The to-do list

While in past summers, it was safe to say I was pretty much married to my to-do list, this summer had been different. It's not that I don't have a to do list, because I do. I have an entire spiral notebook dedicated to my to-do lists, with separate sections for daily and long-term to-do lists. It has checkboxes, different shapes and colors mini-post-its, a place to keep my pen, and is basically a geek walhalla in between two covers. 

But even though it's full of things I decided I must do before heading back to work (paint Ozziez's room! Sort through pictures! Clean out attic!), I have not touched it since I came back from Ireland, three weeks ago. I've carried it around with me, and it's currently sitting on the coffeetable, staring at me in reproach, but I have simply refused to open it and look at all the things I should have done, should be doing right now, and need to do in the next three weeks. 

This has created an interesting situation. For one thing, I keep forgetting to do things. Like run to the bank to get my hard drives from our lock box, schedule the pool guys to come and paint our deck, and cleaning out the fridge. It also means that when I get around to doing things that I remember from my to-do list, such as sorting through my pictures from Christmas, I do it when I feel like it, and quit when that feeling goes away. I feel like the main character from Office Space, when he's just come out of a hypnosis, doesn't go into work for four days, and when he does, and his boss tells him he's been missing a lot work, he replies with, "Well, I haven't actually been missing it."  Yes, I am definitely less organized (for instance, because I have yet to finish moving certain teaching materials to another computer, on account of I quit when I didn't feel like doing it anymore, my desk is covered in a jumbled combination of used and empty CDs), but I also find that I just don't care. Whatever I'm forgetting is, and this is a shocking revelation to me, really not that important. The fridge, for one, is just not disgusting enough for me to get worked up about it. And if something is important enough (such as scheduling our termite inspection), I am more than capable of remembering. Even over a long weekend. 

So yeah, I'm not sure what to make of this new situation yet. You see, it really means I, like the guy from Office Space, only do what I feel like, unencumbered by to-do lists. So I haven't checked my email as regularly as I should have, not responded to emails from dear friends, not updated my Facebook page in weeks, and we all know how much my blogging skills have fallen to the wayside. Yet I know that those are things I usually like to do. Apparently just not right now. 

However, in line with my current laissez-faire attitude I'm going to cut myself some slack. The 2012-2013 academic year was quite the doozy, with promotion and tenure, a grant, conferences, publications, and it would seem that I just need a break. Between you and me, I honestly kind of like the relaxed me. And I'm sure that once August 5 rolls around, I will be wound tighter than a slinky on espresso. So for now, if I don't respond to your emails, phone calls, or messages, it's not because I don't want to. I just don't right now.

Driemaal..

..is scheesprecht.

Na het verrassende succes van de gevulde koeken van vorige maand was ik overtuigd dat alle Nederlandse lekkernijen vanaf nu binnen handbereik waren. Brinta, roze koeken, spekkoek, erwtensoep, de Amerikaanse recepten zijn allemaal te vinden The Dutch Table, en dus was het een kwestie van tijd maken en de juiste ingedrienten kopen, voordat al die versnaperingen ook in mijn pantry te vinden waren. 

Mijn eerste, of nou ja tweede, success story zou eierkoeken worden. Hoe moeilijk kon een koek die voornamelijk uit eieren bestaat nou zijn? 

Nou, erg moeilijk. 

Het begon met het recept van The Dutch Table. De eierkoeken, die tot mijn grote verbazing corn starch bevatten ( een middel waarmee je sauzen dikker maakt), waren groot en dik, mooi goudkleurig, maar ook hard en redelijk smakeloos. Manlief en de jongens vonden ze heerlijk met jam of honing, maar laten we wel wezen, een eierkoek behoort men met honing noch met jam te eten. 

En dus werd het tijd voor het zwaarder geschut: mijn oom Jan (die voor de verandering ook eens echt Jan heet). Jan is namelijk professioneel brood en banketbakker. Zo iemand die om middernacht naar zijn werk gaat zodat wij allemaal vers tijgerbrood, sesambolletjes, en slagroompunten kunnen kopen. Die na bijna veertig jaar dienst de favoriete patient van zijn tandarts is, en niet omdat hij zoveel snoept, maar omdat suiker in een bakkerij letterlijk in de lucht zit, en hij dat decennia lang al aan het inademen is.  Iemand wiens baan een duidelijk nuttige bijdrage aan de samenleving levert (terwijl dat bij mijn baan nog maar te zien valt). Na een recept dat maar liefst 75 eierkoeken zou produceren afgewezen te hebben als ietwat onrealistisch, kwam Jan met een simpel, klein recept aan. Eieren, bloem ('dat is flour voor jou'), suiker, citroenschil en bakpoeder ('en dat is baking soda voor jou'). Het leek reuze makkelijk. En dat was het ook. En de koeken zagen er prachtig uit. Alleen smaakten ze werkelijk voor geen meter. Niet zoet genoeg, en met een vreemde vissige bijsmaak. 

U begrijpt, dit was het. Het teken dat opegeven geen optie was. It was on. Challenge accepted. In it to win it. 

En zo ging ik op zoek naar een Amerikaans recept. Van een Amerikaanse kok. En kwam na veel wikken en wegen bij een recept uit dat wel wat leek. Zo was er geen corn starch nodig. Maar wel baking soda. En baking powder. En als semi-wannabe-bakker weet ik dat je die combinatie nodig hebt als je enige fluffiness wil krijgen. Wel moest er corn syrup aangeschaft worden, en de oven op een onfatsoenlijke temperatuur voorverwarmd worden, maar mensen, dan heb je ook wat. Want deze derde keer zijn ze dus mooi gelukt. Perfect, goudbruine, luchtige, plakkerige eierkoeken. Van Amerikaans mega-formaat, maar dat nemen we voor lief. 

En ik heb maar meteen besloten dat mijn volgende poging boterkoek gaat worden...en dan? De moeder van alle banket: spekkoek.

Queen of tarts

Many people have asked me about my favorite part of my recent trip to Ireland. Because I live in the Bible belt, where, to borrow from Ms. Austen, sensibilities are many and sense is hard to come by, I have yet to share the absolute best part of the trip with anyone. Instead, I talk about other parts of my trip, such as seeing the Book of Kells, touring Dublin with Mary, exploring County Wicklow, or the inspirational nature of the conference, or perhaps even the success of my presentation. All truly exciting and wonderful experiences, but none can hold a candle to the high tea Mary and I shared on my first day in the country. A first day that was marked by rains, winds, and temperatures in the high 40s. A day so full of new impressions and freezing ankles that when Mary suggested finding a tea place she had read about on TripAdvisor that was known for its pies, cakes, scones, and tarts, saying yes was the only logical thing to do. So, using her ever-useful city app, Mary guided us across Temple bar, through crooked streest, past bars, boutiques, and lots of Carroll's tourist shops. And just when we were about to guve up, we both looked up, and saw the bright red sign with the infamous name 'Queen of Tarts'. Yes, Queen of Tarts. And now you know why I have yet to share this with anyone down here. In a part of the world where talking about armpit hair by innocent first graders at summer camp is seen as the worst kind of inappropriate (yes, this did indeed happen. Back in 2008 in fact), just  mentioning the name of this particular establishment is enough to give most people a fit of the vapors. So I have refrained from sharing this particular tidbit. (And that expression would be a no-no as well..just so you know). 

But I digress. 

The Queen of Tarts was easiest the smallest eatery in all of Dublin: six tables were squeezed together in front of the most scrumptuous display of tarts, pies, and pastries, and patrons had to watch their elbows and knees lest one of them ended up in their neighbor's scone or pot of tea. The decorations in the shape of lots of red hearts, and references to various species of womanhood one might describe as 'tarts', did an amazing job walking the fine line between cute and camp, and gave the place an uncanny resemblance to Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shoppe in the Harry Potter series. In one word, it was awesome. 

In spite of the rain, cold, and the fact that it was Sunday at tea time, one small table next to the display case was empty. Mary and I quickly made it our own, and proceeded to have a very warm, delicious, and much-appreciated tea. 

And seriously, can anything trump sharing a pot of tea, a slice of pound cake with an old friend on a cold day in a teashop called Queen of Tarts?

No, I didn't think so either...

Tir Na Nog

And now for something completely different (no pools, no toes, no hips), let's talk about Ireland.

Does anyone remember the show The Mystic Knights of Tir Na Nog?  Or was I the only nerdy graduate student who wasted her time watching a show about battles for ancient Ireland? And who, on a side note, also wasted a lot of time with Mork & Mindy and Are You Being Served ("are you free, Captain Peacock?") reruns? Imagine if I had spent all that time studying! I could have actually gone somewhere and made something of myself!...oh..wait..well..)

Anyway, the Mystic Knights of Tir Na Nog was my first encounter with Ireland. Well, that and the lovely mother from Titanic who, as the ship is sinking, puts her children to bed and reads them a story about, there you go again, Tir Na Nog. Growing up in Europe, I was, of course, more than familiar with the ongoing "troubles" in Northern Ireland (and possibly even more familiar with the music about that era), but the rest of Ireland was always little more than a haze of green fields, rain, druids, Celtic women in large dresses singing old songs, and stories of immigrants trying to get across the ocean to the US.

Fortunately, my ignorant little soul is going to get an opportunity to educate itself on Ireland, as next week I will be at a conference to Dublin. There are a lot of downsides to my job as a professor, the crappy pay, the long hours, the difficult students, the crappy pay, and well, you are all more than familiar with the long list of woes, but one of the major perks of working in academics is the opportunity to travel. Granted, you do need to conduct some research, turn it into a paper, and then get it accepted by said conference. And you also need to make sure your university is willing to pay for at least part of the cost, but once you've achieved all of that, this traveling gig is a real perk.

In my case, the paper that landed me at the major international conference to be held in Ireland focused on the study that involved research assistants and Steve, my former colleague who is busy finishing up his PhD at his Big Midwestern University. Much to our surprise, we found some pretty interesting things, and fortunately, the reviews at the major conference agreed, and so this Saturday I will be on my way to the airport. The conference doesn't start until Tuesday night, and since exploring a country by myself isn't half as much fun as exploring it with a friend, Mary, she of running awesomeness (who in a less awesome move, transferred to Italy) is flying up to meet me, and we will exploring this rainy, green, druid-filled country together. Not only has Mary been to Ireland before, she's an even better planner and tour guide than I am (as proven by the fact that she's already figured out which bus to take to the airport to pick me up), and she's pregnant and has already threatened to buy me every single drink she wants but can't have. This is what I would call a win-win situation, people.

To be honest, not all is well in Dixiechick-travel-adventure-land. Lately, I've become a little freaked out by my accommodations. Because my university is generous but not exactly in a Daddy Warbucks kind of way, I'm having to pay a considerable chunk of the expenses for this trip out of my own pocket. And back in February, when I booked everything, saving on accommodations seemed like a great way to go. So I booked a room on campus. A single person dorm-room. Back then it sounded great, it cost only 43 euros a night, included breakfast, I'd have access to a kitchen, the campus gym and pool, and did I mention it was only 43 euros a night? But now, as my departure date inches closer I'm starting to feel a little queasy. What if I'm surrounded by partying students? Or worse, man-sized roaches? Or a really, really nasty bed? According to husband-dear, this is a) slightly ridiculous, and b) probably still a remnant from the accommodations trauma I endured in China last year. In order to assuage my fears, he suggested I look at pictures online, as it really couldn't be that bad. And so I did. People, I am paying 43 euros for a monk's cell. Or, if you're from Holland, a prison cell. Cinder blocks, a bed, a desk, and a bathroom so small I have the feeling I'll be standing on the toilet to take my shower. Fortunately, reviews call it "clean", "modern", and make no mention of bugs or dirt (although some did complain about partying Italian students), but still, part of me wishes I had just splurged and checked into a nice hotel downtown (although, as husband-dear points out, I would still be freaking out about bedbugs, and he is so right).

But accommodation-fears aside, I am excited to finally see Tir Na Nog with my own eyes, meet up with a good friend, catch up with former colleagues at the conference, and, of course, present Steve and my work to the academic community at large. I will keep you posted.

And that's all I have to say about that

So 2013 will probably not go down in my personal history as the most athletic year ever. I know, I know, the year's not even half over yet, and it's possible I'm being slightly overly dramatic, but sheesh, people, sheesh!

First there was that pesky hip/ groin problem I told you all about. You know, it hurt, I rested, it still hurt. I rested some more, but no cigar. Not only did that nix my chances of participating in the half ironman I had been training for, it also pretty much made it impossible to swim or bike. I could still run, thank the Lord, but long training rides or swimming using my legs was out of the question. Hello pathetically short rides and floaties! You can imagine I have just been an absolute bundle of joy these past weeks. 

But, as the problem-solving, type A, oh-my-god-I-have-to-train endorphine junkie that I am, I of course wasn't about to just let this run its course. While well-meaning friends said things like, why don't you just take it easy and float around in your pool, and, you know, rest will make it all better eventually, I was in my PCM's office at three weeks. And when her admonitions to just rest and ice did nothing for the next two weeks, I got a referral to see an office specialize in orthopedics and sports medicine. Yes, I may cry when I've had too little sleep and I can't find my favorite pumps, but when I put my game face on, I get things done. Even things involving the notorious government-run health benefits plan, Tricare. 

So last week, I went to see said orthopedic surgeon. After filling out an 11-page questionnaire that not only covered my medical history but those of my parents and siblings as well, and three x-rays, I had my diagnosis. And something else. But I'll get to that in a secod. As expected, I had a strained adductor, as well as tendonitis of the iliopsoas. Say what? Or as the Dutch would say: Broodje kammewattes? I have basically messed up the thing that connects my muscle to the bone as well as a tendon that runs in that same area. Fun! Fortunately, this is America, and there are solutions for everything, which in this case was physical therapy. Great. 

But there was another small issue. Minor, really. You see, when the doctor looked at my x-rays, he noticed a funny lump on the ball of my hip. This is, apparently, not normal. It even has a fancy-pants name: femoral acetabular imingement. For those of you into Googling (or Bing-ing), my particular kind is known as a cam lesion. And what, you may wonder, is the prognosis? Well, fortunately for you, I wondered the same thing, and asked. So according to this doctor, and every single website I have read since then, it could lead to early onset arthritis, surgery, and hip replacement. Good-y. The first sign of the lump on the hip becoming a genuine problem is a clicking noise, so I was to keep my ears out for that. 

So after that strange news (hi! I know you're here for a groin injury but let me tell you about something unrelated but pretty major that is wrong with you! You're welcome!), I went off to physical therapy. And one would think the story ended there.

Alas! There is a third thing. Yes, really. And this can really only be blamed on my own complete klutzy-ness. Last Friday, as I was playing with Shelby, I ran past one of our bookcases. Well, that was my intention. I made it past, my leg made it past, and the majority of my foot did too. Only my little toe decided to stay behind. The same little toe I broke back in 2009. You can imagine what happened next: A very blue, very swollen, and very broken toe (on an upnote, I did not cuss or cry, which is, if you know me, truly worth mentioning. The dogs just seemed really surprised at the very long and loud primordial scream I produced instead). So instead of running, biking, or swimming this weekend, I have instead been hobbling around in a pair of flip flops, grimacing at every movement, and googling questions about the duration and size of swelling and bruising. 

And that is why this morning, I sat at the physical therapist's looking like this:

Electrodes for my hip, a sneaker on one foot, and a flip flop for its bruised and swollen sister. 

And when I did my leg-lifting exercises this morning, guess what I heard? Yep, an onimous clicking sound. Bright orange walker with tassles and a bicycle bell, here I come!

I am, to use a good old southern phrase, such a mess. Thank goodness for pool-tinis. 

It's alive

Yes it is. Really. But just far too busy enjoying the new pool to write about anything. Not there isn't enough to write about (I'm debating the following post themes: Southerners and time; (Non) communication and construction folk; Why cookies make it all alright), but we'll have to wait until I get my pool-kick on before I even want to think about sitting at my laptop. Unless someone knows about a waterproof laptop, of course. 

In the meantime, I leave you with the following images...

Bing, de bakprinses, en de gevulde koek

Ik heb geen idee of Bing in Nederland ook in opkomst is, maar hier in de VS worden de laatste maanden overspoelt door de 'bing it on' campagne. Bring it on Bing-style zeg maar. 

Bing wil mensen zoals ik die al jaren verslaafd zijn aan de concurrent wegkrijgen door ze op de bingiton website de concurrent, of als we heel eerlijk zijn, de marktleider, met Bing te laten vergelijken. Het idee is dat je vijf keer een zoekterm invult, vijf keer de keuze krijgt tussen twee resultaten schermen zonder dat je weet welke van wie is. Uiteraard kiest iedereen, zonder het te weten voor de uiteraard betere, visueler ingestelde, veel vriendelijke Bing versie, wat ze na vijf keer kiezen in een mooie resultatentabel te zien krijgen. Marketing-technisch een geweldig idee. 

Aangezien het zomervakantie is, en ik dus ontzettend druk ben met het supervisen van de constructie van ons zwembad, me druk maken over een rare vlek in de vloerbedekking in de slaapkamer, en beslissingen zoals of het meer zin heeft om nu of morgen de donkere was te doen, kon ik gelukkig ergens een gaatje vinden om aan deze belangrijke campagne deel te nemen. 

Naast het feit dat mijn resultaten een perfecte 'draw' aangaven (ik prefereer Bing voor entertainment en de concurrent voor serieuzer zoek werk. Who knew?!)  was het ook opmerkelijk hoe ontzettend moeilijk het is om vijf keer op rij met een zinnige zoekterm op de proppen te komen. Mijn halve promotie tijd deed ik niks anders, maar als het erop aankomt weet ik echt niet waarop ik moet zoeken. En dus kwam ik met allerlei ontzettende vreemde dingen op de proppen zoals How I Met Your Mother Season 9 spoilers, de situatie in Eritrea (zorgwekkend mensen, echt waar), als ook een Engelstalig recept voor gevulde koeken. 

En weet u dat die dus gewoon bestaan? Amerikaanse recepten voor gevulde koeken? Ik had ze in het Nederlands al eens gezien, maar met mijn Amerikaanse maatbekers, Amerikaanse ingredienten, en Amerikaanse oven had ik daar niet zoveel aan. Tuurlijk kan ik omrekenen, maar als ik dan op dingen als 5/7 cup uikom, of 2.78 ounces, dan zakt me de moed in de teenslippers. 

Maar goed, ik sloeg het recept op, en vergat het prompt, want sja, de was moest gevouwen worden, een co-auteur was het niet eens met mijn factor analyse, en er moest ook The price Is Right gekeken worden. 

Nu bak ik de laatste dagen heel wat af: manlief wil wat mee naar zijn werk nemen, Jimmie zegt dat hij zeker weet dat als ik marble poundcake maak dat veel lekkerder is dan bij Starbucks (awww.. En ook: challenge accepted!), en ik wil de zwembadmannen blij houden. En dus bak ik pecan sandies, peanut butter cookies, banana bread, kitchen sweeps, en die pound cake. Maar zelf heb ik eigenlijk nooit echt zin in in gebakken spul. Ik doe niks liever dan de beslag kom schoon likken ( met mijn vingers! Ik heb wel een beetje stijl), maar als het spul eenmaal gebakken is ben ik er wel klaar mee. Behalve gisteren, toen had ik gisteren in een keer ontzettend zin in gevulde koeken. Een ouderwetse Hollandse gevulde koek. Maar ja, de dichtsbijzijnde Nederlandse winkel is vier uur rijden, en dat zit er niet echt in om zes uur 's avonds. En toen bedacht ik me, hallo, ik kan ze natuurlijk ook gewoon zelf maken. Ben ik nou een bakprinses of niet? En, eureka!, ik heb dat recept van Bing ook nog ergens. 

En zo maakte ik, dankzij de bingiton campagne, mijn allereerste zelf gebakken gevulde koeken. Het waren er maar acht, maar ze waren verrukkelijk.

Bing it on, zou ik dus zeggen