C=Cooking is My Hobby

Humans love food; I have met very few people in the world who detest eating.  But for some reason, there are FAR less people who love to cook.  How is that conceivable?  Home-cooked meals taste so yummy, they are worth every effort.

My mom and I, even though our relationship isn't top notch, have spent nearly every evening cooking dinner for our family.  As we cook, my Mom will tell me stories about when she was my age or we'll reminisce about past experiences.  She tells me how to chop carne asada just the right length and thickness for fajitas; how to cook a rue without the flour becoming lumpy; or show me just the right amount of basil and oregano to add to pasta sauce.  I have learned more about cooking from her than any cookbook, while making memories that will last a lifetime. 

Although, just to throw in a dose of reality, there are those evenings where we get into arguements about how to cook this or that, and it usually ends with me very frustrated and not feeling like eating, and my mom grounding me :P 

Cooking with friends also encourages happy relationships.  I never feel more comfortable and at home with someone than when we are cooking together.  I've noticed, if it is the first time I am visiting a new friend's house, no matter how awkward it is, as soon as we pull out the mixing bowls and start whipping out a batch of brownies or chocolate chip cookies, that awkwardness steps into the other room.   

Enough with the ooey gooey, cozy feelings though, haha :)  We all know the real reason people cook is because they like to eat.  Ironically enough though, my cooking hobby began when I was anorexic; I would spend hours reading cookbooks, looking at photos of delicious food that I had "forbidden" myself to eat.  It I couldn't eat it, at least it was a feast for the eyes, right?  I started cooking and giving the food to other people, rarely touching the food myself. 

But now that I'm "all better" I eat everything I cook :)  I make sweet doughs for cinnamon rolls; frosting for birthday cakes; vegetable soup with lot's of herbs, carrots, and noodles.  I mix batter for every sort of imagineable muffin; I toast pine nuts for delicious pastas...you get the idea :D

Why settle for that frozen chimchanga, when you can set aside an hour to make a delicious batch of enchiladas?  believe me, it is worth every second you spend to make food that is actually worth eating.  Cooking makes your house smell really good too, just so you know ;)  Haha so go make something delicious before you die, even if it's just to say you did; add it your life to-do list.  even if cooking doesn't become your hobby, at least try it a few times.  Pretty please, with lot's of whipped cream, and a cherry on top :D

I=Intelligent

Okay, let me start off in saying that I consider myself in no way to be extremely intelligent.  Sure, I may get good grades but intelligent is not quite the word I would use to describe me.  I would rather say something along the lines of "I=is crazy."  Craccy :D  That's more like it.  I say odd things and have a very random, aggravatingly disorganized brain.  This is apparent from my room (decorated in every sort of color and theme), my style of dress (skirts or skinny jeans, bright colors or all black, sloppy t-shirts or preppy sweaters, flip-flops or converse, etc.), and my very haphazard way of storing schoolwork (e.g., I throw all assignments from all subjects into one binder, or maybe in my backpack and often lose them under all the other papers).  I wish I had one settled sense of style; I think I would be much less frenzied.  If I could decorate my room anyway i wanted, it would be with "misty rain" colored walls, black molding, black furniture, and bright turquoise paintings on the walls.  If i could dress anyway i wanted, it would be all black.  I would wear large sweatshirts and skinny black jeans.  I would wear dark black make-up, or none at all.  As far as schoolwork..that is an easily attainable goal: I would just get orrrrganiiiiiized!

Wow, that was a long rabbit trail, I'm sorry you had to read all of my CRAZY rambling.  Just in case you aren't convinced yet of my craziness--I wouldn't want to leave you with any doubt--I will share a brief story about me from my childhood that my older sister wrote down.  If this doesn't convince you then you're CRAAAAACCYYY:

"Tonight Alicia dressed up in blue rainboots, pink bike helmet, swim goggles, and carried a cap gun.  She came into the kitchen, put her hands on her hips, then pointed at me and said 'Who are you?'
I said, 'Well, who are you?'
She said 'You know--a cowboy.'  She then saluted with two fingers, said 'Hail Hitler' and went out into the backyard."

See, if I showed signs of my mental instability and a haphazard sense of style at five years old; imagine what I am like now...

H=has blonde hair

Remember blog #1?  That first post, in which I believe the assignment was to introduce myself in "as creative a way as possible...in less than 50 words."  Fifty words?  I don't know about you, but that doesn't seem like enough words to describe one miniscule molecule of...poo, much less a wonderfully intricate, complex human being!  That's practically an insult! Sooooooooooo I think I shall take a phrase from the acronym I wrote in that first post, and expand on it :D I'll do each one, starting from the bottom up: "H=has blonde hair."

 Since I can remember...actually, before I can remember, my Mom has dyed my hair blonde.  Only my very close confidantes know this, but i don't think they believe me.  I was originally born with dark hair, almost black.  My mom had always wanted a light-haired child, and she asked the doctors if it was possible to "chemically change my hair color as a baby" e.g., dye it blonde while I was so young.  None of the doctors were willing, and I think they secretly thought my mom was selfish for being so ready and willing to risk my health over something as trivial as hair color.  But y Mom was determined: she searched and searched for a doctor that would approve her request, then she brought the signed safety contract to her hairdresser.  Tah dah!  I was blonde, and have been ever since.

 

Haha all that ^ is a lie :D :D  I was born with a CLOUD of white hair, not just a poof, a cloud, got it?  Not a single drop of hair dye has ever touched my head.  People were blinded my hair because it was so light, it became reflective in the sun.  When I was younger I didn't care about having blonde hair, I guess because I wasn't self conscious yet.  But then Growing Up came along and told me my eyelashes were too white: why weren't they dark and thick like other people"s?  And not only that, why was my hair staying so blonde when all of my other friend's hair had darkened long ago? I felt different, as if I stuck out like sore thumb with my ugly white hair.

People would say things like "Oh, your hair is so pretty!" or "There's the girl with the golden hair."  I know they meant well, and they would always say things like "People pay a lot of money to have hair like your's."  But that only made me feel more like an alien individual for having such unusual hair.  I thought if I grew it really long it might look better.  For a few years I barely trimmed it at all, hoping, willing it to grow really long.  But my hair grows slooooooow; by the time it was to my waist it was very split and wispy.

 

I thought about cutting it because now I felt even more like an oddball with this really long blonde hair.  Off I went to an expensive salon to get the first really "major" haircut of my life.  I loved it!  it was layered, and suddenly I didn't mind that it was blonde.  When Growing Up first visited me, it made me feel insecure about myself by throwing negative comments at me.  But as I have grown up even more, those comments don't sting as much.  Desensitizing myself to them has made me feel more confident about myself.  I no longer think "Why am I not like everyone else?"  But instead "I don't care if not many people have blonde hair, it's just hair and why do I care if I'm not like everyone else?"  And the moral of the story is? Never feel odd because you are unique.  Or maybe it should be: if you are odd or unique that is definitely not a bad thing; why does everyone want to look and act the same as everyone else anyway?  There really is no reason.  Actually, here's a better moral, and I know it will sound extremely cheesy and cliche, but it is so truuueee; just always be yourself, whoever that is :D    

Blog #10

Nobodiness is the state of feeling unimportant, unappreciated, or unwanted.

A foster child, for example, often experiences this feeling. Foster children, before they are put into that system of care, live in homes with parents that care nothing about them and often leave them neglected. For example one of my cousins, who is adopted, used to live with her mom as a small child. Her mom would often leave my cousin home alone, locked in her room for days with nothing to eat. Sometimes the mom would open the door and give her some candy, but she wasn't able to go outside and play; she wasn't hugged and dressed and read books to, like other little children. Her mom did not buy her dolls, or give her goodnight kisses, or play hide-and-seek; I'm sure living such a neglected life would make anyone feel like a "nobody".

Then there is the person who has no friends; not a companion in the world. She goes to school and sits down at her desk; no one says "hello" to her or acknowledges that she is even in the room. She goes to lunch and sits down in the cafeteria...and is still all alone. We've seen these people, but we just take note of the fact that they have no friends, and then move right along to our own lives and companions, without taking that extra effort to even smile at them. There is almost no stronger feeling of nobodiness than to be that person who feels totally and truly invisible and unappreciated by anyone.

Blog #9

Tuesdays with Morrie taught so many "lessons" on how to truly live happy, purposeful lives. Morrie explains to Mitch how important it is to appreaciate the "little" things in life; the normal, average, everyday things like eating, walking, or even going to the bathroom on your own. Because Morrie suffered from ALS, he eventually was unable to use any of his muscles and therefore perform these little everyday activities. He also greatly emphasized completely slowing down and savoring every moment, not rushing through life at break-neck speed, focusing on our career and own selfish wants and desires while the years fly by...leaving us wondering where our life went. That moves on to the issue of selfishness: Morrie is adamant about the idea that living solely for oneself can never produce true or lasting happiness and contentment. Obviously we must address our own needs, but giving of ourselves gives us purpose in life. Everyone wants to feel needed and helping others fills this need. This is what I took from reading this book, however it did not change any of my previously held beliefs because I have already been taught most of these "lessons" from other people or sources. It did, however, give me a new perspective on them.

Blog 8

I push open the door to my dad's office and nearly gasp at the scene: he sits at his computer, his face dripping with sweat, as his fingers flying over the keyboard, while papers are strewn all around him. Lined across his desk are unfinished cups of coffee in various stages of temperature, and wads of tobacco he has spit into napkins. All day and night he has been sitting at his desk working, working, working--and that's how he loves it. He is a workaholic: he thrives on stress, deadlines, pushing himself to the max, working until he can work not a second more.

Now picture this: a mother gets up at 6:30 in the morning to make her two children breakfast before they have to go to school; then she washes her son's baseball uniform so it will be clean that day for his big game. She finishes the last few rows on the hat she is crocheting for her daughter's first day at kindergarten so her daughter will be happy about a present, and be kept warm. After she drops her children off at school she goes to the grocery store and buys all of the food she needs for that week, stops by the post office to mail her bills on time, and heads home where she proceeds to clean house for a few hours. Then she relaxes in the afternoon, enjoying the satisfaction that she has accomplished all she needed to do.

There is a distinct difference between these two individuals: the first is a flat-out workaholic, the second is what we would call a "hard worker." The workaholic doesn't enjoy relaxing after a job well-done; he doesn't work towards the goal of free-time once the chore is over. He is addicted to work, and hates having "nothing to do", in other words, freetime is his enemy, and he will work as much as possible to avoid it. The hard worker, on the other hand, is usually working to accomplish what needs to be done. He may enjoy his work, but also loves relaxing after his work, and know when to stop. The workaholic has an addiction; the hard worker is responsible and leads a balanced life, knowing when to kick back and enjoy the fruits of his labor.