Emcogneato

emcogNEATO! is closing...

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Suess) — Sun, 12 Sep 2010 14:32:00 +0000

But the good news is there's a new place you can find Emily's blog:

This change is part of my new website launch. RSS subscribers, please update your feed to http://emilysuess.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default

Roast Chicken a la Dan

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Suess) — Mon, 06 Sep 2010 17:31:00 +0000

Talk to the Ove Glove.

Last night Dan and I roasted a chicken in the pan I promised to review for CSN Stores. So let's get that disclosure thing out of the way:

***

I got this roasting pan with a $50 gift certificate that was given to me on the condition I promised to write a review of the product I chose. Small price to pay. I like blogging about food and cooking. Anyone who feels like calling me a sellout should remember that I write for money.

***

When Dan first took the roasting pan out of the box, he was a little more critical than I. "It's a little thinner than I expected," he said. "Still, it looks nice. I can't wait to roast a chicken."

After the brine, before the butter.

All I could manage was to clap my hands together stupidly and say, "Shiny!"

Dan let the chicken hang out in a brine for a while. Then we made a compound butter put lovely pats of it all over the bird. "Eww, I said, "there is juice coming out of that chicken's butt."

"Swiss, I've never seen someone so afraid of food."

"I'm not scared of food. I'm afraid of touching it before it's cooked."

After Dan finished laughing at me, we roasted the 7-pounder in the oven for a couple of hours.

Lots of butter.

The chicken was perfect. When it was time to clean up, I wondered if I could get the pan to look like it did fresh out of the box. As I was hand scrubbing and rinsing the stainless steel, I said, "I know you thought it cold be thicker, but I'm glad it doesn't weigh much more."

"Yeah, it's fine. It didn't warp in the oven, so it's good." While there are a couple of character marks on the pan after being used, it's still beautiful. Still shiny.

Voila! Perfectly browned.

Now I just need to find a place for it in my kitchen.

I love my pan. I love the chicken. And I love my boyfriend because he makes me love cooking.

It's here, and holy cow it's shiny!

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Suess) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 13:54:00 +0000

Review and ceremonial roasting of the chicken to follow shortly. For now, you can just oooh and ahhh.

Never Kiss a Stray: A Lesson from My Childhood

noreply@blogger.com (EmcogNEATO!) — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 01:50:00 +0000

When I was seven, I had a friend named Kim. She lived across the street from me in a rental house for a year or two. Kim was a year older than me with straight blonde hair and a round face. She had an older brother; it was our mutual disgust for him that brought us closer together. Oh, and she had cable TV.

She invited me over to play one day. As we were going down the stairs of the 1960s bi-level to see her piano, she said to her mother who was in the kitchen scrubbing, "She keeps following me around."

The smell of bleach singed the tiny hairs in our noses. "Kim, honey," she said sweetly, "You invited her over. It's your house. What do you expect her to do?" Kim seemed satisfied with that answer. We went downstairs and I watched, mesmerized, as Kim picked out the first few notes to "Für Elise."

***

I was out in front of our Cape Cod style home. It was a few months later, but still 1987. A stray cat (who would have been named Sherbert—yes, with an r—had I been allowed to have a pet) brushed up against my Punky Brewster tennis shoes and pink ruffled socks. "Kitty! Here Kitty," I said not having much experience with pets and knowing not what else to say to it.

I scooped it up and planted a kiss on its head, right between its ears. I did not realize Mrs. Hawkins was watching me. The front storm door creaked as she opened it. "Emily!" she was frantic. "You should never do that. You shouldn't pet or kiss a stray animal. Ever." Shocked, I dropped the cat and nodded my head in attrition. "They carry horrible diseases!" she called to me as I walked back inside my house. I went straight to my room, hoping my mom would not find out about the horrible thing I had just done.

***

A few weeks later, I was back over at Kim's house. "Big, Em!" her dad called to me as Kim and I walked through the front door. We high-fived him as we sauntered past his recliner. We were going to help her mom prepare dinner. It would be my first time to try fried okra. "Now wash your hands, girls," Mrs. Hawkins said.

We stepped up to the sink at the same time. Kim put her palms together, sliding them forward and backward gently, like washing her hands was a dance. I rung my hands together furiously, working up a fury of Ivory lather. By the time I was done playing, I was in soap up to my elbows.

I glanced up at Mrs. Hawkins and noticed a furrowed brow. I was sure she was going to let me have it for goofing off at the sink. But then she said, "Kim, try to do it more like Emily. See how she's getting everything clean?"

***

Twenty-three years later, I would have a conversation with my mother—a conversation that would reorder my world in such a way that my seven-year-old self would finally exist as a whole. She would say a few words that would be punctuated by the clicking sound of a puzzle piece being locked into place.

I don't know what brought the family up, but one day my mother asked me, "Oh, do you remember the Hawkins family that lived in the house across the street? You used to play with their girl, Kim?"

"Yeah, I remember."

"Her mother…what was her name? She was kind of OCD."

A Boy Rarely Parks a Car to Talk to You

noreply@blogger.com (EmcogNEATO!) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 21:52:00 +0000

The last time Dan came to Indy to see me he brought me a present, a book called Charm for Young Women by Anne Culkin. It was a book that was apparently just lying around his house. He thought I'd get a kick out of it. When I asked about how it came to be in his house, he couldn't really offer me an explanation.

"I love how they've gouged out her eyes with a pencil," I said running my finger tip over the cover.

Charm for Young Women was written in 1963. Good to know. The copyright page declares it "free of doctrinal or moral error" by Francis Cardinal Spellman, Archbishop of New York. Also good to know.

Gazing at the hideously pink cover, I imagined someone about 13 years old in the year 1963 being force-fed this book in Catholic school. Then I did the math, recalled being told stories about nuns, and immediately observed a moment of silence for my mother.

[...]

I couldn't help but picture a nun in home economics class going over the section titled "What Every Girl Old Enough to Date Should Know."

"Now class," she wiggles her habit, "let's begin with question number one, 'When is kissing sinful?'" After moving on to questions two and three—"What other than sinful kissing is morally wrong?" and "Is it wrong to kiss a boy on the first date?" respectively—Sister Catherine moves on to question number four, "What is wrong about parking?" I imagine Sister Catherine reading out loud to her class the following selection which I have gladly offered to annotate for clarification.

"What is Wrong About Parking? If you have done much of it, you know. [Sister Catherine, how do you know?] If you have not, be advised. A boy rarely parks a car on a darkened highway to talk to you. [Rarely, so it does happen from time to time.] Parking creates an atmosphere for what has already been mentioned as seriously wrong. [Previous no-nos mentioned by the author: bleaching your hair, asking to borrow another person's comb, and kissing just because your date bought you a large coke (see pic).] It easily becomes an occasion of sin. Couples have much more clean, wholesome fun [please note that "clean, wholesome fun" and "fun" are not interchangeable terms] on dates by keeping their activities out in the open. They come to know and understand each other much better this way. And they have no regrets [unwanted children] later on."

Please, do share your comments.

Dear Oprah

noreply@blogger.com (EmcogNEATO!) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 17:14:00 +0000

I ran today for the first time since May 16, or so my Garmin Forerunner tells me. I couldn't honestly remember the last time I broke out the Saucony shoes and the Body Glide. Going in this morning, I was convinced I hadn't run since March.

Wait. Did I say run? I meant jogged. I jogged this morning for the first time since May 16.

All right fine. I did interval jogging.

I felt pretty good while I was exercising. Now, a couple of hours later, I feel an incredible tightness in my right butt cheek and hip. My hamstrings are seizing up like the Wicked Witch of the East's feet after Dorothy bogarts the ruby slippers.

Oprah, I believe I owe you an apology. I saw you struggle with your weight through most of the 90s. I considered your lack of motivation when it came to physical activity, and I judged. But I, too, know how hard it can be to exercise three times a week even though you have a personal trainer. I know how hard it is to turn down a good ham. I know how eating right is difficult when you have a personal chef…

Oh riiiiiiiight.

I can do it without all that crap. That makes be better than you. Neener.

For Giggles, Emily Reviews Freelance Writing Sites

noreply@blogger.com (EmcogNEATO!) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 02:50:00 +0000

When I stopped working at The Saturday Evening Post to focus on divorcing my Ex, I thought my place in line for a Successful Writer badge was lost forever. I had a modestly successful blog and a handful of samples for my portfolio, but I also had bills to pay. I took a 9-to-5 job as an administrative assistant and didn't think about calling myself a writer again for several months.

Not surprisingly the writing bug returned to me, and I started scouring the web for a way back in to the biz. In addition to building relationships with real, honest-to-god clients of my own, I decided to see what other opportunities were out there for aspiring writers. What I found were a slew of opportunities out there for good writers, and even more for people who mostly suck at it.

My curiosity got the better of me, and I poked around a few sites in an attempt to see what I might be missing. As a result, you get a few reviews of freelance writing sites to help you decide if and how to break into the world of freelance writing.

I didn't just read the FAQ pages for these sites, I signed on to work for them. Here's what I found:

Textbroker.com: Here you sign up for an account, write a short sample for review and then wait a couple of days for an editor to rank your writing ability. How much you earn per word is based on your initial ranking, a number between 1 and 5. I was given an initial rank of 4, the highest rank you can get to start out. The pay for a level 4 writer at this site is 1.4 cents per word. So, if you write a hundred words, you get $1.40. Veteran writers are scoffing right now, and they should be. That's really crappy pay.

Pros: Lots of assignments available, quick client approval, fair turnaround for editorial ranking on each submission.
Cons: The pay is almost insulting, and I still don't know where to find their official style guidelines. They were quick to dock me an entire level on one submission for breaking house rules, however.

eCopywriters.com: eCopywriters is a lot like Textbroker, except the ranking system goes from 1 to 7. When I submitted my sample, the editors at the site ranked me as a 2. Pretty low on the totem pole, but still I was earning 2 cents per word—more than the highest initial pay rate at Textbroker. My biggest gripe about eCopywriters is that it takes forever to get paid. The wait for their clients to approve your work is long and maddening.

Pros: Pay is better than Textbroker, but be prepared to wait for 3-4 weeks before seeing that first deposit in your PayPal account.
Cons: Not as many jobs are available for the taking.

Suite101: After signing up with Suite101, I agreed to write 10 posts in 90 days. They have since done away with quotas. Suite101 is one of those residual income sites that pays you based on ad revenue generated by your articles. The key to getting the most for your writing is to optimize your articles for search engines. The Suite101 editors post anonymous stats for their top ten earners each month, and the person in the number one position repeatedly earns over $2,000 every month. Of course, that person also has 700+ articles in the system. I have ten articles and have been writing since June. So far I've earned enough money to buy an 8 oz bottle of shampoo at the drugstore but not enough money for them to actually make a payout to me.

Pros: Forums and community are excellent, style guidelines are explicit and easily accessible, you can write whatever you want.
Cons: You spend a whole lot of time writing for pennies hoping—for there is no guarantee—that you will eventually build an arsenal of money-generating content.

oDesk: oDesk introduces you to your competition. Buyers post assignments and you bid against your peers to be awarded the job. Landing the first job might be difficult if you don't already have writing samples to back you up. You can accept hourly positions and fixed price positions at oDesk. I only did fixed price jobs and only applied to jobs that offered what I considered to be an acceptable wage. Overall my experience with oDesk was good. If work ever dries up, I may go back to them for more jobs.

Pros: There are thousands of jobs to choose from on the site, and you can work for clients all over the world.
Cons: You have to do a lot of filtering. There are scads of jobs for writers here that pay something like $1.50 for a 500-word article.

Bottom line? If you're a freelance writing hopeful looking to build a portfolio working online, you have plenty of options. Some are definitely better than others.

The Infamous Divorce Posts of One, Emily Suess

noreply@blogger.com (EmcogNEATO!) — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 15:06:00 +0000

Once upon a time I was married to a very nasty person. We went through a pretty bitter divorce and separation, and I blogged about it. In order to get him to leave me alone, I made a bargain with him. He would leave and never have anything to do with me again, and I would remove all those posts from the internet. (He has a problem with truth--both telling it and accepting it.)

He went away for a little while. But his snooping curiosity got the better of him, and he started stalking my blog even after I moved to a new home on the web. In a post earlier this year I outed him for the psycho he was and announced that all my blog posts from my days as the author of Two Write Hands would return. Liar, Liar Pants on Fire™ tried to be sneakier about reading my blog, checking it with zeal from various universities and coffee shops in the city.

I realize posting all of these could make me look petty. I just couldn't figure out how to give a shit. You see, I always follow through with my threats and promises. Besides, people love reading this drama! I might as well get a little something for my trouble. Fame will do.

If you're so inclined, the posts have been gathered for you in chronological order. Happy reading, folks!

Did I change my name for this?

D-Day, Part 1

D-Day, Part 2

I never said I was the easiest person to live with, either.

Incomplete Post

I hear you can get guilt stains out with a little self-righteousness and ice water.

I'm writing this with my headphones on.

To My Dear Readers: A Few Things for the Record, Part 1

To My Dear Readers: A Few Things for the Record, Part 2

Sunday Phone Call From Mom

One last favor

Is it just me? Or is it getting pettier in here?

Gone, gone, gone...

Unfortunate things.

Settling In

Blog Stalkers Are All the Rage These Days

Congratulations to me! Conditionally.

A Quick Announcement

noreply@blogger.com (EmcogNEATO!) — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 19:38:00 +0000

A week or so ago I was contacted by a rep from the CSN Promo Team. She wanted me to tell you all about their stores which sell everything from cooking stuff to dining room sets. Normally, I'm not one to do sponsored posts, but CSN also sells things relevant to my blog -- namely cooking stuff.

So, what I'm saying is: keep your eyes peeled for another cooking post soon, because I've agreed to do a review of one of their products. When Dan comes back to Indy we are going to tear up the kitchen and cook some seriously yummy stuff. There will be lots of pictures!

An Evening with Al Gore (and several hundred other people)

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Poehlman) — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 14:02:00 +0000

(Originally Published on Two Write Hands, April 25, 2007.)

I saw Al Gore last night. My scholarship paid for the $18 ticket, and I met my professor and fellow classmates outside the synagogue about an hour before the doors opened. While we were waiting, my professor mentioned that the event was sold out. "In fact several weeks ago, the only tickets left were $500--and they included dinner with Mr. Gore," she announced. A few of us muttered indignantly, and some of us rolled our eyes. "That's a good question," suddenly inspired, the professor asked, "Dead or alive, who would you pay $500 to have dinner with?" A few answered: Gandhi, Eugene Debs, Nelson Mandela. I pleaded for more time to answer the question. Twelve hours later, I still can't see the point in paying $500 for a meal. I don't care who's in the room.

Gore was exceptionally witty for the first 15 minutes. The remaining 55 minutes were a nightmare for me. The way we were packed into the synagogue--you can tell me no fire codes were broken, but I wouldn't believe you. I sat trying to pull my arms in as close to my body as possible, and I was still brushing up against the people next to me. We were seated in plastic folding chairs with no back support and sagging seats. After 20 minutes, my back was screaming, "All right, Al, let's wrap it up!" There were so many charts and so many statistics on global warming, I wondered why someone hadn't shouted out, "We get it, already!" The four sisters sitting in front of me were unruly. They were picking at each other. They were raising their arms to adjust and readjust their pony tails. (Consequently, no one behind them could see.) They sat on their knees. They hit each other with rolled programs. I stared at their parents with contempt. I thought, wouldn't it have been better for everyone if you'd given the $72 to a babysitter and let them watch the documentary? The guy behind me kept resting his right leg over his left knee, repeatedly putting his shoe in my back. I realized that I would indeed pay $500 for something--two feet of personal space.

ahora empleando

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Poehlman) — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 18:56:00 +0000

(Originally published on Two Write Hands on April 16, 2007)

A group of (probably undocumented) workers are ambitiously removing the old roof of our condo as I type this. In approximately one day they will have replaced the roof of the entire four-unit building. I'm beginning to get used to the excessive pounding, the shaking walls, and the rattling light fixtures. But Taubensee, my not-as-brave-as-he-is-adorable puppy, cannot be coaxed out from underneath my desk. Consequently, my feet have never been warmer.

It's dangerous work, this roofing stuff. I don't know what those guys are earning, but I'm sure it's not enough. First of all, they've been subcontracted. The yard signs in the neighborhood brag that 'Merican Construction* is in charge of this project. However, the signs on all of the equpiment tell a different story. That means it's likely there's a cracker in a box somewhere making a killing just sitting on his duff.

"It's not exploitation!" someone will surely say in his defense. "It's capitalism!" And they're right about that second part, but so is migrant work--laborers are going where the most money is. Yet somehow the migrant group is morally wrong, a detriment to the unemployed citizen, and the bane of the American economy. What. Ever.

*obviously, a fictitious company name

I made this!

noreply@blogger.com (EmcogNEATO!) — Sun, 08 Aug 2010 14:34:00 +0000

I may have already mentioned that Dan and I are watching the show Pushing Daisies on Netflix. If you've seen the show before, then my latest hankering to make a from-scratch pie shouldn't come as any surprise.

I settled on apple pie. Now, I've made fruit pies before but always with canned fruit and those Pillsbury ready made crusts.

My first ever attempt at the crust was a total fail. (Not to mention a complete waste of an entire half pound of butter.) When I went to roll it out, it cracked and I cried. "Just start over," Dan said.

Wallowing in my own failure, I whined, "But I only have one stick of butter left. I can't start over."

Ten minutes later, Dan was at Marsh looking for a nice box of Land O Lakes unsalted. "Why don't you find a couple of YouTube videos on making pie crust dough while I'm out," Dan suggested.

"Good idea," I said. On my first try I used Michael Ruhlman's 3-2-1 Pie Crust recipe, but found the instructions to be lacking the extra coaching I needed. So I watched this lady's lame but very helpful video.

Success!

Because I had to start over, wait for the dough to chill and then bake the pie for 45 minutes, it didn't come out of the oven until about 10:45 last night. At midnight steam was still pouring out of the vent. "Dan?"

"Yeah, Swiss?"

"Let's set the alarm for 2:00 a.m. I want to eat it when it's still warm."

Prego–It’s in there!

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Poehlman) — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 14:54:00 +0000

(Originally published April 4, 2007)

No, this post is not about conception. It's about spaghetti sauce. About tomatoes. About Campbell's Soup Company, the distributors of Prego Italian sauces. And about trying to determine how much fossil fuel a jar of tomato sauce burns.

As part of an assignment, I determined to find out just how far the different products I eat travel before they get to my refrigerator or pantry shelf. The first item I grabbed was a jar of spaghetti sauce. I noticed that it was distributed by Campbell's in Camden, New Jersey, but I knew it was unlikely the ingredients were grown near the distribution site. I called the consumer question and comment number given on the jar's label. Little did I know they would treat me--a faithful consumer of their tomato, basil, garlic variety--like a tomato terrorist, hellbent on gathering national tomato security secrets.

I asked, "Hi. I'm holding a jar of your Prego spaghetti sauce, and I'm calling to find out where the tomatoes for this sauce are grown."

"Can I get your name?" I told her and then she put me on hold to get an answer to my question. “I’m sorry, she apologized, "but I can’t answer your question. It’s proprietary information.”

Hmm. OK. You mean you can’t even tell me whether or not the tomatoes are grown in the US?”

“I’m not sure,” she responded. “If you don’t mind, let me put you on hold again and I’ll find out for you.” She came back on the line and apologized again, saying it was proprietary information that could not be disclosed. But before I could say good-bye, she asked me if I would hold one more minute. When she returned to the line a final time, she told me that I could learn more about the tomatoes by visiting www.campbellseeds.com.

As a matter of protocol, she asked for my zip code at the end of the conversation. I gave it to her—noting the gall of the company. “They feel entitled to know where their consumers are from, but concerned consumers aren’t allowed to know where the food they eat, digest, and pass is grown?” I decided I wouldn't ask her about the spices and preservatives.

After the phone call, I visited the Campbell's Seeds website. They boasted the genetically engineered superiority of Campbell’s tomatoes. The text included a mention of their Vegetable Research Center in Davis, CA—probably the site of their tomato concentration camps and not the site of the actual farm. Still it's a good way to lead consumers to believe the tomatoes they eat are Californians without actually lying to them.

Prego--It's in there, but good luck finding out where it came from.

Let them eat cake.

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Poehlman) — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 23:37:00 +0000

(Originally Published March 5, 2007)

Knocked out a paper on The Agricola and The Germania today. (Of course, I realize no one cares. Humor me. I'm trying to get back into the habit of this whole writing thing.) I used the laptop and sat at the couch while I wrote in my pajamas. I wouldn't even let myself brush my teeth until it was finished. Not quite as glamorous as those people who sit in trendy cafes sipping double shots and eating scones, but I still allowed myself a crumb of self-indulgence. I ate birthday cake.

Yes for breakfast. When will people stop wasting their incredulity on my chocolate cake? These same people eat Pot-Tarts and Dunkin' Donuts with sprinkles at 6:00 a.m., for the love of refined sugar! How then, does chocolate cake not meet the requirements for satisfactory breakfast comestible? (Yes, I used that word because I felt it would make me appear smarter than I really am. I ate chocolate cake for breakfast after all.)

On Toothpicks and Dying

noreply@blogger.com (EmcogNEATO!) — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 16:14:00 +0000

One day in 1996 I was a teenager eating lunch with a group of my mother’s friends at a little restaurant called Rafferty’s in Evansville, Indiana. At the end of the meal a few of the women started digging toothpicks out of their purses and passing out extras to those unfortunate enough to be caught at lunch without something to help them pick bits of Cobb salad and grilled chicken from their teeth.

“Do you need a toothpick, Emily?” Mrs. A asked me.

“No. I’m fine, thanks.” I declined the cellophane wrapped sliver of wood she held out to me.

As she put it back in her purse she admonished me saying, “You young girls. Just wait until you’re old like us and the enamel on your teeth wears down. Food sticks to your teeth more, you know.” She finished by winking an eye at me, making that tut-tut sound with her tongue, and pointing her toothpick at me.

Now, I know I’m only 30, but Monday night I got one of those phone calls from my mother. We chatted about how Dad is retiring next year. “Things are going to be tight, Emily,” my mom said, “It’ll be like when your dad and I first started out.”

“Grandma didn’t remember your Uncle Pat coming to visit her over the 4th.” Sometimes Grandma knows she has Alzheimer’s, and I think that is truly horrifying. I hate that her clearest moments, cognitively speaking, might be filled with little realizations like, “One day, when I grow up, I am going to forget my children’s names.”

A funk has settled over me as other parts of my life reinforce a sort of preoccupation with aging and death. For instance, I’ve written more than just a handful of articles about assisted living facilities, nursing homes, and adult day care. Plus, Dan and I have recently started watching the show Pushing Daisies on Netflix.

I know this whole dying a lonely death thing is a phase. Things are changing around me and my mind needs some adjustment time. Eventually I will settle in and appreciate the natural order of things once again and life will be consumed with living, not fretting over my final days.

It’s just that on my way to work this morning I was eating a bagel in my car, and as I was chewing I noticed the bagel sticking to my teeth. I flashed back to that day in 1996 when Mrs. A gave me her toothpick speech, and I thought to myself, “Oh my God, Emily. It’s finally happening.”

Gallimaufry

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Poehlman) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 14:35:00 +0000

(Originally published March 1, 2007)

Important announcement: Sunday is my birthday. Please e-mail me if you're not sure where to send gifts.

Once each semester I teeter on the edge of a breakdown. This semester it happened early--yesterday, actually--and I'm a little concerned that I didn't even make it through Mid-Terms yet. Am I destined to crack at the end of April? We'll see. My biggest concern at the moment is that I don't have enough Thin Mints to recover should my demons get the better of me.

On a slightly irrelevant note, I had a disturbing dream last night. I was arrested and sent to jail. The charges? Underage drinking. God, the mind is a bizarre thing. I'll be 27 Sunday, and I've never been intoxicated--let alone publicly intoxicated. Where did that come from?

I wasn't alone in the cell. Apparently many others had been arrested on the same charges. The cell oddly resembled a high school gymnasium. And we roamed freely. At one point terrorists were bombing vast open areas--I could see them through the cell windows. When I went out in the hall to get a prison guard, he came to look. There were no explosions. There weren't even windows.

I asked him if I was dreaming. He just nodded his head and regarded me with great pity.

P.S. Bet you had to look up the title. I did.

4 a.m. Legacy

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Poehlman) — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 08:47:00 +0000

(Originally published on February 27, 2007)

I woke up when it was still dark
Lights from the kitchen
trickled into the hallway
and the voices drifting from the nook
vanished the moment they reached my ear

I pushed back the warmth of faded quilts
the pieces sewn together by stories
and hands much older than I

Cold air swirled around my legs
while I shivered at the kitchen door
heels on sculpted olive carpet
toes on aged linoleum
and watched Gramma at the breakfast nook

An old silver and black radio
delivered a message wrapped in hope
and sang about a promise

A ragged Bible lay open
At Gramma’s sacred vinyl pew
Her elbow was planted in the table top
and I knew the hand stretched across her brow
was shading her eyes from the glory.

Rotten produce prohibited here.

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Poehlman) — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 03:41:00 +0000

(Originally published February 15, 2007)

I never intended to turn this into a poetry blog, but poems are the only thing readable that I've been writing lately--and I desperately want to post something. The only other option was a book review from my History of Western Civilization class, The Last Days of Socrates. I figure the poem was least likely to encourage the throwing of rotten fruit in cyberspace. I'm turning this one in today. And maybe soon I'll write about me again.

lepidopterist

you went chasing butterflies
the tickle on the underside, the inside
of your skin
the weightless drop
the alluring pleasure of a breath lost
no one told you butterflies
live a few short months
and caged, they die
free, they fly away
such fickle, fleeting things

Julia's Bleeping Beef Bourguignon

noreply@blogger.com (EmcogNEATO!) — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 02:28:00 +0000

Last week, Dan and I watched Julie & Julia. He hadn't seen it yet. I had. When it got to that part where Julie was drying her beef in a towel, I turned to Dan and said, "This weekend, let's make Julia's Beef Bourguignon."

I don't know why I said that. I hate touching raw meat. Guess that's just the power of Hollywood.

To my surprise Dan said, "Okay."

So we went out today and bought all kinds of amazing things. We got the beef from the butcher's counter at Marsh. A strong and repulsive Cotes du Rhone at 21st Amendment. Pearl onions, mushrooms, parsley...well, you can read the recipe.

When the slicing and chopping started, so did the respectful Julia Child impersonations.

Dan chopped an onion, and I said, "Holy [bleep]! That smells good."

We dried the meat and seared it in the pot. "[Bleep] me. That looks beautiful!"

We sauteed the onions and carrots. The little brown bits in the bottom of the pot turned the onions golden brown. "How, [bleeping] gorgeous is that?" I asked, holding a piece of meat up with tongs. "Look at that [bleep]!"

At some point during the recipe, we had time to sit down and just let the [bleeping] thing simmer in the oven. We sat at the little bistro table on the deck, talking about how hungry we were and how much fun we were having. When we opened the doors to go back inside, we were hit by a wall of Authentic French Cooking Smell™.

"That smells so [bleeping] amazing," I said. "It can't taste half as good as it smells. It's probably going to be a disappointment."

Five hours later it was ready to eat. (Yes, I do mean 5 hours. We started cooking at 3:30, and we didn't sit down to eat until 8:30.) We tested a couple of pieces of beef. Our knees buckled.

"Sweet [bleeping] mother of alpacas in heat!"

It was a wildly successful endeavor. And I'm very proud of us both for doing so well with such a complicated recipe.

Making Julia's Beef Bourguignon is a bucket list item for anyone who likes to cook or likes to eat. But I think the name of this dish should be changed to Julia's Bleeping Beef Bourguignon, for obvious reasons.

If you prefer a photojournalistic approach to cooking, please see the Bleeping Beef Bourguignon Photo Album.

Come on, Emily, tell us what you really think.

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Poehlman) — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 14:48:00 +0000

(Originally published February 1, 2007)

A couple of points before you read the poem:

1. This poem is not about my own father.
2. Men aren't born inherently worthless, it's just that a few work their whole lives to see how close they can come.

Now on with the poem I turned in today...

Dishonorable Mention

Not every man who smokes Winstons is a liar.
Drinks carbonated rage from aluminum cans.
Squeezes salty drops of self-pity from vacant eyes.
Waits for a medal.

Not every man who smokes Winstons beats his children.
Curses at Howie Mandel from his La-Z-Boy.
Orders his eggs over easy, makes compassion hard.
Thinks he’s Dad of the Year.

Thank God not every man who smokes Winstons is you.

The Day After

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Poehlman) — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 09:09:00 +0000

(Originally published January 18, 2007)

It's over. My glamorous magazine life ended yesterday, promptly at 5:30. The day was uneventful, really. I've never left a job on these terms before. I've never quit anything just to take care of me. In print, it all seems so selfish. But, in reality, it's one of the more selfless things I've done. I don't expect anyone to understand that--or believe it, for that matter. But damn it, sometimes I'm an effing saint.

The Art Director stopped at my desk. "Just wanted to see you before you left." He gave me a hug. Art Guys are sensitive like that. "If you ever need a letter of recommendation or anything, you let me know." He repeated some stuff about the good job I did. He wondered why I was leaving without saying so. Said something to make me laugh instead.

I punched out ten minutes later, hung the card back in it's place--between the Accounting Lady's and the Other Editor's--then I looked down the long corridor. I could see the Managing Editor standing in the lobby. I just want to go quietly, and gracefully accept that things change. Like old people learn to accept death--without fear or struggle. Let's not make a big deal out of this.

He held out his hand when I reached the lobby. "Thank you," he said, and we shook hands. I thanked him too, and the rest of his words were dripping in sympathy even though he didn't know why. "Give us a call after things calm down, when things are better. We'll negotiate better pay for you. You've done outstanding work."

"Who knows--maybe I will come back."

"In the meantime, if you need a letter of recommedation or anything, count on me." He walked to his office, and I walked out the door. It must be grace that gives us the courage to let go of good things.

Poetry Schmoetry

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Poehlman) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 08:18:00 +0000

(Originally published January 16, 2007)

As many of you know, I'm taking a poetry class this semester. It was largely a matter of finding a creative writing course that fit my schedule. But I cannot deny my own masochistic tendencies. What's the fun in taking a 100-level class, if you don't writhe and squirm three hours a week?

My first poem being due today, last night was a struggle. I attempted to shirk seriousness by starting off like this:

Carbunkle, Margunkle,
Simon and Garfunkle...

Or this:

Pull up your damn pants.
You ain't no piggy bank.
Cover up that rhinestone thong.
Give them low-rise jeans a yank.

But I'm not confident enough to finish either of those yet, let alone turn them in for a grade and peer review. Here's what I settled on for my first poem, first draft:

Running Away (January 17)

The cold drizzle
might as well be flower
petals falling, lining our path.

My red sweater
might as well be brightest
white draping, flowing,
trailing yards behind.

Preacher shakes your hand,
takes a glistening wad of gum from his mouth,
places it carefully on the table,
says let’s get started.

Standing in the parlor,
he asks will you
say I do?
We did.

The table is clean.
He’s chewing again.

With gum snapping, he teases,
“Take her to White Castle.”
But what I hear is
“For the rest of your lives, laugh.”

As you can imagine, that's a pretty personal stab at poetry. I'm not sure I care to know what anyone thinks of it yet. But feel free to talk amongst yourselves in the comments.

To Everything A Season

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Poehlman) — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 14:11:00 +0000

I'm changing the way I post From the Archives. Posts will now be published one at a time with the current date so that they appear in your RSS feeds. This will make it easier on me, because I can schedule posts in advance. The original date will be included in the text of each post.

(Originally published January 12, 2007)

When I put in my two weeks notice at the magazine, Managing Editor seemed surprised. "Where are you going?" he asked. I guess it was reasonable to assume I'd found something better.

"Nowhere."

"Is it the money?" he asked. The promise of a new offer was on the tip of his tongue. I gloated on the inside. Guess they really did like me.

"No." I explained my situation without really explaining anything, realizing that the past three months would become the genuine concern of everyone at the magazine if the wrong person walked by the Managing Editor's door during my personal confessions. He gave me instructions for submitting my resignation and said finally, "You've done an excellent job here. I hate to see you go. When you're looking again, will you remember us?"

"Thank you. Of course."

That was a week ago Thursday. This Monday, I went in to work. The copy of the memo concerning my resignation had reached The Matriarch's office, and that afternoon her personal assistant called my extension. "Could you come to [The Matriarch's] office?"

I slipped passed the receptionist's desk and looked down at my clothes. I'm so glad I dressed up today. Better to leave her with a good impression--not leave her imagining the wildest and worst things about my departure. "The ME tells me you're leaving, and that you will be sorely missed," she started while gesturing for me to have a seat in the chair beside her desk. "Is there anything we can do to keep you? The ME speaks very highly of your work. If we offered you more money, would you stay?"

Damn. I thanked her, but had to decline. I was tempted to let her throw out a number, but knew that would only make it harder. I only had one option here--at least for the near future. "Well, you're just working three days a week here, right?" she was trying Plan B.

"No. I've been working two days a week."

"Oh? Just two? Well, would you consider working just one day a week?" I had explained to her that time was the real issue. If I didn't pass the torch, I was going to drop it and probably send the whole place up in flames. Trying to do my job in just one day would be impossible. It really should be a full-time position anyway. She begged and prodded me, trying to get at the details of my personal life that would require me to leave. I suppose she was thinking that if she knew the problem, she could make an offer to fix it for me. "You don't have kids, do you?" If I had told her yes, she probablly would have suggested I let them play back in the archives. "Is your husband ill?" The questions ended, and she walked me out the door. I thanked her for the opportunity to work at the magazine. I sighed in relief on my way back to my desk.

Then there was Wednesday. I arrived at 8:30 and was reading my email as the rest of the employees trickled in. By now word was out. Many complimented me on doing an excellent job and said I would be missed. The Managing Editor stopped at my cubicle around 9:30. "Sure it's not the money?" he asked.

I laughed. "No. I wish that were the thing."

"Well, you're going to remember us, right?"

"Yes," I said. And I meant it. Why wouldn't I try to come back? You guys are making it quite apparent I can name my own price. "I really have enjoyed working here," I added.

From editorial assistant to contributor to assistant editor in 12 months. I am good.

Must Love Cartoons

noreply@blogger.com (EmcogNEATO!) — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 14:14:00 +0000

Dan and I went to see Despicable Me Sunday afternoon. We have been dating for 1 year, 3 months, and 22 days* and Despicable Me was our first movie theater date. Of course, he and I aren't exactly traditional when it comes to...well, anything. So it's weird that we'd never done the dinner-and-a-movie thing, but not that weird.

When we got to the theater we went all out. Popcorn with extra fake butter, large sodas, M&Ms and Skittles. A five-year-old whose adult handler called her Sophia, tugged on a shirt sleeve and pointed to us.

"Absolutely not," her mother said.

I gave Sophia a sympathetic look. It was a look that said, When you're 20 you can make yourself sick on junk food if you want. Also, you can get a puppy. Go ahead. Ask me how I know.

Dan and I sat down, and the lights started to dim. "Oh, crap. We don't have napkins," I said holding a handful of butter-logged popcorn.

"Use my shorts," Dan said, moving a leg in my direction. "That's what I'm going to do!"

We giggled through most of the movie, and walking back out to the car, Dan grabbed his belly and said, "My tummy is feeling a little wonky."

So I did what any loving, kind, sympathetic girlfriend would do. I pumped my fist and chanted, "Puke! Puke! Puke!"

Naw, just kidding. But isn't it cute that a 6'2" Cheesehead and one-time, beer-swilling champ has trouble keeping his sugar down?

*This makes me look crazier than I am. Honest. I used an online calculator to figure it out.

From the Archives 11

noreply@blogger.com (EmcogNEATO!) — Sat, 24 Jul 2010 23:30:00 +0000

From the Archives is New and Improved! Posts from the old Two Write Hands (and Two Left Feet) blog. Now with excerpts!

Fashionista, I am not. (Originally published November 10, 2006)

AAAAAAAARGGGGGGHHH! I yelled, squeezing my eyes shut. Maybe if I don't look at them, the pain will go away. I felt certain childbirth would have been less painful. I was faint. The pain was so horrible, so intense, that my pinky toe went numb. I couldn't walk. I decided gangrene was preferable to disinfecting the blister on my right foot.

Under Pressure (Originally published December 8, 2006)

The four of us still at our seats looked up from our exams and made eye contact. "Is that her?" one whispered. The rest of us just nodded. We shared sympathetic glances and returned to our exams.

Taco Supreme, Anyone? (Originally published December 15, 2006)

"That's kind of heavy," he said after the damage had been done. It was an illustrators directory. Those damn things weigh about 5 lbs., which isn't a lot unless you've JUST FREAKING THROWN YOUR BACK. I vow here and now to never, ever hire a single illustrator from this directory as long as I live, so help me God.

What is this?