I'm not gross. I'm cute!

It sounds cute, but believe me: it’s not. Why? Because, friends, my cute little kitten has sneezes that are accompanied by some of the grossest snot I have ever seen come out of a cat’s face. It’s dark and sticky, and it goes everywhere. The other night I had the misfortune of sitting in my favorite green chair in the living room, and she was perched on the back behind my head. She makes a very good pillow. That’s when the sneezes started. And that’s when the back of my head became covered with cat snot.

I was very fortunate not to have showered yet that day.

If I haven’t said it before, I’ll say it now: my cat is gross.

“Pi” instead of “pie.” Get it? Yeah, you get it.

Paul and I have been on a healthy kick lately, and I’m proud to say it’s paying off: after two weeks of just watching my calories and observing simple portion control, I’ve lost 4 pounds! While going down the road to healthy eating, we’ve both found that we don’t particularly care for the taste of meat any more. We’ll still eat the occasional chicken dish, and we still eat probably way too much salmon, but we’ve found tofu to be a fine protein substitute. Hence the tofu as the main ingredient in this dish.

The Pot Pi recipe is simple: use whatever veggies you happen to have lying around, throw them in a crust, and nom it up. It makes about 6 servings, with a cup of filling in each Pi, and about 580 calories per serving (most of them coming from the crust). I regret using up the last of the mushrooms and potatoes in a dish the other night, because they would have been heavenly in this mixture. In any case, here’s what I used this time:

Filling:
2 tablespoons grape seed oil
4 cloves garlic, chopped
4 green onions (white parts only), chopped
4 shallots, chopped
1 cup chopped carrots
2/3 cup frozen petite peas
2/3 cup frozen green beans
1/2 cup frozen corn kernels
1 can pinto beans
1/2 teaspoon parsley
1/2 teaspoon oregano
1/4 teaspoon basil
1/4 teaspoon ground sage
salt and pepper
1 block extra firm tofu, drained
1/4 teaspoon ground cumin
1 egg, beaten with 1 tablespoon cold water

Saute the onions and garlic in grape seed oil until they are soft and fragrant. Add all the vegetables and beans, and seasonings. Saute just until the carrots are sort of soft. Remove from pan, reserving any oil left behind. In the same pan, saute the tofu and cumin until the tofu is slightly browned.

In a prepared dish (I made my own whole wheat crust, but you can use whatever you like – puff pastry, frozen pie crust…), add 1 cup of the vegetable-tofu mixture. Top with more crust, cutting slits for steam to vent. (You can even cut the slits into fancy shapes or symbols.  Ooooooh.) Brush the top crust with an egg wash for a golden sheen.

Bake those puppies in a 375°F oven for about 40 minutes, rotating them in the oven halfway through.

Once they’ve cooled enough so as not to burn your tongue, scarf it down. It should leave you feeling full and satisfied, yet not weighed down. Om nom nom!

Other times I wake to find that my dream the previous night have had some kind of prophetic quality to it, regarding an animal I might run into later in the day, or a movie I might see later in the week.

It’s terrifying when those two types of dreams collide.

Last night I dreamt of an alien invasion. They looked like us, but much taller, standing about ten feet, with bigger, bald heads. (Think Richard Kiel’s alien in the episode of The Twilight Zone, where “To Serve Man” was actually a cookbook, but leaner and fitter.) I never saw the destruction coming, but one moment I looked out of the window to see nothing between here and the river. Nothing but flat land and charred trees, razed by some unseen force. Devastation.

We were told to collect what we could in a single suitcase, and get out of the building because the shuttles were coming to take us to a safe place. I remember laying out my clothes, unable to decide between my favorite comfy sweater that I’ve had for years and the new stylish outfit I purchased for an incredible $15 at Old Navy last weekend. I ended up throwing some random clothes in my suitcase, but not closing it, opting rather for a couple of music books I grabbed haphazardly from the shelf, clinging them to my chest the way we did in middle school.

The shuttle was supposed to come in two minutes – not much time to prepare. The woman upstairs was hysterical because she didn’t have enough arms to carry all her things, including a kitten she had rescued only the week before. One older couple decided they would rather stay put, as they believed they would be a burden to the survivors. Through all this, I realized that Paul was nowhere to be found, and I started screaming for him. I tried to run back to look for him, but the shuttle came. The conductor barked at me to get on board. I had no choice, as the building collapsed before me. Tears welled up in my eyes as everything I had ever known was whisked away from me. We took off, and the world itself disappeared. All I had left was the two books I clutched to my chest.

I awoke with a start. It wasn’t until Paul snorted a bit as he turned over that I realized that it was all a dream, that I hadn’t lost him, that our house was safe, that the outside world was still there.

A half hour later, when I turned on the computer and logged into Facebook, every post was about praying for the people in Japan. I opened the NY Times and saw that the worst earthquake to strike Japan in recorded history had struck just off the northern part of the country, and walls of water had swept everything away. Hundreds of people are dead, and at least as many are missing. Devastation.

It’s frightening to think that this was all happening as I dreamed a similar situation.

A friend of mine from high school now lives in the far, far away land of Michigan with his wife and beyond-adorable two kids. Although we’ve stayed in touch through Facebook, I’ve now found a new way to spy on my old friend’s goings on: a blog he’s started, wherein he chronicles his year-long endeavor to make many, many delicious pies. Go visit The Rationality of Pie; it will be well worth your while.

I’m more of a fruit pie girl, myself. Give me a blueberry pie and you’ll be out of luck if you want a slice. I’m sure that Zeb has a ton of fruity pie recipes lined up when the weather finally warms up. However, since it’s wintertime and fresh fruits aren’t in season, most of the pies he’s posted about have been of the sweet variety: coconut cream, vanilla cream, Indiana buttermilk, etc. Honestly, I prefer reading about sweet pies, rather than eating them. Of course, that all changed when I saw the recipe for Chocolate Cream Pie.

If there’s one thing I can’t pass up, it’s chocolate, especially when it’s something chocolaty made in one’s own kitchen. Homemade chocolate pudding is just tops, and that’s what goes in the crust of this amazing culinary masterpiece. I’m not kidding, folks, this pie filling is some of the best chocolate pudding I have ever tasted. Zeb sums it up perfectly: “Forget the crust – just give me a pan of filling, a spoon, and ten minutes to myself.”

Having never made a pie filling that required precooking, I was more than a little nervous that I would royally screw it up. I shouldn’t have worried in the slightest: the milk didn’t burn, the cornstarch didn’t clump, the egg yolks didn’t scramble and the chocolate (a combination of semi-sweet and milk) melted into the creamiest, most heavenly concoction ever to grace my stovetop.

While I have been going on about the incredible chocolate filling, I must mention the meringue, which takes this pie to a whole new level of awesomeness. The meringue seems straightforward enough (egg whites, cream of tartar and sugar), but one addition makes it almost unearthly: cinnamon. Cinnamon meringue! It’s such a simple addition to a basic recipe that I never would have thought that it would completely change the taste of the finished dish. All I know is that if I ever have to make a meringue again, I am checking to see if cinnamon would compliment the dish, because the smell of cinnamon wafting through my kitchen is almost too much for me to handle. That’s a good thing, people.

Because this is Zeb’s creation (or rather, the creation of the guy who wrote the book that has become Zeb’s second bible), instead of posting the recipe here, I’ll point you over to the original post itself.

I made this pie for a dinner party about a week ago, and to say that it was a hit is the understatement of the year. Inappropriate, near-orgasmic sounds came from everyone at the table as they took tiny, savoring bites, and one of my friends demanded requested that I make it for his upcoming birthday. As long as I’m invited to the party, I think I’ll be happy to oblige.

This is what I see first thing in the morning, every morning: a cat in my face.

I stir out of a dream, blindly grope over to the nightstand to get a drink of water, and unintentionally give Mai reason to think that I’m awake. She bounds up onto the bed and, once she realizes Hubby wants nothing to do with her, plants herself squat on my chest, peering into my face with a deliberate stare that sometimes frightens me with its intensity. Why aren’t you up yet, she asks. I’m awake, so you should be, too. That cat wants scritches, and she wants them now. I suppose it’s better than her slapping me awake. But only marginally better.

Two days of delightful warmth is deceiving. While we were able to open up a couple windows to air out the house, which had become almost unbearably stuffy, the sudden return to the reality of winter was a shock to the system. 40 degrees feels much colder than it did a month ago, and now I find myself huddled on the couch in my warmest sweater under the thickest blanket I could find. Thank goodness for Fireplace Socks.

Just before Thanksgiving, the furnace at Casa de Insomniac decided that we weren’t worth its efforts and stopped working. Air came out of the vents, but it was as cool as the impending winter. It took almost a month to get the blasted thing fixed; the first guy who came to look at it had no clue what he was doing, said he would order a part, and then we never heard from him again. Fortunately, Hubby’s cousin’s boyfriend is an HVAC specialist. He offered to check out the furnace, and within ten minutes we had heat again. Huzzah!

We were lucky: although it was cold, the season hadn’t truly kicked in yet, so we were fairly comfortable using blankets, cats and space heaters to keep ourselves warm. Space heaters and the fireplace, which does an amazing job heating the living room. Whilst huddling for warmth in front of the flames, I took the opportunity between knitting Christmas presents for my family to whip up a pair of socks for myself. I call them Fireplace Socks, since I knit them by the fireplace, our only source of heat. Get it?

I’d had a couple skeins of Lion Brand Homespun lying in my stash for a few years, and with the funky texture, I never quite knew what to do with it. A simple sock pattern, like the basic chunky sock by Patons, turned out to be perfect for this yarn. I figured that since the main purpose of these socks would be to keep my tootsies warm in my chilly house, it wouldn’t really matter if they turned out badly. Happily for my poor frozen toes, I needn’t have worried.

The yarn itself was a little difficult to knit with at times. Lion Brand calls it a “uniquely textured” yarn; I call it annoying. There is one thin strand of black running through a slowly varying lighter colored, thicker yarn, which curls and backs up on itself. The best way I can describe it is to knitting with cobwebs: it’s not a smooth, silky yarn like I’m used to using, and so the needles would get caught up in it, making it difficult to differentiate the individual stitches.

The good news is that these babies knit up super quickly. Although I didn’t finish the pair for almost two weeks, the actual knitting time was closer to two days per sock. (I took a break in between to start on my brother’s present.) And the finished product, despite the temperamental nature of the yarn, is incredibly soft. They turned out a little big for my feet, but since I’m just using them as lounge socks, that doesn’t really matter. And the color is gorgeous: deep aquamarine melting into taupe, rose and cream, creating subtle unmatched stripes.

Perhaps if I wear them with abandon, Old Man Winter might decide to spite me again and send the temperatures soaring again. We can only hope.

Apparently, the weight of 15+" makes awnings detach from houses.

The forecast called for about 6-8 inches of snow; barely half of what we got the day after Christmas, when we were genuinely snowed in and the house was slowly being crushed by the weight of of the weather. Now, that was a serious storm. Visibility was next to nothing, and major highways, which are constantly being treated so snow and ice will not stick, were indiscernible from the grass off the shoulder. So, in the grand scheme of things, yesterday’s snowfall wasn’t such a big deal.

The powers that be, though, decided that they couldn’t plow the driveway and parking lot to school in time, so we ended up with a snow day. I guess it wasn’t an entirely bad decision, given that it took a good three hours to dig ourselves out. There wasn’t that much snow, and it was relatively light and fluffy, but we have a long driveway. Between the Hubster and I, we eventually unsnowed ourselves out, and felt confident that things could finally return to normal today.

My back, however, had different plans. Although I’m fairly out of shape, I think I might have a chance of surviving a zombie attack. That said, I would not stand a chance if I were forced at gunpoint to dig ditches. I just don’t have occasion to shovel things all that often, and last night my back made it abundantly clear that it did not like the day’s activities. I expected to be sore, but usually after a day of hard labor, a good night’s sleep makes everything all better.

Not the case today, it seems. When I awoke this morning, I nearly fell out of bed. Just trying to sit up straight caused my lower back to seize up completely. Pain like I have never felt shot up and down my body. It’s the kind of pain that brings on nausea and makes one feel about 50 years older. I’m honestly surprised I could stand up.

Apparently, I was a bit overzealous in my snow shoveling, and my back is not happy about that. I’ve maxed out the dosage of ibuprofen and tried heating pads, but relief has been minimal. I’d try some yoga stretches, but I’m honestly afraid that once I get into a pose, I won’t be able to get back up. Propped up pillows have allowed me to sit up on the couch, but not for long. Perhaps a hot shower might help.

If I can find a comfy position that doesn’t cause pain to radiate throughout my body, I just might feel up to some knitting. I got a new stash of yarn that I’m just dying to use, but that’s another story for another time.

Dude...my neighborhood looks like Narnia.

My major issue with this house is that it feels quite dated, and the light fixtures are a serious contribution to that problem. It’s not just style and design I’m talking about, although that is a major failing of whomever decorated previously. (Frosted, floral, gold-trimmed bits of daintiness may do it for my grandmother, but not for me.) It’s also function. Of all the ceiling lamps that were in the house before we moved in, not a single one was appropriate.

For example, in the largest rooms (the master bedroom and the dining room), ceiling lights are in the form of teeny, delicate, frosted covers that hugged the plaster so tightly that I’m surprised any light got through at all. Larger rooms, in my opinion, require larger light fixtures to a) create more light, and b) balance the proportions of the room. Conversely, the smaller rooms in the house contain large, bulky, hideous monstrosities that dangle a foot below the ceiling, making the room seem even smaller than it actually is. One of these smaller rooms is a room in which Hubby and I both teach, so we are in there quite a bit.  The light fixture in there is problematic for a couple reasons: a) it’s just plain ugly, and b) it’s treacherous to our noggins. I’m not particularly tall, but my poor head is in danger of getting wanged whenever I wear heels. Since it’s a problem for me, it’s definitely a problem for the Hubborama, who towers over me no matter what my footwear, and who has on several occasions gotten clocked during lessons.

The moral of this unnecessarily lengthy introduction is that I’ve decided to be a little more proactive about home improvement. Specifically, that means not waiting on my keester for the Hubster to help me with something I could easily do myself.

New (to us) lamp - overbearing china cabinet + handsome, handy husband = awesome dining room in a blurry photo

When we replaced the light fixture in the dining room, it was definitely a two-person job – not to remove the existing piece of fru-fru that was already in place, as it was an example of the delicateness I mentioned above, but to install the new light fixture. I have been fortunate enough to have parents who hang on to everything, just in case I might want it. One of the items I grabbed from the We Don’t Want It Anymore But Maybe Our Kids Do pile was an incredible ceiling lamp that I believe was a gift from my grandparents to my dad at some point. We love this lamp – we call it a cross between nautical and steam punk. It is the epitome of awesome. And it is heavy. Not so heavy that we couldn’t lift it, but heavy enough that support was needed. So, while Hubby fiddled with the wires, I held it up so that it wouldn’t rip out of the ceiling. It only took a couple hours (mainly because we foolishly decided to start just before sunset), and we ended up with a fantastic piece of nautical steam punk that seems proportionate to the room both in style and size. Go teamwork!

Only $5!

Let’s switch gears for a moment. While at Ikea on New Year’s Day, we found a simple, frosted ceiling lamp. The Lock, as it is known in Ikealand, is small – only about ten inches in diameter, and being plain, it does not draw attention to itself. The best part is that it was only $5. Perfect, we thought, for the front hall.

The Hubmeister had originally planned on installing it on some afternoon, so I was going to wait for him. However, he has done much of the work around here by himself lately, and as I said earlier, I wanted to be more proactive about my role in home improvement around here. So, in the time that it took him to take a shower, I surprised myself by installing a ceiling lamp all by myself. Nothing broke, the light works, and I didn’t electrocute myself. And let me tell you, gentle readers – it looks good! I love its simplicity, that it doesn’t insist itself upon you as the first thing you see when you enter the house, and that being so close to the ceiling I don’t feel the need to duck.

As an aside, I feel I should mention that Hubby and I are awful about taking “before” and “after” photos. We’re also bad at thinking ahead – we could have (should have) gotten another of the Lock lamps for the hallway outside our bedroom.

I feel like I have been productive today. My project was slightly less monumental than the installation of the dining room lamp, but I still feel like Superwoman.

It’s not that I can’t travel alone. I’ve done it many, many times before. I just don’t like to. I always feel exposed and vulnerable when I travel alone, and much more likely to get lost. And I don’t loathe New York City with a burning passion that fills every inch of my being with rage. No, I just really don’t like big cities in general. There is something so claustrophobic about the tall buildings lining narrow streets filled with too many people. I get disoriented much too quickly, and must rely upon others to guide me to my destination.

When you combine these two elements of my feardom, you end up with the exact reason why I hate traveling in NYC by myself: navigating the subway system.

I must have been overcome with temporary insanity, because about a month ago I agreed to meet my best friend from grad school in the city for dinner, to travel by myself through the perilous, gaping maw that is New York public transit. Getting there wasn’t a big deal. Hubby drove me to the train station, and a quick trip up the Northeast Corridor brought me to Penn Station. That’s where things got a bit wonky.

One would think that with so many people, among which several of whom are not NYC natives, the subway lines might be more clearly marked. So many trains moving parallel, seemingly going to the same place, only to diverge at the last moment to the other side of town. An intelligent, literate adult, I can overcome that little obstacle after what seems like hours of deciphering the subway map.

Is this the right one?????

The thing that got me, though, was the terminology. Not being a native of the city, I don’t instinctively know what “uptown” and “downtown” mean. I can deal with directions on a compass: north, south, etc. You would be amazed at the number of people who look at you like you’re a complete nitwit when you ask if this platform is the northbound red three.

With the help of a very nice old lady and some intermittent cell phone reception that allowed brief contact with the friend I was trying to meet, I eventually got on the right train and emerged just a block away from where I needed to be. A good thing, considering I could have ended up like that man on the MTA beneath the streets of Boston.

I hadn’t seen my dear friend in almost a year, but she remembered that any time we go anywhere together, food must be sought out. The first time we went to the city together, we started off eating cheese danishes outside Tiffany’s followed by a long hunt for the Soup Nazi. (We eventually found it, but it had been closed for a few months already. Bummer.)

I should also mention that my friend may be the biggest fan of Seinfeld ever. We threw her a Seinfeld-themed birthday party a few years ago, bestowing upon her gifts of tube socks, Junior Mints and ill-fitting brassieres. I mention this because it was no surprise where she brought me for dinner: the Seinfeld diner.

Cue that funky slap bass

In the real world, this place is known as Tom’s Restaurant, and, not surprisingly, it looks nothing like the diner that Jerry and friends hung out in. The booths were cramped and the bathrooms were teeny. But I will tell you this, my friends: that may have been the best bowl of lentil soup I have ever had.

Yum!

We walked off dinner and made our way across town to The Happiest Place I Never Knew Existed: Magnolia Bakery. Why did I not know about this place? Probably because I don’t watch Sex and the City, wherein this small piece of heaven apparently made an appearance. The richest, creamiest cupcake I have ever tasted sits to the right of this paragraph, and I promise you that the photograph does not do it justice. I cannot even begin to describe the just-sweet-enough taste and the cakey, slightly crumby texture of this culinary masterpiece. What I would not give to have this bakery down the street from me right now. Of course, if that was the case, I would weigh much more.

The moral of this story, gentle readers, is that one must occasionally overcome her fears in order to enjoy an evening with a best friend. You just might get perfect weather, an awesome bowl of soup and the best dessert, too.