Food and Drink in Turkey

In many of the restaurants in Turkey, the menus have a picture for each item. I suppose that the idea is that this allows people who do not speak Turkish to know what they're eating. The pictures were generally so small, though, that they weren't very informative--try looking at a page full of pictures of different types of pide and figuring out which ones are topped with meat.

Pide is called "Turkish pizza" by some, but some Turks take offense at this--they see pide as a distinct type of food. I agree with them. Pide is an oblong piece of flat bread with melted cheese and various toppings. The cheese normally used is called kaşar; I think it's a little sweeter and less salty than mozzarella and with a firmer consistency. Pide is personal-size, and is served cut into inch-wide sections; this makes it easier to eat, I think. It's not very crusty and there is no tomato sauce, so I don't think it's like pizza; the only thing in common is melted cheese on bread.

Pide and kebap shops are considered the bottom-tier of dining, analogous to American fast food, I suppose. However, the food is served on real dishes, and soup and salad are included in the meal.

I like to eat terrible instant pasta made by Knorr; this is one of my favorite post-all-nighter comfort foods. In Turkey, the only Knorr products are terrible instant soup.

Turks are very proud of their salad, which normally consists of lettuce, red cabbage, carrot, cucumber, and tomato, and is dressed with olive oil or a wedge of orange or lemon. Sometimes one big plate of salad is brought for the whole table and everyone eats together and doesn't worry about mouth germs.


The milk sold in grocery stores is not refrigerated; it's super-pasteurized.


I only had one cup of drip coffee while I was in Turkey. In Turkey, instant coffee is drunk instead; it is exclusively known as NesCafe through brand generalization. I found this magical cup of drip coffee at church; evidently, coffee is a sacrament uniting Christians globally.

I drank out of so many cups exactly identical to the one shown. They hold 200 mL. They are made of thinner plastic than a plastic Dixie bathroom cup. This is the sort of cup that would be at a water cooler. I drank out of these cups on inter-city busses and in cyber cafes. Hot drinks like NesCafe are sometimes served in them.

Sugar packets are long and skinny, as are creamer packets. NesCafe even comes in single-serving packets, sometimes with the sugar and creamer included.

The soda cans hold 330 mL, which is a little less than the 12 oz I'm used to, so they look funny to me.


Turks also have Turkish coffee, which is like espresso in that it's very dark and strong. Turks normally drink it with plenty of sugar, unless mourning. Turkish coffee is brewed in a little urn called a cezve on low heat. When done properly, it makes a foam from the proteins in the coffee. Milk is never added. The coffee is unfiltered, so one must wait for the grinds to settle before drinking. Turkish coffee is not drunk to get wired; it's more often used as a sign of hospitality. Paul and I were served it when we visited some scientists at a university.

Due to coffee shortages from World War I, Ataturk suggested that the Turks switch to drinking tea; before this, coffee was the main hot beverage in Turkey. Now, Turks are the number one per-capita consumers of tea in the world, at 2.5 kg/year; the UK is in second at 2.1 kg/year--not even close. Turkish tea is brewed in a pot on top of another pot, full of boiling water. This controls the temperature of the tea, keeping it around 170-180ºF, which, I think, releases fewer tannins. It is typically steeped for 15 minutes, three times as long as black tea is normally steeped when brewed in boiling water. It has no astringent aftertaste.

The concentrated tea brewed in the top pot is diluted with the boiling water from the bottom pot; even after dilution, Turkish tea is still stronger than the tea normally served in the States. Turkish tea is served in a small tulip-shaped glass; this makes it easier to dilute correctly and allows appreciation of the color of the tea. The tea is served in small vessels so it stays hotter while drunk; guests are given seconds and thirds and fourths...

Rakı is Turkey's national liquor, made from distilled fermented grapes and flavored with anise. (Greeks call it ouzo, and Iranians call it arak.) Rakı is drunk diluted. It is clear, but, because of magic, turns cloudy when water is added. Once, I was served rakı in a bar, and I added water, but it was already diluted, so the Turks I was with were able to tell that I'm sort of a poseur sometimes. Turks are very good sports when foreigners mess up their customs.

In Turkey, the carrots are shorter and fatter than the ones here. Celery was nowhere to be found. Bell peppers are called "American peppers"; the peppers that are popular in Turkey are more bitter than the ones I'm used to.


Mayonnaise and ketchup are popular condiments and are eaten with pizza. When I told Hassan, one of my hosts in Izmir, that Americans think eating pizza with ketchup and mayonnaise is peculiar, he said that while he doesn't eat pizza with mayonnaise, and agrees this is a little strange, "with pizza, ketchup is a necessity."

Ayran is a salt yogurt drink; it's very popular.

Tofu is almost impossible to find. I met some Koreans in Turkey who import their own freeze-dried tofu, which they say is passable if you only need soft tofu.

French fries are sometimes eaten with a fork; I get the sense that other foods that I would regard as finger foods would be eaten with a fork in Turkey.

At the McDonalds restaurants in Turkey, in addition to the menu I'm used to from the States, there is the McTürko, which is beef patties served on flatbread with a special sauce; Matthew says it's basically the same as a McArabia, but the sauce is a little sweeter.

When I told Turks about how I'm used to refrigerated milk and drip coffee, they were surprised.

Identity food

I often have my cell phone, in my pocket, set to vibrate. I miss a lot of calls that way, I don't always notice the vibration. Also, I now have phantom cell phone vibrations--my thigh will feel an oscillatory twitch, but no one has called.

Last fall, I was sick a lot, I had a cold that made me very tired and gave me a lot of headaches and a sore throat. It was the sort of sore throat that feels painful but doesn't make me sound any different. I didn't sneeze or cough or anything. I got no sympathy.

I love how liquor stores sell breath mints next to the flu shots. Why is cranberry juice the juice of choice for people who want to not drink alcohol, but be at a bar anyway?

I had had a cold all during a long trip, and I was very tired, but when I got home, the only place open was 7-Eleven. I got Gatorade and cough drops, a frozen pizza, and a Klondike bar. When I got home, I couldn't find the Klondike. Months later, when it appeared between the passenger seat and door, none of the melted ice cream had leaked out.

Why is there meat-lovers' pizza or veggie-lovers' pizza, instead of pizza-with-a-lot-of-meat, or pizza-with-a-passel-of-vegetables-that-do-not-necessarily-go-together? What other identity foods have you spotted?

Cootieology

When I was in first grade, my class divided into three clubs during recess. The most elite of these clubs was the Cool Club, which, as near as I can tell, was dedicated to swaggering and avoiding anyone not cool enough to be in the Cool Club. Then, there was the Cootie Club, which was dedicated to avoiding anyone with cooties. The least prestigious organization was the Bat Club, which was dedicated to hanging upside down on the jungle gym.

I was in the Bat Club, until I got kicked out when it was discovered that I had cooties.

For the rest of the school year, I would wander around the schoolyard alone, gathering crabapples. That is, I was alone until Sarah joined our class--she, also, evidently, was infected. We sat under a tree and talked about how baleen is made out of keratin.

Last fall, I went to the reception for new Ph.D. candidates, of whom I was one. We were each given a mini-diploma, proving our candidacy. Provost Arthur T. Johnston made us promise to go to a quiet place and think about our accomplishments. We all said, "I promise." Some guy near me asked, "Can my quiet place be a bar?"

As I was packing to travel to the American Physical Society Division of Fluid Dynamics conference, I wasn't sure whether I could take my Silly Putty on the plane. I realized that, since it deforms continually under shear stress, it is a fluid, so I put it in the one quart zip-loc bag with my toothpaste and mouthwash. Then I realized that fluid dynamicists could be quite cruel to TSA workers by attempting to transport aerogels, shear-thickening fluids, viscoelastic polymers, and Jell-o. 

So far, this trip, I have seen two children on monkey leashes.

Only certain fruits can be eaten defiantly. For example, if a banana were to be eaten defiantly, it would result in choking. There are free green apples given out in the lobby of the La Quinta Inn where I'm staying. A man with a beard just grabbed an apple off of the tray in front of me and took a very defiant bite out of it.

As soon as I got to the conference center, I knew that I was in the company of real scientists because of how everyone is dressed. I can't quite explain it, but everyone looks just a little off. It's not as if there is anyone dressed like they're going to a sock hop, or wearing a jacket with leather patches on the elbows. Dad's theory is that most scientists only own one suit, and the old ones are still wearing the suits they got when they were grad students.

I have defined The Szatmary Interval to be the amount of time it takes for me to decide that a given talk is less comprehensible than French absurdism, and resume reading Voltaire.

I'm not sure why we need nametags. The people here aren't friendly enough to have a real conversation with a stranger. Not only that, but it's clear to everyone else in San Antonio that we're participating in a scientific conference, and not only because of how we're dressed.

I've been to Otakon, an anime convention. (I have since repented.) The people there talked about anime less than the people here talk about science.

Included in our swag bags were laser pointers. I immediately pulled mine out and flashed it around; I blinded a security camera. Then, I noticed that I was the only person in the lobby playing with a laser pointer.

Is it okay to email the people who don't show up to give their presentations, and let them know that I was offended that they didn't let anyone know they couldn't make it?

Yesterday, I saw something amazing. During the question time of one guy's talk, he was asked a question that he, evidently, didn't want to answer. He made eye contact with the one asking the question, waited a beat, and then looked away. Another person raised his hand, and asked another question, which the speaker answered. 

This was notable because only I and another person noticed that the speaker had just refused to answer a question. Everyone else was hypnotized.

Who would buy an APS t-shirt? I have only counted two people here wearing t-shirts, besides myself.

In the bathroom this morning, I saw the man at the sink next to me rinse his hands but not use soap. Fluid dynamicists, of all people, ought to know the effects of surfactants on surface tension!

I have started grading the presentations that I watch, docking points for staring at the screen, mumbling, using six colors on a single slide, having complete sentences on slides, and reading them aloud. Also, please, never end a presentation with a slide just saying "Questions?" or "Thank you."

I know that no one is going to go home and do their work any differently after having seen my presentation; I've not seen any presentation on something related enough to my work for it to affect what I do, either. All that we can do is convey a rough sense of the sort of problems we're looking at.

In the hotel, there are three elevators. If there are others waiting for an elevator with me, I ask people to guess which elevator will come first. Whoever picks the right elevator wins!

Jane the Prezel Lady

A couple of weeks ago, I got a voicemail from my friend, Jane. Well, Jane's more of an acquaintance. I've not sat down and had tea with her or anything. The point is, she wasn't sure I would know who she was when she called me, so she said, "Hi, Alex, this is Jane the Pretzel Lady," and then gave me the information on the upcoming community association meeting. (This meeting wound up being both boring and tense. I was glad I went.)

I go to Jane's church. Jane sits in the front row, on the left-hand side of the sanctuary. I walk past her house a fair amount, visiting friends or going to church meetings. She always says hi to me.

At the annual church retreat on Labor Day weekend, I was trying to find a good place to read, so I was poking about in the lodge after ten at night. I found Jane in the rec room, reading her Bible. I walked into an adjoining storage room, the one where the folding chairs are kept, and read in there. Later, Jane told me she saw me go into a room, but didn't realize, until after I had left, that it was a closet. I think this made her feel a little bad for me. I told her I didn't mind at all. We know each other as the other person looking for a quiet place.

At the retreat, I was in charge of registration and keeping track of who ate at which meals and so on, for billing purposes, so I had to learn the names of everyone who came. This was good for me, because, until that point, I only really knew the names of the other young adults, the people in my care group, and the people who lead a lot of things. Even though I've been at this church for almost five years, there were still a lot of people that I didn't know. It was just an hour before reading in the closet that I'd properly met Jane.

One time, I was talking with Harold after church, as he packed up the sound board, when, suddenly, a little kid ran up, gave him two pretzel sticks, and ran away. Harold explained that every Sunday, Jane brings a passel of pretzel sticks to meeting, to give to children for good behavior. After giving out one pretzel to each kid, Jane would give two pretzels to Harold, saying, "And two for the pastor."

I don't think that Harold has been the pastor for the last ten years, but Jane still makes sure he gets two pretzel sticks after meeting every Sunday. I suppose Harold somewhat resented that Jane still treated him like a pastor. Also, I can't imagine Harold welcoming special treatment for being the pastor. I don't think he minds the attention too much, though.

http://www.mentalfloss.com/blogs/archives/19208

Beards in Space

Astronauts have to be cleanshaven. Although I had worn a full, thick beard for the past few years, I shaved it off to enter the Federation Space Program. Beards would keep our helmets from sealing properly with our spacesuits. Facial hair in space has killed many astronauts. Now, I am in a space pod with my fellow crewmen, McGursky and Savillo. We left earth several months ago, and are on our way to Mars, to join the colony.

"McGursky, did you ever try growing a beard?" I ask.
"I was more a mustache person. I had a pencil mustache, like John Waters, from back in the 21st century. I shaved it, because I looked like a pedophile, even though I could have kept it while in the FSP."
"I had a pudding ring," says Savillo.
"Ah, the McBeard," I say.
Looking out the porthole, McGursky exclaims "What's that?"
I look, and see a metal ring, miles in diameter, straight ahead of us. In the center is a blue energy field. "I hate blue energy fields. Buckle up, boys!"

***

I hate the inside of my mouth in the morning. I was always bothered by people who brush their teeth before breakfast--I tried it once, but the toothpaste made my orange juice taste untoward. I fail to comprehend how others can find brushing their teeth right before breakfast to be a pleasurable experience. I can't trust these people.

Instead, I drink very dark coffee to overwhelm the bad morning taste in my mouth--it's so acidic and bitter that it turns my stomach, but feeling queasy in the morning is better than having to taste that bad taste in my mouth.

I smack my lips, I am very thirsty. I try to get up to make coffee, and fall back down. My legs are crushed under a collapsed bulkhead. I groan.

***

I wake up again; all I can see are bright fluorescent lights. McGursky helps me sit up. I am in the sickbay. McGursky tells me that my legs had to be amputated, but I have been fitted with prosthetic robot legs. They're pretty kickin'.

***

We don our spacesuits, and step out of the space pod. We have crash landed on a planet covered in thick vegetation. We trudge through the vines and fronds; that is, McGursky and Savillo trudge, I more tromp. I'm surprised at how agile my new robot legs are.

Our sensors indicate that the atmosphere is safe for us to breathe. It's rather hot and muggy. We take off our helmets.

Climbing to the top of a hill, we find a large stone structure--perhaps it is some alien temple? A bit rashly, Savillo runs up to the entrance. McGursky and I try to stop him--he could be rushing into a trap. Instead, as we grab Savillo by his shoulders, we are now close enough to peer inside the building, and, sensing no obvious danger, we continue in.

The great hall feels cozy, it is lit by orange paper lanterns. The room is full of tables and chairs. On top of the tables are napkin dispensers and unfamiliar condiments. The wall opposite the entrance is covered in what look to be hundreds of windows, arranged in a neat grid. Drawing closer, we see that this is an automat. In one window, I see a goatee, in another, a handlebar moustache. I see a pencil mustache. And then, I gasp, as I see a beard that looks identical to the one I had before entering the FSP.

The machines take quarters, but all I have is cash.

Peculiarities and Irritations

I am irritated when people try to schedule phone calls with me, or tell me "leave your phone open". If I can take the call, I will, if I can't, I won't, and it's as simple as that. I can't stand it when someone calls me five times trying to get through to me, without leaving a voicemail.

I like it when postal workers wear pith helmets while walking their routes because it makes them look like they're on a mail safari.

I do not have the mental capacity to understand why people fill the kitchen sink with dirty dishes to "clean up." The worst case of this that I've seen is a pile of dishes that goes above the faucet. This means that the dirty dishes get wet and fester. To actually clean them, the dishes have to get pulled back out of the sink, so that there's room to use the faucet, and now the counter has fetid dirty dishwater on it.

When I am driving somewhere that I have never been before, and I have a navigator (riding shotgun) reading directions to me, I request that the navigator read two steps ahead, at least, so that I know if I have to watch for any quick turns. Some navigators are obstinate, and only give the next immediate step, and refuse to provide any further information. If I have a navigator like this in the future, I will pull over and have them swap seats with someone in the backseat as punishment.

In the house I grew up in, we had an oak tree that was four hundred years old. There was a deer stand in it, or what had been a deer stand--all that was left was four rotting planks. We couldn't get them down easily, and this bothered me a lot.

Dad wouldn't let us build a tree fort. Instead, Dad made a little fort for me. It was barely a fort, it was three pieces of plywood, maybe a yard wide, total, held together with bungee cord. It wasn't as good as a tree house, but it was okay for watergun fights.

One time, I was at the gym, and someone hopped onto the elliptical machine next to mine, and exercised vigorously; ten minutes later, she got off, wheezing. Now, this person was reasonably fit. What was peculiar was the machine was off the whole time, so it provided no resistance. Is it proper to say, "Excuse me, Miss, but are you aware that you frittered away your last ten minutes on a non-functional piece of equipment?"

I started lifting weights this summer. I still haven't figured out the etiquette for that, either. Everyone's listening to their iPod. Someone will walk up to me as I'm doing lat presses, and ask me a question, but I can't hear them, and so an awkward, "What did you say?" and pointing and gesturing.

Also, we only have one rope thing in the gym. I don't know what its proper name is, but it's the only suitable handle for the ab press. People are always snatching it from the ab press, though, and taking it to another machine to do T-Rexes. Well, Mike, Tim, and I call them "T-Rexes", because when doing them, you only move your forearms. T-Rexes can be done with other handles just as well, so I think that it ought to be considered proper to request the rope thing back from someone doing T-Rexes if I want to work my abs, but I'm afraid to ask.

I was walking across the quad last Thursday, when I saw a man with a perfectly uniform halo of hair and beard, making him look like a lion.

When I go to a pub, it's typically because I want to drink beer and talk with my friends. Why do pubs often have the music so loud that conversation is impossible? Also, why do pubs often have muted TV's without captions?

I don't get toothpicks in sandwiches at restaurants. I know that the theory is that the toothpick holds the sandwich layers together, but I've not seen this play out so well in practice. I've had oodles of problems with sandwiches falling apart as I eat them, but this is after I've taken the toothpick out to avoid splinters in my nose. I've never had a sandwich fall apart from the kitchen to the table as a result of not having a toothpick.

Some churches are not satisfied with merely having a name, they have to have a tagline, too. Two come to mind:
Where the nations gather to worship
The Amazing Grace Church

The Amazing Grace Church tagline bothers me, because I hope that it's not the only Church in which Grace is Amazingly present. My big problem here is the definite article.

Another definite article problem I have is the Old Bay-flavored Utz potato chips, with the tagline, "The Crab Chip." I'm always disappointed, because when I open the bag, I hope for only one crab potato chip that just fits the bag. Also, although crabs are often seasoned with Old Bay here in Maryland, they do not naturally taste anything like Old Bay. They should change the packaging to read, "A Passel of Chips Evoking Memories of Eating Crabs."

No One Should Own a Quesadilla Maker

• Three billion people live on $2 a day
• One billion people live on $1 a day
• 1.2 billion people are malnourished
• 29,000 kids die each day from hunger and preventable disease
• Half of disease worldwide is caused by bad water

When I read facts like this, I get upset and I don't know what to do. I don't know if it's okay for me to buy a CD, even used, or if it's okay for me to eat out, except at Taco Bell. I have trouble beating Taco Bell's price on the 1/2 lb.* Cheesy Bean and Rice Burrito.

I would like to think that if I don't buy a CD, and give the money away instead, that would help a few people a whole lot, and that's sort of true, but it's not the whole story. Money isn't the whole reason behind the problems in the world--the real problem is people being greedy and wanting stuff more than they actually love other people.

At the same time, I'm afraid that I'm fooling myself, because I was having a bad day on Wednesday and wanted to listen to Raffi, and I didn't care if there was a connection between buying the CD and people being hungry.

I don't know whether it was okay for me to buy the Raffi CD, but no one should own a quesadilla maker. It's easier to make a good quesadilla with a skillet than with a quesadilla maker. Mexicans and Texicans don't use quesadilla makers to make quesadillas. Quesadillas makers have no use other than making quesadillas. Quesadilla makers exist because people feel obligated to give gifts on certain occasions to people that they don't actually care about. There are human beings who would rather purchase a useless appliance and give it to someone than to ask their friend what they really want.

Also, people probably shouldn't own waffle irons unless they make waffles at least once a month.

*Before cooking

Church Tradition Story 3: Imago Dei

One time, Greg and I were hanging out with a group called Imago Dei. We went to a Celtic festival with them, but I'm not sure how that's relevant to the story.

Anyway, Greg and I had just met Imago Dei, but we didn't know what it was, so we asked Gary.
"It's us!"
"I mean, are you affiliated with a church or something?"
"I guess you could say that we are a church, but we prefer to think of ourselves as an intentional community. We aren't just about what happens on Sunday morning, we actually care about each other, and go through life together."

We talked about appropriate grounding for theological orthodoxy, I gave my "The Bible is not the word of God, Jesus is the Word" rant, and Gary nodded vigorously. I'm always a little terrified when my opinions on Christianity are taken seriously, so I asked Gary if Imago Dei is Emerging, and he said no, rather emphatically.

Imago Dei is a pretty neat intentional community. When we stopped at a gas station, a hat was passed around, and everyone shared as much money as they wanted to, which seems like a friendlier system than dividing up the bill exactly equally. When we got pizza, later, the hat got passed again. Pierre had given extra cash for gas, but didn't have any for pizza--no worries! We shared.

So we were sitting around, eating pizza, and Greg and I were asking some more questions about Imago Dei. Greg asked Jay where they meet; "Oh, we meet in homes," Jay said.
"So, you're a house church?" I asked.
"No, no, we're not a house church."
"If you grow big enough, would you get a building?"
"That's where our valuing multiplication comes in. If our group gets to be too big for us to have this sense of intimacy that we have now, we'll split."
"So you'll always be meeting in houses."
"Probably, yes"
"But you're not a house church."
"That's right."

Then, Greg asked, "Is there someone who's in charge?"
"Well, I'm the overseer."
"Oh, so you're the bishop."
"I guess you could say that I'm the episcopos, that's the Greek word for overseer, in the Bible."
"You're the bishop."
"Yes, I'm the episcopos."
"You're the bishop."
"I'm the episcopos."

Also, everyone in Imago Dei mentioned how much healing they experienced by reading John Eldredge's books; some spent a week with Eldredge in the middle of the woods in Colorado. I'm not sure how that's relevant to the story.

***

Edgy church breaks old rules, insists on new ones

Cous cous, Speeding, Grandma, Clara

On Good Friday this year, I was driving down 295 to Capitol Christian Fellowship, with a pot of Moroccan cous cous in my passenger seat. For no good reason, I was going 74 miles an hour in a 55 mile an hour zone.

I got pulled over as soon as I passed a federal cop in an unmarked car. I hadn't been pulled over for anything in five years. After I got my ticket, I kept driving, but I felt terrible. I wanted to go fast, I wasn't trying to get to CCF early or anything, I just wanted to go fast, so I ignored the speed limit.

I got to CCF, where Mennonites from all the churches in the district were convening for a potluck. I mentioned that I had sped to my friend, Galen, because confessing sin is important, but I didn't feel any better.

As I ate supper, I wasn't really paying attention to what the other people at my table were saying. I was thinking about why I felt so bad. All of a sudden, I realized that I don't love Grandma.

I mean, I have nice feelings about Grandma and I'm polite to her when I see her. I don't give up much for Grandma, though. She's pretty lonely in assisted living; a visit would mean much to her. It's not like hanging out with Grandma is a wild and crazy time, but, still, it's easy for me to pop by, and I just don't, and that's how you can tell I don't love Grandma. What sort of person doesn't love his grandma? I could at least give her a call. (I think I will tomorrow.)

This scared me, because not loving Grandma is a lot worse than speeding, but I felt worse about speeding than about not loving Grandma.

I was thinking about why I felt so bad, and I figured it was because I had been confronted by an authority figure, and not because I was actually contrite.

After supper, I went into the sanctuary, and sat, alone, and prayed that God would change my heart, and that I would be more loving, like Jesus. I prayed that I would at least love Grandma more than I did then.

During the service, I was distracted by Clara. Clara is, I don't know, five years old? Clara's family was sitting right in front of me. Clara wouldn't sit still, and kept jumping from her seat with her parents across the aisle to her friend, and then back again. I was irritated with Clara because I felt terrible about speeding and not loving Grandma, and it's Good Friday, which is a good day to feel terrible about how bad we are, and I was trying to focus on God, and Clara wasn't being very reverent at all.

And then, Clara handed a piece of paper to her mom. It was a card that said, "I love you, Jesus. From Clara."

Going out of Business

I was driving around Columbia one day, and saw a sign for a CompUSA going out of business sale. On my way to the CompUSA, I saw another sign for a Hollywood Video going out of business sale. I got great deals at each place, however, the countenance of the workers was unusual, because they were losing jobs they weren't excited about in the first place, but they know that the faster they sold stuff, the sooner they'd stop getting paid.

Something just occurred to me about Curious George. Curious George's friend is The Man with the Yellow Hat, but The Man is wearing yellow pants and a yellow shirt, too.

It turned out that the Hollywood Video was five miles from where I saw the sign indicating the going out of business sale. I stopped in at the library to look it up on Google maps. While there, I got a cup of coffee from the vending machine. I don't like paying for coffee when I'm out, because I can make it for so much cheaper at home, but I always get coffee from a vending machine, even if I don't need the caffeine. I like watching a robot make coffee for me.

At Hollywood Video, as I was browsing the racks, I heard a middle-aged woman gasp with excitement: I looked to see her pick up a copy of "Holiday".

I prepared a pizza bagel at home in the toaster oven, and melted cheese dripped through the annulus of the bagel. There needs to be a word for this annulus cheese.

I hate washing my hands while wearing a jacket, because of what I call the wet-hand-loose-sleeve problem. If I angle my hands down, my sleeves slip down, and get wet from my hands. If I angle my hands up, the water drips down my elbows, inside the jacket. I lament my inability to remember to pull up my sleeves before going to the bathroom.

I don't get the American drive to combine things. At a discount store, I saw an Easter-themed travel checkers set, in which the checkers were pegs shaped like carrots. I also don't get strawberry-kiwi juice or four cheese pizza--one cheese is enough.

Some people are mostly vegetarian, but they eat fish. I want to be the sort of person who's mostly vegetarian, but also eats whales.

Why did I buy Gattaca? It was only $5 in the Wal*Mart Bargain Bin. I haven't watched it, and I've owned the DVD for two years now.

I think there ought to be a dentist clinic funded primarily by the loose change that falls out of people's pockets when tilted back at an odd angle in the dentist's chair.

I think it would be great if there were car racks for bikes, so you can take your car with you on the bike trail.

Slinkies are great for people like me who can't juggle.

Snow

[I wrote most of this on a snow day, a Thursday in February, and on the day after that.]

I clipped my fingernails just now, and so I have trouble picking stuff up.

I was in a bad mood, so I made postmodern food. Here is my recipe:
1 lb. tempeh
2 jars spaghetti sauce, nothing weird, maybe the kind with a little garlic and basil in it
3 Bell peppers, cut into 1/4" strips
1 Onion, diced
Some Blueberries (frozen is fine)
Olive oil, I guess
Blanch the tempeh, then chop it into triangles, and set it aside. Fry the onions in a little olive oil. Throw everything in the pot, including the tempeh. Bring it to a boil. Top with the bell peppers. This is awesome food, because the blueberries suck up the spaghetti sauce and they burst in your mouth with sweetness and acidity at the same time. I didn't have enough spaghetti sauce, so I had to go to the grocery store.

It snowed today, and school was closed. Snow is the one natural thing that grown-ups can't keep from interfering with their work. I like snow, because I pretend it's God's way of telling us we need a day off.

When I was in middle school, my friend, Dave, said that snow is like grace, because it covers everything, and you can see what everything was, but it looks completely different, at the same time.

One time, I was talking with my friend, Harold, about snow, and how it's like grace. I mentioned that my friend, Amber, doesn't like thinking of it that way, because she always thinks of the homeless people who are stuck out in the snow. Harold said that it's probably still okay to think of snow as a reminder of grace. He told me about a friend he has who is homeless. The friend would accept food and money as gifts, but, when it was snowy, Harold offered to let his friend into his house, but the homeless friend declined. Harold's mercy was available to his friend, but the friend didn't accept that mercy, so he was stuck, cold and wet in the snow.

So, I was in a bad mood, and I had left my food in a pot on the stove while I went to get more spaghetti sauce. I also needed gummi worms. I've never seen a sad person eating gummi worms. The gummi worms at Giant were unacceptable, they were chalky and very short, so I went to Wal*Mart instead and got gummi worms there. The gummi worms at Wal*Mart were a lot better, they were clear and stretchy. The only problem was that some of the gummi worms were a combination of red and orange, and those two colors don't go together.

When I grow up, I'm going to sell gummi worms with gummi surgical equipment, a scalpel and a needle and that special thread used in dissolving sutures. You can perform segment transplants, so that the gummi worms are only made of colors that go together. It's also fun to tuck a half a dozen gummi worms into my upper lip and let them dangle and pretend to be a monster.

I saw an armored truck parked right in front of the Walmart, with its warning lights on, in the middle of the crosswalk. Do armored trucks ever get towed illegally?

My favorite cocktail is the rusty nail, which is 9 parts Scotch whisky and 5 parts Drambuie, with ice to taste. I like to wait until the ice melts before eating.

As I write this, I'm sitting in the library atrium, avoiding finding useful articles for my research. It's late on Friday afternoon, the place is almost empty.

I notice that there is a table set up near the guard station, where you are supposed to leave your food, before entering the library proper. On the table sits a twelve-inch sub from Sub Connections. There is no guard.

I am tempted to steal the sandwich, and take it into the library, and devour it directly in the middle of the stacks, to see if I can do it without getting noticed. The only thing stopping me is that the sandwich might have meat on it; I'm a vegetarian.

Defibrilator and Spaz are excellent names for energy drinks.

Dunkers

Trader Joe's has for sale oblong cookies labelled as "dunkers". I immediately procured for myself a package, thinking, "I will dunk these cookies!"

I love to dunk cookies, it's a relaxing bedtime ritual. I have long had problems with circular cookies, though, when it comes to dunking. Cookies that are too large can't fit into the mouth of the glass, and have to be broken in half, which I find rather unpleasant. Cookies that are too small are trouble, too, because I either can only get half of the cookie dunked or I get my fingers sticky with milk, which is gross. I had basically given up on dunking cookies.

I find Trader Joe's dunkers to be vexing. I have no idea if I'm dunking the cookies because I saw that their shape is suitable, or because the packaging label instructs me to dunk them? Did Trader Joe's design them to be dunkable, or did someone in marketing see oblong cookies, and simply label them, "dunkers"? Am I eating them because they're legitimately good cookies, or because I feel like Trader Joe's cares about me and my cookie consumption style, and so has made "dunkers" for me?

The cookies themselves are oblong chocolate chip cookies, with a good, solid layer of chocolate on one side; something like a larger, open-faced, chocolate-chip Milano. The cookie itself isn't very sweet, it's more of a cracker than a cookie, but, when combined with that chocolate layer, it's satisfying, but still less sweet than, say, a Chips Ahoy. I have no idea if I like the cookies, because Trader Joe's recognizes my refined taste and so does not simply dump extra sugar into their cookies, or if I'd prefer a sweeter cookie. Do I prefer these cookies because they are dunkable and have a refined flavor, or because they're from Trader Joe's, and I'm a sucker for anything from Trader Joe's?

Their Indian food is really good.

Several bread-related objects sorted from smallest to largest

Crumb

Slice of bread

Loaf of bread

Breadbox

6' long sub

Grain silo

Wheat field