Pupper Paws

Come on!

Judge Judy

At 6pm every night, the television goes on and Judge Judy dispenses wisdom and rules and rules and rules for what seems like hours.

In order to avoid yet another girlfriend-loaned-money-to-their-baby-daddy-but-now-he-has-a-new-girlfriend-and-she-wants-the-money-back segments, or the older-man-who bailed-out-the-young-user-babe-who’s-looking-for-payback piece, I have tried various distractions. It can’t be anything that takes me too far away from the action to where unable to understand my partner’s comments on the cases. But I need something to keep at least half my mind away from the darker side of the human soul. Knitting makes me tense. And reading takes too much concentration. One idea that worked for a while was to draw a quick sketch of the defendants and plaintiffs. It was entertaining for about 3 notebooks worth of conflicts. Then I made up names and thoughts for the faces I’d drawn.
I’ve moved on to gentle Sudoku. It’s easy to pick up and put down so that I can say, “We’ve seen this one” and my partner responds, “I don’t care. We’re watching it again.”

The New Yorker

There's a great feeling of satisfaction that comes from being caught up on The New Yorker.


Then a feeling of loss sinks in when you realize that you are without a New Yorker to read.

Tara's Potatoes

I hate cooking.

I'm a grazer so not cooking has suited me. Hard boiled eggs, avocados, apples, cheese, grapes, sardines, potato chips and peanut butter are staples. But, for the last several years I've attempted to cook but, unsurprisingly, those efforts have ended in self-sabotaging disasters. The timing is off and everything's cold. The simple recipes are bland and boring. And, on the rare occasion that I master a dish, I get bored to tears making it.

But, tonight I made baked potato slices that turned out great. I call it "Better than French Fries"

Here's the recipe written for true beginners:

Ingredients to serve 2 people:

3 medium sized red potatoes
olive oil
salt and pepper

Here's what you do when:
Wash the potatoes (I use a little dish soap but make sure you wash it all out)
Cut the potatoes in half, parboil for 8 minutes = put potatoes in water and bring water to a boil. Once the water boils, put on a timer for 8 minutes
Preheat the oven at 350 = turn on oven for 10 minutes before putting the potatoes in
Cut the parboiled potatoes into wedges (3 wedges per half potato)
Put the parboiled potatoes in a bowl and lightly coat with olive oil and a little salt & pepper
Place on a non greased cookie sheet with room between the potatoes so they don’t steam up and get mushy
Bake for 25 minutes to ½ an hour depending on how brown you want them (hint: you’re looking for the browning on the side of the potato sitting on the cookie sheet and NOT the side facing you
Once the potatoes are brown on one side, turn them over and cook for another 15-20 minutes
Serve the crisp and delicious slices like french fries with ketchup, mayo or mustard

Bored to Death

Laugh-out-loud funny, Bored to Death is the sharpest show since, well, another HBO show Flight of the Conchords that I can't get straight so call it Flight of the Condors but that's probably part of the joke. Back to Bored to Death. I was reading creator Jonathan Ames' blog-letter on HBO's site and it's also, not surprisingly, hilarious. There's a certain neurotic Woody Allen humor that Americans (at least coasties) are attuned to. Every thought is twisted into grotesque proportions that turns a scene between our loser hero Jonathan (Jason Schwartzman) and the superhero cartoonist Ray (Zach Galifianakis) where they make cultural references in a coffee bar into a scene about how neither gets the others reference. And doesn't everyone hear a reference and think they get the meaning but do they really? Are they hip enough to get it or do they pretend to know what the hell was just said. Ted Danson hits all the right notes as George Christopher, a publishing mogul so rich that he has two first names. George is a privileged baby and, like most uber-rich people, he pays his friends and is a bottomless pit of need and hubris. If you haven't seen it, do.

HEAVEN

My dear friend Bee's aunt Barbara recently passed away. Bee said she thinks that since aunt Barbara believed in a heaven, that Barbara is in the heaven that she believed in.

I don't think there is a life-after-death, but I started thinking: What would my heaven be?

My heaven is Paris. I speak fluent French, smoke like crazy and wear couture that fits like on Anne Hathaway in "The Devil Wears Prada." Gorgeous three-inch heals feel like I'm walking on pillows and I have conversations with all the most interesting people throughout history and into the future so that I begin to understand everything about everything for eternity.

(Photo from google images, National Geographic Traveler, from an article Zut Alors! Paris' Car-Sharing Program, January 30, 2008. Also posted on Flickr)

THURSDAY.

It’s sinking in.

Africa, Maasai, ticks, puzzles, talk, drink, water, clouds, clear skies, Kikuyu, Venus, the Southern Cross, Bomas, Range Rovers, thistle trees, laughter, singing, Moses, guilt.

Thank you Pamela.

Thank you Africa.