And now we return to our regularly scheduled programming...

So, I know I've been a huge downer lately.  Obviously, a huge reason that I've been a huge downer is because I've been feeling down, though.  As you know, I've been working through some of my demons.

Sometimes, when you're feeling like things just aren't going right, you need to blog about it, cry to your boyfriend on the phone several times a week, enlist the help of a social worker, and start a band with your friend.

Other times, you just need a fancy-looking drink.  Here's a Licorice Twist, which I lifted from the Spring 2012 issue of the LCBO's Food & Drink magazine.  It's supposed to have lychee in it, but I live in Northern Ontario, so I used guava instead.  Word to the wise: It's not the same.  I found lychee in the grocery store just last week.  Alas, too late.

(c) other 3 percent

A brief explanation

I've been trying to move on from my brief departure from my usual crafting adventures, but I feel that before I do that I must offer some explanation.

I named this blog The Other Three Percent.  I'm sure that at least a few people can guess where that phrase comes from, but for those who cannot, here's the story.  I should note that this is a consolidated account of several events, but here goes anyway.

I was kind of a smartypants growing up.  I followed instructions and did well at just about everything school threw at me.  One day I came home from school with a test I was super-duper proud of.  I got a 97%.  I showed it to my parents.  My father's first reaction was "What happened to the other three percent?"

Now, my father has since explained to me that he was joking.  Sadly, my 11-year-old self internalized some of that question and now I'm always asking myself where the heck the other three percent went.  Because, you know...to lose those three points is a huge tragedy.  Never mind that I have ninety-seven of them in my loot bag already.

I'm not sure what the other three percent really is.  That little bit of not working so hard that everyone needs in their life?  The part of yourself that isn't academic pursuits?  Something I think I lost somewhere?

I think it's the things I do that make me proud of myself - that make up the difference in my shortcomings and make me add up to 100% - which is what I've always expected of myself.

We will soon return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Crawling Out.

 

The turning point, when I realized what was eating me, was a recent experience singing in front of others.  And knowing I was being judged.

I was auditioning for a role in a locally produced musical.  In the scheme of things, not really a high-stakes situation.  Especially since I didn’t have my heart set on a particular role.  I signed up to audition for a principal role, knowing that I likely wouldn’t get it.  I also knew that the music was set in a key that I wasn’t going to be super comfortable with.  Since adolescence there’s been this thing about my voice that I’ve struggled with.  The break.  Lots of singers struggle with the break.  But for me, it was one of the things fuelling my anxiety about singing a solo in front of others.  And I wanted to work on it.

I took lessons. I practiced every day for months.  I could hear the improvement in my voice.  The last few practices prior to my audition, I knew I had it nailed.  And by nailed, I mean, I had done a good job of overcoming the challenges of my voice (not “I nailed it and would totally get the lead role in the musical and become famous forever”, just in case you were confused.)

And then came my turn to audition.  There were nine judges.  There were people there who might form opinions of me and my singing voice.  People who’s opinions I cared a lot about.  And then I felt my homeostatic regulators switch off.  I took a few deep breaths.  The first few bars were great.  But once I hit the first note in the the middle of my break, I knew it had all gone to shit.  The remaining two minutes of the song felt like eons.  I imagined everyone’s ears receiving the wavery, warbly aural information I was sending out, and translating it into judge-y thoughts.

Afterwards, several people told me what a nice voice I had.  How they didn’t know I was such a great singer.  Great job.  Instead of accepting that I had not done the “nailed it” job I knew I could, but had still done a good job since, you know, lots of people had said so, I decided to interpret those compliments as the useless platitudes of polite people.  And I felt like shit for two weeks afterwards.  Because of how my body had failed me again.

And the “again” is important.  Because this miniature crisis I’ve imagined for myself has happened not ONLY because of this recent audition, but because I’m often (almost always) getting pissed off at myself for being unable to overcome the physical and emotional limitations of my personhood (like, you know, getting nervous during nerve-wracking situations, or getting upset when things are upsetting).

I had a good experience last night.  I was invited to a jam night by a friend, at a stranger’s home full of people I’d never met before.  I was terrified.  Like…wet-my-pants terrified.  But I sang along with everyone else.  I picked out a few harmonies.  I let my voice get a little stronger.  People were pointing at me and smiling.  I was getting thumbs-ups.  By the end of the night, I felt like an effing rock star.

So, sometimes I feel like I’m addicted to my own success in the way that normal people are addicted to heroin.  Because last night felt great.  And when I’m not achieving that level of grrrr-eat, the awesome-feelings withdrawal period is long and unbearable and full of irrational tears.

I don’t have a solution to this.  But I’m talking to a counsellor who’s going to help me with some self-acceptance exercises, which is good because I’m having a hard time accepting “not-totally-freaking-awesome” me these days.

In the meantime, though, I think I want to work on managing my nerves.  Last night, alcohol helped.  Sadly, alcohol dependency is something I’m not super keen on adding to my psychological milieu.  So, instead I’m going to have to approach this after-school-special-face-your-fears-style and just keep on finding opportunities to perform.  Which means I’ve got a lot of uncomfortable situations ahead of me.  Hurts so good?

…

 

I sometimes feel so confined by my being.

I find myself wanting to be faster, stronger, louder, softer, smarter, deeper, more creative.

But my mind and body have limitations that get in the way of my will.

I think if I didn’t have them I could be so much more. 

Like, I’ve always wanted to fly.  And I don’t mean piloting an airplane, or hang-gliding.  I mean legit Peter Pan-style levitation.  No, I’m not going to rehash the hilarious story of my attempts at reliving Peter Pan’s best moments.  You can read about that here.  But that hilarious story retells the first moment that I realized that I was not invincible, or able to do whatever the heck I wanted with my body.

I learned a similar lesson about my mind in Second Year Organic Chemistry.

I often imagine myself (my inner self, the one that’s limited only by my will…maybe my soul?) exploding out of my sternum (it lives in my thorax, obviously), laying waste to my ribcage and lungs and flying, golden – like Ariel’s voice in The Little Mermaid - off into the ether to do all those things my body won’t let me do because it’s slower, and weaker and hoarser and brasher and stupider and duller and more boring than I want it to be.

But then, of course, I wouldn’t have my body anymore and my experience of all the awesome things I could do without my body would be insensible…because I left the sensing part behind, ribcage splayed.  My body would be dead without that other inner part of me.

So…that’s a problem.

…And from out of left field…

 

Before you read this, you should know (all five of you): this is a departure from the usual.  I will not be displaying my booming success or crashing hilarious failure at culinary and crafting pursuits in this entry.

I wrote this a few days ago.  You might find it a little bit funny.  You might find it a little bit dark.  Before you read it, you should also know that I feel better today.  And that talking about it should be ok.  And that I may need to talk about this or something like it again.  And I might do it here. 

_______________________________________________________________________

I have come to the uncomfortable realization that I will never be perfect.

This is terrible news, since I really want to be perfect pretty much all the time. 

I spend a lot of time being disappointed.  A lot.

My greatest wish is to do something great and be remembered for it.  Sometimes, I think I’ll just settle for doing something and being remembered for it.  It doesn’t even have to be sort of good.  It could be something terrible.

I had a thought that what I really needed right now was validation.  You know, that I’m a good and worthwhile person and that I’m actually good at the things I am doing.  But I secretly admit to myself that I would perceive attempts at validation as useless platitudes from people who think that being falsely positive is the same as being kind.

Because I’m an ingrate.

What I really need is unconditional love.  Maybe getting a dog would solve all my problems.

I feel pretty low right now.  Which way is out?  I’m supposed to know this.

_______________________________________________________________________

Ok.  Now that you’ve read this, you should know – this is not a reaction to one single unfortunate event.  This is a reaction to several months (perhaps even years) of icky feelings sometimes bubbling up to the surface, and sometimes hiding deep down under my much louder happy thoughts.  But I’m feeling like the icky feelings are getting in the way of a lot of good things in my life, and that’s just not acceptable.  Writing about it helps.  So that’s what I’m doing. 

Star Scarf

 

My best friend has the best maiden name.  And though she admitted she would take her sweet, sweet time changing from maiden name to married name, this year’s birthday present was designed to celebrate her maiden name, and keep her neck and shoulders warm at the same time.

I got the idea over at Lana Red.

First, I bought a swanky pashmina on Etsy.  It came from India.  Or Singapore.  Not sure.  I think I was supporting an international artisan and not a Bangladeshi sweatshop, though, so that feels good-ish.

Then I had to make my fabric stamp.  Out of an eraser.  Without special stamp cutting knives.  Scissors it was. 

Bang up job.  Man, you can really see the cat hair at this magnitude.

Because the eraser I used was teeny-tiny once cut into awesome asymmatrical star-shape, I used my most awesome sewing scissors as a stamp-handle. 

Then I stamped the pashmina liberally and randomly with the purple-fabric-dye-covered star stamps.

Following this, I had a tiny meltdown regarding the colour combination and visibility of the star-stamps.  Had I bought special fabric stamp paint for NOTHING??!?!

Then I tried the scarf on for size: 

So, from afar, the stars are totally not visible.  Hopefully, up close, my friend knows they’re there.  If not, this blog will serve a dual purpose: to make me feel as though I’m an artistic voice in the wilderness, and to let her know that I didn’t just send her a stupid yellow pashmina but a stupid yellow pashmina with invisible purple star stamps.

Hurray!  Happy Birthday, friend!

Strangely Delicious, Predictably Gross-Looking

 

Rustic Spinach Tart – Recipe Origin Unknown

My boyfriend was home for reading week, and I figured this was the perfect opportunity for some domestic experimentation.  Doesn’t spinach pie sound awesome?  Didn’t think so.  And I like spinach.  A lot.

Step 1.  Gather bizarre ingredients.

Step 2.  Make a perfect pie crust using your grandmother’s recipe.  Perfect.

Step 3.  Pile weird ingredients on top of each other, atop half the perfect pie crust.

Step 4.  Cover it with the other half of the pie crust.

Step 5.  Flute it.  However one does that.

Step 6.  Bake.

Step 7.  Behold!  Your creation!

So, this looks pretty normal, but the clear presence of ectoplasm suggests something sinister inside.

It does kind of look like the Frankenstein’s monster of pies.  It tasted pretty awesome, though.  And I cannot express enough that the crust was perfect.

We couldn’t eat all of it, though, and left the remainder in my boyfriend’s parents’ fridge to find when they returned from Florida.  It was, perhaps, not the most generous thing I could have left for them.  Tee hee.

Salt Adventure

 

Mi Pescado a La Sal – Jamie Oliver’s Food Escapes

 

My father gave me this awesome cookbook for my birthday one year.  The only problem with the cookbook is that it calls for such crazy international ingredients that I basically have to take a trip to a major centre to be able to purchase the ingredients. 

First, I drove to Toronto to visit my boyfriend. 

Then I used ALL HIS SALT.

It’s mixed here with fennel, eggs and lemon peel.  I’m not sure how much the effort of peeling the lemons was worth in resulting flavour.

Then I pressed him into journeying downtown to Kensington Market for fish and sundries.

 

Though the recipe called for seabass, the closest thing the fish market we went to had was trout.  Luckily, we were able to meet Jamie’s totally enforceable requirement of sustainable catching due to the fish market’s ethics (not mine, I’ll take any fish, any time).

As I’m obviously opposed to sustainable seafood, I defaced the aquatic body by stuffing it full of earthly trappings like basil and parsley.

Then I buried it in lemon-fennel-egg salt.

And then baked the shit out of it.

Rewind: At the ethical fish market, my boyfriend eyed some oysters, bought them, then realized he had no oyster shucker.  So we went on a magical journey through Chinatown in the cold, carrying $40 worth of ethically magical fish and mollusks looking for the one store on Spadina that carries oyster shuckers, passing it once, giving up and then finding it on the way back.  Sigh.

The shucking went well, though, so we had these too.

 

And then I attempted to make the accompanying aioli, which calls for a mortar and pestle, which my boyfriend doesn’t own.  So I first attempted to scrape the garlic and salt together on a cutting board with the flat of a knife, and then I used all three of the food processors in my boyfriend’s apartment, all to no avail.  Jamie’s picture looks like yellow-y mayonnaise.  Tears ensued.  Behold, the failure aioli.

If you look really closely, you can see the chunks of garlic that the impossibly dull blades of the blender just pushed around the salty olive oil.  Sigh.  But, back to the fish!  Next I had to bust it out of its salty prison.

 

And then bust its tender, juicy flesh out of its own scaly prison.

And then drizzle it with failure aioli and side it with boyfriend’s delicious experimental couscous and accompanying olive and cucumber salad. 

Buen provecho!

The Best Dog Ever

 

My boyfriend’s parents are the worst people to get gifts for.  They have a lot of things already and they’re so into their routine that it’s really hard to get them something inspired that they don’t already have.  They also have the best dog ever.  So I came upon this website that gave them something functional but also celebrated their ownership of a pretty awesome dog (which is saying something, since I’m really not a dog person). 

Step 1.  Order very small quantities of expensive materials (that I could probably find locally but wanted to get at 11 p.m. in my pajamas) on Etsy.

Step 2.  Pay through the nose on shipping costs.

Step 3.  Fire up the hot glue gun.

Step 4.  Realize I have to find an awesome picture of the puppy.

Step 5.  Turn off the hot glue gun lest you burn down your apartment.

Step 6.  Find an awesome picture of the puppy on your boyfriend’s facebook.

Step 7.  Use the work photocopier to make the appropriate photocopies.

Step 8.  Grind your teeth as you cut the puppy out of the very expensive fabric you purchased on Etsy in the middle of the night in your pajamas.

Step 9.  Fire up the hot glue gun!  Again!

Step 10.  Glue the dog onto a bag.  Grind your teeth as you do it.

Step 11.  Put the bag away, patting yourself on the back for a job well done.

Step 12.  Pull the bag out a few weeks later to agonize over whether this was a great gift idea or not.  Realize that some of the glue has come loose in storage.  Weep copiously.

Step 13.  Fire up the hot glue gun…

Step 14.  Give the gift to your boyfriend’s parents.  Read feigned enjoyment into their thanks.  Weep copiously.

Step 15.  Feel sheepish when, months later, you realize they use the bag for transporting dog toys when the best dog ever stays at doggie daycare.  Sigh with weary contentment.

Baby Terror!

 

Here’s how I made these cute little baby shoes for my cousin’s firstborn.

http://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/tamika---baby-shoes-in-garter-stitch-and-easy-lace-stitch

 

1.  Learn of cousin’s impending natals (like nuptials, right?) in an email from your father.

2.  Vow to begin knitting extravagant and complicated thing immediately.

3.  Re-learn of cousin’s baby news in a text message from your cousin.

4.  Take the Lord’s name in vain at your inability to remember important things, like your cousin’s baby news, your boyfriend’s birthday, your keys before locking the door, etc.

5.  Find baby shoe pattern online since that’s all you’ve got time for now.

6.  Buy the ugliest colour of yarn you can find.

7.  Begin knitting.

8.  Stop knitting for a matter of months.

9.  Knit like a madwoman because shit, she’s at like 36 weeks now.

10.  Finish the project. 

11.  Hyperventilate into a paper bag because the shoes seem big and you have no idea how big baby feet are.  Engage in hysterics because your life is not in lockstep with all the breeders out there and maybe you should hear your biological clock ticking but you don’t…oh shit, there it is.  Continue to hyperventilate through your hysterics because you don’t know how big baby feet are and you have nobody to breed with right now.

12.  Realize that procreation at this juncture in your life would be followed shortly by you locking yourself out of your apartment with your unattended baby sitting next to the oven where you left ALL THE ELEMENTS ON while you take your boyfriend out for dinner because you secretly forgot his birthday the day before.

13.  Realize that you’ve misplaced your cousin’s address.  Again.  Send her a facebook message intimating same.  Read more impatient tone than you ought into her response which contains only the requested address.

14.  Lament your colour choice one last time prior to shipping the package.  Resign yourself to being crazy childless second-cousin lady for the foreseeable future.

The Weirdest Fusion Guacamole Ever

 

Fire-Roasted Shrimp with Guacamole (Food & Drink Spring 2012)

I love guacamole.  I love shrimp.  The title of this recipe sounded amazing.

Start by making chili honey.  Realize after the stores close that you have less than half the required amount of ginger.  Question why there is ginger involved in a guacamole dish.

 

Place chili honey ingredients in a pot.  Decide that any ingredient called “hot pepper” equals jalapeno at my grocery store.

Produce the chili honey.  Question whether or not one can produce honey if one is not a bee. 

Chop an amusingly shaped red pepper.

Question the wisdom of putting red pepper (even if amusingly shaped) in guacamole.

Really question the wisdom of putting SESAME OIL in guacamole.  Mash it up anyway.

Peel and devein the shrimp.  Wonder if the “freshwater shrimp” label is legitimate.  Become very concerned about whether or not freshwater shrimp tastes ok.

Pan fry (fire roast?) the shrimp, drizzling it with chili honey (which contains no actual honey).

 

Plate two shrimp as directed in the recipe.

 

Eat the remaining shrimp, dipping directly into the guacamole bowl.  Marvel at the total overabundance of guacamole.  Let it go rancid in the fridge over the next few months.  Continue not to clean it up.

Country Grammar

 

No-Bake Macaroon Cookies (Jessica Lewis via Cook Along With…..Hammonds Plains District Girl Guides of Canada)

 

I cooked up a storm this weekend, so I was glad to find this no-bake recipe on the list.  I love macaroons.  They’re tasty, and easy, and help you win friends and influence people.

Concern yourself for hours over where to find a whole coconut, and how to shred it appropriately.

Assume they meant package.  Puzzle over how big a package.  Use the package you’ve already got in the cupboard.

Puzzle over the interesting use of commas in the first instruction.  I see they opted for regular comma and superfluous comma, but not Oxford comma.  Strange.

Mix together the oats, cocoa and coconut.

Boil together the sugar, butter and milk.

Wonder why the hell they call it a no-bake recipe if you still have to contend with boiling sugar-butter-milk mixture.

 

THAT LOOKS TERRIFYING!  If I were baking, it would be confined to the inside of my oven.

Mix the wet and the dry stuff together.

Wonder aloud how anyone ever decided they might try to make this.  Wonder why they didn’t stop at this point.  Doesn’t that look gross?

Spoon the mixture onto a cookie sheet and let cool until hard and not sticky.

 

Ply your friends with them for future favour extraction.  Muah-ha-ha-ha!

I’m the worst friend ever

 

Parisian Fruit Tarts – The Modern Baker: Time-Saving Techniques for Breads, Tarts, Pies, Cakes, and Cookies (Nick Malgieri)

 

1.  Buy awesome cookbook from your friend who works at awesome local bookstore. 

2.  Exchange approving nods & fist-bumps while you pay for the book, in acknowledgement and celebration of mutual love for baking. 

3.  Wait until your friend quits her job at the bookstore to work down the street in the local delightful florist/home accent/gourmet food/awesome stuff store. 

4.  Realize you need individual tart pans in order to do the recipe justice.

5.  Text your friend to see if they have tart pans in stock at aforementioend awesome-stuff-store.

6.  Show up at the store to buy aforementioned tart pans when your friend is not working.  Press her mother (store owner) and co-workers into helping you find the pans after they’ve rearranged the whole store and forgotten where they are. 

7.  Frantically text your friend that nobody in the store knows where the tart pans are.  HALP!

8.  Find the tart pans beside you on a table that you’ve looked at four times already.

9.  Text your friend too late that it’s ok, we found them.  Observe her grumpily sleepwalking into the store from the back door.

10.  Successfully make the tarts!  HURRAY!

11.  Post this picture to facebook, asking your friend if she’d like one, because they were not a failure!

12.  Forget to provide your friend with one for several days.

13.  Open the container to put the last one in a package to give to your friend, as promised.  Discover that it is covered in blue mould. 

14.  Slide the tart into the garbage, never speaking of the tarts or the tart pans again.

So…it’s like a hermaphrodite?

 

Yup, I made pork tacos, and then I made an off-colour joke about euphemisms for genitalia.  It’s that kind of night.  You’re welcome.  Or, I’m sorry…as the case may be.

So…I decided to try a new recipe that I found at this website:

http://www.thekitchn.com/thekitchn/quick-weeknight-meals-2009/bretts-cool-and-spicy-avocado-pork-tacos-quick-weeknight-meals-recipe-contest-2009—096859

Begin with a pork tenderloin. 

Decide on pork, not because the website calls them pork tacos, but because the local butcher has pork on sale.  Cha-ching. 

Toss the pork in cumin, salt and pepper. 

Giggle about how you secretly wish your boyfriend would douse himself in cumin instead of expensive cologne.  Lament your weirdness.  Huff the fumes from the cumin container.

Pickle the onions.

 

Be skeptical of the advisedness of the quick-pickled onions, even if the ARE vidalias, because you hate that raw onion taste that lingers in your mouth after you eat and sticks to your toothbrush so that when you go to brush you teeth before work so your mouth doesn’t smell like sleep and breakfast, you get an instant shot of minty-fresh ONION mouth.  And if the quick-pickled onions do that, you’re gonna be annoyed.

 

Make an avocado, cilantro and jalapeno pepper smoothie.  Seriously, that’s basically what you end up with.

Undercook the pork.  Because that’s how you like it.  Trichinosis be damned!

  

Place undercooked pork, tasty onions with potentially dangerous long-term breath-effects, and avocado smoothie that looks like baby poop but is surprisingly delicious atop a soft corn tortilla.  Take a picture.  Then try to fold the taco.  Break the taco in the process.  Drop all the contents on your lap.

The end.

How to Ruin Your Perfectly Good Things

 

Start with these perfectly good, if slightly dusty, sunglasses.  I think they’re even polarised lenses.

Buy expensive gold seed beads.  Extra tiny ones so your cat can get indigestion when he consumes them. 

Warm up your hot-glue gun.  Make sure it’s extra hot. 

Follow the instructions at this website TO THE LETTER. 

Realize when you’re done, that this is what you’ve made:

And that you’ve ruined a perfectly good pair of sunglasses, possibly ones with polarised lenses.  Shit.