Sometimes Evil drives a minivan. And sometimes Evil is too drunk to drive.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Chevon
Hello, we are having goat for dinner. Yeah, you heard me.
A couple of weeks ago I found out that my lamb guy (yes, I have a lamb guy) at the farmer's market also has goat. I didn't buy any at the time, but I mentioned it to the boy and he was all, "Um, why didn't you get any? I'd eat goat." (I know, right? This kid is kind of awesome.)
I like the idea of goat as an "alternative" meat here in the U.S. where factory-farmed beef, pork and chicken are so ubiquitous. I'm not here to beat the anti-CAFO drum or anything (I'd BE an activist, but it just sounds like so much WORK *whine*) but the idea of pastured, sustainable meat appeals to me, the same way growing potatoes and knitting socks appeals to me.
(I think I might have a WEE bit of the homesteader in me, y'all. If it weren't for the fact that I live in the HOA-controlled 'burbs. And the fact that homesteading sounds like SO MUCH WORK *whine*.)
ANYWAY, so the next time I went to the market, which was this past weekend, I bought a pound of ground goat. The girl has a class tonight at dinnertime and she won't go near goat (or lamb or fish or vegetables or fruit or pretty much ANYTHING THAT ACTUALLY COUNTS AS FOOD) with a ten-foot pole anyway, so the boy and I are having us some GOAT.
I've eaten goat but never cooked with it, so this will be interesting, I think. I know goat can take strong flavors, so right now my plan is to load it up with onions, chili powder, toasted cumin, maybe some smoked paprika and some other crappe, then form it around skewers and grill it. Kind of like a grilled skinless sausage thing. Warm tortillas, garlicky grilled zucchini and a nice fresh salad on the side. Sounds good, eh?
Hello, I am sitting here drinking my apparently local decaf organic fair-trade certified shade-grown coffee with some nebulous but allegedly positive connection to the rainforest that I could never hope to understand, with oat milk and organic fair-trade certified evaporated cane juice.
One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small And the ones that mother gives you, don't do anything at all; Go ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall.
And if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you're going to fall; Tell 'em a hookah-smoking caterpillar has given you the call; To call Alice, when she was just small.
When the men on the chessboard get up and tell you where to go; And you've just had some kind of mushroom, and your mind is moving low; Go ask Alice, I think she'll know. When logic and proportion have fallen sloppy dead; And the white knight is talking backwards; And the red queen's off with her head; Remember what the dormouse said. Feed your head, feed your head. - Jefferson Airplane, "White Rabbit"
I dunno if that would have happened anyway, 48 hours post-Versed, but I tend to attribute it to resuming my regular eating habits.
Such as they are.
Because seriously? I was still feeling pretty crappy at around dinnertime last night.
But I ate a hamburger (well, bison burger) anyway. With lots of tomato and drippy mustard.
And chips! (That would be crisps for you lot across the pond.)
And then late last night, while I was parked in front of Hulu watching Warehouse 13 and eating most of a sizable bag of bridge mix, I noticed I was feeling significantly better.
Perhaps this evening I'll have some Cheetos and a nice healthy tot of whisky and cure myself altogether!
Incidentally, Warehouse 13? It's no Middleman, but I really enjoyed it.
And also I am listening to the audio version of Jane Austen's Emma.
Because I was thinking, during my convalescence when I couldn't use my eyes at all without puking, that it would be swell to have an audiobook right about now.
But I didn't have any, because I have CAPD and have trouble paying attention to them.
So I went googling for free ones and came up with Librivox.
I am LOVING the LIBRIVOX!
Especially now that I have a not-an-iPod that knows what to do with audiobooks and doesn't try to shuffle them in with the music.
What a concept, eh?
Is this the most boring Bullet Friday ever? I think it might be.
Here's something exciting: I still have hickeys all over my arm from the blood pressure cuff they used during my procedure!
Two days later!
I know those things have to be tight, but when it leaves BLOOD MARKS all over you?
That are still there TWO DAYS LATER?
It might be a little TOO tight, is what I'm saying.
Nope, that was still boring, sorry.
I got nothin'.
Come back tomorrow for Song Lyric Saturday!
And then tune in next week for the saddest garden porn ever.
Rumors of my death are perhaps only SLIGHTLY premature
Dudes! Oh, dudes. I am not dead, but the longer this anesthesia hangover lingers, the more death is beginning to look like an attractive option. I dunno what it is with me and Versed, but it's been more than 24 hours since they removed my I.V. and I still feel like I have the world's worst hangover combined with the world's worst motion sickness combined with being kicked in the head by a mule.
So yeah. Feeling pretty crappy, if you'll pardon the pun. And did I mention DH left in the wee hours this morning for a week-long business trip? AWESOME.
We'll know more when the biopsy results come back but my doc does NOT think I have the ass cancer, so that's good. However, he also said I'm a champion polyp producer (or maybe it was polyp former -- I dunno, I tend to err on the side of alliteration) so I get to do this at least once every three years for the rest of my life, whee!
It does beat chemo, though. Because I'm pretty sure chemo WOULD kill me, if I do this bad with freaking ANESTHESIA. Oy.
Gotta go. Looking at the computer screen makes me have to hurl.
Hello, if you're reading this then I'm unconscious. Or dead! But probably not dead. Let's think positive, here. Hardly anyone ever dies from getting a colonoscopy, right? Do they? Wait, maybe I should have looked that up when I was still conscious! DAMMIT.
Anyway, let's go with: not dead, probably. Because how much would THAT suck, to have died with a camera up my ass? NOT how I want to go out, people. I'd much rather you remember me like this. If I'm dead. Which I'm probably not.
Wow, this blog post has gone all to hell, hasn't it? I'll start again.
Hello! Today is "procedure day" and the anesthesia usually knocks me out for several hours, so I will talk to you all tomorrow! Unless I'm dead.
Setting: the kitchen. DH is making his tea and I am making my coffee.
Me: So tomorrow I have to do clear liquids only, and I'm not supposed to have any cream or milk in my coffee, but I bet I can have this! (waving my box of oat milk at him) DH:*blink* Me: Because it's not dairy! It's made from GRAIN! (smug smile) DH:*blink* Me: What? DH: So ... grain is a clear liquid, then? Me: Oh. Well, crap.
Riding on the City of New Orleans, Illinois Central Monday morning rail Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders, Three conductors and twenty-five sacks of mail. All along the southbound odyssey The train pulls out at Kankakee Rolls along past houses, farms and fields. Passin' trains that have no names, Freight yards full of old black men And the graveyards of the rusted automobiles.
Good morning America how are you? Don't you know me I'm your native son, I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans, I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
Dealin' card games with the old men in the club car. Penny a point ain't no one keepin' score. Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle Feel the wheels rumblin' 'neath the floor. And the sons of pullman porters And the sons of engineers Ride their father's magic carpets made of steel. Mothers with their babes asleep, Are rockin' to the gentle beat And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel.
Good morning America how are you? Don't you know me I'm your native son, I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans, I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
Nighttime on The City of New Orleans, Changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee. Half way home, we'll be there by morning Through the Mississippi darkness Rolling down to the sea. And all the towns and people seem To fade into a bad dream And the steel rails still ain't heard the news. The conductor sings his song again, The passengers will please refrain This train's got the disappearing railroad blues.
Good night, America, how are you? Don't you know me I'm your native son, I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans, I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done. - Steve Goodman, "City of New Orleans"
I grew up listening to Arlo Guthrie sing this song on my dad's stereo. It's one of my favorite songs about my country.
Dudes! It is a holiday weekend here in the U.S. of A!
My parents are coming over tomorrow but my mom is on a diet.
Fortunately it's a NORMAL diet and not one of those weird ones.
I'm making grilled pork tenderloin (two ways!), quinoa salad, fruit salad, grilled asparagus and a rhubarb pie (can't link to the recipe because Allrecipes is down, but it's the Fresh Rhubarb Pie recipe over there).
The girl child is making a flag cake (beginner version). Because you've gotta have FLAG CAKE.
My parents are bringing cheese and some sort of black bean salady thing and a watermelon.
It promises to be a good time, yo.
Then, the day after the 4th, I have to go on a low-fiber diet.
And then two days later, I have to go on a liquid diet.
And then the day after that I will be mostly unconscious.
Now let's talk about breastfeeding and circumcision!
Wow, you people sure have a lot of opinions about dogs, eh? I should perhaps explain that I am familiar with the concepts of both "dog" and "puppy", what with having lived with them for 30+ years and raised one my ownself as a grown-up person and all. So I do know what I'd be getting myself into, which is why it's taken ELEVEN GODDAMN YEARS (since we last had a dog) for me to even consider possibly maybe perhaps someday getting another one.
AND the Badger children are severely allergic to Planet Earth and everything that grows thereupon, so we are limited in our choice of breed. I have only ever had mutts, my LAST (and best) dog was a shelter dog, and the one after THIS will be too, promise.
But probably not this one. Assuming we get one at all.
Anyway, moving right along: RHUBARB. Which is even better than a dog, because you can eat it without feeling guilty! And I bought some yesterday! My supermarket appears to regard rhubarb as something exotic and suspiciously foreign judging by where they chose to hide/stash it (over by the bitter melon and yard-long beans and jicama) but I FOUND IT, BY GOLLY.
There has been much talk of rhubarb in the food/gardening subsection of the interwebs lately and I have been SO JEALOUS because it doesn't grow here. Or at least, not very well. People seem to love or hate rhubarb, and I say unto you: I LIKE IT. I neither love nor hate it. Rhubarb is just alright with me. Mostly it reminds me of my dad, because he loves it, and of my childhood, because he always grew it.
So anyway, I BOUGHT SOME RHUBARB (not to be confused with A DOG) at THE GROCERY STORE (not to be confused with A PUPPY MILL) and I'm going to make my dad a pie or crumble or something for when he and Mom come over on the 4th. And also I'm going to make some rhubarb soda so I can try one of these.
In other news, speaking of opinions and controversy and whatnot, my brother and niece have ALMOST convinced me to join Facebook. ALMOST. I really don't LIKE Facebook, I really don't WANT to join Facebook, but it seems to be the preferred sole communication vehicle for my extended family, both inlaws and outlaws. So if I don't want to get dropped off everyone's Christmas card lists, I may be FORCED to join.
Hey, so I finished Clane Hayward's The Hypocrisy of Disco and man, did I love that book. I picked it up because the jacket said it was a memoir about having been raised by hippies and HELLO, ME TOO! Except I realized while reading this book that on the hippie scale from 1-10, if Hayward's parents were a 10 (actually I think her mom was like A TWELVE) then mine were more like a three or a four.
I mean yes, my parents indulged in various illicit substances and they most definitely dressed/looked the part and listened to the "right" music and my dad read the "right" books. And they had friends with names like Cheese and Tonto, and they took us to bars and pot parties, and we drove around for a while in a VW bug that had peace signs and flowers painted all over it (and later in a van with homemade tie-dyed curtains). We didn't have a lot of money, and some of our furniture was homemade or scavenged from construction sites or whatever, and we had a waterbed instead of a sofa at one point, and my brother and I wore hand-me-down clothes from the children of our parents' other hippie friends, and we both had long-ish and kind of ratty hair much of the time.
HOWEVER, our parents always had jobs (mom was a waitress, and dad worked doing mostly blue-collar type stuff for a major multinational corporation). We always had a roof over our heads and indoor plumbing and electricity. We always had enough food to eat, and my parents were NOT vegetarians or macrobiotic or any of that -- in fact, I remember a whole lot of hot dogs, bologna, white bread, chips, soda and Kool-Aid (although my dad always had a garden even when we were renting and he did make his own bean sprouts).
So yeah, Hayward's raised-by-hippies childhood was kicked up several more notches than mine. She bounced back and forth between her mom -- who at one point raised her three children on public park land and abandoned rural properties in California, feeding them not much more than brown rice cooked over an open fire and exhorting them not to eat any "shitfood" (i.e., non-macrobiotic) -- and her dad, who lived in a small New Mexico community of counterculture types who were trying to get "back to the land" by living in dirt-floor shacks and spending much of their time getting stoned.
What's remarkable about Hayward's memoir, which covers only about a year and a half of her life as a pre-adolescent, is that she doesn't seem bitter at all. Her childhood was suffused with longing -- longing for a "normal" life, for parental affection and attention, for the siblings from whom she is separated at various times for various reasons -- but she doesn't place any real blame on her parents for the kind of life they gave her, even though her father abandoned his children in a dirt-floor shack with no food for days at a time, and her mom took the whole "free spirit" thing to truly pathological levels of neglect. I've forgiven my own parents for a number of slights, both real and imagined, over the years but I'm not sure I could be that generous if I were in Hayward's shoes.
Anyway, yeah, I loved this book. It was a fast, compelling read and I recommend it to anyone who was even on the PERIPHERY of the counterculture as a kid in the '70s. A lot of what's in this book might seem kind of unbelievable to folks who grew up in the '80s and later, or who grew up in more conservative households, but every single word of it rang true to me and a lot of it brought back memories of my own childhood. I liked it enough that I just ordered the self-published sequel from CafePress, and I can't wait to read it.
Hi! I'm Badger! I enjoy long walks on the beach at sunset, cozy evenings in front of the fire, puppies, and exacting bloody revenge on my enemies. But not you! I like YOU.
posted by Badger at 1:31 PM
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