My Life Sucks, by Jen Sorenson

Josh: Do most bloggers blog every day?
Me: Well, it depends on the blog. The ones I am following, well, yes and no. I suppose one wouldn't be able to keep up with blogs the way people do if every blog was updated every day.
Josh: Maybe you shouldn't blog every day.
Me: I want to write every day. If I have an audience, I will. But, my shoulder and neck are hurting. My forearms, too. Maybe I can do pen and paper and the blog and just alternate.


Then my mom said something about needing more photos to break up so much text. And my dad said the entries are really long.


But here's the thing: If I write in my journal, my usual theme is My Life Sucks, by Jen Sorenson. Isn't that what everyone writes about in their journals? I mean, the whole point is to let it flow sort of therapeutically. I thought. Unless you are traveling, then it's to record. Which reminds me of Mark Twain's The Innocents Abroad. He remarks about journaling - something about it being an odious task, but a task you are morally obligated to do. Anyway, if you read my journals you would think I was depressed, angry, ungrateful, and mean. And probably a bitch. Because that's what I write about! To wit: Today, so and so trespassed against me and I will show righteous indignation and then s/he will feel my wrath. The point being, when I write about food I am considerably sunnier. I could try to be so in my journal, I suppose, but who records nothing but joy in a journal? Those habitually happy people don't journal! This blog gets me focused on something other than my existential crises.


Maman est morte.


Don't worry, if you read French. That's just a nod to Camus, an existentialist.


So leftovers:



I have spoken of leftovers before, so I will not dither on the topic. I was going to write a poem, but I was so tired today and I let Sam watch an entire Sesame Street in one sitting ... followed by Julia and Jacques (for me) because I just couldn't think of what game to play and those bristle blocks looked so foreboding. Ug. So no poem today.


Let me just say that Josh figured out how to make the onions work, and they were delicious as leftovers! He is a bit of a savant in the kitchen. He simply doesn't have time, so I am allowed to be the culinary artiste. For the onions, he skimmed the fat layer off the top - since it hardened in the fridge - then boiled the port down. Yummy. The onions still had too much crunch for my taste, but the sauce made them palatable ... more than that, as I said. And you can see the potatoes in the photo! I made them with just a little butter and whole milk, and folded in a tiny bit of sour cream for lightness and a certain je ne sais quois. I definitely do not know how to spell that. And, actually, we do know quois because I just told you: sour cream.


Josh and I decided that the two English short rib recipes that we have from Mark Sorenson's Recipes are superior to this one from Best Recipes! One involves onion soup mix. Can't go wrong with onion soup mix.

Leftovers

The only thing I made yesterday was hot chocolate. It sounded good. I really wanted Mexican hot chocolate, but it requires a blender and Sam was sleeping.

So, leftovers. Sam is finishing the almond cake for breakfast. You know when your child eats an eensy weensy amount and you're like, "That can't be enough." But you don't want to push it or judge it because heaven forbid the kid get a complex and lose the ability to judge what is enough. We know our bodies! As we steadily work toward adulthood we sort of detach from them ... and healthy emotional expression ... what was I saying? Yes, Sam was eating the leftover almond cake because dessert for breakfast is sometimes okay. He liked it and it had eggs and almonds, both of which are good for you. The refined sugar, not so much.

I read somewhere - probably in something by Elson Haas - that refined sugar is the single worst thing to happen to human health. Wow.

I know a place where cookies are a perfectly acceptable breakfast. That place is Spain. When I lived in Barcelona, my abuela (grandma) saw me running off to class and cornered me. "Did you eat?" I stammered and looked at the floor, mumbling that I ate cookies. I readied myself for the back of her hand. Instead, she said, "Oh, good. I thought you didn't eat breakfast." Cue angelic music. This is the best place on earth.

So, really now, leftovers. Let me say that I am not opposed to them. I know people who won't eat them, which puts a lot of pressure on the cook. I have to cook exactly enough for two people? Hard. In addition, that means that you have to make your own lunch every day. I recall my teaching days. I looked forward to lunch when I knew there were leftovers waiting for me. I ran to the lounge in order to get the microwave first - you have to run just in case someone dares to bring a frozen meal that takes 7 minutes to heat up. What?! Get to the back of the line with that crap! This will take me 45 seconds! Normally, my lunch was yogurt, fruit, carrots, and some stale bread. I tried to make too much most nights for dinner. "Ah, well. I guess someone has to eat these leftovers." There was certainly no way I was buying a lunch from the cafeteria. Surely you jest.

Today I had leftovers from the Morgan dinner. Last night I had the very same combination of leftovers: bulgar-spaghetti with carmelized onions, roasted root vegetables, and trout. Last night, it was fine; today, uh, it's getting peaked. Trout becomes fishier with the passing days. I removed the lid on the tupperware that the whole fish was sitting in, and bam!, so much fish stank. It's not pleasant. I don't think I will hold on to this one until tomorrow's lunch. And I can't give it to Sam because of tiny bones that I might miss. Hm. My cat might like it.