It's nearly 4AM and I still am somehow not tired.


1. I decided that since I'm going to be a journalist, I need to understand online media. I made a tumblr. I can't decide if I should learn to twitter.

2. It's THUNDERSTORMING.

3. #2 is worth the tired I will feel later.

4. Is this new blog format hard to read?

cooking

My friend uploaded this photo of me in my element onto facebook earlier today. I saw it
and two thoughts immediately came to mind:

A) I so completely love that t-shirt.
B) I am doing what I love doing best--cooking.

Then, I thought:
C) I am doing what I love doing best--cooking for people.



Most days, after school, I:
1) Put crunchy taco shells into the oven to crunch up even more.
2) Cook a black bean veggie burger in a pan.
3) Mash up an avocado with plain yogurt and HEB's Ranchero salsa.*
4) I put 2 and 3 into 1 and top it off with HEB Mexican
shredded cheese mix.
and
5) Eat it.

Some weeks, I this happens five times.

I LOVE CRUNCY TACOS. I honestly cannot think of words that emphasize how
much this is true.

However, I love cooking. I don't consider steps 1-5 above to be cooking. I
consider it 'assembling', kind of like what Rachel Ray does. There is, of course,
nothing wrong with assembling; it is its own thing, as highlighted by the following
analogy:

assembling : cooking : : DJing** : songwriting/composing



The dilineation between the two approaches to meal preparation (All cooking is
meal preparation. Not all meal preparation is cooking. It might be assembling, or
even chopping) having been made, I return to thought C, above, "I am doing what
I love doing best--cooking for people."
I would NEVER assemble a meal for guests. I rarely cook for myself. I have time to
cook after school; considering that I find it relaxing, one would expect that I would
cook after a day of insanity. I just, well, I don't. I don't cook for myself. I know what
X + Y will taste like together, whether I've tried it or not. It's like DJing (And this is
where the analogy falls apart, so don't try to extend it to this point. The metaphor
works, though.)--I don't do it so that I can hear the songs together. I do it so
someone else can. I don't care if you like the taste or the transition. I offer the
juxtaposition of flavors and sounds because that is why we have flavors and
sounds--so that we can share them.

It is truly the most lonesome thing, to cook without someone else to feed.

A person can only have so many one person dance parties. Sooner or later, you pull
out some old school Bright Eyes. And you listen one day, and the next, and the next.

But if you ask for a mix cd, I will offer you clear, often unexpected, progression
from one song to the next. I will brown the onions to soft perfection, add spices
until it smells right, and listen for when the simmering slows into a rolling boil.





*When I leave Texas, I will miss this most.
**By DJ, I don't mean turntablist, who I believe, to continue with my metaphor,
adapt others' recipes to their own. In that sense, I'd say I'm more a turntablist
than a songwriter in the kitchen. In terms of music, though, I'm a DJ.***
***Does this make sense anywhere outside my own brain?

1. I don't 'get' Twitter. Not at all. I'm not sure I care to figure it out.
2. I miss my long hair a whole whole whole whole whole whole whole whole whole lot. I realized I keep cutting it short because I hate hate hate medium hair.
3. I like the way tumblr looks but hate how it's spelled, so I will stick to blogspot, even though it's visually displeasing.
4. Remember when getting my hair cut meant finding a pair of scissors and cutting off pieces I didn't like?
5. Just look at me with long, long hair (ignore that I look kind of gross).
6. Soon, I'm going to write about how I miss feeling young, like I do in the picture.
7. I miss England.

Somali Pirates

I was blog-browsing and came across this poem that really well encapsulates my thoughts on the pirate situation.

http://amirsulaiman.blogspot.com/2009/04/of-criminals-and-crime.html#comments


I have a hard time condemning/passing judgment on people in terrible situations for doing terrible things. I'm in a really amazing, blessed position in the world, and yet my consumption of "stuff" results in global hurt: pollution, sweatshop labor, and things like helping pay for the destruction of Iraq and Afghanistan. And I do these things because they are convenient, etc. I wouldn't be able to look the people I inadvertently oppress in the face--I guess since I don't really have to, I let it not matter. It also would be very simple for me to say that pirates should find legal "alternatives", but as I've not really bothered challenging the legality of so much I do, who am I to really say a thing? I still will say something.

In terms of cowardice, I have those pirates beat. I'm afraid I'm the real criminal, to have so much and concede so little.

The Flamingo Cafe

Today, during my after school nap, I received a few texts and phone calls. In my nap-induced dream delirium, I texted and called my friends back. I woke up, disappointed about Wayne not making it to the movies and waiting for Jake to return from the Flamingo Cafe in Progreso, Mexico.
The thing is, I know no Wayne and there is no Flamingo Cafe... yet!!!

When I grow up and by some twist of fate decide to open a restaurant, it is going to be called The Flamingo Cafe. The sign will be neon. The structure will be an open-air tiki hut. True to my Indian roots, I will serve hot tea and spicy snacks through scorching summers. I might also have hot soups and ciabatta bread pizzas. The only cold beverages will be mango lassi, Kool-Aid, cantaloupe granitas, and, during Ramadan, falooda. There might be a fountain that customers can roll their pants up and dip their feet into. The chairs upon which they sit will be of the plastic lawn sort.
There will be a small, cozy inside section to the tiki hut, with books and books and books and books to take outside and read on the hammocks. Wi-fi will, of course, be provided free-of-charge. If somehow I can get a dolphin, there will be a dolphin.

dust

I have identified three aspects of the Rio Grande Valley as Particular Impositions. They are: the sun; the wind; and the dust.

Between the first two, there is no relief. There is heat, interrupted--though these interruptions grow less intense as the nights grow shorter--by the wind, which then rattles my eardrums. They both force my eyes shut and find ways into my home, overwhelming the AC or music with which I seek to drown both out.

The dust, akin to heat and wind only insomuch as they exasperate one another, must be considered as a monster in its own right. It is not incessant. But when it is, it overwhelms. It obstructs; it chokes; it scratches. I see it clouding at my feet with every misstep and behind cars with any swerve. It is so grainy on overheated skin and so everywhere after unexpected gusts of wind.

And even though the dust is not always, when I imagine the Valley, it settles itself onto everything.

I miss New Orleans

and Who Cakes in New Orleans, or rather, Kenner