I just made a rather disturbing discovery: I'm missing Chapter 15.
Do you remember what you were doing in November 2008 and November 2009? I do. I was participating in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), in which crazy people attempt to write a 50,000-word novel in 30 days. It's not even one of the long months, although I am glad it's not February.
Anyway, in 2008, I successfully wrote 50,000 words, though the novel wasn't even close to complete. Well, maybe kind of close ... we'll say a little less than halfway. In 2009, I wrote 40,000 words, and still didn't finish the novel.
That kind of intense living with one's writing can lead one to put it down for a time, as I did for two years. But now I'm ready; I have time in my life once again, and it's time to finish. So, to refresh my memory, I read the first part from 2008: Chapters 1-14. Tonight, I started the second part, from 2009 ... which starts at Chapter 16.
Could anyone tell me what happened to Chapter 15?
Anyone?
Bueller?
Bueller?
It must have been good, too, because all of a sudden our heroes are in quite a predicament. Too bad I have no idea what happened.
If anyone can tell me what was in Chapter 15, I'd be much obliged. If you want to make something up and send it on over, I'll take a look.
Dude. Not cool.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Monday, February 06, 2012
Nature Hour
ALL uphill. Steep, steep hills. I'm not exaggerating. Not one little bit.
And because of those steep, steep hills, I still can barely walk, two days later. The still-barely-being-able-to-walk-two-days-later syndrome is one strike against trail running, but Saturday was so beautiful and non-winter-like that I had to get out into the hills.
Here are some reasons why trail running rocks: Deer!
And more deer!
I also saw bunnies, quail, and other hikers, none of which lent themselves to photos.
So that was my hour in nature Saturday. Sunday I went to the beach and enjoyed even more totally awesome winter weather. Yes, we'll be regretting it this summer when there's no more water left, but it's hard not to enjoy it. Now, if I can just hobble to the kitchen, I'm going to fetch myself some chocolate.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Smelly House and Other Travails
I got ambitious last night, dear reader(s) and cooked up a storm. A tagine-of-chicken-meslalla-with-homemade-preserved-lemons storm, followed by a ghriba storm. Ghriba is a Moroccan cookie that tastes like sand held together with sugar. I believe the dunes of the Western Sahara were modeled after it. It sure made me long for an oasis.
While I may not be what some might call a "good" cook, I do enjoy cooking and baking and like to try new things. I've made tagines before, as I firmly believe that Moroccan food (if not Moroccan dessert) is the best food on the face of the planet, and I prefer to enjoy it at will, and not only when I go to Morocco or to a Moroccan restaurant, where my enjoyment of the meal is typically assaulted by a belly dancer who insists on audience participation.
This tagine came out OK. Maybe next time I'll add more lemon and leave out the olives, but on the whole, it's pretty good, and I have lunch and dinner for a few days. Score!
The problem is my house. It reeks of tagine of chicken meslalla with homemade preserved lemons. (It doesn't really smell like ghriba, since sugar sand really has no noticeable odor). I was aroused from my dream state multiple times last night by the smell, and in my stupor, was confused and wondered if I were still cooking. Don't get me wrong; it smells good. I mean, who doesn't like the scent of tagine of chicken meslalla with homemade preserved lemons? Don't answer; I don't even want to know. But after one night, the smell should dissipate, right? Well, it hasn't.
I woke up to the smell of dinner; I got ready for work with the smell of dinner all around me; I came home to the smell of dinner. I've had just about enough of smelling dinner. But -- and this is where you come in, dear reader -- I don't know how to get rid of it.
I could open the windows. But then in spring, when people realize they haven't seen me for months, a neighbor will find my body frozen to the floor, my cold, dead fingers pinching my nose closed. It's cold here. So that's out.
I've thought about cooking up some of my holiday potpourri (sooooo nice smelling), but then my house will smell like dinner AND Christmas, and not in that cozy, warm I'm-about-to-eat-with-friends-and-family way, but in that stale, too-many-smells way, often experienced in the homes of women who wear housecoats, roll down their stockings to their ankles and keep unwrapped hard candy in their pockets.
Seriously, beautiful people, I need help here. I feel like I smell like tagine of chicken meslalla with homemade preserved lemons. Help!
On another note, just this very evening, my laptop stopped functioning as a laptop and has come to think of itself only as a desktop. Every time I unplug it, it dies. All I have to say is, WTF?! Dear readers, help on this too, please! The thing is brand new! Alas.
On still another note (this one's an E flat), doesn't the nice forest scene on my blog make you feel relaxed and happy? Yeah? I did that just for you.
While I may not be what some might call a "good" cook, I do enjoy cooking and baking and like to try new things. I've made tagines before, as I firmly believe that Moroccan food (if not Moroccan dessert) is the best food on the face of the planet, and I prefer to enjoy it at will, and not only when I go to Morocco or to a Moroccan restaurant, where my enjoyment of the meal is typically assaulted by a belly dancer who insists on audience participation.
This tagine came out OK. Maybe next time I'll add more lemon and leave out the olives, but on the whole, it's pretty good, and I have lunch and dinner for a few days. Score!
The problem is my house. It reeks of tagine of chicken meslalla with homemade preserved lemons. (It doesn't really smell like ghriba, since sugar sand really has no noticeable odor). I was aroused from my dream state multiple times last night by the smell, and in my stupor, was confused and wondered if I were still cooking. Don't get me wrong; it smells good. I mean, who doesn't like the scent of tagine of chicken meslalla with homemade preserved lemons? Don't answer; I don't even want to know. But after one night, the smell should dissipate, right? Well, it hasn't.
I woke up to the smell of dinner; I got ready for work with the smell of dinner all around me; I came home to the smell of dinner. I've had just about enough of smelling dinner. But -- and this is where you come in, dear reader -- I don't know how to get rid of it.
I could open the windows. But then in spring, when people realize they haven't seen me for months, a neighbor will find my body frozen to the floor, my cold, dead fingers pinching my nose closed. It's cold here. So that's out.
I've thought about cooking up some of my holiday potpourri (sooooo nice smelling), but then my house will smell like dinner AND Christmas, and not in that cozy, warm I'm-about-to-eat-with-friends-and-family way, but in that stale, too-many-smells way, often experienced in the homes of women who wear housecoats, roll down their stockings to their ankles and keep unwrapped hard candy in their pockets.
Seriously, beautiful people, I need help here. I feel like I smell like tagine of chicken meslalla with homemade preserved lemons. Help!
On another note, just this very evening, my laptop stopped functioning as a laptop and has come to think of itself only as a desktop. Every time I unplug it, it dies. All I have to say is, WTF?! Dear readers, help on this too, please! The thing is brand new! Alas.
On still another note (this one's an E flat), doesn't the nice forest scene on my blog make you feel relaxed and happy? Yeah? I did that just for you.
Thursday, January 05, 2012
Soy Sauce!
I'm very sorry, dear readers, that I have not posted sooner, as I know you have been waiting with baited breath for my next installment. I sincerely hope your breath was only baited and not held, since you probably would have passed out by now. Side note: are baited breath and held breath the same things?
Anyway, it's tough to keep up with the blogging when you get home at 9 p.m. from work, and you're tired, and ohmygod, there's no soy sauce to go with the Trader Joe's pot stickers you just fried up because you're starving, and there's no real food, but there are inexplicably three (THREE!) bottles of worcestershire sauce in the fridge, even though you never cook anything that calls for worcestershire, and what exactly are they doing in the fridge to be multiplying like that?
So, you see, dear readers, my worcestershire sauce is possessed. That wasn't the original point of this blog, but it is now. Just something for y'all to think about. I will now try to concoct something in the kitchen that resembles something edible. G'night.
Anyway, it's tough to keep up with the blogging when you get home at 9 p.m. from work, and you're tired, and ohmygod, there's no soy sauce to go with the Trader Joe's pot stickers you just fried up because you're starving, and there's no real food, but there are inexplicably three (THREE!) bottles of worcestershire sauce in the fridge, even though you never cook anything that calls for worcestershire, and what exactly are they doing in the fridge to be multiplying like that?
So, you see, dear readers, my worcestershire sauce is possessed. That wasn't the original point of this blog, but it is now. Just something for y'all to think about. I will now try to concoct something in the kitchen that resembles something edible. G'night.
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