I seem to have become incapable of eating. Well not exactly incapable, but I haven’t felt a rumble of hunger in over three weeks, at least. It all started in India, the land where food dictates life and the fairer sex spends at least 10 hours a day holed up in the kitchen. India has neither an overabundance of food nor incredibly cheap dollar menus, but Indian society has to be the most gastronomically-oriented of any culture in the world. One needs only to look at the daily meal schedule to understand. While staying with my aunt and uncle in Delhi, here’s what two weeks of my life this past July looked like:
9 am: chai and namkeen (snacks)
11 am: nashta (breakfast) usually parathas (flatbread stuffed with vegetables)
3 pm: lunch (rice, dal (lentils), roti (flat, unleavened bread), subzi (vegetables), paneer (Indian cheese), and raita (yogurt))
5 pm: chai and namkeen
9 pm: dinner (same enormous spread as lunch, with maybe the addition of another subzi)
10 pm: dessert
As if this wasn’t enough on my plate (literally) my family and I also took a week-long vacation to the south where our hotels included an all-inclusive buffet (I’ll tell you, that’s a dangerous thing) and inexpensive room service.
But by no means am I complaining. Despite the fact that I spent the past month stuffing my face, it was only the best tasting, freshest food going into my mouth, the likes of which I won’t be tasting at home anytime soon. (And that’s no jab at my mom’s cooking, which is excellent, but you just don’t get the same kind of fresh raw ingredients here in the States.) And, as if you aren’t jealous enough at my three weeks of culinary heaven, my visit to the bathroom scale upon arriving home, made with great trepidation, was met with great surprise when I learned I’d actually lost three pounds in the midst of all that gorging. (I know, I know, you all hate me with all the fibers of your being, but hey, I’m young and apparently still have that kick-ass metabolism.)
But anyways, back to my point. Not only do Indians present you with this much food, but they very adamantly want you to eat it all, multiple times. If you don’t go back for seconds or thirds, they believe that to mean the food wasn’t good, and take it as a personal offense. We had to explain my aunt and uncle that at home, we don’t eat this much food in a week, let alone in one day. I definitely perfected my skill of veiled rejection, or “Oh no, I can’t possibly eat any more food, my stomach is just so full, but really, it really was such good food.” Or, as my dad told me, take as little as possible, eat it slowly, and even if you want seconds, wait for someone to tell you to take them. Because, just as the husband doesn’t really do the dishes unless his wife sees him do them, in India, you didn’t really take a second helping unless your hosts saw you take it.
At the beginning of the trip I felt a bit guilty eating so much, wondering just how many pounds were sneaking on, how much desi ghee was beginning to clog my arteries. But by the end, I figured, hell with it, I’m not getting this at home so I might as well enjoy it while I can and resolve to exercise harder once I get home. After the first week in India, I honestly do not remember hearing my tummy growl once. I figured everything would get back to normal once I got home.
But I’ve been home for a week now and my stomach still feels perpetually full. I have been eating, but only about one meal a day, and even that only because I know I have to, not because I actually want to eat. This weekend I did fill up on ice cream and greasy pizza, but my excuse was that I was at the beach. Besides, don’t I deserve to savor all that uber-fatty American food I missed while abroad? But now, I’ve resolved not to eat until my stomach growls, although there’s no telling how strictly I’m going to adhere to that guideline, seeing as Mom has just gone grocery shopping and I’ve got absolutely nothing to do while sitting at home.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
The Joy of Reading...On Steroids
Books are meant to be savored, enjoyed like an expensive glass of wine. After a long day, nothing beats sinking into bed with a thick novel to carry you across the world or through time itself. It’s a comforting ritual, sipping a chapter or two before slipping off into slumber. I, on the other hand, am incapable of doing anything but gulp down book after book not unlike a famished runner downing gallons of water after a marathon.
In the past 72 hours, I have read 1,747 pages worth of literature: John Grisham’s “The Broker,” J.K. Rowling’s “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,” and Dan Brown’s “Angels and Demons.” I don’t know why I do it, why I can’t just put the book down after a couple of chapters and stretch the enjoyment of reading beyond more than just a paltry six hours. In obvious cases, like Harry Potter, the book is just too good to put down. But the Grisham book wasn’t anything special, yet I still found myself plowing through, page after page, until there was nowhere left to turn. My brother sometimes accuses me of simply skimming the book, racing through it just to say that I finished in x number of hours. But that's just not true. I read each and every word on the page and I follow the story properly, just a bit more quickly than most.
It's like my curiosity is on overdrive. Usually, you read a couple chapters, rest the book on the nightstand and drift off to sleep, dreaming about what the characters will do next, what twist and turn of the plot will they end up in tomorrow? But for me, the suspense is just too much, even if the book sucks. I've tried many times to put the book down and just go to bed, but unless I'm utterly bone-dead tired, 15 minutes later I'll turn the light back on, reluctantly return to my page and reenter the story.
I remember when I was reading "Pride and Prejudice" (which by the way is my all time favorite book (I know, what a cliche, but hey it's every girl's dream)) in high school, how agonizing it was to have to stop reading each day after the assigned chapter or two was completed. I wanted so badly just to continue on, but I was worried that, since we had questions to answer for each chunk of chapters, finishing the book would mess up my ability to complete them. However, since none of the question asked us to predict what was going to happen later in the book, this rationale really made no sense whatsoever. I still remember the sense of elation I felt when I casually mentioned this to Ms. MacNemar and she told me it was okay to finish the book. That afternoon, I sat in a beanbag chair in the middle of my room and didn't budge until Elizabeth Bennet had once and for all ironed out her tribulations with Mr. Darcy. (I still don't understand, to this day, why I thought I needed a teacher's approval to finish reading the book and I know this story marks me as pretty much the dorkiest person ever, but hey, this is the internet. You don't know who I really am, right.)
In the past 72 hours, I have read 1,747 pages worth of literature: John Grisham’s “The Broker,” J.K. Rowling’s “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,” and Dan Brown’s “Angels and Demons.” I don’t know why I do it, why I can’t just put the book down after a couple of chapters and stretch the enjoyment of reading beyond more than just a paltry six hours. In obvious cases, like Harry Potter, the book is just too good to put down. But the Grisham book wasn’t anything special, yet I still found myself plowing through, page after page, until there was nowhere left to turn. My brother sometimes accuses me of simply skimming the book, racing through it just to say that I finished in x number of hours. But that's just not true. I read each and every word on the page and I follow the story properly, just a bit more quickly than most.
It's like my curiosity is on overdrive. Usually, you read a couple chapters, rest the book on the nightstand and drift off to sleep, dreaming about what the characters will do next, what twist and turn of the plot will they end up in tomorrow? But for me, the suspense is just too much, even if the book sucks. I've tried many times to put the book down and just go to bed, but unless I'm utterly bone-dead tired, 15 minutes later I'll turn the light back on, reluctantly return to my page and reenter the story.
I remember when I was reading "Pride and Prejudice" (which by the way is my all time favorite book (I know, what a cliche, but hey it's every girl's dream)) in high school, how agonizing it was to have to stop reading each day after the assigned chapter or two was completed. I wanted so badly just to continue on, but I was worried that, since we had questions to answer for each chunk of chapters, finishing the book would mess up my ability to complete them. However, since none of the question asked us to predict what was going to happen later in the book, this rationale really made no sense whatsoever. I still remember the sense of elation I felt when I casually mentioned this to Ms. MacNemar and she told me it was okay to finish the book. That afternoon, I sat in a beanbag chair in the middle of my room and didn't budge until Elizabeth Bennet had once and for all ironed out her tribulations with Mr. Darcy. (I still don't understand, to this day, why I thought I needed a teacher's approval to finish reading the book and I know this story marks me as pretty much the dorkiest person ever, but hey, this is the internet. You don't know who I really am, right.)
Yankees Still In the Game
And this, my friends, is why I'm a Yanks fan. No matter what the season looks like now, come October, anything can happen.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Life after ipod
Of course, right in step with the laws of the universe, my ipod died yesterday, only days before I leave for vacation. It wasn't unexpected, the thing has hardly been able to hold any battery charge these past few months. I plugged it into the computer to update it and...nothing. The computer didn't recognize the device and the device didn't responding to my incessant button-pushing. I tried plugging it into the power adapter charger thing, still nothing. In forecasting this event, I planned on just sending it in to get the battery replaced, since I'd rather just spend $65 and keep this ipod instead of spending $250 to get a new ipod. But I learned yesterday that the Apple folks don't actually replace your battery, they just send you a used or refurbished ipod. But my little guy and I have been through so much together. I mean, who was it that kept me company on those long boring metro rides or quick walks to class? I can't just turn my back on it only to let someone else's rejected ipod take its place.
In all seriousness, some people are so attached to their ipods that they are literally lost without the minuscule jukeboxes. They forget that other modes of entertainment actually exist. I mean, whatever happened to reading a book, having a conversation with someone, or God forbid, actually just spending some time alone with your own thoughts. Don't get me wrong,the ipod has been a nice thing to have, you know, to keep your mind somewhat occupied at the gym and whatnot. But in general, I don't spend enough time latched onto those earbuds to warrant buying another one.
Oh well, I'll give it one last revival attempt before I bury it away with all the old cellphones and digital cameras in the gadget graveyard.
In all seriousness, some people are so attached to their ipods that they are literally lost without the minuscule jukeboxes. They forget that other modes of entertainment actually exist. I mean, whatever happened to reading a book, having a conversation with someone, or God forbid, actually just spending some time alone with your own thoughts. Don't get me wrong,the ipod has been a nice thing to have, you know, to keep your mind somewhat occupied at the gym and whatnot. But in general, I don't spend enough time latched onto those earbuds to warrant buying another one.
Oh well, I'll give it one last revival attempt before I bury it away with all the old cellphones and digital cameras in the gadget graveyard.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Time to rewrite the textbooks - there's a 4th branch of the government?
Looks like all that stuff we learned in elementary school about the three branches of government was incorrect, at least according to Dick Cheney. After reading Dana Milbank's column in today's Washington Post, I can scratch "government spokesman" off my list of potential careers to consider.
Happy Birthday Derek Jeter!
Every girl has her famous future husband and if you hadn't already guessed, Derek Jeter is mine. Okay, he may be turning 33 and I'm about to turn something significantly less than that, but hey, it could still happen. I haven't lost hope yet (That'll happen when he hits his 40s and then it'll just be weird.)
I like to say that Derek Jeter got me into college. The essay question was about a conversation you would have with someone and my essay detailed my interview with him after winning the 2012 World Series. Even reading it today I think it's one of the best things I've written. (Don't roll your eyes, at least I didn't write about how being biology club president changed my life.)
But I bring up Jeter for a reason (besides the fact that it's his birthday.) I've always considered myself a huge Yankees fan, but when talking to others, there was always one small fact that stood in the way of their accepting me as a true fan. I've watched countless games on television and have seen the Yanks play at a couple of different ballparks. Except the most important one. Yes, it's true, I'd never actually seen a game at Yankee Stadium. Oh stop shaking your head in disbelief, I can explain. You see, I'm not exactly a hometown fan, and it's not as though I haven't tried. But every time I've traveled to New York City, the Yanks have been in Detroit playing the Tigers. Every single time.
So finally, my fellow fan and also Yankee-Stadium-deprived friend Megan and I got to talking and decided that no longer would we allow our support of the Yankees to be tainted by our lack of attendance at the ballpark in the Bronx. We hashed out a plan to go visit our friend Aley in New Jersey and then the three of us would head on over to the Bronx to catch some bomber action before they change stadiums. So, we bought tickets for the Yankees-Pirates game and boy what a game it was.
Looking back, that day was one of the best I've ever had. That morning, we packed a big red bag full of turkey sandwiches, pita chips and cherries, met up with some of Aley's friends and had a picnic in Central Park. A picnic in Central Park! It was a hot, sunny day and we were sitting in front of a playground. Somebody, presumably park maintenance had set up a sprinkler at the edge of the playground by the path, and, surprisingly, several minutes went by before one mischievous little boy discovered it. He picked it up and began aiming it in all directions, until he finally left it positioned so that the water sprayed right onto the walkway, soaking anyone in its path. Kids of all ages were everywhere, playing on the swings, the monkey bars, running after each other in fast paced games of tag. A group of kids in matching t-shirts was walking through the park on a field trip, and moms pushing strollers periodically went by. A group of kids began playing catch and frisbee near us, and there were more than a few close calls.
Quite a few other people had the same idea to lunch in the park. Some couples were sitting together, either on vacation or off work. Many people were on their lunch breaks, sleeves rolled up and suit jackets at their sides. Just looking around made me wish desperately that I could be one of those city dwellers who had the chance to lunch in Central Park each day.
But before long, lunch was finished and the three of us were off to explore. Aley's friends left to run some other errands, so we proceeded to stroll on through the park. We saw a movie shoot and a large pond where people were boating. There was also a big fountain, and this one woman was getting her picture taken while standing inside the fountain, under the falling water, and holding an umbrella, off of which the water was bouncing away from her and leaving her perfectly dry. After sufficient meandering, we decided to head over to the Met, where neither Megan nor I had been.
Walking down the streets, the three of us garnered quite a few stares, as we were all decked out in our Jeter jerseys and Yankees caps. At least Megan and I were finally in a town where we weren't yelled at for showing our true colors.
The Met was really cool; my favorite part was definitely the roof. As we were up there, sipping lemonade and staring off at the skyline of this amazing city, I wondered what it would be like to attend a cocktail party for some exhibit opening up here. Can you just imagine putting a little black dress on, sipping a cosmo and looking out at the buildings outlined against the dusky sky? Yes, I really need to move to this city once I graduate.
But soon enough it was time for us to begin heading over to the stadium. As we walked down the streets toward the subway, I saw a sign on one of the lampposts that read "No honking, $300 fine." I really wanted to take a picture of it, since I wondered how often those instructions would be enforced, especially in this city.
Soon enough we reached the subway station and packed ourselves onto the standing-room-only train, with me awkwardly squished between the pole and three people. Of course, one or two stops later, we get stuck inside a tunnel. I'm used to trains stopping for a moment in the tunnel, the metro here does it all the time when there's another train ahead, so I didn't really worry at first. But the moments stretched into minutes, and a voice came onto the PA system and announced that we were stopped because of smoke in the station ahead. Everyone groaned, and I began to worry. Would we get there on time? It was about 4:30 or so; I had wanted to get to the stadium early to potentially try and get someone's autograph (I know I know....but I'm still a kid at heart :) Anyways, I start knocking the bill of my cap against the pole to keep myself busy, since I can't even talk to Aley or Megan because they were standing a couple people behind me and I had no room to turn around. I remember staring at one of the ads lining the car, about a brand new condo tower called something like The Oro opening up in Brooklyn and found myself wishing I could buy one.
Ten minutes went by, 15 minutes went by, and the smoke in the station up ahead turned into the fire in the station up ahead. We were told at the next station the train would go out of service and we had to empty the train. We got out and a there were people in Yanks gear everywhere. A Jamaican woman told us she knew how to get to the stadium and walked us to the nearest train station. But when she explained us how to get there, we didn't quite understand the route, so we asked a cop. He didn't know either, and recommended we wait out the train problems, which would probably clear up in half an hour. We said no thanks and decided to catch a cab. But of course, the hoards of fans outside had the same idea and the one cab we saw go by was quickly claimed by a group of guys. We found one guy who told us of another subway station a couple blocks ahead that would take us to the stadium, so we began the 8-block trek. As we were walking, I realized I was walking through Harlem, and if Mom knew that she would probably have a heart attack. We even walked by the Apollo Theatre, but I was too preoccupied with getting to the stadium to care. The sun was beating down on us, and I turned to Aley and said, "I wish the sun would just go dow...uhhh stay up," almost forgetting where we were and how screwed we'd be if I got my wish.
Finally, after finding the right train, we reached our destination and entered the stadium. I can't even begin to tell you what it felt like to step out into the ballpark and see that Yankees logo freshly painted behind home plate. We found our seats out in left field and took in the sights around us.
The stadium looked smaller in real life, but it was still an incredible feeling to look out at the sea of blue seats around us, the bullpen and Monument Park, which we unfortunately didn't have enough time to see, on our left. Seeing the white grandstand fencing above the bleachers and the flags waving in the wind, it made me feel right at home. A couple of Pirates fans were seated on one side of us, and a family of four, with two young boys were on the other side. I looked at them and hoped that eventually I’d be taking my family to see some Friday night baseball in only the best stadium in the league.
Soon enough the game started and I couldn’t have asked for a better one to attend. The first couple innings were slow; I was really hoping we’d at least score, so I could justify the cost of the trip to Mom. But I had a feeling the Yanks wouldn’t let us down. And of course, when Matsui sent that ball flying, the roar of the crowd was music to my ears. The 7th inning though, that’s when the fun began. The energy in that stadium was electric. The crowd was yelling, screaming, pumping its fists. We were coming back strong after the crazy inside-the-park-homer the Pirates had. The game was tied, and I noticed the family beside us had left, since their younger son had fallen asleep. Now that’s something I hope I won’t have to do in the future – leave in the middle of such a great game.
Anyways, by the 8th inning or so, Megan and I were getting really excited at the prospect of extra innings. Free baseball, we kept thinking, free baseball. And what a show we got. Mariano Rivera had come out to pitch, the Pirates were changing pitchers every second batter, and it was none other than Jeter himself who hit the game-winning single. Seriously, Megan and I could not have asked for anything better. I even got her to scream “We love you Derek Jeter,” with me. Yeah, Aley pretended she didn’t know us.
But now this post has gotten waaaaaaay longer than I meant it to be, so I think it’s time for me to go do something productive...
I like to say that Derek Jeter got me into college. The essay question was about a conversation you would have with someone and my essay detailed my interview with him after winning the 2012 World Series. Even reading it today I think it's one of the best things I've written. (Don't roll your eyes, at least I didn't write about how being biology club president changed my life.)
But I bring up Jeter for a reason (besides the fact that it's his birthday.) I've always considered myself a huge Yankees fan, but when talking to others, there was always one small fact that stood in the way of their accepting me as a true fan. I've watched countless games on television and have seen the Yanks play at a couple of different ballparks. Except the most important one. Yes, it's true, I'd never actually seen a game at Yankee Stadium. Oh stop shaking your head in disbelief, I can explain. You see, I'm not exactly a hometown fan, and it's not as though I haven't tried. But every time I've traveled to New York City, the Yanks have been in Detroit playing the Tigers. Every single time.
So finally, my fellow fan and also Yankee-Stadium-deprived friend Megan and I got to talking and decided that no longer would we allow our support of the Yankees to be tainted by our lack of attendance at the ballpark in the Bronx. We hashed out a plan to go visit our friend Aley in New Jersey and then the three of us would head on over to the Bronx to catch some bomber action before they change stadiums. So, we bought tickets for the Yankees-Pirates game and boy what a game it was.
Looking back, that day was one of the best I've ever had. That morning, we packed a big red bag full of turkey sandwiches, pita chips and cherries, met up with some of Aley's friends and had a picnic in Central Park. A picnic in Central Park! It was a hot, sunny day and we were sitting in front of a playground. Somebody, presumably park maintenance had set up a sprinkler at the edge of the playground by the path, and, surprisingly, several minutes went by before one mischievous little boy discovered it. He picked it up and began aiming it in all directions, until he finally left it positioned so that the water sprayed right onto the walkway, soaking anyone in its path. Kids of all ages were everywhere, playing on the swings, the monkey bars, running after each other in fast paced games of tag. A group of kids in matching t-shirts was walking through the park on a field trip, and moms pushing strollers periodically went by. A group of kids began playing catch and frisbee near us, and there were more than a few close calls.
Quite a few other people had the same idea to lunch in the park. Some couples were sitting together, either on vacation or off work. Many people were on their lunch breaks, sleeves rolled up and suit jackets at their sides. Just looking around made me wish desperately that I could be one of those city dwellers who had the chance to lunch in Central Park each day.
But before long, lunch was finished and the three of us were off to explore. Aley's friends left to run some other errands, so we proceeded to stroll on through the park. We saw a movie shoot and a large pond where people were boating. There was also a big fountain, and this one woman was getting her picture taken while standing inside the fountain, under the falling water, and holding an umbrella, off of which the water was bouncing away from her and leaving her perfectly dry. After sufficient meandering, we decided to head over to the Met, where neither Megan nor I had been.
Walking down the streets, the three of us garnered quite a few stares, as we were all decked out in our Jeter jerseys and Yankees caps. At least Megan and I were finally in a town where we weren't yelled at for showing our true colors.
The Met was really cool; my favorite part was definitely the roof. As we were up there, sipping lemonade and staring off at the skyline of this amazing city, I wondered what it would be like to attend a cocktail party for some exhibit opening up here. Can you just imagine putting a little black dress on, sipping a cosmo and looking out at the buildings outlined against the dusky sky? Yes, I really need to move to this city once I graduate.
But soon enough it was time for us to begin heading over to the stadium. As we walked down the streets toward the subway, I saw a sign on one of the lampposts that read "No honking, $300 fine." I really wanted to take a picture of it, since I wondered how often those instructions would be enforced, especially in this city.
Soon enough we reached the subway station and packed ourselves onto the standing-room-only train, with me awkwardly squished between the pole and three people. Of course, one or two stops later, we get stuck inside a tunnel. I'm used to trains stopping for a moment in the tunnel, the metro here does it all the time when there's another train ahead, so I didn't really worry at first. But the moments stretched into minutes, and a voice came onto the PA system and announced that we were stopped because of smoke in the station ahead. Everyone groaned, and I began to worry. Would we get there on time? It was about 4:30 or so; I had wanted to get to the stadium early to potentially try and get someone's autograph (I know I know....but I'm still a kid at heart :) Anyways, I start knocking the bill of my cap against the pole to keep myself busy, since I can't even talk to Aley or Megan because they were standing a couple people behind me and I had no room to turn around. I remember staring at one of the ads lining the car, about a brand new condo tower called something like The Oro opening up in Brooklyn and found myself wishing I could buy one.
Ten minutes went by, 15 minutes went by, and the smoke in the station up ahead turned into the fire in the station up ahead. We were told at the next station the train would go out of service and we had to empty the train. We got out and a there were people in Yanks gear everywhere. A Jamaican woman told us she knew how to get to the stadium and walked us to the nearest train station. But when she explained us how to get there, we didn't quite understand the route, so we asked a cop. He didn't know either, and recommended we wait out the train problems, which would probably clear up in half an hour. We said no thanks and decided to catch a cab. But of course, the hoards of fans outside had the same idea and the one cab we saw go by was quickly claimed by a group of guys. We found one guy who told us of another subway station a couple blocks ahead that would take us to the stadium, so we began the 8-block trek. As we were walking, I realized I was walking through Harlem, and if Mom knew that she would probably have a heart attack. We even walked by the Apollo Theatre, but I was too preoccupied with getting to the stadium to care. The sun was beating down on us, and I turned to Aley and said, "I wish the sun would just go dow...uhhh stay up," almost forgetting where we were and how screwed we'd be if I got my wish.
Finally, after finding the right train, we reached our destination and entered the stadium. I can't even begin to tell you what it felt like to step out into the ballpark and see that Yankees logo freshly painted behind home plate. We found our seats out in left field and took in the sights around us.
The stadium looked smaller in real life, but it was still an incredible feeling to look out at the sea of blue seats around us, the bullpen and Monument Park, which we unfortunately didn't have enough time to see, on our left. Seeing the white grandstand fencing above the bleachers and the flags waving in the wind, it made me feel right at home. A couple of Pirates fans were seated on one side of us, and a family of four, with two young boys were on the other side. I looked at them and hoped that eventually I’d be taking my family to see some Friday night baseball in only the best stadium in the league.
Soon enough the game started and I couldn’t have asked for a better one to attend. The first couple innings were slow; I was really hoping we’d at least score, so I could justify the cost of the trip to Mom. But I had a feeling the Yanks wouldn’t let us down. And of course, when Matsui sent that ball flying, the roar of the crowd was music to my ears. The 7th inning though, that’s when the fun began. The energy in that stadium was electric. The crowd was yelling, screaming, pumping its fists. We were coming back strong after the crazy inside-the-park-homer the Pirates had. The game was tied, and I noticed the family beside us had left, since their younger son had fallen asleep. Now that’s something I hope I won’t have to do in the future – leave in the middle of such a great game.
Anyways, by the 8th inning or so, Megan and I were getting really excited at the prospect of extra innings. Free baseball, we kept thinking, free baseball. And what a show we got. Mariano Rivera had come out to pitch, the Pirates were changing pitchers every second batter, and it was none other than Jeter himself who hit the game-winning single. Seriously, Megan and I could not have asked for anything better. I even got her to scream “We love you Derek Jeter,” with me. Yeah, Aley pretended she didn’t know us.
But now this post has gotten waaaaaaay longer than I meant it to be, so I think it’s time for me to go do something productive...
The Big Cheese and The Godfather
Last night I did not sleep well. First, I couldn't fall asleep (But you already knew that judging from the random previous post. I mean, it was written in Spanish.) But finally, sometime after 4 am I did finally drift off to dreamland, only to have my sleep continuously interrupted by...cheese. Yeah, cheese. It was a totally restless sleep, and every time I tossed and turned, I saw the words "Camembert (only for some reason in my dream it was spelled with two ms. (Yes I see words in my dreams...I'm a journalism major, what do you expect.)) and Roquefort, both of which I don't like. (I had a piece of camembert cheese with my dinner on the flight to Paris over spring break, and well, let's just say you'll never see me eating that kind of cheese again.) I blame that salt book I'm reading, since one of the last things I read about was how to make Roquefort cheese. Not that I really plan on ever doing so. But since I love cheese so much and don't really have anything better to do, I'm going to list my favorite kinds. This way, if I ever get old and crazy, I can at least remember something that made me happy. But anyways, here goes: port salut, havarti, fontina, gruyere, feta, goat cheese, parmigiano-reggiano, colby jack, and lorraine. I think that's all of them.
Speaking of lorraine cheese, last night, my insomniac self poked around at a couple other blogs, and I found this one of a French girl named Lorraine who was living in Sweden. This girl has written entries in both Swedish and French. There must have been English somewhere but I wasn't bored enough to hunt for them. But that reminds me once again of one of the many other topics I have been meaning to write about - how most other young people around the world are fluent in at least two languages, and here we are in the United States, hardly making a serious attempt at doing the same. I mean, I'm serious about learning Spanish, but can you imagine where I'd be now if I'd started learning Spanish in kindergarten instead of 7th grade? But I'll expand on that later, I had another point for this post besides just cheese.
Last evening, I did something momentous, something so ingrained in our culture that it's a wonder I was able to call myself an American before. I watched "The Godfather." It was all Neeraj's doing; I had no desire at all to watch a Mafia movie full of death and crime. But he had gotten Mom and Papa to watch it, and all his friends to also, so it was only a matter of time before he got to me too. And he did. So I watched. And yes, I admit, it wasn't as bad or confusing as I thought. I was worried that he would get overexcited and talk through the entire movie, explaining every little intricacy, seeing as he's seen it about 5 times in the past 2 months and gets. But he didn't and I am glad. And while the movie didn't revolutionize my life, I will say that it was a well-done, interesting story that makes it very clear you should always stick with family. So thanks Neeraj, now I'll be able to understand all the various pop culture references and be able to impress any guy I meet with my Godfather knowledge. But for now, the breakfast table is making me an offer my stomach can't refuse, so I'll be off.
Speaking of lorraine cheese, last night, my insomniac self poked around at a couple other blogs, and I found this one of a French girl named Lorraine who was living in Sweden. This girl has written entries in both Swedish and French. There must have been English somewhere but I wasn't bored enough to hunt for them. But that reminds me once again of one of the many other topics I have been meaning to write about - how most other young people around the world are fluent in at least two languages, and here we are in the United States, hardly making a serious attempt at doing the same. I mean, I'm serious about learning Spanish, but can you imagine where I'd be now if I'd started learning Spanish in kindergarten instead of 7th grade? But I'll expand on that later, I had another point for this post besides just cheese.
Last evening, I did something momentous, something so ingrained in our culture that it's a wonder I was able to call myself an American before. I watched "The Godfather." It was all Neeraj's doing; I had no desire at all to watch a Mafia movie full of death and crime. But he had gotten Mom and Papa to watch it, and all his friends to also, so it was only a matter of time before he got to me too. And he did. So I watched. And yes, I admit, it wasn't as bad or confusing as I thought. I was worried that he would get overexcited and talk through the entire movie, explaining every little intricacy, seeing as he's seen it about 5 times in the past 2 months and gets. But he didn't and I am glad. And while the movie didn't revolutionize my life, I will say that it was a well-done, interesting story that makes it very clear you should always stick with family. So thanks Neeraj, now I'll be able to understand all the various pop culture references and be able to impress any guy I meet with my Godfather knowledge. But for now, the breakfast table is making me an offer my stomach can't refuse, so I'll be off.
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