Half-Assed February 27, 2015Posted by indigobunting in Uncategorized.
On Monday, my chiropractor pronounced my pelvis and spine in alignment after a 6-plus-week struggle with a pinched nerve. She said I could go back to yoga if I avoided certain poses. She said I could get back on an elliptical, gradually, in a couple more weeks. She gave me permission to try to ice skate, as long as I didn’t fall (the rink closes for the season this weekend!). And she told me that my right gluteus had atrophied a bit and was not as firm as my left.
In a way, this is puzzling, because all the exercise I’ve been doing—walking and biking at the gym, cross-country skiing on the rail trail—works both sides of my body. But I guess my left side has been doing some serious compensating for the weakness on my right.
She gave me some exercises to do to strengthen my right side. I haven’t done them yet.
I skated for (just) a half hour today. I could tell I’d been three months off the ice. There were enough people there that I couldn’t reverse direction, leaving my left cheek, again, to lord it over the right.
AM4M: Laura’s Sesame Noodles February 9, 2015Posted by indigobunting in Uncategorized.
Mali has suggested we share some easy recipes that we enjoy on a regular basis. Here’s one I like a lot, perfected by my neighbor Laura. One reason this goes quickly for me is that after I get my stash of three or four cakes of tofu from my monthly buying club, I cut them into sixths, marinate them in tamari, and bake them at 350°F for an hour. Then I stick them in the freezer. (That said, that first searing step can’t take much time.) I tend to have all the other ingredients in my house (and I always roast all my sesame seeds as soon as I buy them).
Pan sear soy-marinated tofu in a little oil until golden brown on both sides.
6 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons roasted sesame oil
1 tablespoon rice vinegar
3 tablespoons grated ginger
1–2 teaspoon tahini
2 teaspoons roasted sesame seeds (more for top when finished)
2 cloves garlic, minced
I use soba noodles, cuz Laura does. They’re good.
Cut up tofu, grate a carrot, and mix them with the noodles. Mix in the sauce. Top with scallions and sesame seeds.
I’m making this tonight.
500* February 5, 2015Posted by indigobunting in Uncategorized.
I might go to London in October. I should go to London in October.
When I realized that this might happen, I had a mini panic attack about when my unused passport might expire. Not til the end of next year, thank the gods.
But now I’m hyperaware of how long it’s been since I was out of the country. Remember when I last publicly freaked out about it? No? You mean it’s not all about me?
I still haven’t headed to Montreal. Sheesh.
All evidence points to my not having left these United States since summer 2002.
It’s not that I haven’t traveled. But all that business/pleasure trekking to Portland, Maine, has calmed wanderlust a tiny bit.
And I have traveled: big trips to Oregon, California, Colorado, Arizona, Utah. Long ago, my annual Adirondack trips. New York City sometimes. Trips to family in Pennsylvania and Maryland. A wedding in North Carolina. Indiana, even!
But that cluster of Italy/Scotland/Baja/Belize/Paris/Nova Scotia? Apparently that was all so 1996–2002.
I should go to London. Will any of you be there then?
*My five hundredth post here, apparently. That only took seven years. I’m no Vesper Sparrow, for cryin’ out loud.
H4H: Helen Replies February 4, 2015Posted by indigobunting in Uncategorized.
From January 26, for those of you who haven’t seen it:
I feel your longing, man (woman, gender-neutral term, whatever), I really do. All those nights of getting wasted together on Parisian ennui and Ligurian landscapes and Deloney’s fire escape were, as you say, loud and intense and fucking beautiful. (Oh, mi dispiace, I forgot that I was getting wasted on Ligurian landscapes with someone else. But that’s water under the ponte vecchio, right?)
Hell, you and Mali and the rest of the band are still loud and intense and fucking beautiful. No, make that loud and intense and motherfucking beautiful. But my hearing’s shot, my hair’s gone gray, and no amount of WD40 will revive this rusty machine. And I have to be careful about getting knocked on my ass—osteopenia, you know. All that’s left in me is a banal ballad that’s best left unsung, although I’m trying to sell the rights to Celine Dion.
Mi dispiace, me dispiace, mi dispiace.
(And will you stop harping over that bass already? It’s been a quarter of a century. How many times do I have to say mi dispiace? In fact, you should really be feeling dispiaced for mi because that BradPittWannabe wasn’t even that good. NOTHING like Deloney.)
Oh shit. I swore I wasn’t going to bring that up.