22 February 2005 to 2 February 2005
¶ 16 February 2005
1. This terrible town in which my employer is sub-headquartered has the tedious contours of a Sim City game played with dogged consistency in place of any shred of imagination. Numbingly uniform tiles snap together with cultivatedly anonymous diligence. The streets have individual names, but absolute characterlessness, and preferring one over another would be like having a favorite ounce of hypoallergenic hand lotion. If the question of whether there should be a picture-framing outlet every 2.79 miles or every 2.83 fascinates you, you'd love it here.
2. The wishful insistence that two numbers constitute a trend or an anomaly based on whether the second one is more or less desirable than the first.
And I'm still allowed to hate a third thing today, so the service at dinner better be good.
2. The wishful insistence that two numbers constitute a trend or an anomaly based on whether the second one is more or less desirable than the first.
And I'm still allowed to hate a third thing today, so the service at dinner better be good.
¶ 15 February 2005
I have decided to limit myself to disapproving of no more than three things each day. Today's are:
1. The pointless hubris of claiming superlative excellence in activities which should not be done at all.
2. Any article of clothing which appears to have been made from the pelts of characters in the original Planet of the Apes.
3. Coffee which is neither palatable without sugar, nor appreciably improved by it.
For the remainder of the day, I am at peace with all other folly.
1. The pointless hubris of claiming superlative excellence in activities which should not be done at all.
2. Any article of clothing which appears to have been made from the pelts of characters in the original Planet of the Apes.
3. Coffee which is neither palatable without sugar, nor appreciably improved by it.
For the remainder of the day, I am at peace with all other folly.
¶ 14 February 2005
It is impossible to feel comfortable with yourself in the wrong shoes.
Until you feel comfortable with yourself, it is difficult to recognize the right shoes.
Until you feel comfortable with yourself, it is difficult to recognize the right shoes.
The man in the seat in front of them has the body proportions of an overfed infant, the mannerisms of a sleep-deprived eight-year-old and the mustache of an octogenarian Groucho Marx impersonator on his deathbed. He is drinking, compulsively, from a battered cardboard coffee cup that has been empty at least since the station, and may have been brought empty from home for not the first time. A chewed plastic straw intended for bubble-tea sticks far out of it, pushing along the side of his face into the frame of his glasses as he gulps determinedly at nothing. Periodically he sets the cup down in the aisle beside his seat to put on or take off a layer of clothing, which he does in multiple small, furtive movements, reclaiming the cup in between each, the way one might reassemble a broken cassette player while riding a bicycle. When not drinking from the cup, he holds it in front of his face with his left hand, and alternately presses his right one against his mouth in a fist, knuckles out, and then opens it to bat lightly at the cup with the tips of his fingers, as if trying to dislodge aphids from the rim without killing them.
He wears heavy, yellowing work-boots worn nearly through on the outside of the heels, and sits with his feet splayed sideways like a limp doll's. Dressing and undressing reveals a white T-shirt with the logo of a car wash I've never heard of, under a green cardigan that seems to be acrylic abused to the texture of terry-cloth, under a plasticky black jacket with a powder-blue anime horse on the back, under a red hooded cotton sweatshirt with the insignia of a high-school junior-varsity hockey team called the Waltham Hawks. When he takes off his hat, a dense ring of hair on the sides of his head fans out around a perfect bald dome like a disarrayed crown of soap-stiffened black felt jammed too far down onto an old volleyball varnished pearlescently pink. He carries thick stacks of colored paper in two thin plastic shopping bags, and also an empty vinyl courier bag on a long and tightly-twisted shoulder-strap.
They exchange relieved glances when he gets off the bus less than a mile into the route. They have identically trim legs in identically snug tan corduroy pants with back-pocket flaps like birthday-card envelopes, and I am surprised to be surprised when I look up and discover that they do seem to be twins. Their earrings are different, and their hats, and the one on the aisle is wearing athletic shoes in which you wouldn't actually run.
In the seat behind them, I am listening to a Japanese metal band playing American Christmas songs at triple speed, and daydreaming about new shoes I didn't wear today, and waiting for the bus to drive slowly off the end of the world.
He wears heavy, yellowing work-boots worn nearly through on the outside of the heels, and sits with his feet splayed sideways like a limp doll's. Dressing and undressing reveals a white T-shirt with the logo of a car wash I've never heard of, under a green cardigan that seems to be acrylic abused to the texture of terry-cloth, under a plasticky black jacket with a powder-blue anime horse on the back, under a red hooded cotton sweatshirt with the insignia of a high-school junior-varsity hockey team called the Waltham Hawks. When he takes off his hat, a dense ring of hair on the sides of his head fans out around a perfect bald dome like a disarrayed crown of soap-stiffened black felt jammed too far down onto an old volleyball varnished pearlescently pink. He carries thick stacks of colored paper in two thin plastic shopping bags, and also an empty vinyl courier bag on a long and tightly-twisted shoulder-strap.
They exchange relieved glances when he gets off the bus less than a mile into the route. They have identically trim legs in identically snug tan corduroy pants with back-pocket flaps like birthday-card envelopes, and I am surprised to be surprised when I look up and discover that they do seem to be twins. Their earrings are different, and their hats, and the one on the aisle is wearing athletic shoes in which you wouldn't actually run.
In the seat behind them, I am listening to a Japanese metal band playing American Christmas songs at triple speed, and daydreaming about new shoes I didn't wear today, and waiting for the bus to drive slowly off the end of the world.
¶ fifteen minutes after that · 2 February 2005
Remember to turn the oven off.
¶ five minutes later · 2 February 2005
Hmm. Not bad, but not that spectacular, either. I bet I can do better next time. B notes that they're a little dense, and that the larger chunks of apple seem to prevent the batter around them from cooking as much as the rest of the muffin. Also that the granola is kind of prickly. Next time I might use a lighter flour. And I bet butterscotch chips wouldn't do any harm.
¶ One Dozen Apple-Granola Muffins (an actual recipe) · 2 February 2005
On the left of a solid counter, collect:
- a very large bowl
- one egg
- a jug of milk
- two apples
- a bottle of canola oil
- a jar or bottle or whatever of honey
- a liquid measuring cup
- a big wooden spoon
- a small soup spoon
On the right, with a comfortable space between:
- a reasonably large bowl, but perhaps a little smaller than the other
- a bag of whole-wheat flour
- some brown sugar
- a can of baking powder
- a carton of salt
- cinnamon and nutmeg
- some really crunchy granola you like
- measuring spoons
- a 1/2 cup measuring cup
- a whisk
Somewhere else in the kitchen, put a twelve-cup muffin tray, with those little paper muffin-liner things in the holes. Apertures. Whatever you call them.
Turn your oven on, and set it to 400. It is important for it to be one of those older ovens that heats things up with gas or electricity or wood or something, not microrays or ultrasonic vibrations or necromancy. The effect we are going for is bakingness, not magic.
Now, turn your attention to the left. The apples are obviously too large to put into the muffin apertures, and besides there are too few of them. Do not panic. Cut them into quarters and remove the cores. Cut four of the quarters into thin slices, and then cut the slices into thirds or fourths. Dump these in the bowl. Chop up two more of the quarters into very small bits, and dump that pulp in the bowl, too. Eat the remaining two quarters leisurely during the rest of the preparation, to maintain the proper applish mood.
Crack the egg into the bowl. Discard the shell. Pour a half a cup of milk into the bowl. Don't put the jug away just yet. Add a quarter of a cup of the canola oil to this mess, and then mix it all up fairly well with the spoon. Don't do anything with the honey yet.
Now the right. Into the other bowl go three half-cups of flour, half a cup of brown sugar, half a cup of granola (and don't put this away yet), a couple teaspoons of baking powder (with any worms removed), half of a teaspoon of salt, and a little bit of cinnamon and nutmeg. Maybe a little more than that. Oops, not that much. Well, it'll probably be fine. Use the whisk to mix this all up very thoroughly. Think of how little salt there is, for example, and how unpleasant it would be to get a bite with no salt.
Let us pause and review. On your left is a large bowl of wet things, on your left a large (but maybe slightly smaller) bowl of dry things. Nearby is a muffin tray, and a hot oven, and a bottle of honey that hasn't been mentioned yet. Also, there is still milk and granola, and maybe some apple you're not finished eating. This is all fine.
Now, with a calm and gentle flourish, empty the bowl of dry things into the bowl of wet things. With the big wooden spoon, mix industriously until the glop achieves a sort of uniformity. It is our intent for the consistency to be faintly, but distinctly, liquid, so if it seems drier than that, add a little more milk.
Once you've got a good, turgid batter, use the soup spoon to incrementally apportion it into the twelve muffin-tray apertures such that a) all the batter is in apertures, b) none of it is still in the bowl, and c) the most-full aperture is not significantly more full than the least-full aperture. Sprinkle a little bit of granola over the top of each aperture of batter.
With rough simultaneity, put the muffin tray into the hot oven and start a reliable time-measuring device, which I apologize for having failed to mention until the very moment when it is suddenly crucial. It need not be linked to any sort of atomic clock, but it must be capable of measuring the passage of fifteen minutes, and then every two or three minutes thereafter.
Close the oven. Step away. Find something else to amuse you for the next fifteen minutes. I generally start cleaning up, but B considers this obsessive of me, so I only mention it in case it's helpful to hear an example.
When the fifteen minutes are up, open the oven and look at the muffins. Some of the bits of granola on top should be getting a little brown at the edges by now. If they are not, you may have failed to turn the oven on, or set it for 40 instead of 400, or some similarly disappoint piece of ineptitude. It is not my job to anticipate errors of this severity, so correcting them is your responsibility, but I do wish you luck.
If the browning is happening on schedule, now is the time to use the honey. Drizzle a little honey on the top of each muffin. That's all. I know, after all this anticipation it seems like the honey should have a more dramatic role to play. But it doesn't. Drizzle, and then put the tray back in the oven.
Every two or three minutes hereafter, annoyingly, yank the oven open and peer at the muffins again. They will look the same as they did the previous time. You will fear that one time you're going to open the oven and they're going to be all burnt, but this will not happen. Actually, it might, and then you will have ruined them. But probably you will lose patience with checking before that, and declare the muffins done. Take the tray out and put it on the counter. Let the muffins sit for a few minutes. They must adjust to the room and the light.
Now you have a dozen muffins. I don't know if they are any good. Mine are still adjusting. Hold on, I'll eat one and see.
- a very large bowl
- one egg
- a jug of milk
- two apples
- a bottle of canola oil
- a jar or bottle or whatever of honey
- a liquid measuring cup
- a big wooden spoon
- a small soup spoon
On the right, with a comfortable space between:
- a reasonably large bowl, but perhaps a little smaller than the other
- a bag of whole-wheat flour
- some brown sugar
- a can of baking powder
- a carton of salt
- cinnamon and nutmeg
- some really crunchy granola you like
- measuring spoons
- a 1/2 cup measuring cup
- a whisk
Somewhere else in the kitchen, put a twelve-cup muffin tray, with those little paper muffin-liner things in the holes. Apertures. Whatever you call them.
Turn your oven on, and set it to 400. It is important for it to be one of those older ovens that heats things up with gas or electricity or wood or something, not microrays or ultrasonic vibrations or necromancy. The effect we are going for is bakingness, not magic.
Now, turn your attention to the left. The apples are obviously too large to put into the muffin apertures, and besides there are too few of them. Do not panic. Cut them into quarters and remove the cores. Cut four of the quarters into thin slices, and then cut the slices into thirds or fourths. Dump these in the bowl. Chop up two more of the quarters into very small bits, and dump that pulp in the bowl, too. Eat the remaining two quarters leisurely during the rest of the preparation, to maintain the proper applish mood.
Crack the egg into the bowl. Discard the shell. Pour a half a cup of milk into the bowl. Don't put the jug away just yet. Add a quarter of a cup of the canola oil to this mess, and then mix it all up fairly well with the spoon. Don't do anything with the honey yet.
Now the right. Into the other bowl go three half-cups of flour, half a cup of brown sugar, half a cup of granola (and don't put this away yet), a couple teaspoons of baking powder (with any worms removed), half of a teaspoon of salt, and a little bit of cinnamon and nutmeg. Maybe a little more than that. Oops, not that much. Well, it'll probably be fine. Use the whisk to mix this all up very thoroughly. Think of how little salt there is, for example, and how unpleasant it would be to get a bite with no salt.
Let us pause and review. On your left is a large bowl of wet things, on your left a large (but maybe slightly smaller) bowl of dry things. Nearby is a muffin tray, and a hot oven, and a bottle of honey that hasn't been mentioned yet. Also, there is still milk and granola, and maybe some apple you're not finished eating. This is all fine.
Now, with a calm and gentle flourish, empty the bowl of dry things into the bowl of wet things. With the big wooden spoon, mix industriously until the glop achieves a sort of uniformity. It is our intent for the consistency to be faintly, but distinctly, liquid, so if it seems drier than that, add a little more milk.
Once you've got a good, turgid batter, use the soup spoon to incrementally apportion it into the twelve muffin-tray apertures such that a) all the batter is in apertures, b) none of it is still in the bowl, and c) the most-full aperture is not significantly more full than the least-full aperture. Sprinkle a little bit of granola over the top of each aperture of batter.
With rough simultaneity, put the muffin tray into the hot oven and start a reliable time-measuring device, which I apologize for having failed to mention until the very moment when it is suddenly crucial. It need not be linked to any sort of atomic clock, but it must be capable of measuring the passage of fifteen minutes, and then every two or three minutes thereafter.
Close the oven. Step away. Find something else to amuse you for the next fifteen minutes. I generally start cleaning up, but B considers this obsessive of me, so I only mention it in case it's helpful to hear an example.
When the fifteen minutes are up, open the oven and look at the muffins. Some of the bits of granola on top should be getting a little brown at the edges by now. If they are not, you may have failed to turn the oven on, or set it for 40 instead of 400, or some similarly disappoint piece of ineptitude. It is not my job to anticipate errors of this severity, so correcting them is your responsibility, but I do wish you luck.
If the browning is happening on schedule, now is the time to use the honey. Drizzle a little honey on the top of each muffin. That's all. I know, after all this anticipation it seems like the honey should have a more dramatic role to play. But it doesn't. Drizzle, and then put the tray back in the oven.
Every two or three minutes hereafter, annoyingly, yank the oven open and peer at the muffins again. They will look the same as they did the previous time. You will fear that one time you're going to open the oven and they're going to be all burnt, but this will not happen. Actually, it might, and then you will have ruined them. But probably you will lose patience with checking before that, and declare the muffins done. Take the tray out and put it on the counter. Let the muffins sit for a few minutes. They must adjust to the room and the light.
Now you have a dozen muffins. I don't know if they are any good. Mine are still adjusting. Hold on, I'll eat one and see.