Top Chef

My guests said I knocked it out of the park. I'm inclined to agree.



The photos don't really do it justice, but the salad was a treasure chest full of Asian tastiness and the peanut-lime vinaigrette was amazing. Here's the recipe.

The curry was a cinch to make in the crockpot and turned out perfectly. Recipe here. (I added an extra half can of coconut milk and left the eggplant out accidentally).

The wonton chips were a sure thing (as all fried foods are!) but the apricot dipping sauce really made it. Again, the recipe.

And the tarte . . . I mixed pears and apples and added walnuts to the sugar/butter/flour crumble on top.

I'm kind of a haphazard cook, so this feast was by no means a sure thing. But when I'm lucky, I'm really lucky!

Making up for laziness

Apart from running the 8K Turkey Trot and making a couple of not-so-great-looking pies on Thanksgiving, I've done nothing but watch TV and read for the last three days. . . not that there's anything wrong with that.

But today I thought return to productivity again, so I've invited the sister missionaries and my friend Marci over for dinner (my table only seats 4). Marci suggested a roast and mashed potatoes, but I only like my mom's roast. So I opted for something more ethnic, as usual.

I'm making Thai curry (no fish sauce, Mom!) and jasmine rice with a fresh green salad tossed with red peppers, carrots, snow peas, cucumbers and crispy wonton chips in a homemade peanut-lime vinaigrette. We'll have a few more crispy wonton chips on the side with spicy apricot dipping sauce.

And for dessert, a harvest apple-pear tarte with crumbles on top and fresh whipped cream.

Photos later!

Nutty Putty Nightmares

Once upon a time I was 16 and it was summer. My high school friends set out on an adventure. I went along. We drove in an SUV for an hour to the other side of Utah Lake and around in circles on the cracked dirt and gravel roads until we came to a deep hole in the ground.

The Nutty Putty Cave.

"Come on in! It's totally safe and super cool," they urged.

"Down there? Where it's dark?" I asked, suspicious.

"Yeah, once you shimmy through the 'birth canal' you're home free," they chimed.

"Birth canal?! I'll wait up here in case you need me to go for help," I said.

And so, down they went. I sat on the edge of the hole for an hour, holding the end of the rope they unspooled so they wouldn't get lost inside the Earth's uterus.

When the summer sun got too hot, I leaned into the cool air of the deep hole and listened for sounds of life below. I expected to hear yells echoing off the rock at any moment, telling me to go get help. This was before cell phones. I had no idea which direction to drive to find the road. What help would I be?

"Please, please, oh please, don't let them have any trouble," I prayed, silently as I continued to fantasize about how glad they would be I had chickened out when they needed me to save the day.

After an eternity, I did hear sounds down below. One by one, they crawled out of the hole, grimy from head-to-toe and full of exciting tales. They spent most of the time singing harmonies in the echo chamber they compared to a cave-cathedral. Such adventurous nerds, my friends were.

Until today I've regretted not braving the birth canal.

http://www.sltrib.com/news/ci_13864973?source=rv

The newspaper reports a guy has been stuck upside down in that very same birth canal for the last day. Bet he wishes he'd been a chicken like me.

To Tree, or not to Tree

They're setting up a Christmas tree lot a few blocks from my house. I passed it on the way to work this morning and immediately thought - "Oh, a Christmas tree! I should get one this year!" Except that I haven't had a Christmas tree since I left home 15 years ago. Such a shame.

While everyone else was getting a jump on their Christmas shopping the day after Thanksgiving, I was always dragging my mother around town in our VW Van hunting for the perfect tree: fresh enough to give off that intoxicating pine scent through the New Year, full enough to make a statement, but not so full that I can't wrap lights around each individual branch.

Yes, each branch must be wrapped individually. White lights only. I'm very particular . . .which is why I was pretty much the only decorator of the tree in our house. I'd wrap lights and place decorations while Mom scurried around putting out all the other decorations - the nativity scenes and wreaths and nutcrackers.

Decorating for Christmas was always my favorite part of the season and every night before bed, I'd turn out the room lights and sit in the glow of the tree thinking happy holiday thoughts.

When did I turn into the Scrooge of Christmas decor? Now I can't be bothered with the expense of the decorations; the hassle of storing them the rest of the year; the possibility that the tree will catch fire and burn the apartment building down while I'm out. After all, I'm never home enough to really enjoy a tree, so there doesn't seem to be a point. I settled for a poinsettia and a stocking on the mantle last year.

This morning - for a few delirious minutes - I thought I'd turn over a new leaf and buy a tree from the lot down the street. Then I remembered that not even my mom has a tree anymore. She just strings a multi-colored strand on an old ficus and calls it merry. We've both been bitten by the same Scrooge bug.

Or maybe it wasn't so much the decorating we enjoyed as the decorating together.

Dr. House Lives at the Biltmore

I'm a huge fan of the TV show "House" because of how the main character isn't afraid to tell it like it is to his patients. His bedside manner is dreadful, and I'd probably not want to be treated by him, but he's a truth teller.

Check this out from the local newspaper: House has a kindred spirit living in the North Carolina mountains.

Dr. Earl Sunderhaus told the patient that thick eyeglasses would not cause her to go blind, "but her thick thighs and diabetes would."

"I poked her thigh to emphasize that diabetes is the leading cause of blindness," he said Thursday. "People have got to accept criticism without getting their bowels in an uproar."

Even the guy's name sounds like House! His patient (a welfare recipient pregnant with her second child less than a year after giving birth to the first) complained to the NC Medical Board, which may revoke Dr. Sunderhaus' license.

The doctor got back by writing a letter to the Governor.

He wrote North Carolina Gov. Bev Perdue, referring the patient's "irresponsible orgasm" that resulted in children whose medical care is provided by Medicaid.

And what if the board takes his license?

"I'm 77," he said. "I can tell them to stick the darn thing."

You go, Dr. SunderHOUSE!

Phew

If you're reading this, you're probably far enough away that you didn't see me this week. You should be grateful for that, because I wasn't much fun to be around.

I had more work than I could get my head around and it just about killed me. I didn't have time to exercise. I didn't sleep enough and every evening I had commitments that cut into the time I desperately needed to finish my work projects. It didn't have to be so hard, but I'm not good at handling anxiety sometimes. So there you go.

At one point my boss had to pull me aside and tell me to chill. That's how lame I am.

On the upside, those projects are done and they turned out okay. The coming week will be less stressful - mainly because I'm taking Thursday and Friday off and I plan to do lots of pie baking. (I'm going to test a cool new crust recipe my mom sent - it uses vodka. Stay tuned!)

Tuesday night was Lyle.

This is a terrible photo - but I was on the front row and he sang some of my favs and a bunch I've never heard but know well now that I've purchased his latest record. Love Lyle.

My apologies to anyone (yes, you Mom) who was worried since I left that stressed-out post up all week. If I'd had time to change it, I would have. I'm still alive and I can breathe without choking now, so that's progress.

Just call me Old Faithful

Some days I feel like a Yellowstone attraction, barely keeping the anxiety at bay as it churns just below my calm veneer, occasionally sending up spouts of steam. As quickly as I jam a finger in one leak, another gurgles through. I'm desperate to keep the vague worries from escalating into gut-gripping panic. Reading books, watching TV, surfing the web, small-talking with friends on the phone all help. So does the Zoloft.

And it's not like there's anything to be worried about. No dangling sword of Damocles or impending crisis. Just niggling little things I can't control at work, at church, at home that aren't worth getting worked up over. But they bubble and hiss just under the surface and if I'm not careful to breathe slowly, repeat reassuring mantras and otherwise keep myself distracted, there's a good chance one small geyser will escape and in that moment of weakness, a thousand others will come spurting through the too-thin peace of mind I work so hard to maintain.

Updates

Every day this week I've had plans to write and didn't. So allow me to do a quick summary.

Monday
A flash of movement in the headlights jolted me out of a sleepy daze on my way to work at 3:45 a.m. A squirrel running for its life, fluffy tail trailing it straight as an arrow. Then another flash. An owl, flying low and sleek, white puffy cheek feathers, beady black eyes closing in on its prey. Poor little squirrel about to meet its maker at 3:45 a.m. on a Monday. And I thought having to be at work by 4 a.m. was a bummer way to start the week.

Wednesday
The person with the building key didn't show up for work at the gym on Wednesday morning, so I drove to another gym nearer my office. I used a weight machine I'd never tried before and strained my right quad. It's Saturday and I'm still limping. My haphazard approach to weight training is probably very unsafe.

Thursday
I spent the evening at South Pacific and came home with the scent of salty sea air on my skin. They had a magical backdrop lit to give the impression of an endless horizon over the ocean. It looked just like the view from my grandparents' Hawaiian condo. Amazing. And the singing! I will never forget the resonant bass of the man who played Emile. Rogers and Hammerstein are masterful. I'd never seen a full production of South Pacific on the stage and now I think I may never see another because nothing could compare to the Broadway revival. I'm now resolved to read Michener's Tales of the South Pacific, on which the musical is based.

I'm writing this now to the sounds of Lyle Lovett. Next week is his concert - front row seats!

Saturday
It's been raining in Charlotte for three days - the remnants of Hurricane Ida. Today, though, the sun is bright and it's 72 degrees. Everyone's out raking endless piles of soggy wet leaves from their yards. The leaf-raking never ends when you live in a town with so many trees. Makes me glad I have a condo with no yard. . . I'm free to enjoy the glorious cool, dry air and brilliant fall colors without distraction.

Are you ready to ROCK?

My dad taught me to love music: Linda Ronstadt, Barry Manilow, Pavarotti, Whitney Houston - anything with a good melody.

But my brother taught me to love COOL music. There was the year he learned to play the guitar and traveled around to all the elementary schools in the district singing John Denver hits. Then came the White Album period in junior high he listened to nothing but The Beatles. High school was was Led Zeppelin, Jimmy Hendrix, Stevie Wonder . . . and all the while I was stuck on Michael Jackson and 1980's era ballad abominations like "Lady in Red." The travesty of youth.

And yet, the good stuff seeped from under brother's bedroom door and into my subconscious so that when I turned 21, a light went on and I was converted to rock and roll. Always a late bloomer, I begged my brother to let me pilfer his music collection. Soon he would become rock star in his own right, recording albums and letting me tag along to his gigs.

Nowadays our conversations frequently include a "hey you should check this band out" reference from my brother. His latest project is a rock-pop ballad co-written with his 4-year-old daughter: "Caterpillar don't you cry, someday you'll be a butterfly."

He turned 34 yesterday, so this is shout out to my favorite brother and main music curator.

Rock on Chris.

P.S. Take six minutes and watch this. Can you believe Sesame Street rocked this hard?! I can totally relate to the kid at :38 seconds in to the video!

Happy Birthday Low

There are very few people from high school or college with whom I am still in touch at the age of 35.

This is one of the reasons I resist Facebook. Once I'm on the site, I know all of the people I knew at Provo High and BYU will find me. I'll be obliged to account for the last 20 years of our lives. The Christmas cards will start up again and the "Hey, we're going to be in Utah for the holidays, want to get together?" invitations.

I know I won't be able to muster the energy to keep up the charade. I'll stop responding to the emails and the Christmas cards will come later and later into the New Year before stopping altogether. And then they'll remember me as a jerk, rather than a curious "I wonder where she is now?" afterthought.

On the otherhand, my youngest sister Laura turned 28 yesterday and she is still in touch - very closely so - with many, many people she knew at 16. She still sees them when she comes home for a visit, her husband and 2 year old in tow. They come visit her in a distant state. She sends cards and gifts and remembers their birthdays. And I feel compelled on the day after her own birthday to tip my hat to my little sister.

She is the most devoted friend I've ever known and I'm lucky to have her as a sister. Even when I'm a little distant and lazy in our relationship, she never lets me slip too far.

I love you Laura. Happy Birthday.

Desperately Seeking Cinnamon

You don't realize how much you miss something until you realize it's missing.

Ever since I realized there are no cinnamon bears in the South, I've been obsessively checking the candy aisles at every grocery store, drug store and gas station. I'm compelled to pop into every candy store I see.

Who ever heard of a candy story with enormous barrels overflowing with taffy, pop rocks, swedish fish and every other confection under the sun - including the really gross ones like spiced gum drops and rootbeer barrels! - but NO CINNAMON BEARS?

I'm beginning to think it's a North/South conspiracy. Spice sales financed the Northern military so the Confederacy banned cinnamon bears out of spite. They must have left that little detail out of the history books.

But now, thanks to a dear, generous friend, I can give up the candy store quest. This amazing stash of regular and CHOCOLATE-COVERED cinnamon bears greeted me at the door on Saturday.


I should be set for at least a year, assuming I can exercise a shred of self-control.

Fat chance.