I Never Knew There Was a Word for it
From this weeks A-Word-a-Day (see Blogroll)
This week’s theme: porcine words to mark the Chinese new year.
epigamic (ep-i-GAM-ik) adjective
Of or relating to a trait or behavior that attracts a mate.
Examples: In an animal, bright feathers or big antlers.
In a human, a sports car or a big bust.
[From Greek epigamos (marriageable), from epi- (upon) + gamos (marriage).]
-Anu Garg (garg wordsmith.org)
“The change from the young, intellectual, epigamic Jays, to the more
diplomatically sophisticated Hendersons also reflected a sharp change
in Washington lifestyle.”
Peter D. Carr; It Occurred to Me; Trafford Publishing; 2006.
Winter Cold Punch
We’re so romantic. Valentine’s Day found us sniffing and snorting, and coughing great big (highly unattractive) coughs. We did manage a great Valentine’s Dinner at a nearby restaurant. As we dined, we saw at least four young couples with tiny babies enjoying a romantic, candlelit dinner – it warmed our hearts. But we skipped date night, watched a movie and this morning I fixed up some hot punch to give us a psychological boost.
This is very much the same as the Christmas Rum Punch, but no rum, and lighter on the spices. It is full of vitamin C, goes down easy, and permeated even the stuffiest nose with the sweet smells of cinnamon and clove.
1 jar Cranberry Juice (Can be Cran-Rasberry, or Cran Grape, or what the Sultan Center has!)
1 quart/litre Pineapple Juice (Sultan Center has FRESH pineapple juice!)
1/4 cup brown sugar
12 inches cinnamon stick (4 sticks of the small Ceylon cinnamon sticks)
1 Tablespoons whole cloves
1 orange peel
Bring to a simmer, and quickly scoop out the cinnamon and clove pieces, or it will get too spicy. When cool, if there is any left, pour back into empty cranberry juice jar, refrigerate until the next time, and microwave until hot. It’s the combination of heat and Vitamin C that knocks out the cold/flu going around, and even better, it smells yummy.
Kuwait Police: One Reason to Love Kuwait
Today I was caught up in one of the traffic stops. It figures. Usually they just wave me through, but last night going out for dinner with my husband, I didn’t want to carry a purse so I asked him to carry my Kuwaiti residence card. See what I mean about “it figures?”
So I confidently handed the policeman a copy of my passport page, my medical card and my driver’s license.
“Madam,” he said with concern, “your license has expired!”
“Oh no!” I said. “No! Not really?”
“Yes! It expires 1-1-07 and it 07!”
“Yes! It is still 07! So it is still valid!”
“No, madam, if you have an accident it would be a big problem! You must get a new license!”
“I will tell my husband right away so I can get a new license.”
Actually, the new license is in progress, and I knew I was taking a chance driving on the expired, temporary license. I just hoped I wouldn’t get stopped. Now I just hope the new, permanent license comes through relatively quickly.
But here is what I love. In the US, police aren’t always so flexible. I might have had my papers taken and not have even been able to drive home with my groceries. This guy was polite, spoke English well (even though by all rights, I should be speaking Arabic with him) and he was even sympathetic. He was on my side, even though I didn’t have the right papers.
My husband says “He knows you can’t be held accountable because you are a only a woman, and therefore irresponsible.”
I know my feminist side should be offended, but I just sit here grinning.
Valentine
Talking with a friend the other day, about being married a long time, we were both stunned into momentary silence by the realization that we had lived with our husbands longer than we had lived with our birth families.
We think of all the forces that created who we are as children, but we forget the years of tumbling around in a marriage that helps to wear off all the sharp edges and smooth the jagged surfaces.
It’s not the boxes of candy or the roses, not even the romantic dinners (no! I am not cancelling!) It’s everything . . . the financial struggles, raising children, building a family life, taking care of aging relations, and, God willing, grandchildren . . . good times and bad times. In the long run, it’s all good.
Adventure Man, Happy Valentine’s Day. Through thick and thin, big guy.
Better Faster Smarter Solution
My husband jokes that when I have a sore throat, it is the beginning of a common cold, but when he has a sore throat, it is a rare tropical disease and he should be babied and coddled and have tea and soup brought to him, and warm washcloths, and we should speak in sweet soft voices in case he is breathing his last.
Last night I had a tickle. My husband, God bless him, knows that what makes me all better is miso soup, so I had miso soup for dinner last night.
Today, I think I have the rare tropical disease kind of sore throat. It was just a tickle yesterday, but by night I was in the grips of a no-kidding, no sleeping sore throat and stuffed nose, coughing, and feeling rotten. I feel like something the Qatteri Cat dragged in.
I rarely get sick. I don’t have time to get sick now. Please, dear readers, share your top “get rid of a cold” solutions, and do it NOW! I need your help!
Japanese Breakfast
This is for my husband. I know he reads my blog now and then, and I wonder how long it will be before he sees this?
The other night, we were out for our favorite “fast” food, which is Japanese food. Not just sushi, we love miso soup. When I am sick, miso soup makes my throat feel better. I feel like I am eating good health, with all those little tofu squares and that seaweed, I feel like the miso soup will make me better. I also love salmon teriyaki, and chawan moushi, and a variety of lesser known Japanese foods.
And my husband said “isn’t miso soup what Japanese people have for breakfast?” and I didn’t know. He though miso soup and rice, so today I looked it up on Google, “Japanese breakfast”, and here is what I found:
Japanese breakfast consists of steamed rice, miso (soy bean paste) soup, and side dishes. Common side dishes are grilled fish, rolled omelet, pickles, dried seaweed, natto, salad, and more. Actually, you can make any dishes to go with rice and miso soup in Japanese breakfast. As you see in the photo, it’s an etiquette to place a bowl of rice on your left and to place a bowl of miso soup on your right side at the table.
It was on Japanese Breakfast About.com, along with ads for Japanese condoms (they are different from others?), a sushi making robot, a Samurai hotel and recipes for steamed rice, miso soup, natto (fermented soy beans), Nori (dried seaweed), Tamagoyaki (rolled omelet), grilled fish and pickles.
It seems to me that Japanese food is going through an internationalization process – sushi used to be all about rice and fish, and main dishes were simple, often stir fried, but all in all, very healthy. Now, I am seeing sushis with fried stuff in them, mayonnaise (?????), and we were offered a green tea ice-cream for dessert . . . that just doesn’t strike me as Japanese. Is it?
But this is for my husband – in case you really read all the way down – YOU WERE RIGHT. (I am obligated by family law to say that.)
Winter Comfort Food: Cornbread and Chili
The recipe for cornbread is right on the cornmeal bag. I bring back medium grind cornmeal (I like Bob’s Red Mill 100% Stone Ground Whole Grain cornmeal, found in the Health Food section of the stores that tend to carry it) when I travel, but I have also found cornmeal in a variety of grinds in Kuwait from time to time. You want to buy cornmeal in a store with high turnover, because it gets bugs if it has sat too long in a warm environment. I store mine in the freezer, and pull it out when I need it.
The secret to truly excellent cornbread is using a cast iron skillet. As the oven is heating, you stick the skillet in. When the oven has reached 425 F/220 C, you pull the skillet out and pop 2 Tbs butter in. Let it melt, and pour in the batter.
As my Southern husband reminds me “it isn’t Southern unless you start with a stick of butter.” You can try it with a stick of butter (1/2 cup) if you want, but I want to live a long HEALTHY life, so the 2 TBS are enough for me.
Cornbread
2 TBS butter (melted in skillet)
1 Cup Cornmeal
1 Cup Flour
1/2 tsp. Salt
4 tsp. baking powder
1 egg
1 cup milk
Measure the cornmeal and flour, salt and baking powder into a bowl, add egg and milk and mix until smooth, but don’t mix too much. Bake in a buttered skillet at 425 F / 220 C for 20 – 25 minutes, until golden brown on top.
I also put some butter on top when it comes out of the oven, and spread it as it melts.
Chili
500 grams / 1 lb ground beef
1 chopped onion
2 cans red kidney beans, drained
2 small containers tomato paste
1 tsp salt
1 tsp cumin
1 tsp masa harina (this makes it real, but I don’t know if you can find it in Kuwait)
2 – 5 TBSP chili powder
4 cups water
Brown ground beef in medium large pot, drain beef in colandar. While draining beef, brown the onions. Add beef back into pot, add tomato paste, salt, cumin, masa harina, chili powder to taste, and water. Stir well, bring to a boil and then turn to lowest heat and let simmer 2 – 4 hours. Add more water if it gets too think or it starts burning on the bottom. The long slow cooking makes everything tender, and blends all the flavors.
Cornbread and chili
Break cornbread into small pieces in bowl.
Cover with hot chili. Beans and corn are a complementary protein, so you can feel very virtuous eating this – besides, it just smells SOOOO good after those hours of simmering. To add even more healthiness, add some grated cheddar cheese over the top of the hot chili. YuMMMMMMM.
In the South, people break up their cornbread into a glass, and fill the glass with milk. My husband assures me it is delicious. I believe him, but because I didn’t grow up that way, it looks gross and I can’t even watch him eat it that way. But comfort food is comfort food, and if it works for him, I don’t have to watch!
Seattle Earthquakes
This is for AbdulAziz. I had just posted my Pacific Northwest Bouillabaisse when I read his comment on the Seattle Houseboat Culture, and his experience with a Seattle earthquake.
In 1996, we bought a house in a Seattle suburb. We had been living in Florida, and I never liked it. In the Tampa Bay area, it was always too hot, too humid, I never felt like I had my normal energy. I was so delighted to get back to the Pacific Northwest.
“No more sinkholes!” I told my husband. “No more hurricanes! You’re going to love Seattle.”
We had just moved in. I was in our bedroom reading, my husband and son and a visiting friend were playing a board game in the living room and all of a sudden the game seemed to be getting a little rowdy. They must be wrestling or something, because the house was shaking. But the shaking got more and more violent, the entire house was shaking back and forth on its foundation. I could hear my husband in the dining room telling them to stop, and then realizing that the chandelier was swaying so violently because it was an earthquake.
That winter, the day after Christmas was a huge snowstorm, all the electricity went out for several days and we were totally snowed in, cold, freezing cold, no heat.
My husband has never let me forget it. I have photos of him, out in his big coat and fur hat, shovelling the acres of snow off the drive so we could get over to my parents and . . . shovel more snow.
“No hurricanes!” he taunts me. “No sinkholes! But earthquakes and snowstorms! Welcome to the Pacific Northwest!”
Adventure Man and the Space Shuttle
The phone rang this morning at 4:30 a.m. That’s never a good thing.
My husband’s voice came over the line. “I’m here in Florida. I’ve been in a terrible accident. I’m OK, but I’m standing by the side of the road freezing my a$$ off waiting for the police to get here. And the woman who hit me is really really mad at me.”
It’s OK. I’m wide awake. The first “ting” of the phone sends a shot of adrenalin running through me that never fails to give me instant focus.
“You’re sure you’re OK?” I ask.
“Yeh, I just need to hear your voice. There are all these people waiting for the space shuttle to take off, and I knew they weren’t paying attention to their driving. There are people parked all along the sides of the road, people pulling in, people pulling out and looking for a better place to park . . . .”
“Oh. . .the space shuttle. I forgot about that.”
“Yeh, there’s a huge crowd here. There hasn’t been a night take-off for a long time. So I could see traffic slowing down in front of me, I slowed down, and this woman just plows into my rear end. You should see the rental car! What am I going to do? . . .oh, the police are coming. Will you look up our insurance policy and claims number and I’ll call you back.”
I get the information, put it by the phone and go back to sleep. It’s cold here, too, but I have a very warm cat snoozing away next to me, so I drift off again.
The phone rings again at 6 and I give him the information he needs. He is still a little shaken, but the police have been very good to him, and are going to give him a ride to a hotel where he can spend the night, contact the car rental people and calm down.
“The woman who hit me is really really angry,” he says in a hushed voice, because she is still near. “The police cited her for hitting me, and she says it’s my fault for slowing down!” We both get a good chuckle out of that – in the US, under pretty much any circumstance you can think of, the person who hits another car from behind is always, ALWAYS wrong. You’re supposed to be paying attention.
“Oh – and while the police were taking the information and clearing the accident (both cars had to be towed) the shuttle took off!”
“Have you ever seen that before?” I asked
“No! And I didn’t care to this time, either. But there it was, in the middle of all this accident chaos, and everything stopped. It was pretty spectacular.”
The police told him the nearest hotel was a roach-infested druggie hangout and took him down the highway, with his three pieces of luggage, to a nicer Holiday Inn. At the Holiday Inn, the desk clerk took pity on him and gave him a very nice room and an accident victim discount. The car rental people brought him a brand new great big car with leather seats in the middle of the night and apologized that this had happened to him in Florida. He is still a little shaken – the woman really hit him hard – but all in all, things went pretty well. He is on his way to his cousin’s house this morning, and a good, hopefully uneventful, visit.
And he got to watch the shuttle take-off. We once lived in Florida. People would travel from all over the world to come watch a shuttle take-off, and it was always iffy. Shuttle take-offs get postponed all the time, weather, mechanical malfunctions . . . sometimes the delay is short, sometimes a week or more.
So I just have to laugh at his luck. He doesn’t even care about the shuttle launch, all he wanted to do was to get to his cousin’s house, and the shuttle launches when he is in the perfect position to view it.
Photo courtesy of http://www.astronautscholarship.org
Cross Cultural Flummox
Scanning through the blogs yesterday, I saw one I almost didn’t check. It seemed to be a no-brainer. LaialyQ8 asked if you would share your password with your husband/wife.
Sheerly out of idle curiousity, I checked. And I was stunned to see the responses. Almost every person said they WOULD.
I’ve thought about it all day. It has to be a cultural difference. Hands down, I bet most of my friends would say “no way!” It isn’t a question of how much you love someone, to me, I just need some areas of my life that are private. I don’t keep secrets from my husband – I share things with him gladly.
But do I think he needs access to my correspondence with old girlfriends, friends I knew before I knew him? If they confide details of some crisis to me, does he need access to that information?
He trusts me. He should! And he would never, never ask me for my password, and I wouldn’t ask for his. Of course we share passwords for financial records and access, but not for our e-mail accounts.
It never for a heartbeat occurred to me there was another way of thinking about it. I was flummoxed (that’s for you, Zin!) And it is good information; I need to think about this and integrate it and try to understand it. That’s one of the things I love about living in a foreign country; challenges my assumptions and forces me to think differently, outside the box.
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