Academy Awards

I wasn't really that interested in watching the Oscars. I didn't see but 2 or 3 of the nominated films (I'm counting the latest Harry Potter and Spiderman installments). I'm just not interested in going to see movies that will bum me out. But Chris Rock was hosting, so at the last minute, I decided to cook food and invite a few friends over.

I made arroz con pollo with a bunch of left over chicken I had in the freezer. I don't use those Goya spice packets, but instead I use the direct flavors of saffron, cumin, and chili powder. Not bad.

My friend brought her daughters. The girls were yelling and dancing in my living room through much of the opening monologue. It didn't really matter since I had read most of the jokes in some preview piece. Had I known that was going to be about it for Rock, I would not have read the article.

My friend also brought taquitos and chile con carne from her mom's. Not bad. She also mucked up my homemade salsa with an avocado. Actually, it turned out pretty good.

I was a little disturbed that one of the girls thought Drew Barrymore was chubby. The girl is nine years old, and should not be judging like that. Plus she's wrong. And mean. Or the victim of the horrible process of becoming self loathing.

I also made spice cake. I hate cake recipes that call for dissolving baking soda into hot water. Makes me just want to use cake mix. I got to use up some leftover cream cheese frosting. Mmm.

I heard that I missed out on Chris Rock's interviews with people at a Magic Johnson movie theater. Bummer. I'm sure I could relate to people who will never see Vera Drake and that Julia whatever movie.

The most labor intesive thing I made was Chile Relleno. I stuffed the chiles with fresh corn, tomatillo, onion, garlic, jalapeno, and queso fresco. Egg batter and flour dusting before frying. My house still smells like fried cooking.

I saw the best actress presentation. I really wanted Sophie Okonada to win. I didn't see Hotel Rwanda, but I saw her in Dirty Pretty Things, a film I saw on accident. Dirty Pretty Things is NOT very funny. I don't think Hotel Rwanda is either. Anyway, Okonada is soooo cute. She should have won. Laura Linney didn't win either. I thought her hair looked a little Blade Runner.
I've seen Blade Runner about 5 or 6 times by the way.

Introductions and the Pope

This blog will cover a range of topics including (sort of) personal, my dog, cooking, baking, birds, political, t.v., film, music, and popular culture.

My brother, Ed, has agreed to guest host some times and provide true sheff's specials. Ed is probably never going to write about birds or my dog.

This is Ed:

http://us.f2.yahoofs.com/bc/4220a995_d9b3/bc/My+Documents/es+(2).jpg?BCZ0KICBkAkP0Y6h

(I hear this web photo thing doesn't link -- bear with me and check for developments)

About me -- I have a boyfriend, I have a dog, and I read a number of blogs, especially ones written by people with whom I attended elementary, middle and high school. As soon as I can figure out how to syndicate or keep links on my interface, I will. My friends are such amazing writers, and they make me laugh. Also, a guy I know from college and beyond has been doing some periodic web piece in which he informs people about the status of his diet of pantry food items.

This is me:
http://us.f2.yahoofs.com/bc/4220a995_d9b3/bc/My+Documents/ks+(3)-2.jpg?BCZ0KICBQRrBd01v


(I hear this web photo thing doesn't link -- bear with me and check for developments)

So, what do people think is going to happen with the Pope? I remember the last time one died in my life time. Ed and I recall it as a period when our lack of understanding about death caused a lot of fear in Ed's mind.

I was in Catholic school at the time, and I believed in God, and I thought God and Jesus lived in my heart, soul, chest cavity, etc. Clearly, I didn't really understand how things worked. I seriously believed that action-sized God and Jesus lived inside of my body.

So when my little brother asked me what was going on, why all the gloom, I told him the pope had been murdered. I thought murder and death were the same thing. Being killed and dropping dead of a heart attack -- same difference. But Ed knew the difference. He was shocked that someone would kill the pope.

He asked me where it happened, and I pointed east, toward Rome. How was I to know that Ed thought I meant Cow Mountain, the mountain lying east of our town and the apparent object of my pointing finger? Who knew that Ed couldn't sleep that night for fear that the Pope's killer would come after him?

Memory is funny. The way my confusions were misunderstood is funny. (Ed thinks I totally meant to fuck with his head.)