Dig In

Now that the primary circus is over, my morning web-surfin' on quiet days in the office lacks some of it's former zest. But two loves of mine remain:

New York Times Columnists

The Debunking of Hysterical American Health Scares

Vis a vis the first link, I'm really hoping that this format will catch on, and that they'll set up a double column with Dowd and Kristol. Mostly because I'm pretty sure that Maureen Dowd would end up clubbing Kristol to death with a bottle of gin, thus ridding the Op-ed page of his vileness and striking some fear into David Brooks.

And speaking of salt, Taste of Chicago is going on this weekend. And even though last year resulted in a handful of people with salmonella, I'm planning to attend anyway. I think that, what with the constant threats of e-coli spinach, poison salmon, and tainted tomatoes, I've gone past my horror threshold. And really, what's a little food poisoning compared to the ridiculousness of enjoying a B-L sandwich on a summer afternoon?

Black Cat Bone and a Mojo Hand

Happy Friday 13th everyone! I'm trying to think of a way to celebrate. Finding an underground blues bar and getting drawn into a high-stakes game of chance with a one-armed man sounds appropriate, but I'm taking suggestions.

Thus far, my bad luck has consisted only of my body playing a cruel trick on me. You see, last night I decided against opening a bottle of wine, thinking that I had to get up early for work, and I'd only end up drinking a glass too many and having a headache. (Yes, I've been depressingly responsible about that sort of thing these days...)

But you know what? This morning my head hurt anyway! For reasons entirely non-alcohol related! I feel completely taken in.

But on the bright side, dear readers, it seems that we're actually not perishing from sloth, fat, toxins, and cell-phone radiation.

Coming up are pictures of the west coast and the tale of my secret monacle, but since I'm in the office I feel like I should maybe, you know, work.

Ketchup, and other vegetables?

I've noticed that, just as every media outlet appears to be contractually obliged to call John McCain a maverick eleven or twelve times a day, claims of elitism in a candidate can only be valid with the evidence of:

a) latte drinking
b) arugula

I find the latte bit more puzzling, because everybody drinks them. Hell, I've even come across the term "latteconomizing", in a Tribune advice column, in reference to cutting back on ones' twice-daily trips to Starbucks to offset the pinch of our economic downturn.

The slander against arugula leaves me not so much confused as indignant. In the first place, there's really nothing so fancy about it. It's just another salad green, and one which costs slightly less than the supposedly more proletarian bags of spinach that sit next to it in our local grocery store. And it's delicious. So, America, shut up and eat your damn vegetables.

(I'm also reminded of a tidbit I encountered in some American History class: Somewhere around the 1700's, there was a law in New England that you could only make your indentured servants eat lobster a few days out of the year, since they regarded them as horrifying sea-bugs)

And in the spirit of cataloguing snobbish vegetables consumed by educated white people, this is what Joel and I had for dinner last night:

(Let's say it together kids! Ar-ti-choke!)

If I were a more diligent photo-taker, I'd have started clicking as I was cooking these beasties, because they are spiny and peculiar-looking, and come with stems that must be removed with a great hack from a knife. But as you can see, I caught the aftermath:

What I love about eating artichokes is the process, peeling and gnawing the leaves, working your way to the innards. This is the opposite of a snack, a food that requires commitment and attention, as well as the imagination to suppose that a spiny cactus-thing could be good to eat:

Needless to say, if Rush Limbaugh comes out with the breaking scandal that Obama likes to follow his arugula lattes with a side of artichokes and socialized medicine, I'll be okay with that.

My Ordered List

For about two weeks now I've been carrying a paper journal around with me. This is a choice I based on the following circumstances:

1. I recently bought a purse large enough to not bulge awkwardly with this addition.

2. This journal is bound with red leather, which matches my day-planner, and plays to my newly acquired love of matching.

3. I've stopped thinking of the act of writing in it "keeping a diary in public" (something that seems to me a little unseemly, or at least conspicuous) but instead think of it like this: I'm taking notes.

And of course, if I can come up with a numbered list of reasons to do a thing, I'm likely to feel it's a good idea.