Frisee: Salad's most obnoxious ingredient

Lettuce gone haywire.

You know what frisee is, right? That ridiculous excuse for lettuce that has some sort of bizarre, genetic afro? The leafy green that got its fronds stuck in an electric socket? The salad component most likely to tickle your nostrils, and embarrass you by behaving badly in a fine dining establishment?  The tumbleweed of the tossed? The beasty boy of the bowl? Yeah. Come on. You know the buggary bush I'm talking about.

Show of hands. How many of you out there like frisee? And when I say "like," I mean you really think it brings something to the salad bowl that would otherwise be missing, i.e., the salad would not be a "real" salad without frisee. Any hands? Any at all? Yeah. I didn't think so.

So why do they put it in salad mix as if it's something that really needs to be there? Would we miss it if they left it out? No. And when did this weed become proper salad form? Growing up, I don't remember receiving regular assaults from frisee.  These days, for whatever reason, it's a regular component of the melee. And to iceberg lettuce, R.I.P., I can only say as boring and hum-drum as it is, at least it takes its job seriously and doesn't try to fight you on the way down. Frisee could take a lesson or two from iceberg or butter or romaine or mesclun or mache or arugula for that matter.

I used to think it was just me. But I brought it up at dinner one night and my son emphatically agreed.
"I hate frisee. What good is this stuff? It's completely obnoxious."
While Theo munched his frisee as a cow would a cud, he concurred.
"Yeah. It's no good. Who needs it? They should take it out."
My husband, however, acted as if we'd both gone loopy.

Some months passed and a work friend, Natasha, brought it up during lunch.
With a faintly concealed look of disgust she asked,
"What do you think about frisee?"
"I hate the stuff. It's annoying as hell."
"Me too. What's the point?"
"Hey! I totally agree with you and so does Theo. But, Tim thinks we're crazy."

A few months went by and Tim and I were preparing salad. The frisee subject once again reared its ugly, frizzy head. Only this time, the conversation was more specific.
Tim:  "I just don't like that it's so springy. It's hard to get into your mouth."
Me:  "Right. I agree. That's exactly the problem!"
Tim:  "Oh. I thought you were saying you didn't like the flavor."
Me:  "It's not the flavor, it's the obnoxiousness I don't like."
Tim:  "Oh. Well in that case, yes I agree. It's a pain."
Ah. Someone please call NATO. We have detent.

Here is what having frisee in your salad accomplishes: In addition to fighting you on the way in and down you get dressing splattered--

1. over your face.
2. onto your shirt.
3. across the table.
4. into your eye.
5. into someone else's eye,

In order to avoid the splattering issue, one must hack the SOB (salad of belligerence) into submission. My approach of late has been to remove the springy pieces from the salad mix, place them gently on the cutting board and slash them into submission with a sharp knife. This, I've decided, is the only way the two of us can get along. Oh, yes, you kinky kook of salad infamy. You WILL be assimilated.

What it boils down to is that frisee, leaf of hostility, is high maintenance. In order to properly choke it down it must be cleaved, mutilated and properly subjugated by blade. Unless your name is Attila, who wants to have such acts of violence as part of their salad making ritual? Certainly not I.

OK. Show of hands. How many out there would like it if they took frisee out of the line-up of usual salad suspects? Thank you. Just as I thought. It's unanimous.

Blogging the Globe/Globbing the Bloge

I'm going to be brutally honest and admit it. Blogging is a supremely onanistic pursuit. My goal is to engage, connect and here or there impart a kernel of truth or, if I'm lucky, something that might loosely be construed as wisdom. But I can't deny there's a buzz I get from seeing how many page views I receive when I post a new entry. Even more endorphin-producing, I can see from where in the world people are accessing my blog. Unfortunately, within the US, I don't get a breakdown by state, but I can see where people log in by country. And this is where my imagination starts to jingle.


Marin country, Novato California. My town.

 Some of the countries checking in make sense. In Italy and New Zealand we have family and friends. (These are in-laws living in such covetous destinations. My own family is quite domestic.) And we have a few friends and acquaintances in Austraila. Thank you for stopping by family and friends! Some countries have appeared on the audience list when friends have traveled and logged on. I know for a fact that Mozambique and Argentina hit the list thanks to Kim C. and Sergio P. Thanks guys! In some countries I assume I know the folks accessing but am merely guessing that from Denmark, Amelia R. and from Belgium, Tom B. are checking my blogress. If I'm right, thanks so much for taking an interest!

Novato gets smaller and smaller as we pull back.


But there are a number of countries on my audience list where I know no one. Imagine. Perfect strangers from Russia, Canada, UK, Germany, Israel, and Romania have all checked in to read my blog. True, Romania only connected once, but the other countries have visited more than twice. This means to me that I have written something interesting/entertaining enough to get a repeat visit OR other folks from the same country have accessed the blog.

And smaller...

I think this is incredibly cool. I wonder if someone is sitting down to tea and marmite sandwiches in the UK while checking out The Girl Can't Help It thinking, "Bloody Yank. She's right balmy, that one!" Is a reader in Germany drinking beer and munching pretzels while he or she reads about my experiences living in an all male--except for me--household? Does the Russian reader scoff at my introspective clap trap while knocking back a vodka shot and think this American bimbo has too much time on her hands? Are there Israelis slapping their foreheads and exclaiming "Oy vey!" while reading my weak attempts at poetry? Has the Canadian reader had enough of my self indulgence and vowed never to stumble upon my blog again? Or maybe they're thinking they like it enough that they should tell a friend. (That would be lovely.) And what happened with that one reader in Romania? What did they encounter that made them never log on again? (My money's on the Dirty Trimes. Although, via email I know that entry has a few fans, only one of them left a supportive comment. Thank you, Jeff K.)


On a global scale Novato becomes comparatively microscopic.


It's fascinating to ponder. And while it's fun to parse through the possiblities, it would be even more fun and enlightening if people left comments so I'd know what they thought and from whence they hailed. But really, I'm just happy that anyone's taking the time to read. Thank you. Thank you very much. (That was my Elvis impersonation. Whadya think?) And Romania, if you're still checking in, I promise no more Dirty Trimes unless specifically requested. As mentioned, there was certain fan base. They know who they are.

Novato?

This week The Girl Can't Help It broke 1000 page views. I know it's not exactly a record for a bit over two months but it made me happy. Thank you so much if you're still reading.  It means so much to me and I'm so grateful that you've given me your time. And, hey! If you know anyone in Romania, please let them know I'd like to get better acquainted.

ROMANIA
Did I offend someone in Transylvania with my True Blood posting?

Passport Picture

Yesterday I had a passport photo taken. My old passport has expired and the Huzby wants me to be ready to be whisked away to foreign destinations at a moment's notice. Romantic, no? But don't get carried away. This is the same guy who is having conniptions over me being in the house as an unemployed while he works from his home study. It's not the unemployed part that's bothering him, it's the fact that he can only handle sharing the house with the dogs while he's working. So I ambled over to Costco after having spent the past four days in an intensive writing workshop with Tom Jenks--the iconic oracle of literature, editor-in-chief and founder of Narrative magazine--and 11 other workshop warriors (worriers?).

A snap. A flash. An outlay of 5.44$. I came back 45 minutes later to see the result.

It must be in a rule book somewhere. There is an edict that reads: All passport photos must make the bearer look criminal, downtrodden or significantly worse than they do in real life.

The face staring back at me looks haggard. As the lens captures her, this woman whom I sadly identify as myself, should be thinking of trips to Italy. She should be daydreaming of white sand beaches and azure seas, or traveling to Tanzania to photograph exotic creatures, or diving in the Maldives and seeing the wonders under the warm water, or hiking in British Columbia and watching grizzlies scoop salmon out of streams. She should be imagining sipping Malbec in Buenos Aires while watching a couple dance a smoldering tango in the heat of December. She should be envisioning making love to her travel addicted husband on a sun drenched bed with the curtains open wide as the ocean flips and flails in the vista, mirroring their own gymnastics.

But she doesn't seem to be thinking any of those things. What she's thinking is that she's tired and she'd like to take a nap. She's wondering if she'll ever succeed, really succeed, at story telling. This bothers her quite a bit because it's something she really wants to achieve. She knows there's a certain amount of belief in one's self that's required but there's also a certain amount of natural talent needed as well. She wonders if she has either thing going for her on this Monday because she's had four consecutive days of up and down, back and forth, moments of epiphany and moments of density--her own thick skull. She's also wondering when she's going to find gainful employment again and how she will survive the irritation and surliness her husband is flogging her with in the interim.

On the up side, here's what she doesn't look: beaten. She hasn't given up. She has hope; she'll keep going and working in what she believes is a forward path. But she needs to rest and absorb, to allow Jenks' judgements to trickle down, percolate and intercollate. And she needs to find a job so her husband can sink back into his normal level of grumpiness and ditch the testy truculence that has lately been steamrolling her.

For the coming decade, I'll have this picture on my passport to remind me of how it feels to be on the brink. Understanding it is one thing, successfully executing as a result of understanding is another thing all together. Half of me is hopeful while the other half despairs. In a sense, I'm a human pushmi-pullyu. But regardless of my success or lack thereof at creative writing, I'm thinking a job can't be too far off in the future. Right?

For more information on Tom Jenks' most excellent workshops:
http://narrativemagazine.info/pages/workshops.php

Hetero--WHAT?!

Who knew 3-D heteroscedasticity could be so beautiful?

Jargon. Lingo. Vernacular. Drivel. Call it what you will. Every field of interest has its own lexicon. One may speculate that such esoteric vocabulary is a good way to keep out the riff raff. And whether or not that’s the intention, it is in fact, the end result.

In our house we sometimes have a war of words.  This does not involve the dropping of bombs (OK, I admit, the occasional F-bomb is discharged), deployment of weapons or even IEDs (unless it stands for intellectually extravagant doublespeak), but nevertheless results in a certain level of shock and awe.  

I’m talking about Life sciences (myself) versus Statistics (the Huzby). A smack down for a throw down.  A biological head butt countered by a mathematical crotch shot. I mean, check out these rosters and see which side speaks to you. Which team wins you over? Which has more understandable terms? Which squad do you play for?

Team Life Sciences:                                

Parthenogenesis                                     

Apoptosis                                                 

Pyknotic (nope, not related to hypnotic)   

Hyalinization                                              

Xenograft                                                      

Meiosis                                                       

Mitosis                                                        

Phenotype (with its tag-team member genotype)  

Endocytosis (and its evil twin exocytosis)       

Blebbing 

                  

Team Statistics:

Heteroscedasticity (not to be confused with homoscedasticity)

Idempotent

Ergodic (not at all what you’re thinking, I’m sure)

Bootstrapping

Bayesian

Kyphosis

Eigenvalues (and their nasty cousins the Eigenvectors)

Gaussian

Multicollinearity

Kurtosis

I could go on. There are many, many more players in the lineups on both sides. It’s possible you play for a different team all together. And don’t worry, I won’t bore you with definitions.  If you’re really that interested you can look them up yourselves. But I’m guessing this is enough to prove my point. We sling jargon like a gum-smacking, big-haired, bad dye-jobbed, red-lipped, wise-cracking, pencil-licking waitress slings hash. It happens with regularity at our house. However, should a definition be requested we do try to educate each other—not always successfully—but we try.

Generally, we make an effort not to assault unsuspecting visitors with these terms.  But there was one occasion at a dinner party we threw where a guest asked Tim about ergodic data. The out-of-the-know rest of us watched and listened as Tim went through the explanation. It’s possible I had my mouth open and may even have had food dropping out of it but no one would have noticed. We were all rapt, trying to understand what the hell Tim was talking about as he parsed through the definition for our statistically curious guest.

I believe the wife of this inquisitive diner may have been feeling a bit insecure and out of her element because after a minute or two she interrupted saying, “You know Tim, we all know you’re very smart. You really don’t have to prove it to anyone sitting at this table.” Hello? Lady, it was YOUR husband who asked the question in the first place. Anyway, another compassionate dinner guest (Thank you Greg K.) offered an easy out, stating that it was the first and probably last time he’d be privy to such a rarefied and abstruse dinner topic. The conversation politely moved on.

Shoptalk. Parlance. Twaddle. Gibberish.  It’s what we do and what we speak. And as “erotic” as “ergodic” data may sound it doesn’t necessarily provide for scintillating dinner dialog—at least not by everyone’s standards. Nor should “pyknotic” be used to describe the Catherine Trammell/Sharon Stone character in “Basic Instinct” although it’s tempting, isn’t it? And to further clarify: Bayesians are not required to wear beige. Blebbing is not what our thighs do after the holidays. Kurtosis is not what happens when your quarterback is Kurt Warner. And just think how much more exciting statistics would be if "bootstrapping" was the latest and greatest in S&M and "heteroscedasticity" had anything to do with sex. But no. It's just a tease. Still, it's always fun to think of the possibilities.

Where bootstrapping meets life sciences: Not as thrilling as one might hope.

Note: Thanks to Tim for helping me with some of the stats speak.

UPPER VOLTA

When  I woke this morning, out of nowhere, the thought fairy gifted me this:  
                                                                                                      Upper Volta.

And from that spawned the question:  Why do you never hear of anything happening in Upper Volta? This, I posed to the Huzby as he languished under the covers nearby.

Without hesitation he answered, “Because it’s now Burkina Faso.”

He didn’t ask me why I was asking. He didn’t say, “What in the world would make you ask a question like that?” Likewise, I didn’t ask how in God’s name he knew that Upper Volta was now called Burkina Faso. But I did ask for clarification.

“It’s called what?”

“Burkina Faso. At least I think that’s how you pronounce it.”

“Hmmmm. How do you spell it?”

“Something like B-U-R-K-I-N-A  F-A-S-O. I think that’s how it’s spelled.”

“Hmmm.”

Then I complained about being sore (turns out I have a bit of a bug), and we kissed and got up. He fed the cat and the dogs. I went to the bathroom and quickly checked my email.

We met up in the kitchen for coffee (Huzby) and chai (me). We spoke of how we slept. We discussed if our anorexic mutt, Willie, ate all his breakfast. We agreed that it looked like the weather was going to be nice. Thus began our Thursday.

It occurs to me that married life is sometimes very odd. How can a kernel of thought—Upper Volta—so quickly melt down and sublimate into non-existence? Of course, Upper Volta truly doesn’t exist because it’s now known as Burkina Faso, but that’s beside the point.

I believe the Huzby has become too savvy to allow me to suck him down the rabbit holes of my mind. He refused to play Clark to my Lewis as I tried to explore the stream of consciousness that eddies and bubbles past the rocks and fallen branches in my brain. It’s taken knowing each other ten years, but it appears that I’m the only willing participant in the journey—at least today’s journey.  Huzby missed the boat ride to Burkina Faso while I jumped right on board.

And as I see Huzby heading into his study (cave) to begin his workday, his image fades while I cross the horizon toward Burkina Faso--an entry in Wikipedia suffices for the moment.


And I suddenly realize I forgot to ask another question:
                                   How come you never hear of anything ever happening in Burkina Faso?

P.S.
For an interesting explanation on the renaming of Upper Volta and other countries please follow this link: http://www.nytimes.com/1989/10/22/magazine/on-language-bring-back-upper-volta.html