Picnic with Wild Horses

The other day we decided we would take our first Irish hike and made our way to, and eventually up, Sugarloaf Mountain. Just a few miles outside of Dublin, this mountain peak overlooks the bustling metropolis of Ireland's capital while sitting on the skirts of the Atlantic Ocean. Although each view was breathtakingly beautiful in completely different ways, the juxtaposition of such environments produced the same result. While I felt like I was on top of both natural and man-made worlds, I felt completely tiny; thankful to have the opportunity to observe each. Despite the beauties of each landscape, however, the most beautiful site I encountered that day was a group of wild horses. Relaxing atop an Irish mountain, these beautiful creatures looked as natural as the ocean below. This overwhelming beauty reminded me of one of my favorite songs and it has been running through my head ever since I happened upon them.

"Childhood living is easy to do,
the things you wanted I bought them for you,
graceless lady, you know who I am,
you know I can't let you slide through my hands..."

"wild horses couldn't drag me away,
wild wild horses couldn't drag me away..."

"I watched you suffer a dull aching pain,
now you decided to show me the same,
no sweeping exits or off stage lines,
could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind,
wild horses couldn't drag me away,
wild wild horses couldn't drag me away..."

"I know I've dreamed you a sin and a lie,
I have my freedom but I don't have much time,
faith has been broken tears must be cried,
let's do some living after we die..."

"wild horses couldn't drag me away,
wild wild horses we'll ride them some day..."


"Wild horses couldn't drag me away,
wild wild horses we'll ride them some day..."

Jadore Paris!

Bono!

I was just sitting outside of Jake's art gallery, minding my own bid'nith and then boom! Bono walks by. We started talking, I got a picture with him and found out that he loves Lawrence! AWESOME.

Hello again!

I am here to announce that as of today, I am rekindling my on-again, off-again relationship with Foodie Newbie. I am not really sure what happened back in December, but I guess it is safe to say things just sort of fizzled between us. Now that I am off to bigger and better things as an intern in Ireland, I have the urge to inform FN of the great things in my life and hopefully make some much needed amends.
So for the first of many more to come...

I'm Sorry!

Okay, so I now it has been FOREVER since I have blogged, and forever is magnified in the blogosphere, so having totally committed a web-based social faux pas of the rankest kind, I am easing my way back into your good graces. I will have you know that despite my absence on the Internet, I have still been cooking. This was actually quite surprising for myself, even, because as I have always loved writing, and this cooking thing is a new-found obsession. It is an obsession that I figured would surely die out just like my short stint with Jnco Jeans back in the 5th grade and that time I made my dad convert part of our attic into an "Art Room" to go untouched to this day and for the entirety of its ten year existence. So tonight I will not be providing you with a recipe and a story about my day, but rather I will share with you my latest obsession. Joni Mitchell's "River." http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xCov0TYXBp8

This song is heart wrenchingly depressing and never ceases to make my throat ache. These songs are rare, and so when you come across one, I think it should be given proper recognition. It's coming on Christmas They're cutting down trees They're putting up reindeer And singing songs of joy and peace Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on But it don't snow here It stays pretty green I'm going to make a lot of money Then I'm going to quit this crazy scene I wish I had a river I could skate away on I wish I had a river so long I would teach my feet to fly Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on I made my baby cry He tried hard to help me You know, he put me at ease And he loved me so naughty Made me weak in the knees Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on I'm so hard to handle I'm selfish and I'm sad Now I've gone and lost the best baby That I ever had Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on I wish I had a river so long I would teach my feet to fly Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on I made my baby say goodbye It's coming on Christmas They're cutting down trees They're putting up reindeer And singing songs of joy and peace I wish I had a river I could skate away on

Creamy Tomato and Gorgonzola Soup

Holy shizz. So remember a couple years ago when it became legally mandatory to post all of the sex offenders in a national sex offender registry? And it was like all the rage after an evening of watching How to Catch a Predator, to sit down with your loved ones and look up all of the sex offenders in your town, and to your horror, you'd find your mailman of 23 years, Gil, or Aunt Millie's wrinkled mug staring you in the face? You'd keep your fingers crossed hoping that it was only for taking a freak-a-leak behind the shed after three too many beers at the annual Labor Day picnic, but inside you were never quite sure? You were left wondering what your neighbors were doing in their spare time? Yeah, those were the good ole days...
Well I had the pleasure of reliving this great period in American history, just the other night, when I found myself asking "Do we ever really know our neighbors?" The answer to this, my friend, is not blowing in the wind. The answer, my friend, is NO. And so it begins...
Last week, my brother bought a treadmill off of Craigslist. This should have been my first clue that the night was going to be interesting. The word "Craigslist" alone is synonymous with weird. Like weird weird. Like the weird you only find in college dorm rooms. Like Bubble Boy weird. Anyway, you get the picture. Craigslist lived up to its reputation.

We drove up to the seller's house, (a frighteningly short drive), and Mr. Craig was waiting for us... Outside...
Before we even get to introductions,I can tell this guy is going to be awesome. Clad in a casual pair of distressed jeans, a screen printed t-shirt that said "affliction," this guy was nothing short of Leawood's John Gosselin. His outfit, coupled with his balding dome, had me feeling mortified for his children, and I sure as hell hope this doucher hasn't fathered eight of them.
He introduces himself as"Mike," which is also my brother's name and although I didn't know it then, served as the first of many comparisons he would make between the two of them.
We go downstairs to find the treadmill and my brother, Michael, attempts to make small talk. He is brilliant with small talk, a genetic gift he has inherited from my mother. However, I would not really call what unfolded before our eyes "small."In fact, Michael and I discovered some rather big issues about this man.

Michael: "This looks like a really nice treadmill."

Mike: "Yeah, that's not the only nice thing I'm getting rid of. I have got multiple huge flat screen t.v.'s, this massive house, and a portable,indoor sauna."

SMALL TALK TRANSLATION: I am a big loser. Let me attempt to impress you with these material goods, I have collected over the years.

Michael: "Oh cool. Well should we start to move this thing up the stairs?"
SMALL TALK TRANSLATION: Oh wow, this could be a long evening. Best to start it and get it over with.

Mike:"Yeah,yeah. You should move down to the light end and I will get the front."
SMALL TALK TRANSLATION: I feel threatened by your youth, and want to prove to you that I can still do things.

Michael: "Are you sure? I don't mind..."
STT: Please do not sue me when you herniate some discs mid-heart attack as you try to hold this thing
Mike: "No, no. I still got it. I look pretty good for my age, don't you think?"
STT: VALIDATION. NOW.

So they start to move this gigantic awkwardly shaped excuse for a good idea down the hallway and up the stairs when things start to get tense.My brother Michael is at the bottom of the stairs holding the majority of the weight while Mike is struggling mid staircase. Mike's face is getting very red. Mike's veins are starting to pulse. I am starting to have visions of this massive thing slip from Mike's grip, joy ride its way down the stairs, just shortly before crushing every bone in my eldest brother's body, having met his demise in his twenties on the carpet of this randomaniac's home. NOT GOOD.

Michael: "Is everything okay? Do you want to take a break?"
Mike: "No man, I got it. I'm just going to tie one end of this rope I found around the treadmill and the other around my neck..."

WHAT???!?!!!!??
So he is going to strangle himself before killing my brother? AWESOME.

So Mike, now wearing a leash, insists that he is okay and continues this Everest-esque trip up the stairs.

Then the thing gets stuck in the door frame. (A problem my brother brought up an hour earlier, which Mike brushed off...)
This is when things get interesting. Mike, who has taken to calling me "Les," now insists that I maneuver my way up the stairs, between them and the treadmill and start to unscrew the whole damn thing. I begrudgingly obey, we get the thing through the door and we are that much closer to having survived one of the scarier nights of our lives. Or so I thought. After we have the whole machine loaded into my brother's car- which nearly broke during the process, Michael is called back into Mike's house to look at pictures of his Russian girlfriend that Mike has printed off from the internet.

Mike: "Look at her! She is just average over there! Average!"
Michael: "Uh huh...wow..."
STT: maybe the less I say the faster I will be out of here?

Anyway, to make a long story somewhat shorter, I will just say we made it out alive, having learned quite a bit and grown as individuals. Incredible experience to say the least.
After returning to Michael's house I made a delicous creamy tomato and gorgonzola soup. The foodie connection to this whole story is that if you decide to make this soup, in all of its fiery red glory, just know that its color was the same as old man Mike's face when trudging up the stairs.

Ingredients:
Tomato juice
1 can tomatoes-any way you like
1 red pepper
1 onion
some garlic
gorgonzola cheese
some cream cheese
some heavy cream or milk

Saute garlic, onion and red pepper until onion is translucent. Pour in tomatoes and juice and bring to a simmer. Slowly add cheeses and stir to blend. When soup looks nice and blended add the milk. Serve with a grilled cheese or some crusty bread and indulge.

Impressions of a Farmers' Market

Saturday, September 19, 2009 started out just like any other. I rolled out of bed, blindly made my way to the bathroom and started brushing my teeth. As I lazily brushed each side of my mouth I thought about the day’s activities in a sleep induced stupor. I knew I had to do something of significance today, but what was it, I thought as I brushed my tangled hair. “Kick-off against Duke is at 11, is that it?... No, a mere football game would not be bookmarked in my subconscious,” I thought as put in my left contact. “I’m sure I haven’t finished all of my homework…but that is pretty typical for a Saturday morning…” I posited as my vision was clearing somewhat. “Homework. I know it has something to do with homework…” I put in my right contact, blinked, and in a moment of total clarity, remembered “The Farmers’ Market! That’s it. Today I am going to the Farmers’ Market for a class project!” Satisfied, as the day’s agenda had finally come to me just as clear as my own corrected vision, I threw on some jeans and a t-shirt, grabbed some cash and my car keys, and headed downtown. When I got near the general vicinity outlined on my assignment’s prompt, I did not see anything resembling a market of any sort, save tons of people who clearly knew more about this event than I did, as they walked with purpose, on their way to a hidden valley of fruits and vegetables, a Kansan’s land of milk and honey. Others, walking away from a general area to the left, seemed to walk with something else. They walked with a sense of content, a sense of satisfaction and an armful of produce. I knew I was headed in the right direction. As I got closer, I followed my nose to the smell of “Barbeque?” Confused, I took another whiff. “Yep, that is certainly the smell of cooked meat and summer. That is definitely barbeque,” I decided, as my hunger to reach this mysterious destination grew like my own intensifying appetite for breakfast. “Who’da thought? BBQ at a Farmers’ Market!” As I approached the entrance, my sense of smell proved correct. Underneath a large white tent to the left of the opening to this event, a man was smoking some pork next to a large white sign advertising everything from organic beef cutlets to chicken breasts. I continued walking throughout the market and was surprised yet again. Across from the BBQ station, my eyes fell upon the rare ethnic delicacies of baba ganoush, spanakopita and Lebanese Turkey pies. Blown away from surprise, I slowly made my way to the next vendors. This duo was selling baked goods and soap. Although I first thought this an interesting combination, as I moved closer, I realized the connection between these two seemingly unlike items was that both looked absolutely delicious, and good enough to eat. The soaps, which were casually formed, actually looked like cookies, and were scented like edible confections with everything from vanilla almond to watermelon. I was beginning to see what made this such an extraordinary event. While I milled around the market, I began to notice something else peculiar. Aside from the random looking smattering of produce, baked goods and barbeque, the people at this event were like no others I had seen at any grocery store I had ever been to. These people were enjoying themselves. Unlike the usual haggard, tired countenances of the overworked mothers who frequented the local Dillon’s, these people looked happy, relaxed and overall excited to be there. No one looked agitated or in a hurry. Children were safe and free to run around. Laughing with happiness, toddlers and teens alike were savoring cinnamon rolls and talking to friends or parents. This was an event, an event to be celebrated, and was treated as such. Live music from hand-made instruments filled the air as people danced in the parking lot. This event’s attendees included both strangers and old friends. It was obvious that some of the people in attendance shared a personal camaraderie with the people they were buying from, as they asked about health and family. A high school reunion appeared to be in full swing, as a group of old friends gathered underneath a sign that said “Class of ‘67” while drinking coffee and talking about children. An hour and half and a bouquet of flowers later, I left the Farmers’ Market with a wealth of knowledge about this extraordinary event, a turkey pie in my stomach, and a feeling of content, like the people I had seen before. I felt content knowing that this event brought people together. I felt content knowing that in this world of schedules and work hours that you could find people gathered together at least once a week, buying wholesome food and generally enjoying their lives. For that reason alone, the Farmers’ Market is truly exceptional.