I can put off deciding what to have for dinner for as long as I want, but it’s just going to be dinner time again tomorrow and I’ll have to do it again.
Tag: food
An update on my snobbery journey
I’ve talked about this a couple of times— hell, I’ve been blogging on this site since 2013, I’ve talked about everything a couple of times— but I very badly want for there to be something that I am a snob about. Specifically, something food or drink related. The problem is, most of the snobbish foods and drinks are things I don’t actually like. I don’t drink alcohol, which means I can’t be a wine snob(*) or a whiskey snob. I don’t smoke, which rules out cigars. And, man, I have tried to be a snob about coffee. I bought a burr grinder and a French press and everything. My palate, frustratingly, is shit. I cannot tell the difference between fresh-ground beans and preground; I was prepared to let the French press take over my entire personality and I stopped using it after a week or two. It tasted the exact same except with more steps, and the process of making the coffee didn’t feel special enough for the extra steps to be anything other than a waste of time. I’ve tried fancier coffees to no avail. I drink my coffee black and that’s pretty much all I’ve got. I understand what people mean when they say Starbucks tastes burned, but I don’t go to Starbucks anyway so that little rebellion isn’t worth much. I am sad to report it, but I will never be a coffee snob. I can’t even properly look down my nose at people who don’t drink it black. Hazelnut coffee creamer is delicious.
A few weeks ago it occurred to me that I was an adult with a job, and as such I could purchase an electric kettle if I so desired. I initially bought it thinking it might make the French press easier, but I quickly realized that it also meant I could finally start drinking hot tea.
I should back up a bit. I didn’t start drinking coffee until I was around 40, when I decided I was going to get over my weird lifetime paranoia about pouring hot liquids into my mouth and forced myself to drink coffee until I liked it. Despite having been a fan of iced tea for literally my entire life, my newfound affection for coffee never generalized to tea. Why? I have no damn clue. It genuinely didn’t occur to me that I could start drinking hot tea until after I bought the electric kettle.
And …
guys.
Do you know what a tea sachet is? They’re little pyramid-shaped bags of tea. They look like this:
They generally contain a higher grade of tea than teabags do; having looked into it, my impression is that teabags are full of the tea equivalent of seeds and stems and that sachets contain, y’know, bits of actual leaves in them. They’re a bit more expensive but not tremendously so, and they steep exactly the same way you might steep a teabag. I’m pretty sure the word is pronounced sashay, but I’ve been calling them satchets because while I want to be snobbish that doesn’t mean I’m about to lower myself to pronouncing French correctly.
Anyway, I can actually taste the difference between tea brewed from a sachet and tea brewed from regular teabags. I can’t do a perfectly controlled experiment, but I have some Earl Grey teabags and some Earl Grey sachets and the sachets are definitely stronger and more flavorful than the teabags are.(**) And yes, every single time I make myself Earl Grey tea, I hear this in my head:
Anyway. This is a long post just to say that once I run through the supply of teabags I’ve purchased (Bonus fact: “sachet” isn’t a euphemism for sexual assault! Also good.) I plan to stop buying teabags altogether. I’m waiting to run out of something before I move on to, to continue the Star Trek references, the final frontier, and start experimenting with actual loose tea.
That’ll really make me fancy.
(*) One of the least fun nights of my entire life was the night my friends dragged me to a wine bar in Wrigleyville. I’m completely used to being the sober guy at the bar. Being surrounded by people daintily sniffing and swishing glasses of wine nearly ended me, especially since I’d been forced to dress up for the occasion. I damn near left and went to a movie by myself.
(**) I am currently drinking some of this, which tastes good and smells absolutely divine. Also, and randomly, I’ve discovered I don’t like chai, or at least the kind of chai I bought, which contains black pepper, a spice that should never be in a drink.
In which today got away from me
Three or four Saturdays in a row now have involved a lengthy afternoon nap; my body has been doing this thing to me where I’m waking up at 6:30 on Saturday mornings whether I want to or not (spoiler alert: I don’t want to) and have been completely unable to get back to sleep. This has led to hours-long naps on each of those Saturdays, eating my entire afternoon.
Well, tonight the boy had a birthday party to go to that was a good 45 minutes from our house, so after driving him out there my wife and I had dinner at Das Dutchman Essenhaus and spent some time attempting to shop in Amish country; it turns out Amish country shuts down entirely at 6:00 PM on Saturdays other than that one restaurant so we didn’t really get to do any actual shopping, instead driving around and alternately dodging horses that were supposed to be in the road and chickens and deer that weren’t. We just got home; it’s 9:00 and I still feel like we dragged the boy away from his party too early.
(The family of this friend of his is richer than God; the building we originally thought was their house, because it was house-shaped and considerably bigger than our own house, was actually their gym, an entirely separate building from their actual house. When he got in the car at the end of the night he said that they had spent a fair amount of time at the party digging a tunnel in their foam pit, which means they have a foam pit. We do not have foam pit money in the Siler household.)
Anyway, I’ve spent all day writing a review of Keith Ammann’s new book in my head; I got an early copy of it and it releases this week, so absent any world-shaking events that absolutely must be written about, expect a book review tomorrow.
Counting Crows tomorrow!
… assuming, that is, that the Indianapolis police department doesn’t decide to turn the protests violent. I’m only a teeny bit worried about it; I bought the concert tickets well before the No Kings protests were a thing, and I’ll be traveling right during when most of them are going on, but I assume that particularly in a city the size of Indianapolis nobody’s gonna be super concerned with the official start and end time. I’ve never seen the Crows live, but I’ve downloaded a bunch of their shows and I’m expecting a really good show. And I’m planning on hitting the Lego store on the way home on Sunday, so Father’s Day is gonna be lit.
Last night I texted my wife and said that I wanted to go to an Italian place called Carrabba’s for dinner tonight. It’s a chain but they’re not exactly ubiquitous, so if you haven’t heard of them don’t worry about it. What you need to know is I didn’t actually want one of their entrees– they do a ridiculous carrot cake and I actually wanted some of that. Bek agreed and so the three of us headed off for Italian after she got home from work.
We walked in and immediately something felt off. We were seated immediately and made a sort of half-confused eye contact on the way to our table, then after being at the table for a moment she leaned over to me and asked if the place had seriously remodeled since we’d been in there last. I remembered the decor, but it wasn’t matching with what I had in my head. Then we got the menus and that’s when I realized it– we were in the wrong damn restaurant. So I’d said I wanted to go to Carrabba’s, and we’d gone to Carrabba’s, but what I actually wanted was Papa Vino’s, which is a much more local place (only three locations total, all within an hour of each other) that was a block away. The really ridiculous thing is that my wife was also thinking of Papa Vino’s, and had made the exact same mistake I’d had– when I said Carrabba’s, she heard that, and drove to that place, all the while expecting it to be Papa Vino’s when we walked in.
Anyway, we’re cowards, so once we’d been seated the notion of getting up and leaving was unimaginable, and it turns out the lobster ravioli at Carrabba’s is pretty good, but I didn’t get my God damned carrot cake. I mean, come on. Look at this:
So, yeah, we have to have Italian again next week, I guess.
Because I’m dumb
A couple of days ago, I was at 287 pounds on the scale. Objectively, that’s a lot, especially at my height. However, that’s also the lightest I’ve been in at least four years and probably more like five or six. I’m down over thirty pounds.
Today I had Qdoba for lunch, two doughnuts, and McDonald’s for dinner.
Kinda want to die.
In which I’m not complaining but I definitely am
I am not big on the whole St. Patrick’s Day thing. I have been more strident in my dislike in the past, especially when I lived a life more likely to expose me to drunken idiots in green (ie, when I lived in Chicago) but I am not willing to even pretend to be remotely Irish, am definitely not remotely Catholic, and I don’t drink, and between those three things I don’t have any particular use for this holiday. This means that when my wife told me that we were getting together with her side of the family today, and that “brisket” would be involved, I was excited as hell– I never get brisket– and I did not even think to connect it to the holiday.
You can imagine my consternation when we got to the party and the “brisket” was corned beef, which yes, I understand is from the same part of the cow and is in fact a different preparation of the same meat, but Goddammit when I get to a party and I’m expecting brisket on a Sunday afternoon and instead I’m given a reuben I might start muttering under my breath and quietly sending pointed and slightly disrespectful text messages to my wife. Don’t misunderstand me, I love a good reuben, although my particular preference for brined meats on rye runs more to pastrami– but reubens don’t at all fit into the same headspace as “brisket,” dammit, and part of me still feels betrayed.(*)
The rest of me is stuffed full of corned beef, though, so all in all it was a pretty good day.
(*) I should have learned after seventeen years of marriage into this family that I should never assume I know what is going to happen when we go to her sister’s place for a meal, even when said sister isn’t responsible for the cooking, and most of the cooking for this particular event was done by her cousins. The last time we went there for Thanksgiving there were no mashed potatoes, which is a food sin of the highest order, and I absolutely left that particular gathering with my dis firmly gruntled. You can’t even call it Thanksgiving if there are no mashed potatoes. It may as well be Mashed Potato Day. There can be other potatoes too, I’m fond of au gratin and any form of sweet potato, but either way wrongs were committed against Thanksgiving in general and me in particular.
I had no pie today
… but I did have a slice of abso-damn-lutely delicious carrot cake for dessert that I grabbed from our local grocery on a whim, and I’m so sugared up right now that I might die, and that’s fine, and if you’re one of those people who doesn’t like carrot cake you may have a regular carrot and find an alternate use for it. Carrot cake is Goddamned awesome and I have it maybe once a year, and tonight decided to be the night.
And I think I’m going to leave it at that, because I just found out that the Post Office is cutting 10,000 jobs and anything else I have to say is going to attract the attention of the FBI. The Indianapolis post office distribution hub may already be the most fucked place in the country— I’ve had a package sitting there for two weeks with no information at all– and … yeah. I’mma stop there.
Sometimes I think about how I thought I hated George W. Bush, and how that doesn’t even vaguely compare to the quality and quantity of hatred that continues to blacken my soul every fucking day in 2025. So I’m going to go back to thinking about the rest of that carrot cake, because otherwise I start wondering about what a regular civilian normal person might be able to do to damage someone who owns a private jet, and that seems like a bad idea.
Eh, we’ll try again tomorrow
Today was either going to be the blogwanking post or a full reading round-up for the year, and I am filled with Chinese food and enough sodium to kill an elephant, and as such I’m not terribly interested in producing either of those posts. As such you’re either going to get a shitton of posts tomorrow or I’ll push some of them back into the first couple of days of 2025. Again, it ain’t like I’m on any real deadlines around here.