A Post About Nothing

Kind of.

Is it just me, or does cauliflower look like a bunch of little brains all squished together?

Let me back up.

So, I made curry with carrots, peas, potatoes, and brown rice for dinner last night. It was pretty delish, if I do say so myself (even thought I can't take credit for the actual sauce because I used this little guy right here…but I didn't over-cook anything, which is a pretty big deal if you're me). Blake thought it needed more ginger. I'm beginning to think that he feels the same way about ginger as I do about garlic. To paint a little picture, The Other Molly once told me that if I had the ability to put garlic on cold cereal that I probably would. To which I would respond that such a claim is preposterous as I draw the line for use of garlic as a condiment at Cream-of-Wheat and Snickerdoodles, thank you very much.

Just be glad you're not my boyfriend.

But, back to the curry.

Yummy? Check.

Filling? Check.

Fattening? Check.

Especially since we decided that some adult beverages (most of which rhymed with "flewdrivers) were a necessary part of our after-dinner Rock Band experience.

And fortune cookies.

And sorbet.

Did I mention that I had spaghetti for lunch, leftover from my weekend in The Chi? (Thanks Mom!)

I woke up today and contemplated hiring a forklift to drive me to work.

Who invented carbs, anyway?

They should be tarred and feathered and then forced to eat seventeen servings of pasta, only to then attempt to fit into their Seven for All Mankind stovepipe jeans.

Very unforgiving, those jeans.

Naturally, lots of green stuff was on my imaginary menu today.

Specifically, a salad.

Because I think I read somewhere that the FDA has declared green Mike-an-Ike’s unsuitable when counted as a serving of vegetables.

Damn.

So I packed myself a salad (and may I just take a moment to talk about how freaking FANTASTIC Newman’s Own Low Fat Sesame Ginger dressing is? I am not a particularly supportive fan of light dressings. I’ve always felt that if the dressing tastes like chalk made of aspartame, that it will render the salad unpalatable after only a few bites, thus depriving we, the eaters, of the nutritious value of the greens themselves. Which was the point of the salad in the first place, am I right? But this dressing…it’s like the heavens parted and the hand of the dear Lord himself reached down to endow Barack Obama with perpetual badass-ness and happened to brush a ginger plant along the way, thereby creating this magical accoutrement . And I promise that my enthusiasm has almost nothing to do with my undying love for Paul Newman himself…le sigh…And end sermon). To go along with this salad, I had an apple, some celery, carrots and the dreaded cauliflower.

The cauliflower, you see, has been lurking in my fridge for a good week and a half. It was purchased with the intent of roasting it sprinkled with some curry powder. What is it with me and Indian food lately? Maybe it’s a hold-over from when The Other Molly and I were living out a-London-ways. Someone stop me before I break down and find a recipe for naan…

I finally decided to cut the darn thing up, in hopes that it would help motivate me to actually eat it. In the process, I kind of wondered why it hadn’t gone bad yet. As I was eating it for lunch today, it occurred to me that the reason it had remained unspoiled all this time is because it’s all smooshed together so tightly that it takes forever for whatever it is makes veggies go bad to actually attach itself to it. And it’s this physical construction which makes it look NASTY.

A fact which, unfortunately, also occurred to me as I was eating lunch.

Sorry.

I guess I should’ve clarified that this tangent was not going in the direction of vegetative sciences and molding properties of root vegetables, but more in the direction of how cauliflower skeeves me out because it looks like cow brains that have been run through a Cuisineart and a trash compactor, respectively.

Because it really does.

Another thing that occurred to me as I was eating lunch is that Clive Cussler does not know how to write female characters.

Why am I reading Clive Cussler, you might wonder.

I needed something to supplement to void in my life after Twilight made its grand exit from my life (and I was able regain normal human brain function).

I figured Clive Cussler would be a literarily-appropriate second act.

And not in a good way.

I was correct. If you’ve ever read either, you know that I speak the truth.

However, in his introduction to his female lead character had just getting out of bed, wearing a halter-top and shorts.

A halter-top.

Are we kidding me, Clive?

No one wears halter-tops to bed. Or anywhere for that matter,

Unless you’re patronizing the Fried What?! booth at the Illinois State Fair.

Then it’s kind of a necessary fashion statement.

I swear that, for the sake of my own sanity, I will post something that makes sense.

Eventually.

It’ll probably have a lot to do with the story of how my car exploded and almost killed me and Lara.

Until then, I’m just going to sit here and think about how even though I should really just drink some tea and go to bed when I get home, I’ll probably have some of my Mom’s spaghetti and maybe a cookie.

Or three.