Rollie Pollie Fish Heads

The problem with me is... I like my food to be cooked. I never realized that was a personality flaw until this trip. It's not that I want everything cooked, just some stuff. Like anything on my plate that used to be a living creature I prefer cooked.



Basically day 4 in Osaka and I am way over the food already. Part of the problem I think is that we are going out to a lot of "nice" dinners (kaiseki ryori). It's a problem because in Japan you can interchange "nice dinner" with "gross dinner". Well I can, anyway. I say that because a big bowl of noodles or rice is always good, but you don't get that at the nice dinner. In fact you can count your carbs on one hand.



We went to a very nice restaurant Saturday night for a kaiseki type meal. Many many.....many courses of small precisely styled and arranged food. I was up for it for about the first 5 courses or so. The most fascinating was this perfect gelatin sphere with tiny suspended cephalapods inside. It was just like those spheres from The Day the Earth Stood Still (Keanu Reeves remake version). But despite the presentation, my sense of gastronomic adventure was waning by course 6.



Somewhere around course 11 I perked up. Tempura. Yeah, baby! Of course it was only 3 tiny bites precariously stacked on a tiny tray. But, hey, take what you can get at this point. One thing that looked like asparagus, but it bifurcated like a piece of broccoli. I called it broccolaragus. And two individual green beans. Stingy bastards.



As I stuck that first green bean, or should I say "green bean", into my mouth I gained an important insight. My body makes a special, very paticular shuddering sensation everytime I eat a fish head. Of course I never knew about it until this trip, but I'm learning to recognize it quite well. An entire little fish, scales, eyeballs and all, disguised as a tempura green bean.



These Japanese chefs are wily opponents to be sure. Yes, you suckered me this time, but I'll be back. And I'll be smarter.



(*follow up blog note. I was back. I was not any smarter. And it was not "dessert" in any coventional sense of the word.)

I Hate Illogical Arguers

A discussion based on facts is so easily resolved. This is tiring. She doesn't have a leg to stand on and we both know it.

Don't we?

She chatters on with her points, such as they are, seemingly confident in her assertions. Logic so skewed...where does one even begin to rebut?

"The whole premise of your argument is fatally flawed. I hope you realize that," I manage to wedge into her filibuster.

She frowns and continues on, undeterred. Chattering away like a chipmunk. Absurd really. But then, as I give my best disapproving look and struggle to get in a word, I can actually feel the momentum turning against me. Ridiculous!

Panicking, I hear myself blurt out, "Because I'm the Mommy that's why!" I cringe. She turns on her heel, declaring victory. I throw out one last barb, a blatant ad hominem attack, "Don't forget Miss Sassafrass, you are only 3 years old. You are not in charge."

She sends a look back over her shoulder. Is that pity I see in her eyes? And her expression clearly says, "Oh really Mommy? We'll just see about that."

Nothing says Merry Christmas like Canned Beets

We were doing a food drive at church and the youth pastor told the kids to be sure not to give the homeless gross food. Only food you would like to eat yourself. Good tip. He has to say that because as soon as we hear the words "food drive", we all think "Here's our chance to get rid of those canned beets."

Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.

I don't think the question is about whether it's right to give homeless people canned beets, I think the more fascinating question is why we even have canned beets in our pantries in the first place? For God's sake why?

Here's what I have in mine. Canned asparagus. I only tolerate fresh asparagus on a good day. Canned, it is the slimiest green foul-smelling mush on the planet. And I know my slimy green foul-smelling mush, believe you me. Also we have a can of Carnation condensed milk. It's not that gross. But it's mysterious. Why is it in there? Who bought it? It's like the ghost of my grandma snuck in and placed that can of condensed milk on the shelf one night to remind me that I should be baking cheescake from scratch like any good post WWII housewife would have in her day. (Wait, do you even bake cheesecake? I have a long way to go on that one.)

But here it is. The Peace of Resistance (Joke. Like to point out the weak ones): A Can of CREAM OF SHRIMP SOUP. Yes, in my pantry at this very moment. I feel certain that if I did some internet research, Campbells's would deny ever manufacturing Cream of Shrimp Soup at any time in their company history. It was a grave error best wiped off the historical ledgers of soupdom. But I, Cynthia Reber, possess this sole reminder of that horrible time in Campbell's research and development leadership (The 70's? I'm assuming? There was a lot of weird stuff going on then.)

And no, I will not donate to the canned food drive. And somehow I'm not able to throw it away, because then how can I ever convince myself again that it really existed? So for my sanity, thready as it is, I quietly push it behind the tuna and all-too-familiar chicken noodle soup. To remain there a silent witness to the mysterious underworld of the pantry shelf.

Thought of the Day

A newly painted room is like a small fresh start.

Do it right, do it tonight

I know that pop lyric writing is not exactly the pinnacle of the arts, but are there any standards at all? I think it's time to draw a line. Just one little line. There are a few phrases so grossly overused that I believe a moratorium is required. You can only crank out and refeed us the same musical line so many times before some sort of ugly prion begins to wipe out humanity. It like when you grind up cows and make other cows eat them for dinner. Oh baby baby mad cow disease. There are certain phrases that I just can't hear anymore on the radio without getting a twitch.

Let's start with the obvious: "On and on until the break of dawn".

I'm sorry, we've reached the 1 billion mark on this lyric. I'm calling for a 20 year moratorium. By that time a new generation of pop music listeners will be ready to think "on and on until the break of dawn" is unadulterated genius. Good for them. The same wankers who want to tell you about this really funny movie called Monty Python and the Holy Grail, but secretly they don't think you'd understand the humor.

With some lyrics it's the relentless grinding repetition with others it's the idiot factor. Some goofy phrase that has no business in any song that takes itself so seriously. How about Fergie's, "..like a little school maid in the school yard, we'll play jacks and Uno cards.." How poignant. I just want to yell "bullshit!" when I hear it. In fact I do. I roll my car window down, stick my head out the window while I'm driving and scream "BULLSHIT!!!" at the top of my lungs. (Well, in my mind I do anyway.)

I used to get all riled up about this one R&B song that was on the radio, "Peaches and Cream". He'd repeat "peaches and cream" over and over. It was such a lame song. I'd always say, "Do you think that guy has every actually eaten peaches and cream? Could he even pick a bowl of peaches and cream out of a line up? I bet if I put some ice cream on one side and a bowl of Fruit Loops on the other he'd be hard pressed to differentiate the 3. And listen to how he's using the simile! The situation is nothing LIKE peaches and cream, there no freaking similarity at all!!" Then my husband would ask me how any Diet Cokes I'd had that day. I tried to explain to him it was not the crappiness of the song, it was the hypocrisy of the lyric. Illogical metaphors, lack of social context, the whole thing on my last nerve.

Okay, yes, maybe some of the songs I like don't have the most stellar lyrics. I'll concede. But here's the thing: Snoop Dogg really DON'T love dem ho's. See? It's real. Fo shizzle.

There, it's out of my system. Now I can just turn on some good music and thank the powers above for Jack Johnson. And the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Deja Vu All Over Again

I was looking at a computer page about bat facts. Specifically the fact that "blind as a bat" is a misnomer. And I was listening to Sam talk on the phone about big numbers. Business type stuff. And then I was struck. Lost my breath, on the verge of something amazing for a split second. And then it was gone.

Deja Vu. I just had one right this minute. A big one. Because they do vary in size. Or is it depth? Or is it strength? Or is it some combination measurement of place and time? And I thought maybe if I blogged very quickly I could retain a tiny shred of that feeling that washes over you the moment it occurs. That feeling of significance, strangeness, being close to the discovery of something heretofore unknown in our normal tiny sphere of thought. But the meaning of the moment and that unique brand of disorientation quickly dissolves. Not unlike a dream only remembered for moments after waking. That is not a coincidence I'm sure.

Deja Vu. What the hell is it really? I remember from a college course on learning and memory that Deja Vu is possibly a new neural pathway trying to form but getting sidetracked into the memory area of your brain. A new piece of information accidentally processed as a memory.

Very neat and tidy. Makes sense. But what about that feeling? And why am I so sure that I dreamed it. Dreamed it and remembered it? About a month ago I think. And I'm almost sure I tried to tell Sam as we were waking up. Because it was so comical. A bat fact. Why were you looking at a bat fact? I have no idea, but I was and you were having a serious discussion with someone right next to me.

That's the trick, see. If only you could tell someone or write it down. Then you would know for sure. Not a sidetracked neural pathway. Something far more interesting. But that would change everything wouldn't it? So it couldn't possibly be true.

After 3 minutes of blogging I have returned to my baseline level of orientation. In nursing we don't say "normal", we say "baseline". It's all relative to how oriented one was to begin with .
Psychic revelation safely averted. Time to return to my bat fact. Due in kindergarten class at 9am tomorrow.

Did you know that the common brown bat can live for over 30 years? It's true.

Cannonballs Strictly Prohibited

Recently we took a mini grown-up vacation to Las Vegas. The vacation was mini, not the grown-ups. We're both quite tall actually. Anyway, we stayed at the Palms and I saw this warning sign at the edge of the pool that made me laugh out loud. So I took a picture for you. Those are my husband's feet.

There was an area along the side of one pool that was only 6 inches deep and had some recliners scattered about. You might think it's overkill to warn people not to dive into a 6 inch reflecting pool. Most places maybe. But not in Vegas. It perfectly illustrates what makes Las Vegas so very entertaining and so awful all at the same time.