My computer is some sort of inter-dimensional being. There's just no other explanation. And I say that because, yes, I have, in fact, ruled out demons. No, the thing is actually alive. That fact is part of why I'm writing this from a different computer.
It all started about six, maybe seven years ago, at a Best Buy in a large Southern Nevada suburb. I went in with my dad because it was finally time to replace the HP desktop computer I was still using despite the fact that it had so many replacement parts that the front part of the shell no longer fit on the tower. Dad, Mom, and my sister had each recently made the transition to Macs, but I was stubborn and wanted to stick with Windows. Dad was there to collect the Macs, while my job was to select a laptop I could actually live with. I browsed loosely, glancing at hardware specs I understood either barely or not at all, poking at keyboards and touchpads, and generally looking for something I wouldn't hate.
And then I saw it, all the way from the other end of the row. I still made myself stop at a couple of others and give them cursory glances, but something about the stupid huge one at the end of the line drew me in. I actually understood quite a few of the specs, like 1TB hard drive, and could make reasonable guesses about others, like that that brand made pretty good graphics cards ('that brand' being NVIDIA). But like all the other laptops, I didn't really understand what most of it meant back then. Still, I had been informed that I would pick one that day, and this was the only one I actually liked. Dad came over, approved of the construction and the specs, and gave the still somewhat reluctant okay. The salesman came back a couple minutes later and said that they didn't have any others in the back, but if we wanted to take it home that day we could have the floor model. My dad jumped on the opportunity to push me towards a slightly higher end model, but I hated it, so I took the floor model of the ridiculously large Dell labeled 'Portable Desktop' for pretty cheap. My father was convinced we'd be back to replace it within a month. He wasn't far off.
I loved my new computer. It was my first laptop, and it brought with it the newly released Windows 8 which no one had yet realized was actually terrible. Granted, the 18" screen limited portability quite a bit, and the thing was no lightweight, but it was still more portable than a computer tower. But something was wrong with the battery. So after three months we took it back to the Geek Squad, where the guy who sold it to me took one look at the screen and said "Wow! That's amazing! I've never seen anything thing like that before in my life!" Umm... They shipped it out to Kentucky under warranty to replace the removable battery (because that's totally logical) and I took a break from adjusting from XP to 8 to deal with the shock of having to replace my Motorola RAZR with multiple buttons rendered nonfunctional from overuse with a Samsung Note 2. That was a rough few months for me, learning curve wise. It didn't help that the Geek Squad team would mutter about strange activity around the computer every time I checked it in.
It didn't have any more battery problems after that, but the keyboard... Two more times, we were back for repairs on a computer purchased within the last 12 months. Two more times, the man who sold me that thing told me he'd never seen anything like it before and became deeply troubled and confused when I assured him that he had sold it to me. The second time was the truly memorable one. He was so convinced that I was wrong that he looked up the purchase records and then spent the rest of the tech support consultation repeatedly asking himself why he couldn't remember the computer, only me. I was beginning to ask that myself, and a few other questions from the way it sometimes behaved. That was when I finally stopped blowing off the rest of my concerns as simply being part of the OS transition and started paying attention. Especially after he left that screen up and one of the other techs came over, looked at what was going on, looked at his screen, and said "Uh, why don't we have any intake records for this thing?" "What? Yeah we do, they're right there. It says I've worked on this thing twice, but I can't remember it, and I could swear she got a Mac..." "No, I mean for store inventory. I can't find any paperwork on this thing older than her father's original purchase receipt and I also don't see anything about this model anywhere else in our database."
...What?
And then, when I was picking it up from being shipped out for repairs for the third time in a year (that time they replaced the keyboard with what they said was the same model, but the original keyboard did not have so many function buttons or responsive backlighting.), the tech who had noticed that the computer apparently didn't have a paper trail prior to me taking possession handed it back to me and said while still holding the other end, "Now remember, we'll only do these warranty repairs so many times. If you bring this thing in again, we're going to take it away and give you another laptop in exchange." My dad wanted to exchange it on the spot, but I said "Okay, I understand." and took the thing. It never had a hardware problem again. Instead, that was when things got really weird.
The first thing I noticed was that iTunes was becoming my metric for how well the rest of the computer was running. If iTunes was working horribly, everything was fine. If iTunes was working correctly, something somewhere was very, very wrong. However, I could always get it working again by knocking on various parts of the shell in a very specific and progressively more complicated (but always intuitive to me and me alone) pattern.
The second thing I noticed what that the computer ran half as fast whenever anyone else was using it. I really wish that I meant that as an exaggeration.
The third thing developed slowly over the course of several months, after I had had the device for about a year and a half. It started screwing around with individual browser speeds. Incrementally over time, Firefox and Chrome became slower as Internet Explorer became faster and faster. When it peaked, Firefox was slow but sort of okay, Chrome would take five whole minutes just to start, and IE was faster than any other browser on anyone else's computer on any wifi at any time. This lasted for two years when I was around 17-18, and then gradually reverted over another six month span, totaling three years of my deliberately using IE over Firefox or Chrome and getting better results because of it.
The fourth thing was that it would randomly turn itself on and off during the night. Sometimes I hear it whirring and when I look over, it's just turned the screen on. I've only ever seen the lock screen, but I've also seen it doing this while it's shut, so I don't know for certain what it does during those times. When it first started about 5 years ago, I used to turn it off, unplug it, and remove the battery before going to sleep, but then it started giving me random glitches, so I stopped. Now I just let it do its thing.
It continues to be an enigma, so I refer to it as the Voidbeast. I'm not actually sure where it came from and neither are the people who sold it to me, so my best guess is that it spawned itself into the back room of my local Best Buy and just kind of mind-controlled the staff into selling it.
It adapted pretty well when I moved about 3,000 miles Northeast for college, but that was when it fully and completely became clear to me that it only likes bad wifi. If I have a good, reliable connection to the internet, chances are it's the worst signal on the block. I've hosted AOEII multiplayer games where my friends in major cities who had high-end ethernet found that my crappy college-kid-in-a-rural-area wifi was more stable.
In the spring of my sophomore year, it started getting really glitchy just as I took a job at a popup call center for a political candidate (I'd rather not say which one, it was an experience that left me with a deep sense of disillusionment, and I spent most my earnings from it on alcohol.), so I showed it to some friends who build computers for fun. As I handed it to one of them, I was holding it by the two left corners, and he took it by the back right corner only. As I let go, it shot a small plastic chip port guard out of the front right corner six inches straight up and bopped him squarely on the tip of the nose. Six years I'd had that computer, and I had no idea that was there. Neither of us had touched it. Not a great start. This was followed by a combination of my group of friends being awed by the image quality and asking why I was using Windows 8 of all things.
It then proceeded to spend the next several hours making random hissing noises as the three of them ran several malware scans and cleaners, geeked out over my screen resolution, and unsuccessfully attempted to find anything about the particular model of Dell anywhere online at all, including the Dell website. They came to two conclusions: the first was that the computer had been really cutting edge a few years earlier and the screen was still great, and the second was that it didn't actually exist. They also found a lot of malware, and helped me set up some more protection since the antivirus I had at the time wasn't very good. After listening to my account of the machine's history, one of them offered me the phone number of the local Catholic priest, which confused me since he is Orthodox Presbyterian and I'm Lutheran, and recommended exorcism. The guy who got attacked in the face by my laptop just said "How much homework do you have in the next couple weeks? Because I have a screwdriver in my car..." I declined both options. I needed it too much for homework.
I have determined, however, that it is not a demon. After proper testing was conducted, It was determined that the device was neither possessed nor malevolent, it simply is. It's a living, feeling being just like any other. I can tell because it's been pouting all week. You see, seven years is a long life for a laptop, and in the interest of not having to frantically recover data from the hard drive post-self-destruction, my new laptop arrived last week. That's what I'm writing this post from.
The summer after that I had two 400 level three-week summer intensives back to back. It was an awesome learning opportunity which nearly killed me and I would do it again in a heartbeat but I really do not recommend it to anyone with an ounce of sanity. As a way to distract myself from this lunacy on the two day weekend between the two courses (and to distract myself from the diagnosis I'd received in regard to how badly I'd blown out my bum knee), I allowed the Voidbeast to finally make the free upgrade to Windows 10.
Not good timing, not. at. all.
Booting Windows 10 for the first time, the first thing I checked was iTunes. It was perfect. Well, crap. It actually took me a while to figure out where the creature was venting its feelings, turns out it was the wifi signal. It refused to stay connected for more than about 30min at a time, and would only reconnect if I totally rebooted the machine. There was only one way to keep it connected, which I found the following weekend: I wouldn't lose the signal if I was connected to my friend's multiplayer minecraft server.
Well, then.
I got through the second week of the second class (hunting for sources for a research paper) by building an impenetrable, inaccessible by means apart from teleportation or tower building safety box on the server, putting myself inside it, and switching tabs while still connected. Boom. Stable access to JSTOR. My professor thought it was one of the most creative fixes she'd ever heard of, and this was while I was using a copy of La Morte D'Arthur which I had rebound by nailing it to the inside of a box of fruit snacks and reinforcing with duct tape and rubber bands (a story for another day, but she said that that was a very beautiful piece of redneck engineering in its own right.).
This wasn't sustainable, however, so I took the beast to my school's IT department and explained what was going on after lunch one day during the final week. The girl who checked it in clearly thought that I was crazy, but she wrote down what I said and prepared to run a few tests. I was emailed very early the following morning with news that they had fixed it and asking me to pick it up as soon as possible. As a string of horrific flashbacks to the sort of things the Geek Squad back on the West Coast used to say it did flashed through my mind, I crutch-raced back to the IT basement. The same girl was there, and apparently after they ran their tests and then had multiple people look it over, they were pretty sure it was fixed. She set it on the counter, looked at it, shuddered, and said that I was good to go. "Okay, um... did it do, you know, anything weird?" I asked as I began to pack up. "Yeah! Actually, yeah, it did!" She said, struggling to take her eyes off the computer long enough to look me in the eye, "Do you have our card?" "Umm... No?" "Good! Bye! Have a nice summer!" By this point she was making pushing motions at the desk where the computer had been sitting and her smile looked very pained. As I turned to go, I saw her give my backpack a long stare and shudder one more time before turning away.
I'm still not entirely sure what happened, but I definitely got the message that I wasn't welcome back there again. So ever since, whenever the Voidbeast gets too uppity, I threaten to take it back to BestBuy. There isn't one in this county, but the mere threat is usually enough to make it behave.
It behaved through my entire junior year, but this year the number of times it wakes up in the night have increased exponentially. I began researching replacement models a few months ago because I know it's getting near to death, so when it had a rather spectacular freezing episode recently that resulted in -I kid you not- seven and a half straight hours of troubleshooting and scans, we decided that it would be best to have the next model here, running, and connected to my data before the creature returns to the void from whence it came. But I can't really bring myself to get rid of it. It's bonded to me somehow, whatever it is. I've determined that it's not malevolent, so I see no reason to abandon it. I'm just not using it as a laptop anymore. The new unit is an Ubuntu machine anyways, so having it as a desktop still running the Windows 10 I know has been really helpful in the transition. The Voidbeast is being moody about it though, and I'm not really sure how to console it. I'm not getting rid of it though, I just can't. It's alive, after all, and it needs me. The new laptop is much easier to trace though, it's from a company called System 76, and I don't think it's alive. But it's only been a week, and I'm still learning the new (to me) OS, so who knows?
If the new hardware is alive as well, I hope it makes friends with the Voidbeast. Voidy's been my roommate for 7 years now. We've crossed oceans and climbed mountains together. People can tell me to get rid of this thing all they want, but the bond runs pretty deep at this point. For better or worse, I have a sentient inter-dimensional being manifesting as my computer. And you know what?
I'm okay with that.
2/10/18
6/5/16
On Pain and Passion
You know, I realized something recently.
I knew when I decided to go to a college in the Midwest that this was going to make my old knee problem worse. I knew that things like running and hills have been issues ever since the accident in JR high, and that I was putting myself at risk by moving away from the flat, temperature-consistent desert to the snowing one day, high of 75 the next day hill country. If I had just done the smart thing and finished out my two years at the local community college before going on to the local state university like most of the people I grew up with, instead of transferring out here, I wouldn't be in this position right now. I wouldn't have recent cartilage damage from eight year old scar tissue. I wouldn't have wound up in an examination room on Thursday listening to a doctor tell me that although PT can get me walking again, the flare-ups will never be as rare and mild as they used to be, and then write me a prescription for pain meds and say that I will probably need it at least every few months for the rest of my life. I wouldn't have the people at my church kindheartedly remarking on how sad it is that I'm having the kind of medical problems in my early 20s that most folks don't get until their late 40s. I wouldn't have spent the last two months on crutches, and my mom and I wouldn't have had to ask my older sister to give up a month and a half of her life in our hometown with all of her friends to drive across the country and take care of me so that I didn't have to drop out of my two summer classes. I wouldn't have had all of this pain, and the humiliating move into one of my housemate's rooms because that stupid creaky staircase is a safety hazard to me. I wouldn't have spent weeks alternating Tylenol and ibuprophen, wondering if maybe I would never get better and trying to convince my friends it wasn't killing me inside.
But it's worth it. 1000% worth it.
My school is amazing. My classes are fascinating and challenging, even my least favorite subjects from high school are interesting and my favorite subjects? I could talk for hours about my classes on history or literature, and I can't be trusted in the library anymore because I want to overdo it with texts in other languages written far beyond my limited comprehension levels. I have the most wonderful church, where I learn so much and feel like the people are every bit as much family as real family. They support me as I struggle with crutches and opening doors, they welcomed me with open arms from day 1 and have made me one of their own. My friends and classmates have filled my life with joy and laughter and brought me peace even in some of the darkest storms of my life. They taught me to dance through the night, and to sing whenever I feel like it because I won't be singing alone. They kept me out until 3 AM drinking hot tea and making terrible puns but still made sure that I got my homework done on time.
In the last two years, I have grown in ways that I never would have though possible. I have found a whole new world of wonder and joy beyond anything I had imagined. I have danced until my feet hurt and then danced some more and not regretted it. I have lost myself in books I never would have found otherwise. I have brewed more pots of tea than I can number, and shared them with people who inspire me to push myself like I never have before. It would have been worth all this pain just to spend a month here, and I've had two years. Sure, the next two years will be different - I will dance again, even if it hurts, but I may never have my old stamina. The flares won't ever go back to being so mild that even those closest to me don't notice 90% of the time, and I'm having to leave my wonderful quirky old house for a place closer to campus.
The wear on the cartilage in recent months from the eight year old scar tissue pushing my kneecap out of alignment and spinning it around is going to affect the rest of my life, but I would take this and more for the last two years alone. Yes, I'm in a ton of pain right now, I haven't not been in pain for two months now.
But it's worth it.
9/28/15
Microwave breakfast biscuits
During my recent summer session, I found myself living in a kitchen-less dormitory for three weeks, without access to my school's dining hall. Many of my readers are familiar with one of the results of that (the time I made applesauce in my teakettle at 2am), but here's another simple recipe I discovered for an easy, cheap, and delicious breakfast: Bowl biscuits.
Ingredients/supplies:
1 package of Bisquick(TM) complete biscuit mix. You know, the stuff that comes in a $1 pack and makes six biscuits. My local Kroger has it in two different flavors, my local Wal-mart has three.
Butter and/or jam (Optional)
2/3 cup of water (per biscuit- disregard the part of the package that says you're making six biscuits, you're making two giant biscuits.)
Microwavable bowl
Spoon
Hot pads
Microwave (obviously)
Instructions:
1) open biscuit mix and measure out half of it into the microwavable bowl (This is not an exact science). I use a ceramic rice bowl that also doubles as an instant oatmeal bowl (or a matcha tea bowl when I have my life together, which is pretty much never).
2) add 2/3 cup of water, stir until texture is consistent. It should be very thin, lumps are evil- unless you got one of the cheese kinds, in which case some lumps are evil and some are theoretically cheese.
3) disregard warning on package, lick that biscuity battery goodness right off the spoon! Just don't put the spoon in the sink yet, you're not done with it.
4) Microwave for five minutes. No, seriously, five whole minutes. No skimping. If you think it's a bad idea, just watch it cook. Heck, even if you don't think it's a bad idea you should still watch it cook, it's really cool to watch. It's so fluffy...
5) USE THE HOT PADS TO TAKE THE BOWL OUT OF THE MICROWAVE. Remember, you just nuked that thing for five minutes straight. It's hotter than the dudes swimming in lava in Dante's Inferno.
6) (optional) Top with butter and/or jam. If you got either the cheese garlic or three cheese kind you probably shouldn't use jam, but if you do, then that is your bizarre life decision, friend.
7) FEAST. Take that spoon and dig in to that lovely bowl of triple biscuit. It should have a consistency somewhere between sponge cake and biscotti (preferably closer to sponge cake), and be steaming hot and glorious.
One bowl biscuit makes for a very filling breakfast, so one package of Bisquick lasts for two meals. And remember: each package is $1, so each meal is about 50 cents (slightly more if you adorn your biscuit). It's also fun to mix things up a little and use this as a base recipe for something else. Last week I had a little single-serve packet of marinara sauce in my fridge because I'd ordered cheese sticks from the cafe in the student union the day before, so I cut up a hot dog, mixed it into a garlic cheese bowl biscuit, and added the marinara on top. Breakfast pizza bowl biscuits are every bit as amazing as they sound. This is basically the same principle as cake in a mug, only theoretically healthier because it's a biscuit instead of a cake. It's also really easy and really, really good!
Have fun and enjoy!
Ingredients/supplies:
1 package of Bisquick(TM) complete biscuit mix. You know, the stuff that comes in a $1 pack and makes six biscuits. My local Kroger has it in two different flavors, my local Wal-mart has three.
Butter and/or jam (Optional)
2/3 cup of water (per biscuit- disregard the part of the package that says you're making six biscuits, you're making two giant biscuits.)
Microwavable bowl
Spoon
Hot pads
Microwave (obviously)
Instructions:
1) open biscuit mix and measure out half of it into the microwavable bowl (This is not an exact science). I use a ceramic rice bowl that also doubles as an instant oatmeal bowl (or a matcha tea bowl when I have my life together, which is pretty much never).
2) add 2/3 cup of water, stir until texture is consistent. It should be very thin, lumps are evil- unless you got one of the cheese kinds, in which case some lumps are evil and some are theoretically cheese.
3) disregard warning on package, lick that biscuity battery goodness right off the spoon! Just don't put the spoon in the sink yet, you're not done with it.
4) Microwave for five minutes. No, seriously, five whole minutes. No skimping. If you think it's a bad idea, just watch it cook. Heck, even if you don't think it's a bad idea you should still watch it cook, it's really cool to watch. It's so fluffy...
5) USE THE HOT PADS TO TAKE THE BOWL OUT OF THE MICROWAVE. Remember, you just nuked that thing for five minutes straight. It's hotter than the dudes swimming in lava in Dante's Inferno.
6) (optional) Top with butter and/or jam. If you got either the cheese garlic or three cheese kind you probably shouldn't use jam, but if you do, then that is your bizarre life decision, friend.
7) FEAST. Take that spoon and dig in to that lovely bowl of triple biscuit. It should have a consistency somewhere between sponge cake and biscotti (preferably closer to sponge cake), and be steaming hot and glorious.
One bowl biscuit makes for a very filling breakfast, so one package of Bisquick lasts for two meals. And remember: each package is $1, so each meal is about 50 cents (slightly more if you adorn your biscuit). It's also fun to mix things up a little and use this as a base recipe for something else. Last week I had a little single-serve packet of marinara sauce in my fridge because I'd ordered cheese sticks from the cafe in the student union the day before, so I cut up a hot dog, mixed it into a garlic cheese bowl biscuit, and added the marinara on top. Breakfast pizza bowl biscuits are every bit as amazing as they sound. This is basically the same principle as cake in a mug, only theoretically healthier because it's a biscuit instead of a cake. It's also really easy and really, really good!
Have fun and enjoy!
7/5/15
July 4th Special: That Freaking Rosemary Bush
Between July 4th, 2004 and whatever day last October (2014) when my parents moved, we were asked by untold multitudes of visitors what the deal was with that one weird bush. It didn't help we frequently told first-time visitors which house was ours by telling them to look for the bush with a giant freaking hole in it, because all of the houses on that block look pretty much the same.
So what did happen? How did we end up living with a bizarre parody of topiary in our front yard for an entire decade? Well, the answer is quite simple really, it began with a misfire, was extended by miscommunication, and went completely unchecked by sheer apathy.
Allow me to set the scene:
Apart from the *incident,* July 4th, 2004 was a display of patriotic enthusiasm at our home like every year before it and several after. It was about 117 degrees outside, but my sister and I played outdoors with our friends most of the afternoon because we were rowdy little kids and Mom was busy cooking. Dad barbecued enormous amounts of meat, the game was on the TV with the sound muted, and as dinner grew closer, family friends gathered, careful to park down the block so as to leave room for the fun.
After praying and eating, we all made our way out front at around 9pm to celebrate our independence from totalitarian dictatorship with the biggest fireworks our remarkably left-wing county fire department saw fit to allow. It was glorious. Sparks of every color shooting eight, nine, even ten feet in the air, whistling and shrieking as they flew. Snaps and sparklers abounded, and because I had achieved the mature and responsible age of nine, my dad even let me help light some of the smaller fountains. We couldn't get the boombox to work, however, so my mom parked the car in front of the house with all the doors open and the stereo blasting patriotic music.
I was taking advantage of the fact that my mom's back was turned to clean out the dessert table as my dad laid out some of the small spinners known as ground blooms. The first one went off just fine, rocketing around the street in a dizzying miniature display of lights and sounds. Things got interesting when he lit the second one though, at first it seemed normal, but it puttered to a lame halt after only a few seconds. Declaring it to be a dud, my dad took a step out to throw it in the wet sand bucket, but it started up again. And then stopped. And then launched itself ten feet off the ground, shot straight over my dad's head, and bounced off the edge of one of the rosemary bushes on its way to the gutter, where it lay still until Dad grabbed it and tossed it in the bucket.
We all chuckled a little as my dad started setting out the next round of small fountains, and then one of my sister's friends noticed that the bush was on fire. It was a glorious pandemonium, half of us kids ran screaming across the street as the adults herded us out of the way, one of the moms grabbed an empty stroller and pulled it away from the bush, my mom ran to slam shut all the car doors and move it away from the bush as my dad dragged the hose across the driveway, toppling lawn chairs in his wake. Naturally, the moment my mom got behind the wheel, the car battery died, but the car was far enough out of the way that keeping the doors closed so that the smoke wouldn't get in was enough. It was one of the most glorious scenes of loosely controlled chaos I have ever seen in my life.
The fire was limited to part of one bush, so once it was out we set off the rest of the fireworks. It took a while to coax some of the younger kids back to the driveway and my parents stopped letting me help light the fountains in case there was another dud. A friend with jumper cables got our car battery going again, and the evening returned to its proper pace.
The next day, our landscaper cut off all the burned bits and said we just had to wait for it to grow back. A few months later, we switched landscapers and the new guy didn't speak English. He thought we wanted the bush to look like that, and we couldn't explain otherwise, so after a while we just got used to having a big stupid hole in the middle of one of the rosemary bushes. For over ten years. Personally, I liked it. It was a constant tribute to the most epic Fourth of July of my childhood, even if it was completely absurd. Maybe because it was so absurd.
So what did happen? How did we end up living with a bizarre parody of topiary in our front yard for an entire decade? Well, the answer is quite simple really, it began with a misfire, was extended by miscommunication, and went completely unchecked by sheer apathy.
Allow me to set the scene:
Apart from the *incident,* July 4th, 2004 was a display of patriotic enthusiasm at our home like every year before it and several after. It was about 117 degrees outside, but my sister and I played outdoors with our friends most of the afternoon because we were rowdy little kids and Mom was busy cooking. Dad barbecued enormous amounts of meat, the game was on the TV with the sound muted, and as dinner grew closer, family friends gathered, careful to park down the block so as to leave room for the fun.
After praying and eating, we all made our way out front at around 9pm to celebrate our independence from totalitarian dictatorship with the biggest fireworks our remarkably left-wing county fire department saw fit to allow. It was glorious. Sparks of every color shooting eight, nine, even ten feet in the air, whistling and shrieking as they flew. Snaps and sparklers abounded, and because I had achieved the mature and responsible age of nine, my dad even let me help light some of the smaller fountains. We couldn't get the boombox to work, however, so my mom parked the car in front of the house with all the doors open and the stereo blasting patriotic music.
I was taking advantage of the fact that my mom's back was turned to clean out the dessert table as my dad laid out some of the small spinners known as ground blooms. The first one went off just fine, rocketing around the street in a dizzying miniature display of lights and sounds. Things got interesting when he lit the second one though, at first it seemed normal, but it puttered to a lame halt after only a few seconds. Declaring it to be a dud, my dad took a step out to throw it in the wet sand bucket, but it started up again. And then stopped. And then launched itself ten feet off the ground, shot straight over my dad's head, and bounced off the edge of one of the rosemary bushes on its way to the gutter, where it lay still until Dad grabbed it and tossed it in the bucket.
We all chuckled a little as my dad started setting out the next round of small fountains, and then one of my sister's friends noticed that the bush was on fire. It was a glorious pandemonium, half of us kids ran screaming across the street as the adults herded us out of the way, one of the moms grabbed an empty stroller and pulled it away from the bush, my mom ran to slam shut all the car doors and move it away from the bush as my dad dragged the hose across the driveway, toppling lawn chairs in his wake. Naturally, the moment my mom got behind the wheel, the car battery died, but the car was far enough out of the way that keeping the doors closed so that the smoke wouldn't get in was enough. It was one of the most glorious scenes of loosely controlled chaos I have ever seen in my life.
The fire was limited to part of one bush, so once it was out we set off the rest of the fireworks. It took a while to coax some of the younger kids back to the driveway and my parents stopped letting me help light the fountains in case there was another dud. A friend with jumper cables got our car battery going again, and the evening returned to its proper pace.
The next day, our landscaper cut off all the burned bits and said we just had to wait for it to grow back. A few months later, we switched landscapers and the new guy didn't speak English. He thought we wanted the bush to look like that, and we couldn't explain otherwise, so after a while we just got used to having a big stupid hole in the middle of one of the rosemary bushes. For over ten years. Personally, I liked it. It was a constant tribute to the most epic Fourth of July of my childhood, even if it was completely absurd. Maybe because it was so absurd.
5/26/15
The Porter Incident
We all have that one childhood memory we wish our parents would forget.
For me, it was at a brewery restaurant when I was seven. I ordered a refill of my made in-house root beer... and got a little more than I bargained for.
I was suspicious when it came, there were less than half as many bubbles as there should have been, and the foam was lasting a lot longer than it should have, but I knew my family would start asking questions if I just kept eyeing it suspiciously, so I leaned up to the glass (I was a bit short for the combination of tall table and big glass) and took one tiny little sip.
Not root beer.
My mother, being a woman of boundless sympathy, took one look at my contorted little face and cracked up so badly she almost fell out of the booth.
My dad looked at her in confusion, saw me forcing myself to swallow instead of spitting beer all over the table, and joined her in laughter.
My sister, who was nine at the time, was confused, but also thought my face looked funny.
"That was not root beer!" exclaimed overdramatic little seven-year-old me, bursting into tears as she unnecessarily decided that the 'trauma' of this day would haunt her for years to come.
Still laughing heartily at my pain, my mother passed the glass to my father for inspection, my father took a sip and determined it to be porter.
By this point I had stopped crying, but I was still horribly upset- that stuff tasted dang awful. Even thirteen-year-old me would still insist that about half my taste buds died a gruesome death that day.
It was then that our server came over and was horrified to learn of her mistake, she was certain that she was about to lose her job and possibly go to jail for serving alcohol to a seven-year-old, but once she explained that some of the taps at the bar weren't working properly and the bartender hadn't labeled the pitchers my parents were more than willing to laugh it off as an amusing accident.
I only wish that they would let me live it down, something tells me it's going to come up again -like it does at most Christmas parties and family gatherings- when I turn 21 this fall. Still, I have come to terms with the story's place in the family lore (I wouldn't post it here otherwise), I'm sure there are worse childhood horror stories to have your parents recount to everyone they incorporate into their friend groups before you've even met them...
For me, it was at a brewery restaurant when I was seven. I ordered a refill of my made in-house root beer... and got a little more than I bargained for.
I was suspicious when it came, there were less than half as many bubbles as there should have been, and the foam was lasting a lot longer than it should have, but I knew my family would start asking questions if I just kept eyeing it suspiciously, so I leaned up to the glass (I was a bit short for the combination of tall table and big glass) and took one tiny little sip.
Not root beer.
My mother, being a woman of boundless sympathy, took one look at my contorted little face and cracked up so badly she almost fell out of the booth.
My dad looked at her in confusion, saw me forcing myself to swallow instead of spitting beer all over the table, and joined her in laughter.
My sister, who was nine at the time, was confused, but also thought my face looked funny.
"That was not root beer!" exclaimed overdramatic little seven-year-old me, bursting into tears as she unnecessarily decided that the 'trauma' of this day would haunt her for years to come.
Still laughing heartily at my pain, my mother passed the glass to my father for inspection, my father took a sip and determined it to be porter.
By this point I had stopped crying, but I was still horribly upset- that stuff tasted dang awful. Even thirteen-year-old me would still insist that about half my taste buds died a gruesome death that day.
It was then that our server came over and was horrified to learn of her mistake, she was certain that she was about to lose her job and possibly go to jail for serving alcohol to a seven-year-old, but once she explained that some of the taps at the bar weren't working properly and the bartender hadn't labeled the pitchers my parents were more than willing to laugh it off as an amusing accident.
I only wish that they would let me live it down, something tells me it's going to come up again -like it does at most Christmas parties and family gatherings- when I turn 21 this fall. Still, I have come to terms with the story's place in the family lore (I wouldn't post it here otherwise), I'm sure there are worse childhood horror stories to have your parents recount to everyone they incorporate into their friend groups before you've even met them...
5/24/15
Homemade Applesauce
I made applesauce last week. This should surprise at least some people, seeing as I don't actually have a kitchen right now, or a budget that includes fresh apples and spices, or a mixer...
How did I do it, you ask? well, I'm glad you asked, let me tell you...
I have been planning this for a long time. That's probably why it didn't raise that many eyebrows when I showed up to lunch with fresh applesauce, everyone's getting used to my devious, scheming ways...
For the record, the apples came from the school dining hall. Yes, the one that's been closed for nearly two weeks. When they are open (basically, not during summer sessions) they have a policy that states that you can carry out one food item per meal, so I spent two weeks carrying out more than 20 apples and storing them in my dorm room. Normally my friends and I carry out bagels and save them at an off campus house called the Green Dragon for late night snacks, but with the semester winding down, we didn't really need a two-week stock of bagels from everyone who eats in the dining hall. And before you ask, I kept them in my fridge while I still had one and then did what I could to keep them cold in the four days between my having a fridge and my having an ice chest. Yeah, a couple of them couldn't actually be used, but I promise it was only about half as sketchy as it sounds, and I made sure I waited 24hrs to check for any adverse side effects before I let anyone besides me eat the stuff.
The sugar came from the coffee shop upstairs from the dining hall, I took a couple whenever I got a tea or something for a few weeks until I built up a pretty good stash. I wanted to make applesauce, but I wanted to do it as cheaply as possible, so this was the easy, logical solution.
The cinnamon was actually cinnamon tea. Tea is one of God's greatest gifts to mankind, and I happen to have quite a collection of different flavors. Any starving college students taking notes in a plan to replicate my unusual cooking technique should be advised that although a good chai would probably suffice, just straight-up black tea with cinnamon and nothing else is what I used and it worked great. Actually, given my plans to take up baking next semester, I have a slight suspicion that I may never actually use that box of teabags for making tea...
As for the part about not having a kitchen, well... That was kind of the point. I wanted to prove to the world that man is limited more by the extent of his imagination than his resources, so I made applesauce in my kitchenless dorm using only supplies I already had to hand with one exception- I bought a potato smasher at Walmart for 88c because it was on sale, and I'm actually going to be living in a house instead of a dorm next semester, and because it seemed more efficent than using my metal tea thermal to smash apples. If this is starting to seem absurdly elaborate to you, just wait until I get to the actual cooking part.
In lieu of an actual cutting board, I began by disinfecting my plastic clipboard and setting it upside-down next to the sink with the clippy bit hanging off the edge so it would lay flat. I actually have a decent small kitchen knife (courtesy of my parents back when I moved in in August), so I used that instead of one of my Swiss army knives to peel and cube the apples. I happen to have a large metal pitcher I picked up when a local antique shop had a massive closing sale back in January, but I suppose any sort of bucket would do for anyone still thinking of trying this at home. Once I had skinned and cubed all the apples (I know the number was somewhere in the low twenties, but I kind of wasn't actually counting), I divided them up between various vessels (three medium-sized mason jars (everyone should own at least three mason jars) and two rice bowls), leaving the pitcher clear to receive the cooked apples. I then added a little bit of water to each of the mason jars -about a third of the way up the jar, around the apple cubes- and secured a string to the lid as I sealed it.
Now, this is the part where this gets sketchy. I knew I would have a problem if I used the microwave, so I used the string to suspend the mason jars one at a time in my partially filled electric teakettle. I had to leave the lid off of the teakettle to do it, and I did notice a slight aroma of cooking motor once, but fortunately I was done cooking for a while at that point. I had to refill each of the mason jars one time the first time around, pouring each half-cooked jar of apple cubes back into the pitcher to season by adding about 15 little sugar packets and pulling open and dumping out two cinnamon teabags. As I added each jar and waited for the next one to have its few minutes in boiling water, I used the potato smasher to mush up and mix the apple cubes and seasoning. Not all of the cubes mashed the same (I don't think all of the apples were the same kind), but the edges of the potato smasher were good for breaking them down into smaller chunks. Once everything was thoroughly mixed, I once again poured it out into the jars and bowls (it took up slightly less room this time, because of the parts that did puree) and used the jars to boil it in the teakettle again. Once each jarfull had boiled a second time (and some of the larger chunks had been boiled a third time to make them easier to deal with), I poured it back into the pitcher and resumed my attacks with the potato smasher. By this point it was getting close to three in the morning and I was starting to get a little bit tired, so I made sure to alternate arms while mixing. When I was satisfied with the mix (and too tired to care about how big some of the chunks *still* were), I put the pitcher in my foam ice chest (which has 'totally legitimate fridge' written on the lid in sharpie) and went to bed.
I have now been living off the stuff (and ramen, and various and sundry other typical college kid foods) for four days. Although it's not quite as smooth as I normally like it, and I have to stir it before eating, it's really very good! And like I said, the only money I spent specifically on this project was the 88c I spent on the potato smasher which, like nearly all of my cooking gear, is a mulitfunctional unit that will undoubtedly get used a whole lot in the coming years. Fellow college students take note.
Am I crazy? Yeah, I kind of figured that was already established. But I have homemade tea-flavored applesauce, so I win.
How did I do it, you ask? well, I'm glad you asked, let me tell you...
I have been planning this for a long time. That's probably why it didn't raise that many eyebrows when I showed up to lunch with fresh applesauce, everyone's getting used to my devious, scheming ways...
For the record, the apples came from the school dining hall. Yes, the one that's been closed for nearly two weeks. When they are open (basically, not during summer sessions) they have a policy that states that you can carry out one food item per meal, so I spent two weeks carrying out more than 20 apples and storing them in my dorm room. Normally my friends and I carry out bagels and save them at an off campus house called the Green Dragon for late night snacks, but with the semester winding down, we didn't really need a two-week stock of bagels from everyone who eats in the dining hall. And before you ask, I kept them in my fridge while I still had one and then did what I could to keep them cold in the four days between my having a fridge and my having an ice chest. Yeah, a couple of them couldn't actually be used, but I promise it was only about half as sketchy as it sounds, and I made sure I waited 24hrs to check for any adverse side effects before I let anyone besides me eat the stuff.
The sugar came from the coffee shop upstairs from the dining hall, I took a couple whenever I got a tea or something for a few weeks until I built up a pretty good stash. I wanted to make applesauce, but I wanted to do it as cheaply as possible, so this was the easy, logical solution.
The cinnamon was actually cinnamon tea. Tea is one of God's greatest gifts to mankind, and I happen to have quite a collection of different flavors. Any starving college students taking notes in a plan to replicate my unusual cooking technique should be advised that although a good chai would probably suffice, just straight-up black tea with cinnamon and nothing else is what I used and it worked great. Actually, given my plans to take up baking next semester, I have a slight suspicion that I may never actually use that box of teabags for making tea...
As for the part about not having a kitchen, well... That was kind of the point. I wanted to prove to the world that man is limited more by the extent of his imagination than his resources, so I made applesauce in my kitchenless dorm using only supplies I already had to hand with one exception- I bought a potato smasher at Walmart for 88c because it was on sale, and I'm actually going to be living in a house instead of a dorm next semester, and because it seemed more efficent than using my metal tea thermal to smash apples. If this is starting to seem absurdly elaborate to you, just wait until I get to the actual cooking part.
In lieu of an actual cutting board, I began by disinfecting my plastic clipboard and setting it upside-down next to the sink with the clippy bit hanging off the edge so it would lay flat. I actually have a decent small kitchen knife (courtesy of my parents back when I moved in in August), so I used that instead of one of my Swiss army knives to peel and cube the apples. I happen to have a large metal pitcher I picked up when a local antique shop had a massive closing sale back in January, but I suppose any sort of bucket would do for anyone still thinking of trying this at home. Once I had skinned and cubed all the apples (I know the number was somewhere in the low twenties, but I kind of wasn't actually counting), I divided them up between various vessels (three medium-sized mason jars (everyone should own at least three mason jars) and two rice bowls), leaving the pitcher clear to receive the cooked apples. I then added a little bit of water to each of the mason jars -about a third of the way up the jar, around the apple cubes- and secured a string to the lid as I sealed it.
Now, this is the part where this gets sketchy. I knew I would have a problem if I used the microwave, so I used the string to suspend the mason jars one at a time in my partially filled electric teakettle. I had to leave the lid off of the teakettle to do it, and I did notice a slight aroma of cooking motor once, but fortunately I was done cooking for a while at that point. I had to refill each of the mason jars one time the first time around, pouring each half-cooked jar of apple cubes back into the pitcher to season by adding about 15 little sugar packets and pulling open and dumping out two cinnamon teabags. As I added each jar and waited for the next one to have its few minutes in boiling water, I used the potato smasher to mush up and mix the apple cubes and seasoning. Not all of the cubes mashed the same (I don't think all of the apples were the same kind), but the edges of the potato smasher were good for breaking them down into smaller chunks. Once everything was thoroughly mixed, I once again poured it out into the jars and bowls (it took up slightly less room this time, because of the parts that did puree) and used the jars to boil it in the teakettle again. Once each jarfull had boiled a second time (and some of the larger chunks had been boiled a third time to make them easier to deal with), I poured it back into the pitcher and resumed my attacks with the potato smasher. By this point it was getting close to three in the morning and I was starting to get a little bit tired, so I made sure to alternate arms while mixing. When I was satisfied with the mix (and too tired to care about how big some of the chunks *still* were), I put the pitcher in my foam ice chest (which has 'totally legitimate fridge' written on the lid in sharpie) and went to bed.
I have now been living off the stuff (and ramen, and various and sundry other typical college kid foods) for four days. Although it's not quite as smooth as I normally like it, and I have to stir it before eating, it's really very good! And like I said, the only money I spent specifically on this project was the 88c I spent on the potato smasher which, like nearly all of my cooking gear, is a mulitfunctional unit that will undoubtedly get used a whole lot in the coming years. Fellow college students take note.
Am I crazy? Yeah, I kind of figured that was already established. But I have homemade tea-flavored applesauce, so I win.
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