Friday, November 22, 2002
Thursday, November 14, 2002
Saturday, November 09, 2002
(A word about laundry)
When a spider crawls out of the laundry in the basket that you are sorting, it's not up to you anymore. It's up to the laundry. All nine loads of it.
I love clean clothes. I hate to do laundry. And, I hate to shop for new clothes. Therein lies the frustration.
Around here, when the laundry calls, the laundry actually calls. I'm lucky that it doesn't move but just screams at me from the other room to get it done, or else.
And don't even get me started on what the vaccuum cleaner called me the other day...
When a spider crawls out of the laundry in the basket that you are sorting, it's not up to you anymore. It's up to the laundry. All nine loads of it.
I love clean clothes. I hate to do laundry. And, I hate to shop for new clothes. Therein lies the frustration.
Around here, when the laundry calls, the laundry actually calls. I'm lucky that it doesn't move but just screams at me from the other room to get it done, or else.
And don't even get me started on what the vaccuum cleaner called me the other day...
Tuesday, November 05, 2002
"I think it's got some Eagles in it."
Justin Says He's No Jackson Copycat
The Associated Press
Nov 4 2002 10:23AM
NEW YORK (AP) - Justin Timberlake says Michael Jackson has been a big influence on his sound, but not the only one.
Timberlake, the 'N Sync star whose debut solo album, ``Justified,'' is due Tuesday, has been tagged with imitating Jackson because of a few wardrobe choices and big appearances with the King of Pop.
``I've used a lot of different sounds than just Michael,'' Timberlake told Newsday. ``I think there's some Eagles in the harmonies and a lot more Stevie Wonder.
``I'm also a big fan of Donny Hathaway,'' he added, referring to the 1970s musician. ``I think it's shocking to people that I even know who Donny Hathaway is.''
Timberlake, whose breakup with Britney Spears this year was widely reported in the entertainment media, said he tweaked a few songs on ``Justified'' to throw off people who might try to learn about his personal life from his music.
``Some of it was a little manipulative because I knew what people were saying about me,'' said Timberlake, who declined to say what songs he changed. ``But it's not a Dr. Jekyll-Mr. Hyde type thing like Eminem - not that that's a bad thing either.''
11/04/02 10:20 EST
Saturday, November 02, 2002
Solid, Liquid, Gas and Marshmallow
I've never made Rice Krispies marshmallow treats until this year. I'd say to anyone who hasn't made them before: splurge on the pre-melted marshmallow creme instead of melting marshmallows on your own. I learned that melting marshmallows is kinda like making a rue for a gumbo – you have to stir it and stir it and stir it more, wondering if you've done it all wrong, if it will ever set up right, and waivering in the self-doubt that maybe you aren't melting them right at all, wondering how much longer this is gonna take, and thinking the tiny white beasts have finally given up and turned the proverbial corner, thinking you've melted them all – only to find a big, marshy area of unmelted mallows that will neither stick to the rest of the melted marshmallow nor will they be melted on their own.
I've discovered a new state of matter: the marshmallow. And it's not to be trifled with; it is to be respected. I don't know why scientists decided to leave it out of the books. Unless they decided, as I have now, that if the government found out about the true potential of marshmallows, they might decide to use them for evil, like developing an M-bomb or something.
If you decide to turn up the heat to melt the marshmallows faster, they will fight back just as hard. And if they get on you, they're a tiny bit like napalm. Therein lies the tricky part of "trick-or-treat." Fight the urge to turn the heat up. It just begins to toast the marshmallow, and that's when things could turn on you and get really ugly.
Armed with an entire stick of butter versus the three tablespoons recommended, and reinforced with newfound determination plus a little elbow grease, I became the conqueror victorious. Ha-HA! The marshmallows waved their tiny white flags, surrendering to me in one, hugely sticky mass. I quickly added the Rice Krispies to them before they changed their collective minds, and I kneaded the mixture like bread dough while trying not to flatten all the krispies or get too much of the hot, sticky marshmallow on me. And hear ye, they were tasty. I even smashed orange and brown M&M's on top of them to make them extra-festive.
Breathing hard, feeling extra smug and only slightly sticky, I turned back to the Trail of Terror, Will and Destruction: krispies were scattered to the left and right of me, across the countertop like schrapnel from a cannonball, across the floor here and there in an irregular line over to the other countertop, the countertop where I planted my flag atop Mt. KrispieTreat. And my mom's old frying pan was covered with marshmallow goo now quickly turning into a hard, shiny taffy-like substance.
"Oh... no... Not my mom's frying pan." I thought. "Any pan but that pan." That pan was the Magic Pan. Just the sound of a wooden spoon dinging in that pan would recall years of happy memories of my mom's dinners – feasting on Rice-a-Roni, on Hamburger Helper and on the rare occasion of the heralded tacos of Taco Night. Oh my God. Any pan but That Pan.
Saddened, weakened, I put the Magic Pan in the sink and gave it one last squirt of dishwashing liquid. As the warm bubbles drowned the marshmallow goo, I heard Taps playing softly somewhere in the distance. "I'll miss you, Magic Pan... I'm sorry. If only I had only bought the marshmallow creme..."
I retired to the couch in a broken heap.
Later that evening, I decided it was time to exhume the Magic Pan from the dishwater, to give it a decent and proper burial. A fitting tribute to the perfect pan. A pan that I'd known since I was a child old enough to recognize a good pan. A pan whose handle is probably made from some sort of pressed asbestos. Still, a Damn Good Pan.
I pulled out the wooden spoon first, to ruefully touch the hardened marshmallow goo once more, just to see how tough it still was. And to my glorious surprise, it slid right off beneath my fingers.
"My Pan, My Pan! Speak to me!" I raked away the bubbles and scraped at the pan with the spoon. Rubbing the slippery goo away with one hand, and searching for a pulse with the other. It was a miracle. Arising like the phoenix from the ashes, my Magic Pan gasped for air as I rinsed the final rinse. It shined silver once more as I gently scrubbed it clean. My Magic Pan crossed back over from the other side, walked through the valley of the Shadow of Death, yet it fears no marshmallow. My Magic Pan – with the possible asbestos handle and missing D-ring for hanging it high overhead – now lives again. Forevermore. Never to bravely hold its own against the marshmallow. Instead, retired as a hero, only to serve in Italian skirmishes, dosed liberally with olive oil and a nice red wine.
I've never made Rice Krispies marshmallow treats until this year. I'd say to anyone who hasn't made them before: splurge on the pre-melted marshmallow creme instead of melting marshmallows on your own. I learned that melting marshmallows is kinda like making a rue for a gumbo – you have to stir it and stir it and stir it more, wondering if you've done it all wrong, if it will ever set up right, and waivering in the self-doubt that maybe you aren't melting them right at all, wondering how much longer this is gonna take, and thinking the tiny white beasts have finally given up and turned the proverbial corner, thinking you've melted them all – only to find a big, marshy area of unmelted mallows that will neither stick to the rest of the melted marshmallow nor will they be melted on their own.
I've discovered a new state of matter: the marshmallow. And it's not to be trifled with; it is to be respected. I don't know why scientists decided to leave it out of the books. Unless they decided, as I have now, that if the government found out about the true potential of marshmallows, they might decide to use them for evil, like developing an M-bomb or something.
If you decide to turn up the heat to melt the marshmallows faster, they will fight back just as hard. And if they get on you, they're a tiny bit like napalm. Therein lies the tricky part of "trick-or-treat." Fight the urge to turn the heat up. It just begins to toast the marshmallow, and that's when things could turn on you and get really ugly.
Armed with an entire stick of butter versus the three tablespoons recommended, and reinforced with newfound determination plus a little elbow grease, I became the conqueror victorious. Ha-HA! The marshmallows waved their tiny white flags, surrendering to me in one, hugely sticky mass. I quickly added the Rice Krispies to them before they changed their collective minds, and I kneaded the mixture like bread dough while trying not to flatten all the krispies or get too much of the hot, sticky marshmallow on me. And hear ye, they were tasty. I even smashed orange and brown M&M's on top of them to make them extra-festive.
Breathing hard, feeling extra smug and only slightly sticky, I turned back to the Trail of Terror, Will and Destruction: krispies were scattered to the left and right of me, across the countertop like schrapnel from a cannonball, across the floor here and there in an irregular line over to the other countertop, the countertop where I planted my flag atop Mt. KrispieTreat. And my mom's old frying pan was covered with marshmallow goo now quickly turning into a hard, shiny taffy-like substance.
"Oh... no... Not my mom's frying pan." I thought. "Any pan but that pan." That pan was the Magic Pan. Just the sound of a wooden spoon dinging in that pan would recall years of happy memories of my mom's dinners – feasting on Rice-a-Roni, on Hamburger Helper and on the rare occasion of the heralded tacos of Taco Night. Oh my God. Any pan but That Pan.
Saddened, weakened, I put the Magic Pan in the sink and gave it one last squirt of dishwashing liquid. As the warm bubbles drowned the marshmallow goo, I heard Taps playing softly somewhere in the distance. "I'll miss you, Magic Pan... I'm sorry. If only I had only bought the marshmallow creme..."
I retired to the couch in a broken heap.
Later that evening, I decided it was time to exhume the Magic Pan from the dishwater, to give it a decent and proper burial. A fitting tribute to the perfect pan. A pan that I'd known since I was a child old enough to recognize a good pan. A pan whose handle is probably made from some sort of pressed asbestos. Still, a Damn Good Pan.
I pulled out the wooden spoon first, to ruefully touch the hardened marshmallow goo once more, just to see how tough it still was. And to my glorious surprise, it slid right off beneath my fingers.
"My Pan, My Pan! Speak to me!" I raked away the bubbles and scraped at the pan with the spoon. Rubbing the slippery goo away with one hand, and searching for a pulse with the other. It was a miracle. Arising like the phoenix from the ashes, my Magic Pan gasped for air as I rinsed the final rinse. It shined silver once more as I gently scrubbed it clean. My Magic Pan crossed back over from the other side, walked through the valley of the Shadow of Death, yet it fears no marshmallow. My Magic Pan – with the possible asbestos handle and missing D-ring for hanging it high overhead – now lives again. Forevermore. Never to bravely hold its own against the marshmallow. Instead, retired as a hero, only to serve in Italian skirmishes, dosed liberally with olive oil and a nice red wine.
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