http://marcomm201.blogspot.com/2008/02/out-of-mouths-of-babes-email-marketing.html

Just wanted to post this, mostly because Jay Berkman, writer and megamarketingmind behind this blog is the newest hero addition to my pantheon. And I like being called lovely.

Q. What the hell is O/W + G → (G+O)/W?

*Answer can be found at the end of this article. Happy reading!

Chefs by their very nature are chemists, crafting alchemical masterpieces of taste and flavor from basic ingredients. Most chefs would tell you, however, that they have no idea WHY that recipe called for baking powder instead of baking soda or why that flour/egg/sugar mixture became a cookie in the oven. A few brave Discovery Channel viewers might venture something along the lines of “baking soda is gassier, I think.” or “The oven… dries stuff out…heat… I think”** but few would be able to tell you that baking soda is sodium bicarbonate, a base that must be mixed with an acidic ingredient in order to react and expand in your cookie dough, while baking powder is sodium bicarbonate with starch and a powdered acid already mixed in. Or that when baking, particles in that doughy concoction become denatured and change shape as they get hotter and drier, via the process called convection. 

My point is that food is inherently scientific at every point in its cycle, from the chemical makeup of table salt (sodium chloride, or NaCL) to the boiling point of water used to cook pasta. (That’s 100 degrees Celsius or 212 degrees Fahrenheit at sea level.) Many cooks can turn a radish into a beautiful flower, but few are aware of the physical and chemical principles that make their food so fabulous. There are some chefs who are taking the science of food to a whole new level, in a culinary discipline called Molecular Gastronomy.

Food explorers have been figuring out the whys behind our pies for centuries, but molecular gastronomists, or as I like to call them, Fe Chefs, got their start in 1988 when world-renowned chefs, Herve This and Nicholas Kurti created an order dedicated to the physics and chemistry behind cooking. Herve writes, “Initially, as written in my PhD dissertation, molecular gastronomy had five aims: to collect and investigate old wives’ tales about cooking; to model and scrutinize existing recipes; to introduce new tools, products and methods to cooking; to invent new dishes using knowledge from the previous three aims; and to use the appeal of food to promote science.”

Today, molecular cooks continue to delve deeper into the processes of food preparation, coming up with new techniques that defy the conventions of the kitchen. Chefs such as Ferran Adria, of El Bulli in Spain or Heston Blumenthal of The Fat Duck, in England, are using tools that sound better suited for NASA, tools such as anti-griddles, liquid nitrogen, emulsifiers and cryo guns, to create exciting and texturally unique foods. It’s quite apparent that their adventurous patrons are loving every bite. El Bulli receives over one million reservation requests to fill the 8,000 slots they offer each year. The restaurant is sold out in one day.

Molecular cooking does have its detractors, opponents such as Jun Tanaka of Pearl in London. “Chefs will move away from molecular gastronomy. Things will go back to being more about the produce, about things being natural.” Many chefs agree with him, feeling that these chemistry experiments are just what they seem to be… flashes in the pan. The societal movement toward fresh, locally produced ingredients seems to be at odds with what can only be described as Extreme Cooking. The controversy probably won’t die any time soon.

But neither will the science. In a world where children clamor for astronaut ice cream and Dippin’ Dots, can carrot air really be so far behind? At the very least, the chefs of tomorrow will probably be able to answer the question, “Why did my dish do that?”

*That would be the shorthand CDS (complex disperse system) for whipped cream. Looks yummy, doesn’t it?

**Actual answers I received from co-workers. They shall remain anonymous because… seriously?

How To Make Liquid Nitrogen Ice Cream*

By Anne Marie Helmenstine, Ph.D., About.com Guide

You can use liquid nitrogen to make ice cream pretty much instantly. This makes a nice cryogenics or phase change demonstration. It’s also just plain fun. This recipe is for strawberry ice cream. If you omit the strawberries, you can add a bit of vanilla for vanilla ice cream or some chocolate syrup for chocolate ice cream. Feel free to experiment!

 Difficulty: Average

 Time Required: Minutes

What You Need:

• 5 or more liters of liquid nitrogen
• gloves and goggles recommended
• large plastic or stainless steel punch bowl or salad bowl
• 4 cups heavy cream (whipping cream)
• 1-1/2 cups half-and-half
• 1-3/4 cups sugar
• 1 quart mashed fresh strawberries or thawed frozen berries
• additional half cup of sugar if you are using unsweetened berries
• wooden spoon
• wire whisk

Here’s How:

1. This recipe makes a half gallon of strawberry ice cream. First, mix the cream, half-and-half, and sugar in the bowl using the wire whisk. Continue mixing until the sugar has dissolved.
2. If you are making vanilla or chocolate ice cream, whisk in vanilla or chocolate syrup now. Add any other liquid flavorings you might want.
3. Put on your gloves and goggles. Pour a small amount of liquid nitrogen directly into the bowl with the ice cream ingredients. Continue to stir the ice cream, while slowly adding more liquid nitrogen. As soon as the cream base starts to thicken, add the mashed strawberries. Stir vigorously.
4. When the ice cream becomes too thick for the whisk, switch to the wooden spoon. As it hardens more, remove the spoon and just pour the remaining liquid nitrogen onto the ice cream to fully harden it.
5. Allow the excess liquid nitrogen to boil off before serving the ice cream.

Tips:

1. The mix of whipping cream and half-and-half helps to make a very creamy ice cream with small crystals, that freezes quickly.
2. Don’t touch liquid nitrogen or store it in a closed container!
3. If the ice cream begins to melt before everyone is served, simply add more liquid nitrogen.
4. A large plastic mug with a handle is good for pouring the liquid nitogen. If you use a metal container, be sure to wear gloves.
5. I’m told a cordless drill with a mixing attachment is even better than a whisk and wooden spoon. If you have power tools, go for it!

 *I have not tried preparing this recipe. I have a hard enough time with knives and fire and simply cannot imagine the kind of damage I could inflict on my self/home/cat if I had liquid nitrogen at my disposal. By the same token, I am not recommending that YOU try this recipe for much the same reason. I like you and I hate lawsuits.

Sources:

http://www.seriouseats.com/2010/06/what-is-the-difference-between-baking-powder-and-baking-soda-in-pancakes.html

http://www.nature.com/embor/journal/v7/n11/full/7400850.html

http://www.howstuffworks.com/molecular-gastronomy.htm/printable

http://iweb.tntech.edu/dswart/Thisnmat1303.pdf

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heston_Blumenthal

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Denaturation_(biochemistry)

http://online.wsj.com/article/NA_WSJ_PUB:SB126532946414240915.html

This week, I was told that the words I use are too big.

(A bit of context for you: I was at work, where I spend my days in business dress, with some fairly educated, intelligent people. I wasn’t talking to a bunch of preschoolers, nor was I speaking to a group of ESL students. )

At the time, I was giving a job interview with a fellow manager and after the applicant left, Fellow Manager and I sat down to talk about our impressions.  Fellow Manager had some notes for me as well.

“Sometimes, Lauren, you use really big words. And it can be… a bit much.”

Ouch. Not the greatest thing to hear about oneself, particularly when I was expecting to talk about hiring. (When did this become about me?) Still, I was bugged but not surprised, as this now marks the third time my vocabulary has been mentioned as a negative in the workplace.  To say nothing of the teasing in elementary school and sotto voce digs that surrounded me in high school English class.

Here’s the thing; I really don’t feel as though my vocabulary is such a stretch. I DON’T use big words. My every day A to Z language choices don’t generally include words like ameliorate or zeitgeist. In fact, the second time my verbiage was mentioned at work, I was hauled into a managers’ office for using the word “equality” in a team meeting. Up until that day, I had never really thought of equality (both the word and the concept) as any particular brain-buster, but you can consider me corrected, Boss.

To be fair, I’m not always wholly aware of the words I am using. Measured speech isn’t exactly my forte. (Is forte a big word? And on that note, do people mean that my words are large or do they mean complex when they say “too big?” To my knowledge, I have never actually used the word antidisestablishmentarianism in a sentence, and that’s the baddest mama-jama of a word there is, outside of medical terminology. But I digress.) I tend to speak quickly and my memory isn’t always the sharpest – so while I can probably give you the gist of what I said, someone would have to take dictation for me to be able to tell you my exact wording. So there’s that.

Still. I like words. I always have. I’ve been a voracious reader since the age of four, a writer for almost as long, and you don’t love books and language like I do without picking up a few things here and there.  Picking up, say, the subtle nuances between the words affect and effect. Or the beauty of a well-turned phrase. The liberation one feels the first time they use a challenging word properly. I just wish everyone knew or wanted to know the joys of language.

Because I’m concerned. Concerned that I am living in a world where people scream their political ideologies from the rooftops, but don’t know how to spell them. A world where, as in the satirical movie, Idiocracy, we’ve devolved to the point where “Uhhhh… you’re retarded” constitutes insightful observation. A world where I am told that my ability to express myself intelligently has become my issue to overcome, rather than someone else’s educational deficiency.

I feel like Chris Tucker in Rush Hour. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE WORDS THAT ARE COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH?” And I could do one of two things. I could choose to dum down my talking skillz. Pepper my sentences with “OMG” and enough “likes” to make Facebook proud. Or, I could continue to speak well in the hopes that the grand oral history that has marked the human race as a brilliant feat of evolutionary excellence will someday make a comeback. I choose the latter, thankyouverymuch.

This week I was told that the words I use are too big. But you know what? No. I’m taking a stand because someone has to for all the words that aren’t “a” and “the” out there. You say the words I use are too big? Well, you know what? The words you use are too small. In fact, they’re damned diminutive. Deal with it.

/stepping off soapbox

THIS is a felt reproduction of Bella’s womb (post-vampiric impregnation) from that movie about all those vampires.

That’s really it. I just HAD to share more rabid Twilight insanity. People make me laugh.

No, what made this bottle of sake special was what was in it. And what was in this bottle of sake was… reptiles. A snake and a lizard, to be exact. As well as few amphibians, of the salamandery and toady variety. And probably a couple of mouse droppings. (Damn dusty shelves!) The poor, pickled creatures stared out from the glass, cloudy-eyed and eerie, from their dank and dirty perch, night after night.

Most passers-by were either unaware or unnerved by their silently mocking gaze but one girl, one strange and somewhat special girl, viewed their mere presence as a challenge of her courage. Weird, creepy sake was not being consumed? No one would step up and try the nasty stuff? Inconceivable! This girl worked in the darkened tavern on the corner of the unassuming street in the Midwest and as she toiled into the wee hours every night, she would often find herself wondering, “What does that sake taste like?” and “I bet it tastes like evil, with just a hint of oakiness!” and once, upon closer inspection, “Eww! Is that a mouse dropping?”

It went on like this for months, until the girl’s 21st birthday. And on that day, the owner of the bottle and the owner of the tavern called the girl over to them and firmly placed the most special sake bottle in the world on the only slightly sticky slab of bar. Challenge extended. The girl took a deep breath and nodded. Challenge accepted. The three cracked open the bottle (after much maneuvering and grunting – it was a very OLD bottle) and readied shot glasses. Doing the honors, the girl poured.

The sake glistened in the lamplight and vapors of evil and oakiness (the girl was right!) wafted from the glass. With a few sly sideways glances to make sure the other two had their glasses ready, the girl pinched her nose and… bottom’s up! Churgle. Gah! Oh, it was awful! Like formaldehyde and reptile and grease and all things dark and unpleasant. It burned going down and gagged coming up.

But… it stayed down. And then it worked it’s magic and it was good and warm and probably had something to do with the shenanigans that were to occur later that evening. (I could elaborate here, but the girl would probably be a bit miffed, as her mother reads this blog. Suffice it to say, amphibious liquor = crazy times.)

The End.

*This blog post was supposed to be something completely different… hence the title. I was GOING to write about doctors and how much I despise them when they are right. BUT I started to write this and had far too much fun with it to stop. Consider it a writing exercise. Thanks for reading!

A big, fat scarlet “L” graces my chest, making me a sort of Hester Prynne for the technological age. (That’s “L” for lazy, by the way. I’m no adulterer. I am, however, seemingly incapable of blogging more than twice a year.)

It was bad enough when my parents would take the occasional shot. “So, I notice that you haven’t updated your blog for awhile…” or my favorite, “I dare you to update your blog!” (My parents know me well. I love a challenge. Alas, I saw through the ploy, Mom, subtle though it was. None of your sly manipulations for me, thanks.) But now, Aaron is offering bribes to people who bug me about it. Fine. I give. I’ll post something. I can’t let hash browns be the final legacy of Sociopathways.

Flibbert. Hornswoggle. Velveeta, lick mountain schism. Nipple tangerine masquerade. (This is what you get when I have nothing to write about. Random streams of consciousness. Happy now?)

Okay… Aaron just wrote a blog about what is right with the world. I am verbose, if not original, so I guess I’ll follow suit.

1. Joy! A three-day weekend and a visit to Saint Louis is on the horizon. Said weekend will include a crapton of wedding planning stuff (eww!) but it will also bring tapas and white sangria with my phenomenally phenomenal family, dinner with some women I would not be sane without, that famous day for daddies and a new baby, Bohaagon-style. The Arch beckons and I heed the call!
2. With summer comes celebration. It seems like every time I turn around, I’m venerating something, be it the Scots, the Greeks, the Koshers, the Purple-People-Eaters. There’s a festival for everything, I swear. (I refuse, however to pay homage to haggis. That was just nasty.) In between festivals, we’re hitting concerts, free theater events or just strolling through some fun and funky KC neighborhoods. Summer heat and humidity be damned, I’m having fun this summer!
3. People with passion for their art. Some examples include Katherine Bish, photographer extraordinaire, who is marrying art and activism with her oil spill/chocolate photography project, or Chris King, who finds the poetry in just about everything with his “Poetry Scores” project. Then there’s Will Leathem, proprietor of Prospero’s Books and champion of the all-too downtrodden writer (Check out “WTF,” otherwise known as Write the Future!) and Allyson Mace, editor and publisher of Sauce Magazine, the best food publication I have ever read. And I’ve read more than two, so that is saying a lot. Also right with the world? I know some pretty amazing people. You all make me proud to be a member of the human race.
4. I’m writing this with fingers. And not, (as my dear, strange Gypsy has noted in his blog post from today) with my left leg. Meaning that I am in full possession of all my faculties, am in relatively good health and am not an imprisoned, incapacitated Turkish assassin. (Yes, I am marrying this man. Yes, I am aware that he is insane. Luckily, he is MY kind of insane. I will never be bored.)
5. On that note, also right with the world: A fiancé who treats me like I am five years old. Generally, this wouldn’t be such a great thing, but when I’m urpy and ill and the man who loves me is making me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich dinner, complete with Goldfish crackers and Gatorade, setting me up with Robin Hood (the Disney version, naturally), dosing me with cough syrup and rubbing my back, it really makes me take a deep breath and realize how very blessed I am to be able to spend the rest of my life showing this man how much I love him. You know, in between all the hacking and grossness.
6. A world where Nina Simone music exists is a world I am happy to live in.
7. Reading material. The fact that I could read every moment from the time I wake to the time I sleep and never even scratch the surface of all of the literature out there. Reflections on the way people think, the way they feel, the strange situations and characters they dream up… I marvel at the amount of creativity in this world. And then I devour it. Figuratively.

So there you have it. All may not be right with the world. But a heck of a lot is. And the fact that I just wrote this and posted it to my blog? That’s icing on the cake, friends.

Aaron was nuzzling me and all of a sudden, I cried out, “I could make hash browns!”

This kind of strange non-sequitur happens frequently with me, and it came as no surprise to Aaron that evening. But a word to the wise: nothing puts the brakes on an amorous partner faster than talk of breakfast foods.

Hmm. This is new. There was a time when a mere glance from my man would have silenced all of my thought processes. I would have been… too busy to focus on anything else.* Apparently, Aaron and I are past that point – we are now at the point where I remember that we have potatoes in the crisper just as he is kissing my neck. Scary. Have we lost that loving feeling?

I’ve been internally kicking my own ass for the past two days. I feel… well, like a crappy girlfriend. I’ve always had the attention span of a four-year-old on speed, but not with THIS man, not in THAT moment. Not to mention the fact that we haven’t been as turbo charged in that particular room as we used to be.** (Don’t get me wrong, we still have a very healthy sex life. When you start off AVERAGING three times a day, every day, it’s inevitable.) The last thing I want is for Aaron to think that he isn’t appreciated. He is, extraordinarily so. I don’t think he knows how much. And I can’t say that I blame him for that when I’m spouting off about our Sunday breakfast menu in bed.

But then, I looked for the silver lining in the situation. No, Aaron and I aren’t pawing each other like horny teenagers anymore. (Pause for everyone who hung out with us when we first started dating to sigh with relief.) We take a breath every once in a while, we talk to each other more, we enjoy each other as individuals more. This man is my best friend and now I can show him how much I appreciate him for who he is, rather than what he does for me. That’s not such a bad thing. In fact, it’s pretty fantastic.

Still… hash browns? What a weird thing to think about at a moment like that.

* I love it that my mom reads my blog now. This isn’t awkward at all.
** Really, Mom. I love you, but stop reading.

A writer is an educator, where the public would otherwise remain ignorant. A writer is a weaver of tales, the creator of that magic phrase that makes you cry in sympathy – or laugh with joy. A writer is a lover of words, a keeper of the language flame, when oral history simply won’t do. (A writer is also generally pretty pissed when you misplace a comma. Just sayin’.) So you see, a writer is many things.

And yet, a writer is really only one thing. A writer is someone who writes. (Thank you, Daniel Webster. You’ve just made me feel like a total dumbass.)

I haven’t been writing lately. At all. Oh, I could give you about a million excuses. After all, in the past five months I have:

1. Fallen deeply in love with a gorgeously masculine bear of a man, a man that brings me more happiness than I have ever known.

2. Moved away from my beloved Saint Louis, on what some may call a whim, but what I just call good sense, to be with the aforementioned bear-man. (Hey, when you know, you know.)

3. Eaten chicken feet. Okay, that took 5 minutes. But I’m still pretty impressed with my gumption. Not with the chicken feet, though. I wouldn’t recommend.

4. Started a new job and had to deal with all of those irritating jobbie-related details. You know, like showering every day.

5. Attended what seems like a million weddings, bachelorette parties, baby showers, banquets, out of town trips, etc. (Can you people PLEASE stop with all the celebrating? You’re cutting into my sleep time with all your damn happiness.)

6. Watched my mother experience some pretty significant health issues… and then watched her emerge stronger, more resilient and more amazing than ever.

7. Handled the minutiae of everyday existence, as we all do. Though I probably did it a bit more clumsily. (I just broke a glass, so I had to add throw that in.)

My life has been full, but I’m not using that as an excuse. There is no excuse for me not writing. I’m a writer. Above all else, that’s what we do.

So, I’m going to tell you what’s really going on.

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO WRITE ABOUT! It’s not that I have no ideas. I am brimming with ideas. In fact, I have too many ideas. I want to go in about 40 different directions, but I know I can’t. Contrary to what you may have heard, I’m not Superwoman. Writing about a lot of things would be great, if I had the belief that I could do all of them well. I just don’t see it happening. So, I have a decision to make.

Let me rephrase: YOU have a decision to make.

I made this nifty little survey, you see. And I would like you to take it. Tell me what you want to hear me blather on about, because I haven’t a clue which direction to take. The choices are all things I have blogged about before, in various places. If you don’t want to hear me blather (and I can’t say I blame you) there’s an option for that too. But help a sister out, wouldya? ‘Cause the crickets on my blog are killing me. (And my mom. You know it’s getting bad when your mother, the baddest Facebook-hater of them all is reminding you to update your blog.)

Just click this here. It’s lonely. And take my one question quiz. Please? Thanks, you’re the best evah!

Click here to take survey

In the spirit of this exercise, I have decided to write about a typical foray into my chosen place of worship, aka the Used Book Store. I’m headed to The Book House tomorrow and am pretty jazzed about it.

Here’s how it will all go down:

1. Step into the entryway and soak in the magnificent sights and smells of old, careworn books. I’ll do this for a few minutes.

2. Find the old, mangy house dog and cat that always seem to have scabies or some other skin disease. I’ll pet them both gingerly, but pet them nonetheless. Gross bookstore animals need love too.

3. Hunt for the Tibetan tintypes I found there a few visits ago and stare longingly at them. I will eventually screw up the courage to touch them. I’ll run my fingers over the softly indented metal for about five minutes, dreaming of the day I will actually own them. They’re still a bit pricey for my current budget, but I visit them in the hopes that they will someday come live with me.

4. Free-for-all! For the next 20 minutes or so, I will troll the corridors, grabbing any book that happens to strike my fancy. Fiction, biographies, science, history, business… No particular method to the madness, just anything that piques my interest.

5. Point of Heartbreak! I will realize that I can’t carry any more books and will have to start culling the herd. I usually end up with three piles, intellectual cairns marking the “must haves”, hopeful “maybes” and sad “until next visits.” This part physically pains me and I often have to pry the next timers from myself. Think “Idle Hands” for bibliophiles. The process has taken up to an hour.

6. All definite purchases, including the maybes that made the cut, will take a trip to the register. I’ll ask the attendant to keep an eye on them while I regretfully put away those that won’t be gracing my bookshelves. FYI, I can catalogue that store like a beast. They should hire me, but I would either end up signing my paychecks over to them or being arrested after they find the trunk full of books I decided to liberate. To paraphrase, “A book unexamined is a book wasted.”

7. I’ll head back to the register, pay for my purchases, wincing all the while, as I always overspend. That mangy house cat always seems to be lazing on the checkout desk (I think she likes the warmth from the electronics) so I’ll give her another pat on her ugly, largely hairless head.

8. I’ll load my precious booty into my car and speed home so I can figure out what to devour first.

So that’s how I’ll be spending my morning tomorrow, just in case you were curious. The afternoon, of course, will be spent sneaking chapters of whatever I chose for my inaugural read and writing the piece that inspired my aforementioned writers’ block.