Overheard at My Own Funeral

They really didn't do a good job on the makeup.

That Elusive Secret Ingredient

I'm going to tell you the secret to great, mind-blowing food. Can you keep a secret? And by keep a secret I mean promise to forward this to everyone you know and thereby drive up the traffic to this site resulting in a fat check of four cents to be auto-deposited to my Swiss bank account from AdWords.

Studies show--I'm sure they exist, if I had an assistant as God intended me to, they would have included a link to a study which would go right here--that it doesn't matter if you follow a recipe exactly or simply heat up a pre-made meal. There is an underlying secret step to phenomenal food:

Have someone else cook the food for you.

Simple as that. It makes EVERY recipe better. Why do you think they put "Serves 3-4 people" at the top of the recipe? Surprisingly, no one on my beloved Food Network or Cooking channel has shared this tip with you. As someone who loves to cook, my culinary creations always seem to taste better to those sharing in the meal than to me. Similarly, my mom's food will always taste better than what I make.

I challenge you and your taste buds to the following showdown.

We (or you and a friend, if you have one) both cook the exact same dish in the exact same kitchen. I would advise the dishes be prepared on different days to remove the process of cooking, which could skew the results. There's something about someone else making you food. Try it with different dishes: cans of soup, sandwiches, pastas, baked chicken, brussels sprouts. Well, maybe not that last one.

Psychologically (see non-existent paper above), knowing that someone cared enough about you to make you something to eat heightens the sensitivity of our taste buds, as long as they aren't trying to poison you. Note: make sure your cooking partner for the challenge doesn't secretly or openly want you dead. In this case your dish may just taste a little different than the one you cook for them. That taste is cyanide or arsenic. You should be calling 911 right now. You are in no condition to drive. Stop questioning the smirk on your former friend's face. GO!

Even that hospital Jell-o tastes better than if you had made it, doesn't it?

Pleasant eating!

Notes on a Dream

I'm not prone to dreaming, save the recurrent daydreams while staring out the window at the office. When I do dream they are often vivid, memorable and not far off from my waking life. But last night was one of those nights. Has anyone ever studied the relation of "dream time" and "real time"? I can have 1-2 dreams for the duration of the night, but not a ton happens in the dreams (consider this foreshadowing for what's about to come).

For some reason I was heading up the stairs to the family home of the object of my affection freshman year in high school. It was in the downtown area of a city, but didn't feel like it was an urban epicenter. Mon cherie and I took French together pour un ans, and one quarter I had the fortune of sitting behind her. During the year I knew her, we talked, at best, for no more than a few hours, most of which was in French.  Given that my courting style in high school could best be described as "stalker-esque" this was a preferred location to sitting in front of her. Slipping your prof a few francs doesn't hurt your cause when scouting a new seat. I wonder if teachers know when their pupils have crushes on others in the class. Do they ever put you à côté de your paramour?

What's odd to me is that she's visited me a few times in my dreams, which makes me wonder who I visit. We didn't know each other that well. I remember the day I mustered up enough courage to talk to her outside of class. It was after school and she was heading toward her car and I was heading to the bus. And by "talk to her" I mean asking her how she was and after she said "good" telling her I would see her tomorrow. That's the stuff of romance novels.

So we were in the home and it had one of those bookshelf doors as well as a staircase leading to a second level. "A rarity in most urban dwellings," I thought. I commented to her that she had a really nice home. Still got the magic of conversation with my crushes.

I really should stop killing time at Crate and Barrel and definitely cease watching House Hunters before bed.

à la prochaine fois mon amie.

A Little Off the Top

It isn't easy to bounce back from a rather overt insult from Juan, the stylist at Great Clips. Granted my hair grows back slightly faster than Chicagoans jumped on the Blackhawks bandwagon, getting a hair cut is always an exercise in trust. "Hey stranger, here's $15. Go nuts with scissors in close proximity to my face."

Typically the stylist person will compliment me on how nice my hair is and that I'll never go bald. I have what some might call a "jew fro," thanks in large part to Italian and Russian jew-itage. After growing my dome out during the winter, it was time to snip those locks off and send them to the cleanup effort in the Gulf.

After Juan finished up, he asked "would you like me to trim your brows?"

I paused. This wasn't something I was accustomed to being asked.

"No, it's OK," I replied as I started envisioning all the potential disastrous outcomes. His hand could slip and I'd end up with one eyebrow and if I've learned anything from TLC and Oprah, beauty is all about symmetry. So, I'd have to sacrifice the perfectly good, bushy brow for the sake of beauty. Then each day I'd have to get up early to draw on my eyebrows. I never was good at art, whether it was crayons, colored pencils or a paintbrush. Then there would be the decision of what type of brows I wanted for the upcoming day. I could craft angry brows, confused brows, pensive. Infinite possibilities.

"But they are so bushy," he interrupted my mental freak out.

I remained silent wondering if I could purchase eyebrow stencils.

"Well, if you think you look good," he said before he took the superhero cape off, flinging my dead hair to the floor.

Well, I did think I looked good before I met you. I put on my hat and headed back into the rain toward my car where, once inside, I would put down the visor and stare at my eyebrows. 

"Bushy?" I thought to myself as my face morphed in the small mirror into that of Groucho Marx.

Shut Up or I'll Jump

A few notes on this gem:
-I considered throwing myself from a moving car a month ago and were it not for those pesky child safety locks, I would have succeeded.
-How upset do you think he was when he discovered he was at the hospital? Even worse if she was standing over him.
-Twenty-three and three kids? No mention if they were his.
-I think this tactic is known as "avoidance" in conflict resolution parlance.

Husband reportedly jumps from car | The Leaf Chronicle:
A man was flown to Vanderbilt University Medical Center on Thursday evening after he jumped from a moving vehicle.

According to a Montgomery County Sheriff’s Office report, the 23-year-old man, his wife and three children were headed toward Clarksville on Guthrie Highway when the two adults began arguing.

At one point during the argument, Deputy Blake Neblett reported the man told his wife to “shut up.” When she refused, the man jumped from the moving vehicle.

A witness traveling behind the vehicle told Neblett it appeared the man jumped from the vehicle.

The man was in the trauma unit at VUMC on Friday, and in critical but stable condition, according to the hospital.