Oh what a night

My Car2Go registration finally went through. As soon as I saw the email, Andy and I were off to Home Depot to buy a piece of plywood upon which we'll plaster a giant map of the Puget Sound. Exciting!

The car is a golf cart with doors. It screams loudly when you go up hills, and you feel every single abnormality in the road's surface—driving over a leaf is like the grand finale of Splash Mountain.

Home Depot was easy. We found some plywood for $14 and the guy even cut it for us. We were in and out within 10 minutes.

Just one problem. How's this large piece of lumber going to fit in the golf cart with doors? Poking out the back window? No. On it's side, diagonally between the two seats? No. On top of the folded over passenger seat? No.


Alas, I drove home and Andy waited in the parking lot with the plywood for an (expensive) SUV Uber.

Now I sit here, exhausted from the evening's activities, inhaling Mod Podge fumes and rubbing my belly full of Morningstar faux sausages. Please don't make me get off this couch. I'll sleep here. It's fine. Just don't make me move.

Guess which ones are fake. 

Wednesday tomorrow. Time flies.

Love,
Margaret

Epipha-threes

Terrible post title. Let's get that out of the way right here at the top.

It relates to the fact that, today, I had three epiphanies.

When each popped into my head, I wrote it down as a potential blog idea. However, not-a-one constitutes an entire blog post, so I've combined all three here for your reading pleasure.

1. I'm just not a dress gal. 

I wish I was.

I would love to throw on a dress and be like, yes, this works! But it rarely does. Instead, I'm cold, wide-hipped, without an appropriate shoe option and did I mention cold? Maybe if I lived somewhere sunny, I'd be a dress gal. Lord knows how much I despise shorts. Oh god, and skirts. Can't believe I forgot about skirts! Skirts are the worst of all. Above all else, I'm not a skirt gal.

2. Everyone my age has moments when they wish they grew up in the 60s. 

Let's face it, the late 60s/early 70s were a fascinating time to be alive. So much happened!

In reality, the world probably felt terribly scary and unsettling back then. Vietnam, assassinations, crazy cults running amok. There wasn't even any good TV. Even so, us millennials have moments of envy because at least things weren't boring. At least people were engaged and felt capable of administering change. Nowadays being angry about important issues seems futile, so we save our outrage for when someone says something that "offends" us. It's all very halfhearted.

For the most part, though, I'm glad I was born when I was (goes back to the TV thing).

3. The people in the flat above us can probably hear me singing Taylor Swift in the shower.

Pam, my singing teacher in the early 2000s, told me that it takes more skill to sing softly than at your natural volume. She was right.

Now my vocal chords are out of practice and in order to sound decent, I have to belt it. LOUD. I can hear the people in the flat above us when they are having a regular conversation, so it's safe to assume they can hear me when I'm bellowing: "I'VE GOT THAT RED LIP CLASSIC THING THAT YOU LIIIIKE..."

What do you think they're dreaming about?
This relates to the blog post because there are three of them. The number three is the link.
Image via Geograph.org.uk

OH. CRAP. It's nearly the dinner hour and we need lettuce for the caesar salaaaaaad!!!!!! It's only the main f-ing ingredient!!!!!!!!

Gotta go,
Marge

Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble

Happy Thanksgiving!

No Thanksgiving over here in the UK. For the first couple years, Char and I made the effort to recreate the famous feast in a mini celebration across the pond. It was fun, but not sustainable.

When you live abroad, it's difficult to keep the Turkey Day tradition alive. It's just such a non entity over here that you actually forget all about it until you wake up and see "Happy Thanksgiving!" all over Facebook. We're already in full-on Christmas mode. The German markets are up. The carols are blasting over every shop's sound system. I'm brainstorming present ideas (hint: you get a pair of socks, you get a pair of socks, everybody gets a pair of socks!!!!).

Instead of stuffing a bird and stuffing my face, I'm busy collecting memories and evidence for 'Murder in Kenmore: Part 2', which will be out next week. I was going to post Part 1 and Part 2 back to back, but I realised I had some actual journalism to do to make sure I was getting all the facts, opinions and speculations right.

Anyhoo, in the spirit of T-Giving, why don't I share what I am thankful for? Oh, but I'm not going to do boring things like "my family" and "my health". Those are obvious. Instead, I'll go for a sitting-here-on-the-couch, want-to-write-this-quickly, stream-of-consciousness approach.

Things I am thankful for:

My reusable, apple-print grocery bag from QFC.

The fuzzy warmth of a new hooded sweatshirt that's only been washed a couple of times.

The US Postal Service and the Royal Mail, without which these beloved photos would have never made it to my kitchen door.

A heater for drying clothes and keeping warm. Seriously, this one's a biggie. I take for granted the fact that warm air just comes out of a thing on the wall whenever I tell it to. When we first moved in I was warming myself by the heater after a shower and I burnt my bare bottom. There were grill marks on my left buttock. But I'm even thankful for that learning experience. 

OK, I'll admit it. Those were just items that I could see and photograph whilst sitting on the couch. I didn't have to move a muscle. But the point we can take away is: I'm thankful for everything! 

If you're reading this, then you're probably one of the 12.55% of the population to be born above the poverty line in a first world country. We hit the jackpot. Sure, I whine sometimes—when the sink gets clogged, when Serial takes a week off or when I just can't handle all the GODDAMN CLUTTER. But I'm going to try to do it less. I'm already better at not-whining than I was a few years ago.

Alright, I got to go. I need to whip up that most traditional of Thanksgiving dishes: gnocchi with peas and a creamy parmesan sauce. YUM. 

Love,
Margaret 

Peas de résistance

Wow.

I just met Andy for a coffee before his 7-10:30pm lesson. He's been teaching nonstop since 9 o'clock this morning, and I've been shut in at home trying to cross things off my lengthy 'To Do' list (see yesterday's post for more info).

His fried brain + my lack of human interaction = weird, surreal experience

I talked a lot about how crazy it is that postal stamps are still a thing, and how I am surprised that counterfeit stamps aren't more common. He agreed and stared into the distance like a post-5150 Britney Spears.

It's hard to explain why the whole thing was so strange. Basically, it felt like we were both state-of-the-art Japanese robots, acting and speaking like humans but completely dead behind the eyes.

Have you seen that CGI Audrey Hepburn advert for Galaxy chocolate? Our coffee meeting had that same, 'uncanny valley' vibe.

OK, now for the pea chat

This post was originally going to be a persuasive piece on the merits of peas and my desire to reintroduce them to modern, American cuisine (similar to my defence of celery from yonks ago). 

Although they're more common in British cuisine ('mushy peas' is a traditional dish here...come on Brits, you're not doing your poor culinary reputation any favours with that one), I feel like our generation doesn't have the same relationship with peas as our parents' and grandparents' generations. They're just not as popular as they used to be, and that's a shame. Peas are actually really tasty. 

But that was what this post was going to be about. The more I thought about peas, the more I realised that I actually have a few different pea anecdotes worth sharing. 

Anecdote 1: The Family Green Pea

As of getting married a few years ago, my sister Anna's last name is now Gorohoff. According to her and my brother-in-law, Gorohoff means 'green pea' in Russian. Isn't that fun?

Full disclosure, Google translate tells me 'green pea' in Russian is this: зеленый горошек. Needless to say, I wasn't able to fact check the validity of their claim. 

Anecdote 2: "I eat my peas with honey"

When we were growing up, eating peas with honey was an important tradition in our household. It was a coming-of-age milestone that helped form us Kay kids into the upstanding citizens we are today. 

Here's how it went down. Around the age of six, my Mom would teach us to recite a poem, squirt some honey onto the flat side of a knife, balance some peas on top, and then slurp up the peas in a single lick. It was precarious to say the least. This is the poem:

I eat my peas with honey

I've done it all my life

It makes the peas taste funny

But it keeps them on my knife

The things I do for this blog...

Anecdote 3: Pass the peas, please

For a while, one of my Mom's favourite pranks was to serve peas and carrots for dinner that were—wait for it—not actually peas and carrots at all, but CANDY. Delicious pea-and-carrot-shaped candy! She had found the candy veggies at a novelty sweet shop in Seattle and knew instantly that it would be comedy gold. 

As the youngest child, not yet in school and thus her default partner in crime, I helped ol' Nadinski arrange the candy peas and carrots realistically on each plate next to some real mashed potatoes and fish sticks. I rang the cowbell (yes, we used a cowbell to signal dinnertime), put on my best poker face and waited anxiously for my siblings to dig in. 

OH the look on their faces when they ate their first bite of candy peas! If you had to narrow the abstract concept of 'humour' down to a single image, that would be it. You see, they thought they were going to be tasting real peas. They expected to eat the actual vegetable. But instead, they tasted a wonderful sugary treat! HAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHA

AHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHA

BAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAH OHAHAHA

HOOOHEE HAHAHA

HAHAHA

HaHA

Aha

Ha

haha

ha

Love,
Margaret

P.S. Yes, I know. Renée Zellweger. We're all horrified. I need a day to process it. Expect full coverage in tomorrow's post.

Pizza now, pizza tomorrow, pizza forever

OK, here we go again.

Day 3. Just 362 to go.

Reality is really starting to set in.

But let's not dwell on that! Time is a wastin' and I have a half-watched Mindy Project to get back to.

Today's topic: food! More specifically, pizza. If you know me at all, then you know how much I love the stuff. I've also been known to argue that pizza isn't that bad for you. Because it isn't! It's basically just tomatoes, cheese and bread. What's so bad about that?

Top tip: I like to sprinkle rocket, aka arugula aka rucola aka peppery greens on my pizza after it comes out of the oven! 

Top tip: I like to put my foot on the oven handle when posing for a photo next to my homemade pizzas!

It just seems like pizza gets a disproportionally bad rap. It might not be kale or roasted pumpkin seeds or acai berry (yikes, my health food references are so dated), but it's not a Krispy Kreme donut either. Yet, we—SOCIETY—have made pizza the villain.

Why am I so defensive? Because I'm going to have pizza tonight for the second night in a row. I made it last night with Andy, and Char's hosting a belated birthday 'za party for me this evening.

In the interest of balance and fairness, I will say that there's another side to the pizzathusiast lifestyle. A dark side. A greasy underworld. I've witnessed it first hand.

The year: 2007
The city: Spokane
The pizza joint: Eatza Pizza on Division Street

All you can eat pizza for just $5 each? Sounds too good to be true, we thought, as we pulled into the parking lot. Foreshadowing alert: it was. 

Fivers in our pockets and pizza on our minds, my friends and I headed into the no-frills family restaurant with high hopes. It actually felt like walking into the inside of a pizza. The velvety red carpet, the mozzarella-white curtains, the oily leather cushions in the curved bell pepper booths. It was like a pizza-themed ride at a budget amusement park. I had the sudden urge to blot my face with a napkin.

We approached the large buffet table. It ran almost the length of the restaurant, yet only three small pizzas lay before us. Enough for a couple slices each, without being rude to the other patrons. As the evening went on, we realised that this was a huge part of Eatza Pizza's business model. It was indeed 'all you can eat', but only if you had the time to sit around and wait for them to make the pizza, one scrawny pie at a time.

Back in our booth, we dined. Spongey crust, bland cheese and ketchupy sauce, but all in all, it was OK. The pizza was OK. 

Then, a pajama-clad lady in a reclining wheelchair was rolled into the restaurant by her carer. I had watched shows about obesity on TLC, but she was the largest person I'd seen in real life. She instructed her chauffeur to wheel her to the buffet, where she picked up an entire pizza and ate it on the spot. It was incredibly sad. 

It was also disgusting. 

But I knew that, if I let myself love pizza the way I knew I could, that would be me some day. We're all just a few bad months away from eating ourselves into an enormous pizza-shaped grave. 

Yelp tells me that Eatza Pizza is now closed. That's probably for the best. But I will be forever grateful for what that place taught me about the highs and lows of pizza eating, and the value of moderation.

A sign and an empty lot — all that remains of Eatza Pizza on Google Street View.

So, there you have it. Pizza, like all controversial subjects, is much more complex than the mainstream media makes it out to be. That's why you have Madgespace—voted top alternative news source by people who read—to turn to for the real truth.

Love ya,
Margaret "Pizza" Kay

P.S. Pizza

P.P.S. Just one more thing

No Food in the House

Oy vey. Life has been busy!

From weddings to 60th birthday parties to rubbing anti-chafe gel on Andy's buttox, my weekends seem to vanish quicker than a 6-inch sub from Subway (always order a foot-long).

I even recorded a podcast during the drive back from Birmingham on Sunday (patting myself on the back for the efficient use of time)!

Andy and I got back to the flat around 7, exhausted and hungry. But - surprise surprise - there was no food in the house! A common Sunday night problem made worse by the fact that we were fresh off a long, tiring road trip.

By the time I realised the cupboards were empty, I was already in my bathrobe and there was no way in H I was going to put my clothes BACK ON and make the trek to Tesco. Instead, I decided to get creative.

My cousin Carly and my sister Anna often showcase their skills in the kitchen, so I figured it's time I follow suit. Using the few remaining ingredients in the flat, I made cheesy pasta, cheese biscuits and sausages (the sausages were for Andy, who is a carnivore).

WARNING - this meal was not healthy. It also wasn't very good. BUT, it was easy. Quickbread (aka any bread that uses baking powder, not yeast, to rise) is always a solid last resort when there's no food in the house. The same goes for cheese sauce. To make a tasty cheese sauce, you just put a chunk of butter in a sauce pan and add a few spoonfuls of flour and some seasoning. Once that's all mixed together, you pour in a glass or two of milk, grate in some cheese and stir.

One more thing - throw on an apron! You'll love yourself for it. Even if you're just making different variations of cheese and flour, an apron will make you feel like a domestic diva.

If you're ever wanting to make something only from the ingredients you already have, I recommend Supercook.com. It lets you enter what you have and suggests recipes based on that. I use it all the time.

What do you manage to cook up when there's no food in the house?

Cheers,
Margie

P.S. I need new running shoes, but I can't afford to buy any. Do you think there's anyway a shoe shop will give me a pair for free if I review them on my blog?