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December 21, 2006
Ho, Ho, Hum
Dudes, I've totally got the Christmas blues. Each year I think I'll do better; get a tree, make some cookies, drink some egg nog, bake a (non-toxic) pie, sing songs, send Christmas cards, and generally let the Christmas cheer wash over me like a life-saving balm. In past attempts, we've bought and decorated a tree, I've made ornaments and my own cards, and even managed to send them, visited with folks, and so on. But since Brendan's parents have died and my poor dear mam is dead, I'm not feeling it so much anymore.
A couple of years ago, right after Brendan's mother died, we went to Mexico, and I have to tell you, that was one helluva Christmas; half drunk, full of free food, and snoozing in a hammock on our personal balcony in a balmy climate cannot be beat. But alas, this year I had to go and spend my life savings on a wedding so there are no Christmas trips allowed. Not only are there no trips planned, but the one thing *ONE THING* I wanted more than anything else for Christmas I am not allowed to have. No, no, not a baby; an iPod adapter for my car. BOOOOO. Apparently it is too expensive. BOOOOOO.
So pardon my Scrooge-tinged holiday view this year, but having just returned from a trip to San Jose, not having a Christmas tree, not having anyone to bake for or with, and not getting my totally rad iPod adapter for my car, I am feeling more Grinch this year and less Cindy Lou Who.
But you, all of you, should go on an enjoy yourselves this holiday season. Pay no attention to this crotchety little elf. I'll be over here counting my lumps of coal.
Posted by jessica at 09:31 AM | Comments (0)
December 05, 2006
Warning: Domesticity May Be Hazardous to your Health
I have to confess that I have never, ever made a pie before; scratch that, I have never made a pie crust before. My dear departed mother made incredible pies and, more importantly, an incredible pie crust. Her lemon meringue pie, with its flaky, crumbly crust, tart lemon tang, and frothy meringue piled high, was to die for, well at least in the figurative sense. It seems my pies are to die for, very nearly in the literal sense.
This past weekend I was feeling brave and decided it was finally time to take on the Betty Steward pie crust. It is essentially shortening, margarine/butter, flour and ice water. How can something so simple taste so good and be so daunting? I had years of delicious pie goodness working against me here. Was I up to the challenge? Would mine even compare?
Armed with grit and determination, I set Brendan to task, peeling, coring, and quartering the apples while I pulled together my ingredients. Ice water: Check. Butter, meh, vegan margarine will do: check. Flour, fresh from the store: check. Crisco shortening: ewwwww, is it supposed to look like that? Hmmm, how old is it? Does it ever go bad? Well, think, Steward, think. Crisco can't possibly ever go bad. It's not even a food product. So shortening: check.
I cut in the shortening and margarine into the flour, dribbled in the water, fluffed and mixed the dough until it looked just right. I rolled it out with my mother's trusty rolling pin to the perfect thickness, and darned if it didn't look just like hers! I assembled the pie, chilled it for 20 minutes, and then put it in the oven. So far, so good.
An hour later, after I had taken the appropriate precautions to ensure the edges didn't burn, the pie looked perfect, with it's little cut-out "J" resting jauntily on top. I left it to cool and then went in for the final verdict. I sniffed it and broke off a piece of the crust and nibbled at it: It seemed to taste a tiny bit stale from the Crisco, but with the apples I'm sure the final product would be fine.
I cut a slice and my goodness! What happened to the apples?? They were a mush on the bottom while the top crust formed a pefect little dome 4 inches above. Weird, must be the oven which sucks and needs to be replaced, but at least the crust looked perfect. I took a bit and it tasted pretty good - it had the right texture, crumbling to perfection. Hey! It turned out like my mother's crust! Even if it was a little musty! Rock on!
Several hours later, though, Brendan and I were dozing off to sleep, with thoughts of my practical triumph floating in my brain, when I began to feel nauseated. It was strange because I have never had the feeling of falling asleep at the same time I felt like I was going to throw up. (Well, actually maybe in college, but that is less of a falling asleep and more of a passing out...) Anyway, it was the strangest feeling and never having been a fan of hurling, I managed to fall asleep without having to make a visit to the porcelain goddess.
The next morning, however, I felt out of sorts from the night before and relayed to Brendan that I felt sick last night when he exclaimed that he too had felt sick, but it was so weird, because the only time he was ever able to fall asleep while feeling nauseated like that was in college, when he had too much to drink and decided to go pass out somewhere instead of puking. Nice. But consistent. It at least corroborated by suspicions that something I had cooked last night, either dinner or the pie, was the offending party.
Was it dinner? It was mostly all vegan, except for some butter in mashed potatoes and the pie was vegan..... wait a minute. How old was that Crisco anyhow? Determined in our quest for knowledge, not wanting to wrongfully accuse our crusty apple friend and wrongfully deprive us of several more nights of warm pie and ice cream, Brendan bravely offered to eat the dinner leftovers for lunch that day to rule them out as the culprits. Several hours later he experienced no more of our trippy, near puking nausea from the night before, so that left the pie. My precious, precious, poison pie. So.Sad.
That night, I dumped the offending pie in the garbage, along with my *ahem* 8.5 year-old can of Crisco. And while I am saddened by my failed first attempt at an edible pie, I, too, am bolstered by the knowledge that although in the end the ingredients weren't quite up to snuff, I was still able to pull of the right consistency and quality of my mother's crust. There was hope in my future as a baker - Just next time, it should at least be digestible. We all have to have goals.
Posted by jessica at 10:07 AM | Comments (0)
December 04, 2006
What's in a name?
Hundreds of years ago, Shakespeare mused through the lovely Juliet, "What's in a name?" Hundreds of years later, I find myself in a similar pickle. OK, we're hardly talking ancient family feuds, forbidden love, and a joint suicide pact, but as a modern working woman with an established career and identity, I am faced with the the age-old question of "Should I take my husband's name?".
As a young girl. I was no different from other girls my age; flowery, flowing script on my school book covers and notebooks of my name coupled with my true-love-of-the-moment.
Mrs. Jessica Monroe
Mr. and Mrs. Monroe
Mrs. Jessica Steward Monroe
Jessica S. Monroe
Mr. and Dr. Monroe
And so on.
But then I got older, and got me a fancy education at that giiiirls' school, and got a job and got older some more and finally got engaged and suddenly realized, at 30 years old, I wasn't so sure if I was excited about changing my name. Was I ready to give up being Jessica Steward to become Jessica Monroe, aka Mrs. Brendan Monroe?
The reality for me is that I don't feel comfortable changing my name at this point in my life and it is perfectly legal for me to keep my name as it is today. Putting aside legality, there is still an unspoken (and sometimes spoken) pressure to make the change anyway, even though it is more and more common for a woman to keep her name. As one can imagine this is a sensitive topic for some and many have very strong feelings on what the "right thing" is to do on either side.
The upshot is that I understand in our culture, some women change their names so they can signify they are part of a new family and everyone in that new family shares that name. I also understand that some women don't want to be influenced by our patriarchal society, or be perceived as chattel or a second-class citizen, and choose to break from that tradition. I've thought through it and discussed it enough that I understand the perceived implications and complications on both sides of the fence and try to be sensitive to the choices that each person makes as related to their situation.
And since this is really about my new family, when working through this in my own mind, I of course asked my intended for his opinion on the matter.
"Do you want me to change my name?"
"No. That's weird. I don't own you or anything. Did you want to change your name?" (He is such a feminist.)
"No. And since I'll be giving birth to our children, they'll have my name of course." (Testing limits commences.)
"Wait a second. That doesn't seem right."
"Well, how about whoever is the primary caregiver - you know picking them up from school, etc. - gets to give them their last name."
*Silence* (He knows this will probably fall to me since I have the car and they will love me more.)
"Well, how about you change your name to my last name."
"No way."
"How about we pick a completely new last name, like go back to "Mulroe" since that is your grandfather's real last name."
"Uhhhhhhh,, I don't think so." (Trying to be diplomatic, but clearly not going to happen.)
"OK, so you want to keep your name and acknowledge that it would be weird to take your name, since you don't own me, but you want the kids to have your name - even though I am the one carrying them in my womb and giving birth to them, nursing them, and so on- thus marking them as yours. Am I getting that right?"
"Thas' right."
So, long story short - I'm keeping my name, personally and professionally (Ms. Jessica Steward and Mr. Brendan Monroe) and when we decide to have kids we will reevaluate the situation.
To tell the truth, I'm really pushing for us making up a whole new name that we all take together- "Monstew-Ardroe" has a nice ring to it. I'm sure Brendan will love it.
Posted by jessica at 04:16 PM | Comments (0)