(that's 10, fools)
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
The Questioning
Sam peers at me across the table. He looks bored already, which I decide to interpret as too many late nights. “So,” he says. “What is your blog going to be about this time?”
I scratch my head, thinking. “I don’t know, Sam,” I say. “I think I’m going to…”
“Wait,” he interrupts. “It’s not going to be all self-analytical, right? You’re not going to start with an unrelated subject, link it to your point in an agonizingly long and often forced explanation, and then finish it off with one line that attempts to tie it up in a cute little inspirational bow, are you?”
“Um, no, of course not,” I reply, mentally crossing off all of my options. “I’m, uh, going to try to do something different today.”
Sam sighs, casting a longing glance at the entrance to the room. I decide to interpret it as a door fetish. He looks back at me expectantly. “Okay, so what’s it going to be?”
I scan my brain, trying to pull some useful nuggets from recent events. “Well, my friends are here this week from America…,” I offer cautiously.
Sam nods brusquely, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning toward me. “Good, good,” he says encouragingly.
“But they don’t arrive until the morning, so…” I shrug, defeated.
Sam exhales, and drops his head so that it’s almost touching the table. I decide to interpret it as a weak neck. “Alright. Anything else?” he growls without lifting his head.
I stare up at the single light bulb hanging over the table and chew on the end of my pencil in a mock thinking pose. I know I have nothing, and for a brief moment, I consider explaining to Sam that I’m up against the Impossible 10-Post Challenge and have done nothing worth talking about this week other than sit at home and obsessively read the Twilight series.
Suddenly, a relevant nugget emerges in my mind. “Actually,” I declare excitedly. “I haven’t really talked about my writing class yet. I keep saying that I will, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“YES!” he shouts, standing and slamming his big meaty hands on the table. “That will do just fine. What will you say?”
Buoyed by his enthusiasm, I consider the question for a moment. “Well, I discovered that I’m crap at dialogue,” I begin thoughtfully, “and it seems that every time I write about a character, it’s some big beefy guy named Sam.”
Sam furrows his brow. “Sounds interesting,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest and walking slowly around the table to stand beside me. He thinks for a moment and then places a big beefy hand on my shoulder.
“Here’s a thought,” he says, looking down on me with piercing blue eyes. “Because you’re crap at dialogue, you could use your blog as a way to practice getting better. Then, you could also take the opportunity to explore this Sam character more. Who is he? Why does he do the things he does?”
I nod joyfully, silently thanking Sam for being an orphan rescued by a gang of wolves who taught him the essential lessons about survival which he brought to the police academy where he became both feared and revered for his maverick approach to combating gangs. “I think that’s a great idea.”
I scratch my head, thinking. “I don’t know, Sam,” I say. “I think I’m going to…”
“Wait,” he interrupts. “It’s not going to be all self-analytical, right? You’re not going to start with an unrelated subject, link it to your point in an agonizingly long and often forced explanation, and then finish it off with one line that attempts to tie it up in a cute little inspirational bow, are you?”
“Um, no, of course not,” I reply, mentally crossing off all of my options. “I’m, uh, going to try to do something different today.”
Sam sighs, casting a longing glance at the entrance to the room. I decide to interpret it as a door fetish. He looks back at me expectantly. “Okay, so what’s it going to be?”
I scan my brain, trying to pull some useful nuggets from recent events. “Well, my friends are here this week from America…,” I offer cautiously.
Sam nods brusquely, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning toward me. “Good, good,” he says encouragingly.
“But they don’t arrive until the morning, so…” I shrug, defeated.
Sam exhales, and drops his head so that it’s almost touching the table. I decide to interpret it as a weak neck. “Alright. Anything else?” he growls without lifting his head.
I stare up at the single light bulb hanging over the table and chew on the end of my pencil in a mock thinking pose. I know I have nothing, and for a brief moment, I consider explaining to Sam that I’m up against the Impossible 10-Post Challenge and have done nothing worth talking about this week other than sit at home and obsessively read the Twilight series.
Suddenly, a relevant nugget emerges in my mind. “Actually,” I declare excitedly. “I haven’t really talked about my writing class yet. I keep saying that I will, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“YES!” he shouts, standing and slamming his big meaty hands on the table. “That will do just fine. What will you say?”
Buoyed by his enthusiasm, I consider the question for a moment. “Well, I discovered that I’m crap at dialogue,” I begin thoughtfully, “and it seems that every time I write about a character, it’s some big beefy guy named Sam.”
Sam furrows his brow. “Sounds interesting,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest and walking slowly around the table to stand beside me. He thinks for a moment and then places a big beefy hand on my shoulder.
“Here’s a thought,” he says, looking down on me with piercing blue eyes. “Because you’re crap at dialogue, you could use your blog as a way to practice getting better. Then, you could also take the opportunity to explore this Sam character more. Who is he? Why does he do the things he does?”
I nod joyfully, silently thanking Sam for being an orphan rescued by a gang of wolves who taught him the essential lessons about survival which he brought to the police academy where he became both feared and revered for his maverick approach to combating gangs. “I think that’s a great idea.”
The inevitable overly-self-analytical-six-months-in-London post
Those of us lucky enough to be The Class of 2000 at Wake Forest University were also the first to take part in an innovative new program that as far as I know, still exists today. As freshmen entering the school in 1996, every single one of us was given a brand new IBM ThinkPad laptop computer.
Along with freedom from curfews and a rapid discovery of the academic limitations of binge drinking, it was fine way to be welcomed into the college experience.
But there was a catch.
What we members of the pioneering class (and those that followed) found out was that those ThinkPads were somehow geared to fail exactly one year after we graduated (probably providing a cushion for those 5-year slackers...yeah, you know who you are). They just ceased to function, and no amount of persuasion was going to bring them back to life.
For me, the biggest tragedy of this situation was not that I had to buy a new computer on the pittance of a salary I made when I was 23 years old. Nor was it that I had to depart with the Wake Forest licensed software that I’d um, removed from my computer upon graduation of course.
For me, it was about losing all the thousands of emails I’d sent to friends and my four-year college boyfriend during that time. (Back up? Me? Nooo….)
You know how you sometimes come across a old record of yourself—a note you wrote to your friend in high school, a card an ex-boyfriend/girlfriend gave you, etc—and you just don’t recognize yourself in that scenario? The things you said, who you must have been to receive such a card and so on?
Even at 22 (right before the ThinkPad Self-Destruction), I remember reading a handful of old emails to my ex-boyfriend from when I was 19 years old, and being simultaneously embarrassed, surprised and baffled by how foreign it all seemed.
I couldn’t believe that I thought those things, that I existed in that mindset, that I was sooo close and inextricably linked to someone who in a very short time had become such a distant memory.
Today, I’m sure those emails would be even more tangential to how I perceive myself now. Sometimes I even look at google chats (the system saves them all) of IM conversations Alex and I had a year ago, and even those look strange to me. I, we are just different now.
On a smaller scale, it’s like that with this blog (aaaannnndddd 10 paragraphs later, we arrive at my point). I took some time to read through some old posts for the first time yesterday, and already I don’t really recognize some of the Me of three, four, five months ago.
At the risk of sounding overly self-analytical and self-indulgent (way too late), it’s strange to think that I used to be constantly aware of living in a different country. It’s weird that I was so defensive of my American-ness—far more so than I should have been or needed to be in retrospect. It’s odd that I was so daunted by the things that didn’t make sense to me and so eager to cling to the things that did simply because I was accustomed to them.
Assuming yesterday's PORN-BOOBS experiment doesn’t blow up the internet, I’m glad I have a living record or my life again. Even though it’s agonizing to read sometimes (and no doubt this post will be too some day….possibly tomorrow), it seems important that the journey documented by the OckleShow remain intact for now.
You never know: Maybe when it ends, I'll know I've graduated.
Along with freedom from curfews and a rapid discovery of the academic limitations of binge drinking, it was fine way to be welcomed into the college experience.
But there was a catch.
What we members of the pioneering class (and those that followed) found out was that those ThinkPads were somehow geared to fail exactly one year after we graduated (probably providing a cushion for those 5-year slackers...yeah, you know who you are). They just ceased to function, and no amount of persuasion was going to bring them back to life.
For me, the biggest tragedy of this situation was not that I had to buy a new computer on the pittance of a salary I made when I was 23 years old. Nor was it that I had to depart with the Wake Forest licensed software that I’d um, removed from my computer upon graduation of course.
For me, it was about losing all the thousands of emails I’d sent to friends and my four-year college boyfriend during that time. (Back up? Me? Nooo….)
You know how you sometimes come across a old record of yourself—a note you wrote to your friend in high school, a card an ex-boyfriend/girlfriend gave you, etc—and you just don’t recognize yourself in that scenario? The things you said, who you must have been to receive such a card and so on?
Even at 22 (right before the ThinkPad Self-Destruction), I remember reading a handful of old emails to my ex-boyfriend from when I was 19 years old, and being simultaneously embarrassed, surprised and baffled by how foreign it all seemed.
I couldn’t believe that I thought those things, that I existed in that mindset, that I was sooo close and inextricably linked to someone who in a very short time had become such a distant memory.
Today, I’m sure those emails would be even more tangential to how I perceive myself now. Sometimes I even look at google chats (the system saves them all) of IM conversations Alex and I had a year ago, and even those look strange to me. I, we are just different now.
On a smaller scale, it’s like that with this blog (aaaannnndddd 10 paragraphs later, we arrive at my point). I took some time to read through some old posts for the first time yesterday, and already I don’t really recognize some of the Me of three, four, five months ago.
At the risk of sounding overly self-analytical and self-indulgent (way too late), it’s strange to think that I used to be constantly aware of living in a different country. It’s weird that I was so defensive of my American-ness—far more so than I should have been or needed to be in retrospect. It’s odd that I was so daunted by the things that didn’t make sense to me and so eager to cling to the things that did simply because I was accustomed to them.
Assuming yesterday's PORN-BOOBS experiment doesn’t blow up the internet, I’m glad I have a living record or my life again. Even though it’s agonizing to read sometimes (and no doubt this post will be too some day….possibly tomorrow), it seems important that the journey documented by the OckleShow remain intact for now.
You never know: Maybe when it ends, I'll know I've graduated.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Sullying the good OckleShow name
When I first began writing this blog, I figured out how to drop this little invisible tracker thing on my page that tells me who visits the site.
Before you get paranoid, fear not: I can’t tell who you are (all I get are ISP addresses…strings of numbers that are meaningless to me) or even really where you are beyond the city/region (it registers not where your computer is but rather, where your internet provider is). I can’t tell where you work or how often you pore over every word I write (ha) or anything like that.
All I really get is a general feel for how people access the information and where, more or less, they are doing it from.
Check me out:
This map represents people who have accessed my site in the past month. Over the life of the blog, I have actually had users from even more far-flung locations of the globe than are represented here.
Impressed? Well, I wish that this map meant that I had a following that spanned four continents (WTF Australia? No love from the home land?) and consisted of loyal pockets of OckleShow fanatics in places like Pakistan, Colombia and Kuwait. I wish I could say that my vast network of friends and friends of friends had somehow resulted in global saturation ranging from Estonian fishing villages to Thai resort towns.
Alas, tis not the case. Instead, I appear so globally popular for a far more sordid reason than my witty banter or literary style.
I am porn.
Don’t believe me? Fortunately, I have evidence in the form of the insightful folks at statcounter.com. Like I said, this handy device tells me how people access my site. Most of you come to it by simply typing in the URL; some of you get to it through my facebook page; some of you link through the blogs of some of my friends who have kindly put links to The OckleShow on their sidebars.
The others, including the people in The Philippines and Dubai and places where I don’t know anyone, come to the OckleShow because a Google search has picked up something from my blog. More often than not, that search is for large mammaries.
You might recall that several months ago, I wrote a post about the ridiculousness that is Big Brother in the UK. I titled it “(Big) Boob Tube.” I wrote another post about how I’d inadvertently been half-naked in public a number of times since I’d arrived in London. Now apparently, because I’ve used words like “nudity” and “boobs,” even in completely unrelated contexts, Google thinks I am peddling porn.
It should come as no surprise that the shocking number of people searching “big boob tube” who visit my site hoping to find…what? I don’t know, a big-breasted woman wearing a tube top?...spend an average of “0 seconds” on my page.
I almost feel bad that I’m such a global disappointment to the throngs of people who come to my site looking for a naked pic of a woman and instead get the opposite: a woman blabbing on and on about nothing.
In fact, I just realized that because I have just written an entire post using the words “boob” and “porn” repeatedly, I’m really just attracting more dirty-pic seekers to my site! It’s like life imitating art imitating…PORN! The more I say it, the more hits I’ll get! PORN BOOBS PORN BOOBS! There will be an www bottleneck as the entire world is siphoned to my blog. The internet will fail! Systems will crash! IT’LL BE GLOBAL ANARCHY! PORN BOOBS PORN BOOBS PORN BOOBS!
And that, ladies and gentlemen, brings us to #7 in the 10-Post Challenge.
Before you get paranoid, fear not: I can’t tell who you are (all I get are ISP addresses…strings of numbers that are meaningless to me) or even really where you are beyond the city/region (it registers not where your computer is but rather, where your internet provider is). I can’t tell where you work or how often you pore over every word I write (ha) or anything like that.
All I really get is a general feel for how people access the information and where, more or less, they are doing it from.
Check me out:
This map represents people who have accessed my site in the past month. Over the life of the blog, I have actually had users from even more far-flung locations of the globe than are represented here.Impressed? Well, I wish that this map meant that I had a following that spanned four continents (WTF Australia? No love from the home land?) and consisted of loyal pockets of OckleShow fanatics in places like Pakistan, Colombia and Kuwait. I wish I could say that my vast network of friends and friends of friends had somehow resulted in global saturation ranging from Estonian fishing villages to Thai resort towns.
Alas, tis not the case. Instead, I appear so globally popular for a far more sordid reason than my witty banter or literary style.
I am porn.
Don’t believe me? Fortunately, I have evidence in the form of the insightful folks at statcounter.com. Like I said, this handy device tells me how people access my site. Most of you come to it by simply typing in the URL; some of you get to it through my facebook page; some of you link through the blogs of some of my friends who have kindly put links to The OckleShow on their sidebars.
The others, including the people in The Philippines and Dubai and places where I don’t know anyone, come to the OckleShow because a Google search has picked up something from my blog. More often than not, that search is for large mammaries.
You might recall that several months ago, I wrote a post about the ridiculousness that is Big Brother in the UK. I titled it “(Big) Boob Tube.” I wrote another post about how I’d inadvertently been half-naked in public a number of times since I’d arrived in London. Now apparently, because I’ve used words like “nudity” and “boobs,” even in completely unrelated contexts, Google thinks I am peddling porn.
It should come as no surprise that the shocking number of people searching “big boob tube” who visit my site hoping to find…what? I don’t know, a big-breasted woman wearing a tube top?...spend an average of “0 seconds” on my page.
I almost feel bad that I’m such a global disappointment to the throngs of people who come to my site looking for a naked pic of a woman and instead get the opposite: a woman blabbing on and on about nothing.
In fact, I just realized that because I have just written an entire post using the words “boob” and “porn” repeatedly, I’m really just attracting more dirty-pic seekers to my site! It’s like life imitating art imitating…PORN! The more I say it, the more hits I’ll get! PORN BOOBS PORN BOOBS! There will be an www bottleneck as the entire world is siphoned to my blog. The internet will fail! Systems will crash! IT’LL BE GLOBAL ANARCHY! PORN BOOBS PORN BOOBS PORN BOOBS!
And that, ladies and gentlemen, brings us to #7 in the 10-Post Challenge.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Convalescent Chronicles Part 6
Math has never been my strong suit, so it’s no wonder that I might have over-promised with the whole November blog posting thing. By my calculations, I now owe you five posts in as many days, not counting the weekend. Not sure how exactly this happened, but as I am a woman of my word, I will do my best to follow through.
Things I love today:
1. The Twilight series. Some days, I fancy myself the next J.K. Rowling. I keep thinking I have the next big fantasy young adult series buried deep within me and it’s just dying to get out and make me rich.
But before I could get started on my first Barry Trotter book, someone named Stephenie Meyer beat me to the punch. Twilight is the story of a teenage girl named Isabella “Bella” Swan and Edward Cullen, the vampire she falls in love with. My friend Laura gave it to me when I was in the States a few months ago, but I hadn’t started reading it until last week.
Just to give you a little perspective on how much I loved it: Even though it was heinously cold this weekend and I was so sick with this ridiculous cold, I actually trudged a mile and a half in sweatpants and Uggs just to buy the sequel yesterday. I take that back…I bought ALL THREE SEQUELS yesterday. I’m already halfway through the second one. Love.
2. Thanksgiving in London. I know I don’t get any time off this week, and I know there will be no relaxing four days eating turkey leftovers and watching football, but there will still be thanking and giving, sohelpmegod. Meghann and Mike will be in town as of Thursday morning, and on Saturday, we will be cooking up a delicious Turkey Day feast.
I ordered a 15 lb. turkey from the only Whole Foods in town and I am assured by a “bitcher” with a Scottish accent that it will arrive in time for us to figure out how to cook it, and then do so. Also on the menu: mashed sweet potatoes, regular roast potatoes, squash casserole, green beans, and apple pie. Just like the pilgrims intended it (they were, for all intents and purposes, British after all).
3. Lemsip. Here in the UK, we have this lemony goodness that dissolves in hot water and when you drink it, it makes you feel better…as if it were served up by Mary Poppins herself. I don’t know what the hell is in this stuff, but if I couldn’t buy it in my local Boots, I might be tempted to score it down at the docks. That’s how much it’s like crack to my virus-addled body.
4. Alex being back in town. I’ll spare you the schmooptacularity of it all, but suffice it to say that being sick, sleeping excessively, eating copious amounts of Pho soup, walking to the bookstore to buy emergency young adult fiction….It’s all much better when he’s in town.
5. Visitors. There are no words to describe my joy at having Meghann and Mike in town this week. Bonus: Their visit will no doubt buy me at least a day’s worth of blog fodder this week.
Things I love today:
1. The Twilight series. Some days, I fancy myself the next J.K. Rowling. I keep thinking I have the next big fantasy young adult series buried deep within me and it’s just dying to get out and make me rich.
But before I could get started on my first Barry Trotter book, someone named Stephenie Meyer beat me to the punch. Twilight is the story of a teenage girl named Isabella “Bella” Swan and Edward Cullen, the vampire she falls in love with. My friend Laura gave it to me when I was in the States a few months ago, but I hadn’t started reading it until last week.
Just to give you a little perspective on how much I loved it: Even though it was heinously cold this weekend and I was so sick with this ridiculous cold, I actually trudged a mile and a half in sweatpants and Uggs just to buy the sequel yesterday. I take that back…I bought ALL THREE SEQUELS yesterday. I’m already halfway through the second one. Love.
2. Thanksgiving in London. I know I don’t get any time off this week, and I know there will be no relaxing four days eating turkey leftovers and watching football, but there will still be thanking and giving, sohelpmegod. Meghann and Mike will be in town as of Thursday morning, and on Saturday, we will be cooking up a delicious Turkey Day feast.
I ordered a 15 lb. turkey from the only Whole Foods in town and I am assured by a “bitcher” with a Scottish accent that it will arrive in time for us to figure out how to cook it, and then do so. Also on the menu: mashed sweet potatoes, regular roast potatoes, squash casserole, green beans, and apple pie. Just like the pilgrims intended it (they were, for all intents and purposes, British after all).
3. Lemsip. Here in the UK, we have this lemony goodness that dissolves in hot water and when you drink it, it makes you feel better…as if it were served up by Mary Poppins herself. I don’t know what the hell is in this stuff, but if I couldn’t buy it in my local Boots, I might be tempted to score it down at the docks. That’s how much it’s like crack to my virus-addled body.
4. Alex being back in town. I’ll spare you the schmooptacularity of it all, but suffice it to say that being sick, sleeping excessively, eating copious amounts of Pho soup, walking to the bookstore to buy emergency young adult fiction….It’s all much better when he’s in town.
5. Visitors. There are no words to describe my joy at having Meghann and Mike in town this week. Bonus: Their visit will no doubt buy me at least a day’s worth of blog fodder this week.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Don't write me offal
Magical things can happen when you leave a comment on my blog. Things like me taking whatever you have suggested as a post and using my powers of thinking and typing and blabbing incessantly to turn in into a real life blog entry.
After yesterday’s loooong-winded explanation of how I arrived in a state of subweatherdom, Blake, my dear friend from Chicago, queried me on the subject of offal. Since I don’t recall ever hearing this word until I moved to the UK (even though it was my chef friend in the US who first said it to me), I feel it might be worth shedding some light on the subject.
First, an official definition: Offal is the entrails and internal organs of a butchered animal (thank you, Wikipedia), cooked and served as food. I don’t recall coming across it much in the States, but here in the UK, we leave no stomach, scrotum, foot, intestine, brain, lung or nose uncooked, unsavored and undigested (I’m not entirely sure that’s true, but I’m sure it set PETA’s web policing lights a-blinkin’).
London just so happens to be home to one of the world’s most famous offal restaurants, St. John, which also just so happens to be down the street from my house. So, I thought, what better time to patronize such a vomit-inducing establishment than when my parents and aunt and uncle are in town? I figured we all needed a bit of adventure in our lives and made reservations there for Friday night.
Now, I’m pretty much game (pun intended) for anything food-wise, but something about this list in a description of St. John—“pigs' ears, ducks' hearts, trotters, pigs' tails, bone marrow and, when in season, squirrel”—made my typically steel-like stomach turn. I mean, squirrel? Tell me: When are they not in season, because I see the nasty little critters running around the park by my work year-round.
Sensing a slight hesitation on the part of my stomach, I decided the morning of the dinner that I would not fall victim to my mind’s attempts to mess with my appetite for the weird. My culinary growth would not be stymied by organs. Mine or theirs.
So later, when I was seated next to my uncle John and my flatmate Jason, I took one look at the menu and set out to make my selections for the wackiest, weirdest foods on there. While others chose very clearly defined things like marrow and grouse for their starters, I chose the one word I didn’t know: kohlrabi. I imagined this exotic delicacy as something akin to the small intestine of a goat or the thymus of a goose.
For my main course, I decided to forgo the pheasant and pig trotter (foot) pie and the ox heart for something far more interesting: Fennel and Hexmouth (it wasn’t actually that but it sounded like that), because I didn’t know what Hexmouth was and I was determined to eat it no matter what bizarre animal part it yielded. Lips of a seal, testicles of a lion, didn’t matter to me. I was a woman on a mission.
Everyone at the table was suitably wowed by my sense of adventure. I refused to know a thing about what I was ordering…I would just take it guts and all because that’s was just the sort of adventurous eater I am.
So then the first course came.
I looked around at all of the delightfully nasty bits and pieces on people’s plates and then took a deep breath and bravely looked down at my own. And there on the plate, staring up at me in all it’s glory was…
….cabbage. No brains, feet, eyeballs, no animal part of any kind. Just plain old, albeit German, cabbage.
My uncle laughed hysterically, but I was flabbergasted. In my effort to be the ultimate carnivore, I had somehow managed to choose the only vegetarian plate on the menu? I was devastated, but the kohlrabi cabbage was quite tasty and I made sure to try everyone else’s meals, so I felt ok. Plus there was the entrée to redeem me….
….But wait! Had I done the same with the entrée??? In a panic, I called over the waiter and demanded an explanation for Hexmouth. “Madam,” he said, in a posh British accent. “Hexmouth is a wonderful artisanal cheese.”
NOOO!! Fortunately, I was quick enough in realizing my mistake that they could change the main course order to duck, but still….I couldn’t help but wonder, had my offal adventure become an awful failure? (that’s your Carrie Bradshaw fix for the day).
Anyway, fortunately, I had my duck and sampled everything else and even took the leftover peasant and pig trotter pie home with me, so all was not lost. Still from now on, I think I might stick to raw fish as the pinnacle of my culinary adventures.
Blake, I hope you’re satisfied.
After yesterday’s loooong-winded explanation of how I arrived in a state of subweatherdom, Blake, my dear friend from Chicago, queried me on the subject of offal. Since I don’t recall ever hearing this word until I moved to the UK (even though it was my chef friend in the US who first said it to me), I feel it might be worth shedding some light on the subject.
First, an official definition: Offal is the entrails and internal organs of a butchered animal (thank you, Wikipedia), cooked and served as food. I don’t recall coming across it much in the States, but here in the UK, we leave no stomach, scrotum, foot, intestine, brain, lung or nose uncooked, unsavored and undigested (I’m not entirely sure that’s true, but I’m sure it set PETA’s web policing lights a-blinkin’).
London just so happens to be home to one of the world’s most famous offal restaurants, St. John, which also just so happens to be down the street from my house. So, I thought, what better time to patronize such a vomit-inducing establishment than when my parents and aunt and uncle are in town? I figured we all needed a bit of adventure in our lives and made reservations there for Friday night.
Now, I’m pretty much game (pun intended) for anything food-wise, but something about this list in a description of St. John—“pigs' ears, ducks' hearts, trotters, pigs' tails, bone marrow and, when in season, squirrel”—made my typically steel-like stomach turn. I mean, squirrel? Tell me: When are they not in season, because I see the nasty little critters running around the park by my work year-round.
Sensing a slight hesitation on the part of my stomach, I decided the morning of the dinner that I would not fall victim to my mind’s attempts to mess with my appetite for the weird. My culinary growth would not be stymied by organs. Mine or theirs.
So later, when I was seated next to my uncle John and my flatmate Jason, I took one look at the menu and set out to make my selections for the wackiest, weirdest foods on there. While others chose very clearly defined things like marrow and grouse for their starters, I chose the one word I didn’t know: kohlrabi. I imagined this exotic delicacy as something akin to the small intestine of a goat or the thymus of a goose.
For my main course, I decided to forgo the pheasant and pig trotter (foot) pie and the ox heart for something far more interesting: Fennel and Hexmouth (it wasn’t actually that but it sounded like that), because I didn’t know what Hexmouth was and I was determined to eat it no matter what bizarre animal part it yielded. Lips of a seal, testicles of a lion, didn’t matter to me. I was a woman on a mission.
Everyone at the table was suitably wowed by my sense of adventure. I refused to know a thing about what I was ordering…I would just take it guts and all because that’s was just the sort of adventurous eater I am.
So then the first course came.
I looked around at all of the delightfully nasty bits and pieces on people’s plates and then took a deep breath and bravely looked down at my own. And there on the plate, staring up at me in all it’s glory was…
….cabbage. No brains, feet, eyeballs, no animal part of any kind. Just plain old, albeit German, cabbage.
My uncle laughed hysterically, but I was flabbergasted. In my effort to be the ultimate carnivore, I had somehow managed to choose the only vegetarian plate on the menu? I was devastated, but the kohlrabi cabbage was quite tasty and I made sure to try everyone else’s meals, so I felt ok. Plus there was the entrée to redeem me….
….But wait! Had I done the same with the entrée??? In a panic, I called over the waiter and demanded an explanation for Hexmouth. “Madam,” he said, in a posh British accent. “Hexmouth is a wonderful artisanal cheese.”
NOOO!! Fortunately, I was quick enough in realizing my mistake that they could change the main course order to duck, but still….I couldn’t help but wonder, had my offal adventure become an awful failure? (that’s your Carrie Bradshaw fix for the day).
Anyway, fortunately, I had my duck and sampled everything else and even took the leftover peasant and pig trotter pie home with me, so all was not lost. Still from now on, I think I might stick to raw fish as the pinnacle of my culinary adventures.
Blake, I hope you’re satisfied.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
The 10-Post Challenge
So here's a little glimpse into the inner workings of The OckleShow. Look if you dare.
After I've written a post, I often go back and re-read it like four times after that. I don't know why. It's rather obsessive. I think I'm hoping to be wowed by my literary prowess. The problem is, I rarely am, so then I plummet into self-doubt mode, which usually results in my hating the OckleShow in general and never wanting to write on it ever again. But then when I do, I'm too discouraged and defeated by the fact that it will probably suck to put any time into it, and then in the ultimate act of self-fulfilling prophecy, it does indeed suck, and then I re-read and re-read exhaustively and well, the vicious cycle continues.
Anyhoo, I just noticed, during one of my re-readings (the verdict: It's a blog, Alice. Write shorter sentences!), that I wrote SEVENTEEN posts in July. SEVENTEEN! I can't even get over that! Was I blogging in my sleep? Was I chained to the computer like some sweat shop worker? Was I inadvertently ingesting massive amounts of speed? I don't understand how such productivity occurred!
So far in November? THREE. And two of them were half-assed "I should at least acknowledge this" posts about the election results.
I feel like I have grown up, peaked gloriously, and then begun a alarmingly rapid and dramatic descension into old age all in the course of five months.
Well, I will not stand for it. From this point until the end of November, you will not be able to get rid of me. I won't hit 17 but I think maybe, hmmm....a total of 10 could be doable? Don't you think? I will not be made inconsequential in the blogosphere.
Aaaannnndddd.....we're at 4. (I said nothing about quality)
After I've written a post, I often go back and re-read it like four times after that. I don't know why. It's rather obsessive. I think I'm hoping to be wowed by my literary prowess. The problem is, I rarely am, so then I plummet into self-doubt mode, which usually results in my hating the OckleShow in general and never wanting to write on it ever again. But then when I do, I'm too discouraged and defeated by the fact that it will probably suck to put any time into it, and then in the ultimate act of self-fulfilling prophecy, it does indeed suck, and then I re-read and re-read exhaustively and well, the vicious cycle continues.
Anyhoo, I just noticed, during one of my re-readings (the verdict: It's a blog, Alice. Write shorter sentences!), that I wrote SEVENTEEN posts in July. SEVENTEEN! I can't even get over that! Was I blogging in my sleep? Was I chained to the computer like some sweat shop worker? Was I inadvertently ingesting massive amounts of speed? I don't understand how such productivity occurred!
So far in November? THREE. And two of them were half-assed "I should at least acknowledge this" posts about the election results.
I feel like I have grown up, peaked gloriously, and then begun a alarmingly rapid and dramatic descension into old age all in the course of five months.
Well, I will not stand for it. From this point until the end of November, you will not be able to get rid of me. I won't hit 17 but I think maybe, hmmm....a total of 10 could be doable? Don't you think? I will not be made inconsequential in the blogosphere.
Aaaannnndddd.....we're at 4. (I said nothing about quality)
Moderation who?
I am sick with my first British strain of cold. Unsurprisingly, it bears the same symptoms of the American version (sore throat, cough, exhaustion, aches and pains) but is exacerbated by the rain, the rain, the never-ending ungodly rain. I attribute the sudden appearance of this heinousness to several factors which can be summed up with the following overarching condition: Corporal Confusion.
See, in addition to writing in excess for the past six weeks (aka my brain-related excuse for being a blog slacker), I have also put the old bod through quite the rigmarole. Case in point:
Exercise. So I went batsh*t and signed myself up for yet another round of boot camp, only this time I decided I’d throw in the October/November cold and the fact that instead of doing it in the evenings, I’d let some tireless trainer guy beat the hell out of me at 7:30 am. Then I’d haul my theoretically more taut arse to work, shower, change, and start my day off right.
This was fine except that it somehow had the adverse effect of making me ravenous come 10 am and I replaced all calories I’d burned off with the croissant that oh-my-god-I-can’t-resist-and-all-the-skinny-chicks-eat-them-so-I’ll-be-fine-plus-I-already-WORKED-OUT-today and so the whole doing push-ups on cold concrete in the dark was for naught.
Because I think I’d somehow managed to gain weight out of the process, once mid-November came, I opted out of the boot camp and decided to sign up for a gym instead. Excited about the prospect of doing classes like American Cheerleading and B*tch Boxing, I attended my introductory personal training session with the enthusiasm of a person whose muscles ought to be pretty strong from two months of intense work outs. Well. The formerly-obese-guy-turned –fitness-fanatic assigned to me somehow managed to hone on the few muscles that boot camp didn’t touch. That was on Monday, and I’m still having trouble breathing in because of the ab-brutality.
All of these moments of intensity followed by croissant eating have confused my poor bod. If my body is supposed to be a temple, then my mind is like a lapsed Jew. I only really patronize it on special occasions, and then I’m surprised when the congregation is judgmental and unwelcoming.
Food. Several events have been conspiring against my desire to eat healthy. For starters, I had a string of visitors whom I wanted to expose to London’s finest restaurants. First a few friends, then my parents and accompanying crowd of far-flung relatives.
As Social Coordinator of the Crew, I arranged every lunch and dinner over 6 days; as a result, I was both the lucky beneficiary of free food and the unfortunate consumer of countless fat grams. We weren’t unadventurous either. In the time my parents were here, I ate Thai, Vietnamese (yay, Pho!), Seafood, Indian, Dim Sum, Pizza, offal (yes, I had pig hoof pie), and traditional British Sunday lunch. By the time I was finished eating all of Britain and had officially descended into a shame spiral, I decided to go for broke (moderation be damned), and cut everything out of my diet but meat and green vegetables for two weeks. I am happy to report I have now successfully undone any damage caused by the Gorge Fest, however, my body, already baffled by various spurts of intense exercise in cold morning parks, has a frightening new grasp of the excesses of feast or famine…and it’s not taking it too well.
Alcohol. Ahh…hello, old friend. It’s important to note that one of two things happens when Alex is out of town. I either become a bit of a recluse, going home at 6, making a ridiculously healthy dinner, curling up into a ball and watching American TV on DVD. Or….I go out with a vengeance, determined to MAKE FRIENDS and HAVE FUN and BE A NORMAL INDEPENDENT PERSON WITH A LIFE OF HER OWN (admittedly in a way that probably comes across as slightly desperate and moderately annoying to those forced to witness it).
This usually results in, “let’s get another bottle of wine!” or “I could stay for ONE more beer.” You know the drill. Or maybe you don’t, in which case, don’t judge me. Anyway, while I spent last week doing the former, the weekend yielded far more of the latter. Before you think I’m about to go all Leaving Las Vegas on you (the drinking part, not the prostitution part), it too has contributed to my shame spiral.
So now you can see why my body has chosen now to state its case for a little more care and consideration. With every cough, wheeze and painful swallowing episode, I am reminded, “Feed me like I’m supposed to be fed. Stay off the sauce. Function like a normal human being. For god’s sake, girl, get your sh*t together.”
Fortunately, I have Alex, King of Moderation, to do his part for the equilibrium. He returns on Saturday. Hopefully, by then, my body and I will have made peace, and the Corporal Confusion will be put to bed….which is exactly where I intend to spend the next couple of days.
See, in addition to writing in excess for the past six weeks (aka my brain-related excuse for being a blog slacker), I have also put the old bod through quite the rigmarole. Case in point:
Exercise. So I went batsh*t and signed myself up for yet another round of boot camp, only this time I decided I’d throw in the October/November cold and the fact that instead of doing it in the evenings, I’d let some tireless trainer guy beat the hell out of me at 7:30 am. Then I’d haul my theoretically more taut arse to work, shower, change, and start my day off right.
This was fine except that it somehow had the adverse effect of making me ravenous come 10 am and I replaced all calories I’d burned off with the croissant that oh-my-god-I-can’t-resist-and-all-the-skinny-chicks-eat-them-so-I’ll-be-fine-plus-I-already-WORKED-OUT-today and so the whole doing push-ups on cold concrete in the dark was for naught.
Because I think I’d somehow managed to gain weight out of the process, once mid-November came, I opted out of the boot camp and decided to sign up for a gym instead. Excited about the prospect of doing classes like American Cheerleading and B*tch Boxing, I attended my introductory personal training session with the enthusiasm of a person whose muscles ought to be pretty strong from two months of intense work outs. Well. The formerly-obese-guy-turned –fitness-fanatic assigned to me somehow managed to hone on the few muscles that boot camp didn’t touch. That was on Monday, and I’m still having trouble breathing in because of the ab-brutality.
All of these moments of intensity followed by croissant eating have confused my poor bod. If my body is supposed to be a temple, then my mind is like a lapsed Jew. I only really patronize it on special occasions, and then I’m surprised when the congregation is judgmental and unwelcoming.
Food. Several events have been conspiring against my desire to eat healthy. For starters, I had a string of visitors whom I wanted to expose to London’s finest restaurants. First a few friends, then my parents and accompanying crowd of far-flung relatives.
As Social Coordinator of the Crew, I arranged every lunch and dinner over 6 days; as a result, I was both the lucky beneficiary of free food and the unfortunate consumer of countless fat grams. We weren’t unadventurous either. In the time my parents were here, I ate Thai, Vietnamese (yay, Pho!), Seafood, Indian, Dim Sum, Pizza, offal (yes, I had pig hoof pie), and traditional British Sunday lunch. By the time I was finished eating all of Britain and had officially descended into a shame spiral, I decided to go for broke (moderation be damned), and cut everything out of my diet but meat and green vegetables for two weeks. I am happy to report I have now successfully undone any damage caused by the Gorge Fest, however, my body, already baffled by various spurts of intense exercise in cold morning parks, has a frightening new grasp of the excesses of feast or famine…and it’s not taking it too well.
Alcohol. Ahh…hello, old friend. It’s important to note that one of two things happens when Alex is out of town. I either become a bit of a recluse, going home at 6, making a ridiculously healthy dinner, curling up into a ball and watching American TV on DVD. Or….I go out with a vengeance, determined to MAKE FRIENDS and HAVE FUN and BE A NORMAL INDEPENDENT PERSON WITH A LIFE OF HER OWN (admittedly in a way that probably comes across as slightly desperate and moderately annoying to those forced to witness it).
This usually results in, “let’s get another bottle of wine!” or “I could stay for ONE more beer.” You know the drill. Or maybe you don’t, in which case, don’t judge me. Anyway, while I spent last week doing the former, the weekend yielded far more of the latter. Before you think I’m about to go all Leaving Las Vegas on you (the drinking part, not the prostitution part), it too has contributed to my shame spiral.
So now you can see why my body has chosen now to state its case for a little more care and consideration. With every cough, wheeze and painful swallowing episode, I am reminded, “Feed me like I’m supposed to be fed. Stay off the sauce. Function like a normal human being. For god’s sake, girl, get your sh*t together.”
Fortunately, I have Alex, King of Moderation, to do his part for the equilibrium. He returns on Saturday. Hopefully, by then, my body and I will have made peace, and the Corporal Confusion will be put to bed….which is exactly where I intend to spend the next couple of days.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Good Morning Mr. President
There are about 1,000 things I could say about how ecstatic I was to wake up this morning and find out that Barack Obama is our new president, so I'll just leave it at this...
For the first time in eight years, I'm witnessing a nation that has voted based on hope rather than fear. No longer willing to be persuaded by the Karl Rovian policies of "you should be scared because..." that put Bush in office, today we have a new modern world leader (emphasis on the words 'world' and 'modern') who ran an incredible campaign on the fact that we as a nation can--and will--recapture the philosophical ideals of the country: tolerance, religious freedom, science and education, a desire to understand and respect other cultures and nations, unity, and most importantly, a thirst to question, challenge, and listen. As shown by the voters, Barack Obama appeals to the best of our humanity, rather than the worst. He has the power to take us into the future, and I, like the rest of the world, can't wait for him to get started.
What the Brits thought:
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Big day
I know I’ve been largely absent of late, but I promise I’ll re-commit to this whole blogging thing once my writing class is over. There’s only so much a writing a gal can you, ya know?
Today is an exciting day because a) my parents arrive for what promises to be 6 full days of eating our way through London and b) (and more importantly) today is the day that America gets a new president. For me, America, and the rest of the world, I hope with every fibre of my being that it is Barack Obama…but since some ridiculous portion of Texas still thinks he’s Muslim, I am staying cautiously optimistic.
Everyone go out and vote today regardless of how you’ll be casting yours. More soon, I promise!
Today is an exciting day because a) my parents arrive for what promises to be 6 full days of eating our way through London and b) (and more importantly) today is the day that America gets a new president. For me, America, and the rest of the world, I hope with every fibre of my being that it is Barack Obama…but since some ridiculous portion of Texas still thinks he’s Muslim, I am staying cautiously optimistic.
Everyone go out and vote today regardless of how you’ll be casting yours. More soon, I promise!
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