How old are the little ones you babysit and have they started having crushes on boys yet? Because The little girl I babysit just ran up to me all excited and said the boy she “like likes” “like likes” her back. She’s nine. I don’t think I had crushes on boys until middle school at least.
Me: I’m going grocery shopping, so write down whatever you want on the grocery list. If it’s not on the list, I won’t buy it.
Dad and/or brother: *grunt*
[next day, at the store]
Me: *text* I’m leaving the store in ten minutes. Is there anything else you can think of that you need?
Dad and/or brother: *text* Nope!
[Later, at home]
Dad and/or brother: Hey did you pick up any [product I did not buy]
Dad and/or brother: Why not?!
Me: It wasn’t on the list!
Dad and/or brother: Why didn’t you tell me to put it on the list?!
Since my brother’s away doing his senior project somewhere out of town, tonight I just had to cook for my dad and myself, so I figured I could get a little more adventurous with cooking. I scoured the internet for a few minutes and after a cursory glance at a recipe I knew I wasn’t going to follow, I decided to make stuffed peppers. Now, I’ve made stuffed peppers before. But they involved using rice and ended up bland. So I kind of knew what generally needed to happen. You cook filling and put it inside of peppers. Done.
I dug out of my fridge ground turkey, two tomatoes, two red bell peppers, a red onion (everything is red!), and some minced garlic (okay, garlic’s not red…).
Okay. So I set my olive oil to heat in the pan. Nothing exciting yet.
Then I chopped up the onion. See how smart I am, chopping the onion under the exhaust fan? No teary eyes here, bitches.
This time I remembered to saute the onions before I cooked the turkey. I’m on a roll today, man.
And then I added garlic.
When the onions seemed reasonably cooked, I added the turkey.
While that was cooking, I chopped up a tomato. Now, I don’t know about you lot, but I fucking hate chopping tomatoes. It’s the worst. They get all mushy and drippy and generally messy. I always end up with tomato innards running down to my elbow, and it looks awful on the cutting board.
I added the tomatoes to the pan, added whatever spices sounded good from my cabinet, and let everything simmer while I dismembered the peppers. For that, I cut the stem-y bits off and scraped out the insides, making sure that the edges stayed reasonably intact enough to make a little bowl. At this point I turned my oven on to preheat to 350F. I don’t remember if that’s what the recipe said, but whatever.
Once my peppers were all ready, I lined a casserole dish with foil. The foil is optional, but let’s be real, it means I don’t have to put very much effort into washing out the dish. Then I put the filling into the peppers and laid them out on the dish, and baked them for 25 minutes. I pulled them out at 20 minutes and put mozzarella cheese on top, but I forgot to take a picture of that.
That’s basically it. It’s super easy, but the catch is that there is no dainty way to eat these. I kept dropping things with every bite.
There was a spider on my wall so I smashed it with the bottom of a cup but then it disappeared and I don’t know if I killed it or not. There may be a vengeful spider loose in my bedroom. Send the marines. I need help. Someone come check my room for spiders. Send me a SEAL team goddammit I’m gonna need proof of death. I want his little head on a pike as a warning to his arachnid brethren to STAY THE FUCK AWAY.
Guys, I suck at cooking. Well, no, I don’t. I’m great at cooking. For myself. For people who CAN eat gluten, all veggies, all meat, y’know, normal food, it’s more of a crap shoot. Emphasis on crap. If a recipe is gluten free, my brother hates it. No questions asked. It’s a mental thing, I’m sure. Because I’ve slipped him cookies that were definitely gluten free and he liked them, asked for more, and upon being told they were gluten free, declared they were awful. So when I have to cook for my dad and brother, I either make something that would be normally gluten free (like rice based dishes), or make a separate gluten free portion for myself. Doing the latter is easiest when I’m making pasta, because then I can just make the sauce, and boil past for my dad and brother, and a smaller pot for myself. I don’t like just opening a jar of sauce and being done with it. While some sauces come with meat and mushrooms and all that added, I like buying jars of plain sauce and adding to them. Especially since I can’t have beef, and that’s the meat that’s usually added.
Here’s a quick, dramatized rundown of how I cook. I’ve omitted all the cussing. Well. Most of the cussing. This is what it’s supposed to look like when it’s done. Surprise! It’s sauce.
I start with cooking ground turkey in olive oil. I let the oil heat up a little first, because I forget to open the turkey before I turn on the stove so that’s just the natural progression of things.
Then I chop up one red onion, and toss that fucker into the pot.
Then I realize I should have cooked the onions first. Like I realize every single time I make this.
I add copious amounts of minced garlic.
And then sauce from a jar.
Spices because I’m Indian.
Serve over pasta. Or over anything you want, because it’s your sauce, dammit, and nobody can tell you what to do with it.
I know it’s not Thursday, don’t worry about my mental state any more than you usually do.
I just got a bunch of Facebook notifications, because my mother shared this picture of me and all her friends were liking it:
and I figured I would show you guys.
I had it captioned “#tbt to those three seconds I considered med school” because since both my parents are doctors, I constantly get asked “So, are you going to be a doctor like your mom and dad?” to which I eloquently respond, “lol nope.”
Blood and guts squick me out. I can’t do it. Even when we dissected frogs and earth worms in seventh grade science class I would pair up with a guy and trick him into doing the dirty work while I perched on my stool and hid behind my notebook. In elementary school I fell off my bike, scraped my hand up, and vomited at the sight of my skin flapping around. Three months ago I had to have a skin biopsy and turned “a terrifying shade of pale” when the doctor put the needle in, even after he numbed the area.
So no, I am not going to be a doctor like my mom and dad, thank you very much.
But let’s all take a moment and appreciate what a cute kid I was, which is truly the spirit behind #ThrowbackThursday.
My dad greatly enjoys wall art. We spent fourteen hours on Saturday hanging up art pieces and family pictures with a rough combination of nails, picture hooks, and Command strips. One such picture was a large portrait of a tiger, and according to dad, the name of the tiger in the picture is Elvis. Okay. So we stuck four sets of special picture hanging strips to the back of Elvis’s canvas, and stuck him to the wall, holding him there for a minute just like the box said. And there he sat in his stripey glory.
Until this morning.
I was in the kitchen refilling my water bottle, and I saw my cat napping peacefully on the couch, right under Elvis, and I went to find my phone to take a picture to send to my dad. In the second I was looking, Elvis pulled off the wall and came crashing down, terrifying my poor cat.
The cat jumped a foot or two straight up, and launched himself away from the noise, scrambling over the couch and endtable as fast as he could, knocking coasters and remotes in his wake. He finally paused in the middle of the kitchen, low to the ground, twitching his tail to assess this threat. Seeing nothing but me holding a water bottle, he sat up and commenced licking his ass, with all the grace and dignity afforded to the act of licking one’s own ass.
It’s pouring outside. House-shaking thunder, lightning, the whole bit. Just a little scene setting for y’all (I lived in Oklahoma, I’m allowed to say y’all).
My dad’s cat is normally an evil psychopath with a vendetta against anyone that isn’t dad, so our relationship is just me setting down cat food and her swatting at me to walk away before she eats the cat food. She is five pounds of anger and fur.
At the first crack of thunder, the furry demon snapped out of her slumber (where she was plotting my demise, no doubt) and scurried into the study where I was, my 14lb behemoth of a cat scampering after her. My cat demanded to be held and cuddled, while dad’s cat perched on the desk, stealing furtive glances at me to make sure everything was okay without revealing how terrified she was.
Because creatures of fire and brimstone are totally not afraid of thunderstorms. Duh.
If you’ve read this post, you know who I’m talking about. For those of you too lazy to go read it (seriously, it’s like three short paragraphs and hella funny), the basic run down is that my friend Desiree and I both studied International Security and have a general contingency plan in place in the event that one of us (most likely her) gets kidnapped by terrorists. So now you know where we’re coming from and how most of our conversations go.
This one started when I remembered it was graduation weekend at my university, so I texted her to say I was proud of her and that wished I could be there.
Her: You and [Boyfriend] should have road tripped!
(note: her boyfriend lives on the east coast and would have to detour to Ohio to get me before going to Oklahoma)
Me: A road trip with me would prepare [Boyfriend] for an AlQ interrogation.
Her: Haha he’d be ready for anything!
(See how she’s not concerned with the fact that I may take sandpaper and saltwater to her boyfriend? Best friend right there.)
Me: THAT’S how we should train the military. Send them on a road trip with their significant other’s best friend.
Her: And see if they make it out alive! Spec ops here they come!
(She’s totally on board with my plan. Someone call the guys in charge.)
Because what is more terrifying than meeting your significant other’s best friend? You know that once you’re out of earshot the hammer will come down. The fate of your relationship may hinge on that impression you make on that five-foot-two girl your girlfriend went to college with. Probably not, but let’s be real. The second you screw up, the best friend will get a text about it and will send eye daggers in your general direction. Real daggers if you’re especially unlucky.
And Des, happy graduation. I know you’re reading this because I texted you the link. I’m so proud of you, and so glad you burst into my dorm fall semester of freshman year and camped out on my floor when you didn’t understand the Arabic homework. And when you dragged me and half the floor out of the study room because you wanted to go to Tea Cafe. And drove two days to get to Disney World to spend spring break with me. ❤
Also, happy birthday.