Eat By Date

I have this weird thing where when I have leftover groceries from a recipe, I don’t use them up immediately because I don’t want to eat the same thing two days in a row.  What happens is that the grocery, in this case, asparagus, sits in the fridge.  It sits in the fridge for maybe a week before I realize, “OMG, I forgot about that.”  I immediately wonder, “Is it still good?”  and because I’m too scared to check, I LEAVE IT IN THERE to check later.  It’s the most illogical thing ever, but the fear prevails.  -_____-  I know, I know.

So days pass, and the asparagus is nagging me from the bottom of our fridge, but I can’t bring myself to look.  I’m afraid of what I might find.  Finally, when it’s time to clean out the fridge because we’re going on a trip, I take it out, and Google “How do you know if asparagus is bad?”  The asparagus doesn’t smell so good, but the texture isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.  The appearance has definitely changed.  It’s definitely not firm anymore, and I even found one stalk that had what looked like mold!  (OK, it was definitely mold)  But some of the stalks seem like they’re firm enough to still eat?  Maybe?  Do I risk it?  So I go through the asparagus, and think to myself, well maybe if I cook it, it’ll be okay, because I hate throwing out food.  I rinse them, even snap them up into bite sized pieces.  But a twinge of doubt is there.

So then I do some more Googling and ask, “When is it okay to just cut off moldy parts and eat the rest?”  Apparently, according to USDA, hard veggies and hard cheese where mold is part of the process are O-K.  Everything else, nope.  The asparagus?  I think it’s hard but porous enough to be considered a soft veggie, which is what USDA considers cucumber.  Bah.  I guess I’m throwing my asparagus away.

So I guess this is my umpteenth lesson that I should just use up everything, but then I end up with oddly ratio’d meals.  What is a girl to do?  Have asparagus two days in a row?  Does it freeze well?  That’s a Google search for another time.

Meanwhile, I have some sirloin (I think?) defrosting.  What to do with it?

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Old and Stale

My question to my mom before I got married was, “How do we stay fresh?”.  My main fear was becoming old and stale.  It was inevitable, wasn’t it?  Everything in the old creation gradually becomes old, stale, and dies.  The beautiful flowers eventually wither and fall.  My car puts on miles and scratches day after day.  Our clothes grow weary.  Was there any secret?  I didn’t know.  I still don’t know.  But I like the name of this site–Happy Wives Club.  Pretty cute.

So I’ll leave you with a quote from Fawn, since she’s been doing more research on the subject than me– “The best time to love with your whole heart is always now, in this moment, because no breath beyond the current is promised.”

There you have it.  Isn’t so much of the advice in our lives focused on the now?

Clothes, Clothes, Clothes.

Recently I’ve been going through a shopping craze.  And by that I mean, adding things to a shopping cart online and not going through with it after reading reviews from the BBB.  I mean browsing through hundreds of pictures of dresses and inspiration.  I mean sending pictures to my friends and hubby and asking them what they think.  I mean wondering what my skin tone is, whether it’s warm yellow and cool yellow.  It’s UGH time consuming.  Stop being so glamorous, fashion bloggers!

This is going to be a lot of rambling, and not in the least bit interesting, just warning you.

So I recently bought a bag from ThredUp because my bag finally lost its magnetic clasp to the wind somewhere at the school I work for.  Of course it did.  I’m so glad I have a work hoodie that I wear everyday because it’s been a few weeks and it already has highlighter and who knows what else all over it.  Anyway, back to the purse.  So I’m kind of excited cause I got a great deal on it, and it should be in “excellent” condition even though it’s secondhand.  But here’s the thing, I’m also worried people will judge me for the brand (Am I the judgmental one?  Oh dear) and think I spent hundreds of dollars on a purse.  So there I was, weighing these things, debating whether I should get a purse.  UGH.  BUT I also read that the quality is actually better with these expensive branded bags, and they can last you a long time, versus my bags my relatives get me from Asia which start shedding fabric chips after a year or so.  (I love you Mom and Auntie and all the bags you’ve ever gotten me I promise!)  The thing is, if I get something that lasts, that means I’m also kind of stuck with it for awhile.  This could be either a good or bad thing.  A day or so later, I found another purse that looked really cute, and I started to regret that I didn’t wait.  I know, the drama.

Next up in life as an adult– need to identify the bug that has been biting me in my sleep.  I’m so scared!  And looking up answers on the internet makes it worse because there are so many gross pictures.

Pretty pictures of tulips instead of bugs found here.

Rough

Life has been rough, especially this past week.  I’ll attribute it ambiguously to health things, and I can only hope that with time the effects will be less.  I can’t be entirely sure, and it is scary going into a tunnel that feels familiar yet different.

Thankfully, these days, respite is not as difficult to be found, in a fond memory of Taco Tuesdays in college or a large slice of Costco pizza.  Hmm, why do I see a trend?

Thoughts and fears can be overwhelming at times in a strange kind of way.  For a moment you recognize that they come from within you and that they are not quite real.  Yet the madness seems impossible to shake at the moment.  You bury your head in your Bible reading.  Isaiah.  Not much in there that I can actually understand, but still a comfort, nonetheless.  Then, the thought of food prepared by somebody else.

Will ever food prepared by me be as good as food prepared by somebody else?  I mean subjectively.  A humble bowl of lentils prepared by a friend for some reason, is much more delicious than a feast prepared by me.  That may be an exaggeration.  There are a few things that I can make that I enjoy.  One thing that I have enjoyed is guacamole.  But it also takes me like three hours to chop and MASH everything omg mashing.

Fear

I’m afraid I can’t really write anymore.  I’m afraid that there’s a part of me that is stunted, numb, and that I won’t get it back.  I’m afraid that I won’t be able to get it back without a price that is too high to pay.  I’m afraid I gave up far too much for a hope that was only a hope.

Sometimes I wonder about great artists and the often crazy lives they lived.  I wonder if every Sylvia Plath is on a path to die by placing her head in an oven, orange juice left out for the children.  I wonder if every Lucy Maud Montgomery has a family that covers up a secret of a death that may have been premeditated.  I wonder if every Bach takes unauthorized month long vacations, every Mozart lies subject to scrutiny because of peculiar behavior, and every Beethoven, troubled.  I wonder if the somewhat milder ones, at least in our knowledge of them, were really that mild, whether Brahms’ deep friendship with Clara was simply that, a deep friendship, or whether the destruction of their letters suggests something more.  In other words, I have long been bothered that the persons whom I admire and whose work I appreciate, often lived severely strained  and unhappy human lives.  And I have also been bothered that the persons with whom I am most assured of their  natural steadfastness and stability also seem to lack natural musical or artistic expressivity.  I realize this is surely a generalization, but from my limited experience with music and literature, this has been my regretful observation.  I am bothered not because I am bothered by the persons themselves, but by the implications.  Would it then follow that the same portion that made The Bell Jar possible is also the same portion that explained her later tragedy?  Not that they would be one and the same, but is there overlap?  Where does it start and where does it end?  If I look back, even the poems and songs that touched my classmates the most were the ones born of genuine inner turmoil and searchings of heart.  Does it then follow that one’s skill does not produce art, but that skill is only the medium by which a complicated soul is expressed?  That without it, the form remains only a skeleton of metaphors and proper harmonies?  Or do I need a new definition of beauty?  Profound yet simple, deep yet solid, intricate yet strong.