30 minute meals, give or take: bring it, rachael ray

so, I was chatting with Leo last night before dinner and I ran an idea by her for an experimental meal. it wasn't terribly unorthodox or anything, but I've always had this fear of cooking canned tuna. I think that, somewhere along the way, my mom (or dad?) impressed me with the notion that tuna casserole is disgusting. I made some chilled tuna and white bean salad over the summer, and it was delightful, but last night I needed something warm--something I could whip together using the ingredients in my pantry and fridge--preferably in 30 minutes or less. incidentally, it always feels really satisfying to make "something out of nothing;" (that may be a Reichl-ism--credit where it's due, right?) I had a pretty well-stocked pantry, which always feels luxurious in itself, but a few cans later, a little chopping and sauteeing, it was like alchemy. so here's what I did:

Heated the oven to 350. I had a decent can of tuna in olive oil (Cento brand, I believe?) so I drained the oil into a pan over medium-high heat, added a diced onion, and a few minutes later, two smashed cloves of garlic. Then I shook in some dried rosemary, and added a little more e.v olive oil so everything could infuse.

Gentle readers, one day I want to soak my own beans, but yesterday was not the day. I drained and rinsed two cans of northern beans in a colander and then added them to the pan, giving them a stir. Then I turned off the heat and mixed in the tuna, plus another pack of that vacuum-sealed tuna stuff I found in the pantry (I know, it sounds appetizing, doesn't it?) along with a pinch of salt, some grinds of pepper, and a few shakes of red wine vinegar.

(As an aside, I just watched an episode of Arrested Development where Lindsay's boiling a canned ham in a giant pot of water: [Lindsay to Michael, excitedly] "Guess what I'm calling it?" [Michael to Lindsay] "Soup?" [Lindsay] "Hot ham water!" [Buster] "It's so watery, but with a smack of ham!"

I digress. So I poured the contents of the saucepan into a casserole dish. Then in a separate bowl, I added a few handfuls of panko bread crumbs, and grated a bunch of parmigianno reggiano into it. I had some "fresh" parsley in the crisper that was not looking terribly...crisp...so I gave that a rough chop and threw it in, too. Then I noticed a handful of pear tomatoes on the counter that frankly, were past their salad days. I bisected those and artfully placed them on the bean mixture, and then coated all that with the cheesy breadcrumby goodness. And then I added some butter. Yes, thin pats of butter dotted all over the breadcrumbs. That was key.

I popped all that in the oven, and poured myself a refreshing glass of pinot grigio, and plopped down to watch Scrubs until the hearty aromas of a rustic French kitchen filled the house (about half an hour later). When I took the dish out, the breadcrumbs were golden brown and everything was sizzling pleasantly.

verdict: The creamy beans contrasted nicely with the crunchy breadcrumbs, and the tomatoes were roasted and had a nice concentrated flavor. JD raved and helped himself to seconds (thirds?) Orange cat tried to steal tuna and signaled his overwhelming approval with lots of mock-aggression. Two paws up.

What's in your pantry?

the gift of gab

okay, here's what I like about winter: 1. cold weather foods and 2. attempts at hibernation.
my list of don't likes, are, I fear, longer: 1. dry, itchy skin that makes me not want to shower for days, 2. snow that a) has to be shoveled b) makes parking downtown that much more difficult c) gets dirty and gross and all over the bottoms of your pants, so much so that sometimes you get a salt line somewhere around your calf, 3. being cold 4. the commercial madness that ensues after Halloween and bids you to buy lots and lots of stuff that the receiver probably doesn't really want or need.

I'm really bad at buying gifts for people. I always procrastinate about it, to the point when mail-order is usually not a possibility any more. Some people--probably you who are reading this--are incredibly prescient, thoughtful souls who know just what someone else would love, but it's hard for me to escape the mindset that gift-giving is usually some kind of projection of what one would want for one's self or what you think someone ought to have. Other times, people give you a list and then it doesn't even feel like that much of a gift anymore; more like a charity-case.

The gifts I want to give are often irreverent. Take JD's friends who just announced that they're expecting a baby. As camping enthusiasts, JD wants to give them this cute baby backpack so that in several months, they can take the tyke on nature expeditions. I, however, (in the interest of infant literacy, of course) want to give them this book: (wait, there are more!)

They are not the sort of people that would probably appreciate the initiation of their firstborn into a world of boozy impiety. For some reason, that makes me think they need the "Baby, be of use" series even more.

As for me, all I want for Christmas is a ghostwriter.

categorical imperatives, heroism, and the human condition

Friday's Citibank shooting reminds me of Immanuel Kant. It probably shouldn't--my understanding of German philosophers is much less nuanced than it ought to be, by now. But I'm reminded of Kant's insistence that if a gunman is looking for your friend, you're obligated to tell him the truth (I much prefer Dietrich Bonhoeffer's take--that in such situations you are charged with the responsibility to tell a hearty lie). The situation is surely a bad analogy: the lawyer (Michael McKenna) the perpetrator (Joe Jackson) was looking for was not the security guard's friend, and Jackson knew the floor that housed his target. And yet, when pressed (with a snubbed-nose revolver), the security guard escorted the perpetrator to his target on the 38th floor. A long elevator ride, I am certain. That the security guard fled the scene and boarded a train to Indiana is unsurprising, in retrospect. I'm sure that man feels the guilt of the world on his shoulders, understands with painful clarity his dereliction of duty, and has replayed ad nauseum alternate responses on his part that would, in all likelihood, have led to a different ending. That the police and SWAT teams did everything right in their quick response doesn't change the fact that three innocent people died when the perpetrator should never had made it to the legal office.

JD scoffed when I suggested that the security guards at such places were little better trained or incentivized than mall security workers--poorly paid individuals, perhaps moonlighting, who serve mostly as a show of presence rather than any commitment to a code to serve and protect. I think the psychological and sociological aspects behind the situation are telling. Have you ever read about the Stanford prisoner's experiment where psychology students were randomly assigned to be either prisoners or prison guards? The experiment quickly got out of hand when the prison guards began to flaunt their arbitrary authority and the prisoners internalized their assigned lack of authority. I think for-hire security guards are caught somewhere between these extremes. The security guard worked for AlliedBarton, a company that offers its clients a choice of uniforms, ranging from business casual to military. I'd almost be willing to wager that if this particular security guard had been wearing a military outfit and/or had a firearm to support the authority that was supposedly invested in him, that things would have gone differently. As it was, the unarmed guard in his generic "security" uniform had likely internalized his role to be one of a concierge, greeting people on an everyday basis and giving them directions to their appointments. He had neither the brotherly life-or-death ethos that an urban police force fosters on a daily basis (think about the honor-laden ceremonies afforded to cops slain in the line of duty) nor the means to back up any supposed authority. He had not the thymos necessary to overcome the innate and inestimable fear of death.

I'm sure one could parse this economically, as well: why should an (in all likelihood, poorly remunerated and otherwise marginalized) individual risk his life so concretely for the sake of those better off--one may well suspect a valid case of ressentiment.

It's certainly not my aim to kick someone while they're down; it's easy to blame but more difficult to have compassion for people who must make critical decisions in situations that end badly. Perhaps the security guard believed that he was somehow buying time by cooperating with Jackson. Maybe he was thinking of his own kids, or of his spiritual unreadiness "to go." No doubt he was scared.

Guns make me deeply uncomfortable, and I certainly don't want to live in a police state. Weapons or no, though, I think Bonhoeffer is instructive when he writes about the responsibility we have to take concrete action on our neighbor's behalf to resist evil actions. It'll take quick thinking and decisive action on behalf of another, rather than personal cost-benefit analysis. No outcomes are guaranteed. It's scary as hell. But it'll get easier if more of us do it.

i need a hobby, besides this

One time in college I had a friend of a friend (sort of a secondary friend) who would give me rides home from class back to my dorm. If you ever visit Oglethorpe University, you will see that the whole idea is pretty ridiculous, especially when you consider that it never even gets that cold. [Frick, I miss college!] He's one of those people who's both interrogative and judgmental, and even though he professed not to have any desire in dating me (nor I him), I could tell he was trying to size up what kind of family I came from. (Apparently, one that gets you drunk...) He wanted to know what each family member did for fun. "What are your hobbies?", he intoned. "Ummm...I like to read...stuff for school," I stammered. As I exited the car, he said some words with an odd sort of gravity that have stuck with me: you need to get a hobby.

I was no slouch in college. I worked part time, read everything I was assigned, did an internship in DC, and had a variety of "leadership roles" on campus. I got things done. I even played ultimate frisbee my first year. (I seem to have lost some of that momentum). I still enjoy things: going out to dinner/cooking with friends, watching Arrested Development and other clever shows. But when I think of my friends who not only handle work/school/religious commitments, but also develop their considerable musical talents and comedic skills, knit nifty and luxurious things, cook elaborate meals (on weeknights!) and blog extensively about them...well I'm jealous and I want to get in the game, too.

I have a sneaking suspicion that finding more constructive things to do with my time will actually make me better at the things I have to do. But my poor organizational skills and a fear of commitment to institutions and events are going to make this a challenge.

I'd like to learn to sail or do woodworking--but I think I should probably start small. Any ideas for me?

long time, no post

Gentle readers,

If any of you are out there, I bid you a warm and hearty "welcome back." Several months ago I mentioned that this blog was intended to keep my writing skills honed. A lot of good that did, I might add. I just finished the first of three final papers yesterday (about 30 minutes before it was due), and while the finished product is not something I'm remotely proud of, I learned a few things about myself in the process:

• I'm a procrastinating idiot
• My family really loves me
• I would crack easily under torture

While I felt as if I were the fucking stupidest graduate student on the face of the earth for putting off paper-writing (the hangover I contracted after a family gathering this weekend certainly did not expedite the writing process) I had the somewhat comforting realization that I am by no means alone. And for that, I am grateful, although I have resolved to do better in the future (as well as to learn to say "when" at certain family gatherings). This paper was particularly anxiety-producing because the professor had clearly indicated on the class syllabus that no late papers would graded. I found out after turning it in that this wasn't actually true. Too late, because I had already endured several days of interrupted eating habits and shifting, sleepless nights, anticipating my academic demise.

Through all of my irrational intolerable-ness, JD took a day off of work to ensure that I was adequately fed, hydrated, and supplied with frequent hugs and sufficient moral support. My parents and sister called frequently, leaving enthusiastic voice mails and words of encouragement, as well as assurances that they were seeking divine intervention on my behalf. I realize that I was not dying, but merely writing to a deadline, so all these gestures are magnified in my estimation. I can only hope that I shall extend that grace to others who are much worse off than I.

Okay, but it felt like I was dying. I had the sad realization that by overindulging, I had turned my body into a toxic wasteland, interrupting nearly every normal bodily function and deeply impairing my critical thinking skills. Psycho-somatic wholeness loomed large and the mind-body problem was a felt reality. I don't think we're reducible to our physical structures, but I'm pretty sure that we can't do any substantial transcendent thinking without their proper functioning, at least in this life. Additionally, I was probably subconsciously willing my body into true illness so that I might have a "legitimate" excuse to turn in a late paper.

I also realized that the kind of thinking one must do to write a paper is legitimately hard work, and like other muscles of the body, once physical exhaustion is reached, there's just no stringing two sentences together. These mental blocks led to many bouts of senseless sobbing and frustration, coupled with the desire that sleep would refresh my capacities, but too worried about wasting time sleeping to actually relax. While I am pretty good at handling certain kinds of physical pain, like more violent forms of hair removal, I cannot handle sleep deprivation. Perhaps, you too have experienced its effects: moments of perfectly clear alertness when time seems to stand still, alternated with wooziness imbuing the mundane with a confused humorousness characteristic of smoking marijuana, along with the attendent visual disturbances. I don't want to go there again. I hereby repent of my drunkenness and sloth and resolve to turn and do better, living a life of moderation, respecting the limits of my body and the finitude of my life. I just hope that, should I ever be tortured, the perpetrators will pull out my fingernails and let me sleep.