I am a man with a slow-cooker.
As others ponder what they’d like to eat tonight, I forecast what I’ll want tomorrow. The meal I’ll eat tonight was chosen by a person who’s no longer me. I remember that person, and how he haphazardly threw whatever ingredients sounded good into this pot. I don’t blame him for doing so: mine is a forgiving endeavor, and in a slow cooker this large, there’s always room for mistakes and improvisation. Plus, he’s an experienced chef who’s made exactly the same number of slow cooker meals as I have, so I trust his sensibilities.
There’s only another half an hour left on the timer, and the soup would probably be just as good now. But I wait anyway, enjoying the smells that have since permeated throughout my building. I take care of tasks and check emails while a ceramic pot and a heating coil do all of the hard work. When I was younger, and first coming to know my slow cooker, I used to not wait. Back then, I regarded time as an obstacle and a bully, maliciously keeping me from my food until it was inevitably bested. Now, I consider time to be my sous chef.
While letting time and heating coils prepare my food, sometimes I let muted Tasty videos try to convince me that what I’m doing isn’t cooking. Real cooking, as the videos explain, happens in perfectly-lit, 45-second montages. Real cooking is performed by disembodied hands who never make mistakes or munch on raw ingredients. Real cooking never sets off the smoke alarm. I watch those videos and know that it will be decades before I’m as good a chef as those disembodied hands.
Lucky for me, I have decades to spare. I was schooled in the culinary arts by a grandmother whose soups and stews were a day-long affair. I’ve caused grease fires while trying to rush, and proudly wear hairless spots on my arms as a reminder of those mistakes. I can meditate through 3 hours of making corn tortillas by hand, and consider it time well spent. Having surveyed the shelves of Whole Foods, and experimentally purchased every fruit in Chinatown without an English name, I can confidently say that my favorite ingredient is patience, and I use it liberally inside and outside of cooking.
I’m a slow learner in the lifehack era; a composer of paragraphs in the age of the Tweet. I’m a picky consumer of mountains and cityscapes, preferring those that require a hike or a plane ticket to enjoy over those that disappear in 10 seconds unless you take a screenshot. I’m a New Yorker who studied the busy city’s ebb and flow and chose studied diligence over frenzy.
But if these observations are true; if I’m a tortoise living in the hare’s epoch, I can wait for my turn. More than anything else, I’m patient, and I have some awesome soup to sustain me while I wait.
Today's the longest day of the year. Astronomers will tell you that it's because the earth's tilted rotation relative to our orbital plane gives the northern hemisphere prolonged exposure to daylight as the sun's zenith approaches the tropic of cancer.
But it's actually because I need to migrate 20,000 emails into a new database, and I forgot my headphones.
One of my favorite lunch places mislabels their plastic cutlery bins every day. Forks are reliably in the knife bin. Spoons are everywhere. One day, there were straws in the fork bin. They truly couldn't care less about this aspect of restaurant operation.
Compounding the problem, I don't really care that much either. If it bothered me more, I'd condition myself to examine the things I grabbed before hurriedly shoving them into a to-go bag. But I don't, so I just eat with whichever of six possible combinations that I draw that day. Knife-knife days are tricky, but mercifully rare.
Either because they stock more forks than knives or spoons, or by improbable fate, I've gotten the "double fork" combo the last three times that I've gone fishing for cutlery. This has gotten me used to eating food with two forks. It doesn't work well for every meal; I wouldn't recommend trying to rip apart steak with little fork claws like some over-imaginative child who just watched Jurassic Park. But when it does work (cakes, rice plates, peas, etc) it feels natural and beautiful.
I was curious about whether anyone else agreed with me, and stumbled across a Facebook page with just 18 likes, called "Eating Food With Two Forks." I'm now an engaged and impassioned member of this community of like-minded dining etiquette visionaries.
The point of this post is not to evangelize eating with two forks (that's for a longer post). Instead, I'm sharing this to inform everyone about a Facebook group that proves, once and for all, that there's a place for everyone in this great big word, no matter what sort of dumb little things make you happy.
Went to my second Soul Cycle class yesterday and absolutely crushed it!!!
...by "it" I mean "my phone". I was too exhausted/sweaty to properly handle electronics, and it slipped out of my hand. Rather than gracefully catching it mid-flight, I just fumble-launched it into the concrete like a volleyball player going for the spike.
On the plus side, I think these past few weeks of working out are showing some results: I don't think I was strong enough to have broken my phone so thoroughly a few weeks ago.
My new exercise goal is to get so strong that when I accidentally break my phone after a Soul Cycle class, you can't tell from the pieces whether I had an iPhone or an Android.
Somewhere in DC, a man parks his expensive car. He gets out and stares at his destination. He's nervous, and it's an unfamiliar emotion for him. He's a successful corporate attorney, turned K Street lobbyist, turned captain of industry. He's not used to being the least powerful man in the room.
Yet here he stands in front of an unremarkable townhouse with a remarkable chill in his heart. Stern bodyguards congregate at the entrance, their fashionable suits unable to conceal a demeanor and poise earned through extensive military experience. He starts towards them, rehearsing in his head his identity and reason for being at the gathering. He starts to speak, "Good evening, this is my first—" but their expressions and slight shift in body weight wordlessly inform him that they know who he is, and that he may enter.
He recognizes only half of the people at the table. Senators, CEOs, and celebrities intermingle with leaders of former and current dictatorships. He takes his seat next to the prince of a country he's never heard of, and accepts the disinterested glances of a dozen men and women to whom his tens of millions mean nothing. He's grateful to have this solid, wooden chair take over his weight. He feels small, and sits quietly while others slowly fill every remaining seat at the table.
As though sensing a desire to start the meeting, the entire room stops casual conversation and all divert their eyes to the man at the front of the room. A grayed man of 66, his comfort in leading this organization—and by extension the world—is a humbling sight. He firms his stance, acknowledges the room's attention with a slight nod, and begins to speak.
"Regarding the question of grain prices, it is the decision of the organization that they will continue to rise at a rate of 3% per quarter. Please inform your respective ministers and secretaries of agriculture."
Over the next two hours, the director carves up the world. Elections are decided. Coups are set in motion. Life-saving technological discoveries are surreptitiously swept under the rug. All the while, the room is silent and not a single emotion crosses the director's face.
"Finally..." the director forebodes. "Regarding the question—"
"...oh God help us..." someone interrupts quietly under his breath.
The director, taken aback by the break in hours of silence, stares direly into the eyes of the man who, through lack of self-discipline, broke a sacred decorum that dates back to the days of Jefferson.
"Forgive me, it's just that, it's just—"
"You have made your objections known, sir."
The man behind the outburst retreats further into his seat. The room returns its undivided attention to the director. The director begins again.
"Regarding the question of Washington DC's dress code, it is the decision of the organization that we'll continue to force people to wear dark, full suits when it's 105 degrees and humid outside."
Quiet sighs are the only audible reaction from the gathered attendants. The director dismisses them unceremoniously, and the group collectively returns to the helm of 21st century society, an unspoken question on their lips: "What have we done..."
I imagine this scene pretty much every time I see someone in Western Business Attire in July.
I use my personal site as my playground for learning new skills. I host it myself on a server I maintain, and try to give it the latest and greatest features as I learn them. Because of time and use-case, that's not always something I can follow through on, but I'm trying to be better about it going forward.
I'll be posting updates and hopefully even some tutorials as I go through this process, so stay posted!
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<html> <head>Whatever</head> <body> <h1>Hi Rory!</h1> </body> </html>