Can you say, cha-ching? 'Cause I just did. So far the pre-season workouts have been a breeze. The real task will come when I get all the basketball girls around February. But by then I should have found my stride.

So now my desk has three piles of scattered yet organized stuff. Schoolwork, baking, and track magazines. And I guess you can count the looming stack of bills as a separate, not-so-exciting, pile. Twenty-one years old and getting a taste of Part I of three dream jobs. And did I mention the pay was pretty sweet? Too bad I don't get it until the end of the season...I guess that just makes it an extra sweet graduation gift.

Enough about me and how excited I am to mold this young bunch of athletes. I want to talk about my kids now. Sorry, my young ladies and gentlemen as Coach Reinisch used to call us. I've taken a lot of his advice over the years and am trying to model his coaching style when it comes to handling the athletes...though I would hope I have a better time communicating with the ladies about their lady-questions. No offense if you're reading this, Coach!

Every team is made up of the following types of athletes: the good ones, the newbies, the attitudes, and the question marks. The good ones pay attention, try their hardest and never say never. The newbies are just as excited to be out here, but have little to no experience in what we're doing. Sometimes they can be even better than the good ones with a little time and a little more patience. The attitudes are the ones that could be great, but refuse to accept it. There are constant scowls, the 'I don't wanna do this' face, and an overall look of disgust when the coach speaks. The question marks are the ones that come in with no experience, very little obvious interest in track, yet they are the ones who probably try the hardest at every single task placed in front of them.

I will be upfront and say that I will not be using names, unless it comes to their successes at track meets. I will not allude details to any individual athlete of mine, and I will not degrade their hard work. I will however, attempt to use their successes and failures to contemplate my coaching styles, approach to practice, and overall personal attitude.

So far the practices have consisted of a lot of learning. For both them and myself. New warm-up, new drills, new way of running. New lifts, new stretches, new core work. Some of the kids have never heard of the things I throw at them, but they do it anyway. And some of the things they tell me about past practices I have never heard of. So we meet somewhere in the middle, with my say getting just a little bit more pull than theirs.

The season officially starts on Tuesday, with a thirty-minute study hall period before practice commences. I've been trying to come up with a few goals for the season, aside from making it through the entire season and not having the entire team quit on me...Maybe by Tuesday I'll have something a little more optimistic.

For now, as long as I reach them in some positive way and maybe get them a few PRs, I'll be happy.

From my running shoes to yours,
Coach Phipps

Gotta start somewhere.

This New Year I have decided that I will not only say that I want to bake 100 new recipes, I will actually do it! And today was the first hack at that goal. Evan, who is so bravely studying for the bar this winter and spring, has requested one treat per week to keep him sane. That means that if I am to keep up with my necessary recipes throughout the year, I will get to keep on average .92 recipes per week all to myself! Hooray.

Anyhow, I decided that I would attempt to make my CakeWars dream come true today...literally, I had a dream that I was called into CakeWars (completely unprepared by the way!) and had to come up with cupcakes on the spot. Now, for those of you who are unfamiliar with CakeWars, this type of behavior is usually frowned upon! Therefore, I whipped up a few ideas and when I woke up the next day I quickly jotted the ideas down. One of which happened to be an Orange Creamsicle Cupcake...I mean, who doesn't love Creamsicles??

And for those of you who are not familiar with Creamsicles, kindly remove yourselves from under the rock and take a look at this magnificent blend of flavors:


Yes, that does in fact look delicious. And I happen to love Creamsicles. And I also happen to love cupcakes! So, why not put the two together...

I started with a basic white cake, so that I didn't have random yellow colors or whatever other cake you can think of. Creamsicles consist of three things: orange, cream, and deliciousness. Therefore, any added confusion to the blend would have just ruined the entire experience. The recipe was borrowed from a wonderful blogger that I adore, you should all check out her website! http://www.howsweeteats.com



After the cupcake batter was poured into its sassy little lingerie and popped into the oven for toasting, I started onto the orange cream filling. YES, I said filling.



You see, my Grandma Phipps got me this handy-dandy little cake corer for Christmas this year. So now I am able to core cupcakes, taste the center (wait, what?) and then add filling. I'm sure this tool was invented for a housewife who had a curious husband that continually took pieces of the cake before it was ready to be served...only creating more work for the housewife in order to fill in the missing pieces. Well now, I can core the cake, fill it, and then frost over the top without anyone knowing that I really just wanted to taste the cake!



Back to the filling. Orange cream. I was thinking basic buttercream, mostly because the cake batter did not have nearly enough butter, but moreso because I knew I could make it tart like the Orange part of the Creamsicle.



Butter, sugar, vanilla, and orange peel all go into the bowl. With a few drops of yellow and red food dye to really make the Orange stand out. And then of course, as I add the orange juice I simply must taste-test it to ensure ample tartness. Perfect. Tart and delicious. Moving on.



I decided against another buttercream because while I personally love loads of homemade buttercream icing, I know not everybody does. So a lighter, yet decadent frosting was just what I needed. What is light and decadent?

Great answer! Meringue. So that's what I decided on, having no idea how to turn raw eggs into an edible frosting on top of a cake that was already cooked with a non-cookable icing filling in the middle. Google it was! And google taught me that making a hot simple syrup would be just the ticket to making a delicious meringue that did not need cooking. I was sold.

1 cup sugar, 1/3 cup water, 1/4 tsp. cream of tartar into a pan on medium heat...stir until dissolved and leave on stove until bubbly. Easy enough right?

Blend two egg whites with 1 tsp. vanilla until soft-peaks form. Easy as pie! Then, gradually add in syrup mixture until blended. Then, beat mixture until stiff peaks form. Awesome! I've made lemon meringue pie before, I have patience and can wait for the eggs to stiffen a bit.



What I didn't realize was that because I only have one beater on my hand-mixer, not a whole lot of whipping so much as stirring was going on. The eggs took FOREVER to stiffen and after about twenty minutes of my hands and ears vibrating from the hand-mixer being on full-speed, I decide that moderate peaks were more than enough for me. Plus, the sheen on this frosting was just orgasmic. I mean it looked just like melted marshmallows. Shiny and delicious.

Did I mention that the third component of Creamsicles is deliciousness? In case you didn't know, Oranges, cream, and deliciousness are all musts.

After all that was finished, I got to core my little cakes, fill them up with orange buttercream and then top them all off with a bit of meringue frosting and orange peel. Beautiful so far and each component tastes great by itself-- just waiting for the meringue to stiffen a bit in the fridge before I dive into one (just to make sure I won't be poisoning Evan of course.)



I'll be taking this year One Bite At A Time.
From my house to yours I hope you have a beautiful day!



PS: It took Tache entirely too long to eat this piece of cored-cake for him to TRULY be my son. But I accept him for his faults and will train him to eat table scraps better.



White Cupcakes
-Preheat oven to 350 degrees
-Cream 1/2 cup butter with 1 cup white sugar until smooth
-Add 2 eggs and 1 tbs. vanilla to the mixture.
-In a separate bowl, combine 1 1/2 cups flour with 1 tsp. baking powder.
-Mix 1/2 of the dry ingredients into the sugar mixture until blended.
-Mix in 1/3 cup of milk.
-Add the remaining dry ingredients and beat until just blended.
-Pour batter into cupcake liners 2/3 of the way
-Bake about 20 minutes, the tops should be slightly golden and the center should not jiggle.

Orange Buttercream
-Cream 1/4 cup butter.
-Add 1 cup powdered sugar and beat until combined.
-Mix in some orange peel and 1/2 tsp. vanilla.
-Add 1 more cup powdered sugar and about 1/3 cup orange juice.
-Continue to add orange juice until desired taste and consistency is reached.
-Add red and yellow food coloring if desired.

Meringue Frosting
-Mix 1 cup of sugar, 1/3 cup water, and 1/4 tsp. cream of tartar in a saucepan.
-Stir over medium heat until the mixture is dissolved and becomes bubbly.
-Whip 2 egg whites with 1 tsp. vanilla until soft peaks form (just past when you see bubbles)
-Gradually add the sugar syrup into the eggs until all has been added.
-Continue to beat the mixture until stiff peaks form (should look like little mountains when you try to spoon it)
*Be patient, it can take up to 10 minutes!

Core the cake, dollop the icing in, and frost over. Decorate as desired and enjoy!

Ma première revue d'une pièce: Pour un oui ou pour un non, écrit par Nathalie Sarraute

L’autre côté d’un conte de fées

Typiquement, quand nous parlons des contes de fées, une image d’une princesse enfermée dans un pylône arrive. Et quand nous parlons des mythes, une image d’un héros très fort, qui doit conquérir les Dieux arrive. A propos de Nathalie Sarraute, nous voyons une image si différente dans sa pièce Pour un oui ou pour un non. Deux hommes…deux amis, deux ennemis—ce que vous voulez les appeler. Deux hommes luttent à cause d’une crise dans leur amitié. C’est une crise qui ne peut pas avoir de résolution. Leur amitié est plus forte que le mot semble, c’est presque un vice pour les deux hommes. Ce vice est inévitable et éternel. « Tu penses que je t’ai tendu un piège ? » (35) demande H1 de H2. Ils accusent l’un à l’autre des choses ridicules. Ici, la défense et la jalousie de H1 semble du comportement de la reine dans le conte de fées Blanche Neige. La fonction de la référence qui suivit est de marquer les différences entre les deux amis. H2 parle de Blanche Neige ici : « Et le miroir répond : ‘Oui, tu es belle, très belle, mais il y a là-bas, dans une cabine au fond de la forêt, une petite princesse encore plus belle…’ » (38). H2 essaye de montrer à H1 qu’il existe des autres bonheurs dans le monde. H1 aime beaucoup sa stabilité et ne veut pas que rien la change. Ils cherchent quelque chose de plus dans l’autre, mais c’est impossible. Ils sont complètement différents. Constamment ils cherchent une solution, une raison d’être d’amis, mais elle n’existe pas. A cause de ça cette pièce est plus comme mythe, à cause d’une fin tragique. Les deux ne peuvent pas se réconcilier leurs différences.

Les hommes simulent qu’il existe quelque chose à sauver, à cause des moments où ils se remémorer, mais des accusations inévitables arrivent. A la fin, H2 se réalise un peu qu’il n’existe pas de solution. « Chacun saura de quoi ils sont capable, de quoi ils peuvent se rendre coupables : ils peuvent rompre pour un oui ou pour un non » (50). Il parle en termes généraux pour marquer la leçon universelle…et c’est ici où nous pouvons voir que c’est un peu comme un conte de fées où les personnages peuvent conquérir des problèmes. Mais les deux lignes finales, où le combat recommence encore une fois, nous voyons que c’est absolument impossible de trouver une solution ou une reprise de cette amitié fatale.

écrit le 14 novembre 2011

Just an old soul.

Every once in a while I find myself thinking about the possibility of having a past life. More often than that I picture myself being born in a different decade...which may be because I haven't quite found my place in my generation. But either way, I think about it more often than not. And usually the whole "past life" question comes to mind when I'm reading Vonnegut or Hemingway, something harsh and modern...usually tearing mankind a new one. But today it struck me in the middle of a Philosophy class...which may sound like just another place for ripping mankind a new one. But today was different. I just faded out of our conversation about Moral Luck and into a new world of possibility. Maybe the whole reason I feel estranged from my generation is not because I should have been born in a different time, but maybe it's because I was in fact born in another time.

There are so many things that I don't agree with in this world: war, vengeance, and the general disapproval of carbohydrate-loaded foods. I know that if I had been born in some other time I would have found something to be upset about, something to disagree with. That's human nature in a nutshell. We all want to be right even if it means disagreeing with someone who holds our same opinion with a twist.

But how did I get here? Obviously I understand how the whole process works, but how was my existence chosen for this place, at this point in time? I was born into a wealthy and free society. Bur what about everyone else in the world who was not as fortunate? Was it written in the stars millions of years ago that my ancestry would work down to my birth? Do I have that "twin" soul people believe in, who walks on the Earth but never finds a match? Or was I really somebody else before this time, sent to do something more for this world?

Sometimes it is so overwhelming to think that I have thoughts in my head that are entirely different from the person sitting next to me. And to add to that, I will never fully understand why or how they think differently. I often wonder if there is another person out there with my exact same history, my exact same present, and my exact same manner of thinking. I wonder if there is someone out there (dead or alive) who shares my exact feelings.

And to take this crazy train of thought even further, I wonder if I will one day become somebody else too. I wish I could make a time-capsule that my future self will one day find and understand that they too are an old soul. Maybe I'll find a time-capsule with my name on it. And if I do, I guarantee a heart-attack will follow.

Okay, enough craziness for one day.
Peace, love, and cheers to being an old soul in a 21 year old's body...

When honey and maple syrup meet...

Anytime I have to venture into downtown Miami I find myself moaning a bit, dreading the traffic and the strange one-way roads that appear to stop and start whenever they feel like it. Normally I would opt for the metro method, but I just couldn't be bothered today. So I crossed my fingers and hoped that three hours would be enough time to get downtown, eat lunch at a restaurant, and drive back to campus.

A few months ago I bought a Groupon for ten bucks. I received $20 to First and First Southern Baking Company. The menu seemed like any other southern menu, with a few healthier kicks involved. What I didn't realize was that there was not only a wide variety of baked delicacies, but a pretty good array of meals too. Of course I waited until the last day the Groupon was valid, aka today, to go over there and try out the food.

When I stepped inside, I immediately thought I was in Crowne Candy Ice Cream joint back in St. Louis. The smells were incredible. Empanadas. Cake batter. Fried chicken. The works. And to top it all off, the Cooking Channel was playing in the front window. Julia Child was chirping away, telling the world how to best make a French stock for beef soup. Everything was so bright and inviting. Exactly how I picture my bakery to be one day. The cases held homemade cupcakes of flavors I would never have considered, along with a few others that I've managed to play with. But I had to eat lunch before I could stare at and/or drool over the baked goods.



Obviously I opted for the most Southern meal on the menu. Chicken and waffles. With honey maple syrup. YES, I said....honey maple syrup. The two best liquid forms of sugar out there, and they have been combined to go alongside one of the best breakfast and one of the best dinner time flavors. I skipped out on the side of macaroni and cheese, and chose to get a nice helping of green bean casserole. There really is only one way to make green bean casserole. Oober creamy, with a crunchy top. So that would be the determiner for how good this place really is.

About ten minutes, and two segments of Julia Child later, I am surprised by an incredible plate of food. I'm not sure why restaurants choose to give you a huge helping of main course and a HUGE helping of side, but for some reason, the South has given us the concept of smaller portions for sides. I am greeted by a warm, golden (homemade) buttermilk waffle sitting underneath strips of fried chicken in a secret battered recipe. From what I could tell, there was definitely some paprika and cayenne involved. The green beans were invisible underneath the layer of fried onions sitting on top of the mini casserole dish. Inside, I found each green bean smothered in a white gravy sauce, and bits of (I believe) mushrooms were found every few bites. But I could hardly tell, they may not have even included them...which would be great.

Every bite was great by itself. Chicken, awesome. Waffle, awesome. Green bean casserole, fantastic. But what brought it all together was that amazing medley of honey and maple syrup. They just started a ménage à trois of goodness in my mouth with anything I bit into.

I could have stayed there all day, but I knew the garage fee would cost more than my meal did. So I grabbed some cupcakes to give a try, and I will obviously try to recreate the recipes on my own if they seem worthy. I will return to try to the Mojito Cake on a day they actually have it, and I WILL try everything on that menu before leaving Miami.

Did I almost forget to mention they have gift cards? Well, they have gift cards. ::cough cough::

Now, drool over this picture and envy my adventure. Or, invite me along when you decide to venture over to First and First Southern Baking Company.

Une vraie féministe.

Il me semble que les femmes du 18ème siècle ne sont pas heureuse. (Insert large "DUH" here...) Mais il me semble aussi que les femmes de l'époque présente ne sont plus heureuse. Alors, qu'est-ce qui se passe? Pendant le dix-huitième siècle, les femmes n'ont pas de droits, pas d'argent, et pas d'éducation (si elles n'ont pas d'argent). Et maintenant, nous avons presque les même droits, un rôle plus important dans la société, et nous avons le choix de mariage. Pourquoi sommes-nous si furieuses tout le temps?

Je n'ai pas de talent de converser et de m'instruire avec eux, ni l'activité que je voudrois avoir. Je porterois mes défauts dans les charges publiques, et j'aurois, de plus, le tort de m'y être placé moi-même, au lieu que la Providence m'a placé ici. -Les lettres de Mistriss Henley publiée par son ami

Femme intelligente, très belle, et absolument misérable. Et pourquoi? Elle a toutes les possibilités du monde, mais elle ne le réalise pas. Pendant cet période, elle ne peut pas avoir toutes les possibilités du monde à cause de son sexe. Mais maintenant, nous n'avons pas de raison d'être misérable comme elle. A mon avis, nous aimons râler trop...et puis nous croyons pourquoi les hommes n'aiment pas nous écouter. (Uh, hello...it's because we're annoying!)

Je sent pour les femmes de l'époque des Lumières. Tout le monde est en train de changer, sans elles. Tous les hommes sont en train de changer leur point de vue, de leur manière de penser, d'avoir une voix, mais les femmes n'ont pas d'espace dans ce monde. Aujourd'hui, nous avons une grande place de vivre librement, mais je ne pense pas que les femmes le savent. Elles s'attendent que le monde va être emballé, avec un ruban luisant-- mais ce n'est pas le cas. Si nous avons le droit de faire ce que nous voulons, nous devons le prendre. Nous devons accepter ce défi de l'époque. Parce que à mon avis, les femmes du dix-huitième siècle, elles ont battu nos ânes si elles avaient une moitié des possibilités que nous avons aujourd'hui.

Elles étaient les vrais féministes, avant que le titre a été créé.

Cookie dough bliss.

"Jeez. Is there anything you can't make?"

I'd love to be able to say, "Of course there is...." but I wouldn't have anything to follow-up with after the beginning of that sentence. Ever since I can remember, when I was handed something, (whether it be a homework problem, a sport challenge, or a recipe) I could usually figure out how to make it work in the end. Frustrations would rise, tears may have fallen, but in the end I made it work. And that's how baking has always been for me.

I find a recipe, either slightly challenging from an oldy-but-goody, or extremely new and exciting, and I just have at it. I don't expect perfection, I crave it. When it comes to baking, all bets are off. I feel safe when I work the dough through my hands, adding each ingredient in its perfect amount, at just the right time. All the problems of my own personal world can be solved while the blender is on and I'm scraping the sides of the bowl.

Brown sugar makes me smile. It's sweet and mysterious. But I don't think that's why I love it. I think it's because of how many different ways it can be used. You can toss it on a peanut butter sandwich to make it a dessert. You can throw it on top of a cookie to caramelize in the oven. You can make butterscotch candies in about ten minutes. And who doesn't love butterscotch? It's such a simple ingredient, but it demands the right amount of attention. Too much and you end up getting a crunch on your cookie (is that what she said?), too little and you might as well have never added it in. Brown sugar may be subtle when baked into a recipe, but it'll kick your recipes ass if you don't watch out. Sweet, but fierce. Yeah, that's why I love it.

And cinnamon too. Man I loveeee me some cinnamon. Warm in flavor, it adds just the perfect amount of home we all crave when we bite into a cookie. Sometimes I see the questioning look in a person's eyes just before they bite into one of mine. Slightly skeptical of whether or not the cookie will hold up to their mother's old recipe from way-back-when. But it's usually the cinnamon that brings them home. There's a small change in flavor that takes place, and it starts something new with whoever is chowing down. A little affair never hurt anyone, right? Well, not really...but with finding new cookies I think it's safe to say Moms won't be hurt.

I may bake to bring smiles, but I mostly bake for myself-- for the challenge, for the relaxation, for the time to myself. It's my one time to shine, where I know I won't screw up, where there's no pressure. It's just me, a few sticks of butter and the intuition my grandmothers bestowed upon me. So here I sit, putting off my French literature paper while I dream about the butterscotch cookies I'm about to make. Maybe I'll even figure out a way to find world peace. Wouldn't that be quite the challenge?

Peace, love, and butterscotch morsels in my mouth.

New Favorite Buttercream

The art of icing is actually a lot easier than most people think. There's not much to a great icing-- butter, confectioners' sugar, maybe some milk, a dash of vanilla, a bit of salt, and of course any other flavor you want to incorporate into the mix. For years though, I've only played with the easy flavors...vanilla, chocolate, and lemon. You either make the recipe just how you're supposed to; you add a little mocha powder instead of just confectioners' sugar; or even better, you toss in a little lemon juice. And voila! You have your homemade icing.

But sometimes a girl wants to make strawberry-lemonade cupcakes, right? Right. So here's where the difficulties come into play. The recipe is the same, but now I have to add a high water content fruit. And a sometimes tart one at that. My first attempt at this icing was with chopped strawberries...and it kind of worked? The flavor was right, nice and fluffy with a bit of that syrup-y sweet strawberry taste we all love. But then you chewed a piece of strawberry and got that kick of sour. Sounds like Heaven so far, right? Kind of.

The problems settled in when the icing began to settle to room temperature. The juices in the strawberry were released and that made the icing a little watery in general. So then there were streaks of strawberry sliding down the edge of the cupcake. Not as cute.

So this time around, I was making a decadent chocolate velvet cupcake-- a light and fluffy cake that needs very little to make it any more incredible. But I would never leave a cupcake naked, that would just be cruel. Especially because I just got these awesome cupcake lingerie liners that are peeled off after cooking is complete. And while a piece of chocolate cake is incredible anyway you slice it, I just felt wrong leaving that little cake out there in the cold in it's birthday suit.

Here's what I did:

1 cup (softened) unsalted butter
a pinch of coarse salt
6 tbs. strawberry puree
1 tsp. vanilla
3 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar

The trick is to mix the butter with the salt right off the bat to get the creamy and salty flavors incorporated. Then I used my smoothie maker to puree about ten strawberries. Before adding in the strawberries, I slowly blended in the confectioners' sugar, one cup at a time. Then came the vanilla. (Thank goodness, because this icing was literally just butter and sugar...amazing, but not very icing-like). Once those were all tossed in, I just added the puree two tablespoons at a time until I got to my chosen flavor. Enough strawberry that covers up the insane amount of confectioners' sugar, without going over the top. And at the end of the six tablespoons, I decided to throw in three drops of red food coloring. Because you can never have too much pink or red on top of your cake, right? Right.

Yes, I just admitted to liking the color pink on my cake. I dare you to laugh at me.

Anyhow, so that's where I ended up. Now I have about twenty chocolate velvet cupcakes smothered in my strawberry puree butter-cream icing sitting on the counter of my apartment. This could end badly.



TGIF? Si.

Theodoseus the Great

There once was a spider warrior by the name of Theodoseus the Great. For years he feasted on the remains of mosquito families and dragonfly babies he captured in his great webs. When humans came into his territory he creeped into their quarters, only to force them out minutes after his arrival.

His reign of terror spread from the jungles of Vietnam, to the countryside villages, and even as far as the metropolitan area. For Theodoseus, every human he encountered screamed and ran in the opposite direction.



One night-- as Theodoseus preferred to travel by nighttime so as to avoid being potentially stomped on by human feet, he stumbled upon a gated community. Oh, this will be great, he thought to himself, a bunch of sleeping people I can scare awake...then I'll take over the whole building to myself and get to work on creating an empire. So he crawled through the somewhat rusted white bars, past the sign reading Hoa An Center.

Once he reached the white tiled stairs, he decided to clear out the first floor of rooms first. Creeping through a window, he mounted himself right next to the bathroom door. Surely an unsuspecting human would stumble towards the bathroom in the middle of the night and then shout out upon finding Theodoseus. So he sat, and waited-- not even bothering to spin a web to settle down. This would all be his soon enough, no need to rush.

Around 5:00 am, Theodoseus heard an alarm clock ring, and a shaded image moved towards the bathroom. No flashlight. Perfect.

The human entered the bathroom, did their business, and as they began to wash their hands their eyes must have adjusted. Sitting there perfectly still next to the mirror, Theodoseus heard the scream. But it was not nearly as loud as he expected. They're not terrified? Merely taken back? This had never happened before. The human left, probably to tell the others they needed to get out because of this great spider. But instead, one by one, the humans came out to do their business and just avoided Theodoseus like the plague. They completely ignored his very presence!

Thinking that a better location would give him the results he wanted, Theodoseus moved into the actual bathroom and sat next to the window across from the showerhead. The humans hardly reacted. They just closed him into the room and continued to use the other stall.

Hanging his head in shame, Theodoseus decided these humans were a new breed-- no longer afraid of his kind, and so he headed back into the jungle. He would wait each night, hoping to see these humans leave, and a new breed arrive. A new breed that he could once again torment and terrify.

Humans- 1
Theodoseus- 7435198374

Phu Quoi?? Phu Quoc!

Holy day of learning lessons. We started our morning with finding a legitimate taxi driver in Ho Chi Minh City after a blank silver car rolled up and the man inside started to cart away our luggage. Luckily, the real taxi driver took us directly to the domestic terminal without delay. Once we arrived we searched around for a luggage storage area to keep our big bags for the next week while we went around. The airport personnel informed us we could store our bags at International (which would be better in the end anyway) so we lugged everything over to International and were greeted by a glorified storage closet with a few shelves and three or four people sitting around a desk. There were maybe two bags sitting on the shelves. Completely sketchy in my mind. But we forked over forty American dollars and they took down our flight information and names and we watched as they locked our bags and put them together by flight arrival time. So here's to hoping my bag is still in Ho Chi Minh on Saturday evening.

Once we got into the airport, we waited in the small gate area. When the time finally game to board, we walked down a set of stairs and out into the open air. A bus was sitting outside and carted us to a plane with wind-up propellers. The runway for take-off seemed entirely too short but the plane really had some power to it! Our flight was gorgeous-- white fluffy clouds painted the skyline and just underneath us, thousands of houses were crammed together along windy roads. Once we hit the skyline everything turned grey. But before we knew it, we were once again descending into Phu Quoc, a mere 127 miles away.

The airport was pitifully small, but quaint. We stepped off the plane into the overcast daylight, and stepped directly into the greeting area/baggage claim. A man met us with a Saigon Resort sign and motioned us to a mini-van that drove us all the way to the Resort. Once there, we had to wait in another room for three-person room to be ready, which was well worth it because they gave us vouchers for the day-spa. But after we settled in a bit, we rented a bike from the hotel (for free!) and the six of us headed out on an excursion ride. We headed to the right at first but couldn't find much outside of coffee shops and other resorts. Then we headed back past our Resort and found the highly-acclaimed night-market. We stopped for a bite to eat at a random place that had a sign advertising various types of sandwiches.

Phu Quoc Lesson #1: Never eat at a place that advertises their best dishes on a sign. You will end up with pieces of raw meat in your sandwich, but not realize that fact until your last bite. No, I'm not sick yet.

After we had our mediocre meal, we headed back to shower and meet up with Amy and Erika who had just arrived to the island. Around 5 we headed to the Resort restaurant for dinner, which was over-priced but American. I had two Blue Lagoon drinks; (Yes Diane, that does mean Happy Times Lemonade) vodka, blue curacao, lemon juice, 7-Up. I also got a cheeseburger with fries. Nomnoms.

After I paid my $25 bill (by far the most expensive meal since I've been here, but still better than Miami), we grabbed some more cash and went to the night-market in search of cheap, but very real pearls.

The vendors had ridiculously jacked up prices in comparison to what our director said from last year, but we managed to find a few good deals. It was great to bargain some more, even though we probably only bargained down to what their actual prices would be. You win some, you lose some. Gonna go back tomorrow for a couple more gifts and a book about the war. Wednesday night I promised the girls I would eat seafood if we ate at the market...there was an elephant snail there. It literally had a trunk coming out from under the shell. Everything looked so fresh that I can't help but trust it.

On our trek back home we stopped in a wine shop to browse around for tomorrow night and a woman recognized our group and asked if we were the bike group from earlier. We said yes, and she immediately told us her bike tour was better than the "crappy Saigon ones" we were riding. So then we got to talking about where she could take us and how, and she said that last minute we could get a mountain bike tour to a waterfall for only $5!! Amazing. So when in doubt, talk to the Vietnamese. They always "give discount" and will always give more discount when you stay longer and/or buy more from them.

That's my only news so far. The weather is kind of a bummer, but we're making it work anyway! Too bad I'm burning a hole right through my pocket with all these excursions.

Hope the final days of summer are treating you wonderfully. Can't wait to see some American faces soon.

Peace, love, and shrimp on a stick!!

An afternoon of thought.

For years I have compiled a list of foreign countries I dream of seeing one day...Cote d'Ivoire, Italy, Greece, Ireland, Egypt, and the list goes on for days. But travelling to an Asian country never really crossed my mind. Everything seemed so absurdly foreign and terrifying that I couldn't picture myself voyaging all the way across the world to literally be in a new world. It's easy for Americans to want to travel to Europe, most people know English. And the food still mostly resembles our cusine. The people are usually more conservative and while they may hate American tourists, they love to make money off of them.

Asia always seemed like an entirely new breed of conservative, almost cold towards Americans. And I vowed that I could never come unless I was with a strict tour group that kept an eye on me and made sure I didn't disappear down any dark corners. I feared trying completely fresh food that sits out all day while buyers stroll by and bargain for a deal. The thought of crossing a communistic solider sent shivers down my spine. What if my passport got lost? Or what if I couldn't get to the American Embassy in time to avoid being thrown in prison for being a radical American female, doing as she pleases?

I used to want to see Tokyo, stay in a posh little hotel, and experience all the exciting thrills of the city life. But I knew I would never have the balls to do it. But even with all of this doubt and fear of an Asiatic adventure, here I am today. Laying on the floor in a Vietnamese camp. The same floor I've been laying on for the past three weeks.

Spiders don't phase me anymore. I've learned to love the sound of the playful horns from the mo-peds flying by our bus on the wrong side of the road. A bowl of fried fish (scales still on) can sit next to me at lunchtime without any urge to vomit. I'm learning Vietnamese, for crying out loud. I successfully crossed a major road yesterday like a local. Don't look, keep going. And the mo-peds literally swerve around you. I play barefoot soccer with strangers. I eat mystery meat in a brothy soup everyday, twice a day. My chopstick abilities are no longer a cause for concern. Oh, and here's the kicker...I'm already trying to figure out when I can come back!

My cautiously planned out six days of extra travelling suddenly seems like nothing at all. How can I possibly see all of the temples, ride my own mo-ped, snorkel, go to a day-market, a night-market, AND get lost in an old Cambodian teashop if I only have six days to do it? Ah, that's right...their coffee is much stronger than ours. And I'm used to waking up at five in the morning now. But still. I want to stay. I don't want to leave.

I can get over the twice-a-day bugspray applications...because I'm barely applying it once a day now. I don't mind the ant bites, I'm not allergic. I don't mind the chirping lizard that lives on our wall. And I definitely don't mind not showering everyday, because it acts as its own bug repellant. For the first time in my life, I'm not afraid to be alone. I'm not afraid to say, sure let's go down this road and see where it takes us.

My camp director, Anna, told us something while we were in Can Tho a few weeks ago. She said that when disaster strikes, adventure can begin. And on that day, her words rang truer than I thought they could. But for me now, I can see that I'm already on an adventure, and the only disaster that had to strike was getting oddly high and outrageously sick from the Japanese encephalitis shot...twice.

To my friends and loved ones, I hope I have not hurt you by declaring my disenchantment of returning to the States because I miss you dearly and I know that as soon as I come home I will transition morbidly fast into American living again, but for now...I'm really enjoying living like a dirty camper, getting to know my kids more and more everyday. It will be easy to keep in touch with the Vietnamese coaches, thanks to facebook, skype and gmail...but the same cannot be said for my kids. Dat gave me his address so I will try to send them all a picture of me, and maybe a little note or something...but who knows if the package will ever get to them. And then they'll be left wondering what happened, worried that I forgot about them, and hoping for something that will never come. Maybe that's why I really want to come back to Asia, to see them again. To have a reunion and to re-live the memories we've made so far. Maybe it's just me being selfish. Or maybe I'm just like every other new teacher, completely and utterly attached to my first class of kids.

The silent art of cooking.

There are few things in the world that are universally spoken without using words. Giving directions, dancing, and cooking are just three. Since we no longer have camp in the afternoon, we have about six hours of free time from when we eat lunch, until dinner. Today, most of us scrambled onto Facebook the minute we heard the Communist ban had been lifted. I allowed myself an hour to peruse a few profiles, not understanding all of the updated functions.

I braided Amy's hair for her tennis match with Ania this afternoon but that only took up about twenty minutes. I was antsy for 3 pm to roll around so I could run out back to the kitchen to help 'Grandma' and our camp-crew prepare dinner with Sophia. When the time finally came, Sophia and I put up our hair and changed into some work clothes. All of the Vietnamese coaches went to watch the impromptu tennis match, so we were left wondering how in the world we would figure out what to do in a Vietnamese kitchen.



Luckily, the main director of our hostel was there and she speaks a little bit of English. She explained how we would be having over twenty guests tonight so they were boiling an entire chicken to make rice soup with. There was also a bowl of banana flowers sitting in some kind of liquid. Apparently they are served with the soup.





Sophia and I kind of stood around smiling while the Vietnamese worked away at their various chores, talking about us and giggling every few seconds. Then one woman motioned us into the back area where a fire was burning with a plastic bag melting on top. She pointed to a bowl of pork sitting in an oil blend, and then pointed at a rack. We assumed that meant, cook on here. But we had to wait for the wood to burn down to heat up the coals.



Grandma came around the corner and handed us each a Vietnamese rootbeer. Then she tried to teach us a few words, which I of course have already forgotten. I know one was snails, and the other was pork...but the translated meaning, I got nothin'.



When we got the O-K to put the meat on the rack we started to follow the woman's lead. She laid a piece. So we laid a piece. And then about thirty seconds later, she flipped it over. We had to balance the rack because it was slightly bent and would rock back and forth on the coal fire. Soon the rack was filled entirely and we started our flipping process. We'd wait, and then flip. But then she basically flipped the same piece right after we did. My mind was blown. Everything Paula Dean and Bobby Flay have taught me through the Food Network is suddenly reversed. "Don't flip your meat until it's ready," rang through my head as we flipped the meat every few seconds.

When I thought a piece was ready, I picked it up and showed it to the woman. She either nodded her head yes, or nodded her head no. If it was a yes, I put it down in the bowl where she could cut off the charred pieces of fat. If it was a no, I put it back on the mini-grill. No words needed.



Every few minutes Grandma would come pat us on the back and try to give us a few more words to practice, but I of course have already forgotten them.

Hopefully we don't poison anyone tonight, but the meat is really good...not gonna lie. If everyone says how much they like the meat, I will toot my own horn. For days.



I want to buy a pot and make a coal grill now. My hair smells like a summertime bbq, except for this time I'm covered in ashes and I actually cooked the food.

Shenanigonz on Ba Hon(z)

Let me just start by saying that this weekend was nothing less than incredible. Yes, there were times when I wanted to rip a few heads off, but then I just took a deep breath in, glanced at the distant islands that painted the skyline from my hotel room balcony. I know that I would never be able to find a resort like this one if I was traveling on my own. It's about seven hours away from Ho Chi Minh City Airport, and it's surrounded by security and government agents like the President himself vacations there. I only saw a few white faces though-- one Danish man and another fellow who were both with Vietnamese friends.

Apparently all of the Vietnamese families we saw there are very very wealthy. Vacationing at a resort on the coast is not something everyone can do...which I guess makes sense. This weekends excursion was planned to allow the Vietnamese coaches to travel somewhere new and experience things they would never normally be able to.

We arrived late on Friday night-- around 11:30 pm. Tired from a long busride, and even more sick from all the twists and turns on the unpaved single lane roads, we weren't really up for partying. Breathing in the salty spray immediately revived me a bit, but it wasn't until I looked up into the night sky and realized I could see full constellations. The moon was a small sliver in the sky, glowing yellow giving the starts an eery yet romantic look. I could only remember what one constellation looked like from my brief learning at the planetarium about a month ago. I found the scorpions tail from our balcony and pointed it out to Sophia and Anna. Then we took showers in a two-person jacuzzi bathtub, and snuggled up in the resort bathrobes. We found a crappy HBO movie in English about a man who goes back in time...I think it was the original Black Knight movie? No, not the one with Martin Lawrence.

Saturday morning we got up for breakfast at eight. They made us fresh fried eggs, with a side of pork springrolls, chom choms, sweet bread, and the strongest coffee I have ever tasted. Their coffee is much different here...kind of a mix of regular coffee with an espresso bite. This resort coffee however, hardly lightened up after adding twice as much milk. It remainded a muddy color with a bitter flavor that made me hold my nose to down.

At 9:30 we drove to a dock where a boat met us to take us to an island beach. And this is where the fun began. Seven girls crammed ourselves onto the front of the boat, while the other two Americans and the Vietnamese coaches sat in the back with life-vests and no idea of when the waves would come.



At precisely 9:43, I cracked open a beer with Sophia. Erica and Amy were drinking something out of a gatorade bottle, so the time was right. Bobbing with the waves, we waved and 'ooh-ed' to the passing boats. The salt water felt amazing on my skin, and for a while I actually felt myself missing the salty humidity in Miami. I felt at ease, but then I realized that I wasn't surrounded by yachts and jet skis...I was surrounded by old fishing boats, boat homes, with a new remote island popping up every time I blinked my eyes. Fellas, if you wanna be a part of a heist, the Gulf of Thailand is the perfect location.



Suddenly we all lunged forward and the boat halted to a stop. Our captain began shouting out the window to my left...in Vietnamese of course. Jerking our heads to see what the problem was, we saw a boat of about seven men gathering up a net, and the captain kept yelling. So one of the girls started yelling to the back to get a translation. But I knew what was happening...poachers. They were stealing fish from a fish farm. I guess it kind of made sense, minus the fact that we were practically in open water and there did not appear to be any lines containing some kind of fish farm. Either way, we floated a bit more until the captain scared them off with the threat of calling the cops. And then we were back to sailing along the choppy waters.



We arrived at the island wind-whipped and a little typsy about ninety minutes later. We were told to store our stuff in a little room and then we were free to explore until lunch at 12:30. There was an island about 400 meters away that had a sandy beach instead of a rock beach on the island we were visiting. Sophia, Keara, Ania, and myself all jumped into the water and asked where the path was to cross to the other beach. Turned out that the wall was being repared from recent monsoon weather so we would have to swim about halfway to a sandbar labeled with tall sticks and from there we could walk the rest of the way over. Shit, I tohught to myself. My mom is going to kill me if she finds out that I tried to be a big girl and swim in open water, with a beer in hand when I can barely doggy paddle more than ten laps in a pool. But the competitive, adventuresome girl in me took over and I headed out in my Vibrams with the other girls to make it across to the forested island. Swimming with a tiger beer in one hand and trying to stay afloat with the other, I found myself really struggling about halfway to the sticks. I've only known these girls for a few days, way too early for an anxiety attack, get it together. So I flipped on my back and just kicked, beer straight up in the air. Salt water got in my mouth with every wave and I felt like I was getting now where. And then I finally felt some seaweed wrap around my ankle. YES! Almost able to stand again. I'm not gonna die. Awesome.

When I got to the island I immediately claimed a hammock and started rocking away. Not five minutes later was I laughing out loud along with Morgan and Keara...Sophia's hammock snapped off at one end and she fell about six inches flat on her back. "Guess these weren't designed for fat Americans!" she said as we helped her up. And that's when the rain came. The wind took over and we had no where to go, and we weren't about to cross the ocean in the middle of a monsoon, even if the waves would have helped us a bit.



Then I saw a local wave to me from behind a little tiki-bar. He was motioning us to his home where we could sit until the rain passed. Since most of us swam over to the island, we didn't have money tucked away inside our bikinis to pay the man for a drink. He brought us a table and chairs and even some small bananas. The house was quaint, hidden inside the thickness of the jungle. The large white tiling stood out against the wettening mud all around us. Inside, I could see a bed with a brightly designed covering. It sat next to one of four altars in the room. Painted pictures and golden statues decorated every shelf of the cabinets. The man himself couldn't have been more than twenty five years old, wearing a Ralph Lauren polo and cutoff khaki shorts. Barefoot like the rest of the locals, he glided across the slippery flooring to hand us a place to sit while we blushed and attempted to cover our bikini-clad bodies.

Once the rain cleared we swam back to shore, amazed at how the suddenly larger waves did not in fact help our swim. I once again thought I was going to drown. But I didn't. So yay?

Lunch was put off by about forty five minutes, even though the table was set. The other girls who had taken a boat over to the island for 20,000 dong, were still there. Once the boat got them, they appeared to have mechanical issues around the sticks. So one of the girls jumped in to tug the boat, but for some reason the TH-director jumped in from our end and started to swim out to the dingy. The wind picked up and the boat drifted further and further from the director. I think he started to cramp up because suddenly one girl was swimming over to him while the other two were swimming after the drifting boat. Amy got him up onto a dock and Laura, our medical aid borrowed a canoe from shore and started trying to maneuver it towards the dock....meanwhile, Lindsay and Erica made it to the original motor-boat/dingy and Lindsay was now swimming a life vest out to Amy at the dock. I thought at least three people were going to drown. Laura decided to stay back after all and the boat started working. Moral of the story? No idea, it's too complicated and backasswards to even try to follow. Onto lunch, shall we?



Lunch was a long buffet of sea food, very practical I think. Fried rice with shrimp, crabs, oysters, fries, shrimp, veggies and watermelon. I had fries and rice to start since I had spent most of the morning drinking Tiger beer and salt water. I mustered up some guts to try one of the oysters but I must have scooped up part of the shell because when I started chewing I heard crunching noises. Trying to pick out the little pieces and continue eating, all I could taste was the fishyness of the meat. I ran over to the water to spit out what was in my mouth, but not quite fast enough. And up came the rice, beer, and salt water. Yay, Vietnam. After that, I stuck to the watermelon and a newly mixed drink of Vietnamese 7-Up and Vietnamese knock-off Absolut vodka.



The afternoon turned dreary and the storms returned. We ended up leaving the island around 2:30 and took our time getting back. The only brave souls to sit up front again were Morgan, Sophia, and myself. We wrapped our towels around us and cuddled through the wind and rain. Morgan and I found ourselves nodding off a bit, with one foot ensuring we wouldn't slip off the side of the boat. When we got back to the hotel I passed out for a bit, then showered and got ready for dinner. We started to watch Valentine's Day on Vietnamese HBO and were a bit sad to leave it behind.



Dinner was hot-pot, yet again, but this time we started our meal with beer we brought in ourselves, and some pork ribs that I literally drooled on. I knew the hot-pot would be made of entirely seafood, so I chowed down on pork and rice. And my beer, of course. The hot-pot came out and was full to the brim with fresh herbs and vegetables. But what we found beneath the mound were large pieces of fresh fish, scales still on. The waitress brought over a plate full of calamari, shrimp, and fresh octopus. Yes, all eight tentacles still in tact, head on top. Gross. And yes, I took a picture. I named him Roderick.



And then the night begun. After grilling the Vietnamese about their significant others on the island, I found out that Ricky's birthday was in fact Saturday. So naturally, the Americans decided we had to get him wasted in addition to corrupting them with our Western ways. The girls pregamed a bit and then once everyone was decently sloshed, we headed to the hotel's karaoke room for some more fun. Almost everyone was there, and we got three Vietnamese coaches to chug a glass of Vodka and Sting (the Vietnamese strawberry flavored Redbull). And then we sung the next hour away. At one point, I was understanding Vietnamese, and then the next I was teaching Ricky how to salsa to "Buy You A Drank". Yes, "Buy You A Drank". Yes, salsa-ing.



When karaoke ended, Amy, Morgan, Erica and I headed down the scary steps to the edge of the beach and had a long and deep conversation. Typical drinking behavior. After an hour's worth of star gazing and chit-chat, a few others joined us and we conjured up the brilliant idea that most drunken Americans get while at a beach, at night. Yes, you guesed correctly. Blue, one of the Vietnamese coaches, followed us on our mission. When she realized what was happening, she quickly said, "Okay, I think I go back to my room now." And the next thing we knew, she was booking it around the corner and up the steep cemented staircase. From that point on, what occured was sworn into secrecy. I will not answer any questions. I will tell you that I woke up this morning with wet hair and one of the girls' rooms had about five cans of beer in the bathtub. Oh, and one girl wet the bed. But I will not say who.

No, it was not me. And yes, she was sharing the bed with someone. No, she did not urinate on her bed-mate. Yes, they did cover it with a towel and fall back asleep for two more hours.

Okay, now I'm officially not answering anymore questions.

Sunday morning breakfast. Woof. I ate four fried eggs and fried porkrolls. Bring on the grease. The bus left at 9:30 for the marketplace. When we tried to leave the resort the guards asked us precisely where we were going and when we would return. So then I began to wonder if harboring our directors to take us to a local city was such a good idea. When we stepped off the bus at the market we got a whiff of fresh seafood and sea salt.



Wandering through the village, we got a lot more staring than in other cities. I of course narrated what the people said.

"Mommy, look at that white girl. She has such big eyes."
"Don't stare, honey. They don't like that."

Yes, Vietnam is comparable to the U.S. during the Civil Rights Movement.

Most of the shops sold decorated sea-shells, or hand-made shell bracelets. A few others had touristy tshirts and random tea sets. I'm still holding out for the Ho Chi Minh City marketplace for a sand-made tea pot with teacups. Sophia and I wandered around and ran into what looked like an old cemetery. But there were tents and vendors surrounding the two above-ground tombs. And around the corner, along the shore, vendors sold fresh crabs, still moving their legs around in the baby pool. Some others sold fresh dragonfruit juice or popcorn. Even more staring and giggling occured. Sophia thought maybe it was weird to them that two young women were traveling together. I think it's because I'm just F.A.S and they can't handle it. Okay, ego-overload. Back to the story-telling.



At the end of our walk, Sophia and I took touristy pictures on a pier and I tried to imagine what it would be like to live and work how the Vietnamese do every single day of their life. No wonder it's so hard for them to take a vacation...their shop or their business is the only source of income they have. And they live on it day-to-day. There is no steady salary when you have to rely on people to constantly buy trinkets or small amounts of food from you each day. I suddenly felt guilty for expecting a vacation period once or twice a year when I start to work. And it's crazy that America is one of the only major countries who doesn't give ample time for relaxation.

As I walked back to the bus I came upon a cow. A beautiful white cow. Within touching distance. But Sophia said no. So I took yet another touristy picture and sighed my way back onto the bus. But then I saw another cow. And another. And another! We were surrounded by peacefully eating cows!!! And I wasn't allowed to touch any of them. So sad. So close, yet so far away still.



The ride back to Hoa An was rough. Morgan got sick. I felt sick the whole time, and the seats are designed for a person no taller than four foot six. Two hours to lunch. We had a 'normal' meal of pizza and ice cream. Then another two hours passed back to camp. Thank goodness for Midol. And iPods. And now that we're back, we have already planned for our lessons tomorrow. We will only be teaching in the mornings this last week because school is starting. So now our classes will have twice as many students, but only half the day will be spent teaching! I asked our campsite "Grandma" if she would teach me to cook tomorrow afternoon. And she said yes, so my first Vietnamese cooking lesson will start tomorrow at 3 pm. Sophia is coming along too. She is quickly becoming my booze, beer, butt, picture, and obsessive-ab-circuit buddy. Plus she loves peanut-butter. And all food.



Winner-winner-chicken-dinner.

Quotes from the weekend:

Sophia: Sorry, I probably shouldn't raise my arms in your face.
Me: It's fine, I'm not breathing anyway.

Me: Two things: one, I have never had this much ear wax. And two, I'm pretty sure I have diaper rash.
Sophia: Me too! Well, for the diaper rash thing.

Morgan: Is it normal to go to the bathroom here by yourself? Or do you have a buddy system like we do in the States?

Ricky: We keep secret!! It secret. We keep secret!

Anna: Holy shit balls, I can poop again!

Me: Hot-pot isn't even traditional, why are we eating it for the third time?
Morgan: Wait, it's not??!
Sophia: 'Cause it's easy.
Me: That's what she said! Eww, hot-pot is so nasty.

Me: Whyyy does this keep happening?
Keara: There is no answer. It's Vietnam. There are no answers here.

Off to read my espionage book. Hopefully I won't have night terrors for the millionth time. Stupid malaria medicine.

Peace, love, and motion-sickness.