New Life

I woke up today at 5:30am to the sound of my brother making his lunch. How can making lunch possibly be that noisy?

At about 5:45am, my sister came down and went through her morning ritual, making no effort to quiet her keys while roaming around the living room and kitchen.

6am, Atti discovers paper balls. Having just discovered that kittens separated from the mother at too early an age can result in the kittens exhibiting anti-social behaviors, I feel guilty about taking away one of her few pleasures in life. Atti is a bitch. So it's settled, she will always be feisty (now annoyed again at the spelling of the word "feisty"), annoyed and reactive. I always thought she was a lot like me. I, however, don't have the excuse she does. As a matter of fact, I could have used some time away from my mother as a child, I think. I take the paper ball to the other living room and she follows. It's not 5 minutes before she drags it down again and decides that playing with noisy paper away from mommy isn't nearly as fun as playing with it near her when she's desperate to fall asleep again.

6:15am, I have to pee and I'm dehydrated and that's keeping me awake now too. I'm warm. Too warm. I'm never too warm and now I'm smitten with this warmness, exhausted from trying to fall asleep. Bathroom. Water. Let's try this again.

6:30am, Dad is up because he is a freak of nature. Between becoming an old man and retiring after 38 years of getting up at 5am, I guess 6:30am isn't too bad. However, washing dishes and what my ears can only describe as "moving pans around" is too much old man for me to handle. I already have an irrational, unhealthy, almost aggressive reaction to him every time he tells me to "turn the internet off when you're done." Of course, every time he says it I somehow think this will be the time I finally get through to him.

6:50am, I surrender to insomnia and check my mail. Not surprised but still a little disappointed that only Express has found me worthy of emailing in the ungodly hours of the night.

7am, I decide to write this wretched post.

7:29 is the current time and my conclusions are as follows:

1. All my attempts to go back to sleep were in vain.
2. I still feel stupid about accidentally referring to my recent breakup as a divorce to a complete stranger and in front of my brother and his wife, who may be well on their way to getting divorced. I don't think my reference was anything more than a Freudian slip, perhaps alluding to my level of commitment in that relationship, but still embarrassing and unbareably awkward nonetheless.
3. Living with my family again is taking ahold of my sanity much sooner than expected.
4. "Were you watching Mrs. Doubtfire?", a question asked of me with suspicion and an accusatory tone, is probably the most pointless question in this entire universe. Thanks, dad.
5. Walking around the house in circles will not suddenly reveal a hidden door to a hidden room where I can have my own space. That space doesn't exist and I'll have to settle for a nook in the wall in which I can text people and on a good day, have a chance at not being spoken to for 5 minutes.
6. How much fucking crime could the Naperville Police Department be fighting that they can't find the time to do my background check? I'm sure it has everything to do with something I don't have any knowledge of. Either way, I can't actually start my job until they get that check to the district HR office. Waiting for the phone to ring for just this start date has made me more anxious than any call from some gentleman caller.
7. I will add watching baby turtles hatch and make it to the ocean to my list of long term goals.
8. I have absolutely no attachment to my grandparents. Never have.
9. I am extremely grateful for my friends. It's nice to know that after so many years, I've picked the right ones.
10. I need another part time job in Naperville. Suggestions?

Veggie Burger for the Omnivore

I don't think I'd ever go vegetarian mostly because it's expensive, requires culinary creativity and talent, and also I do like eating meat. It's good. When it's made right, it's reallllly good. Especially poultry that when cooked seems to take in flavor so much better than other meat.

Anyway, I think I've become a bit of a food snob since my vacation in Spain. I love that Mediterranean edge that everything has. That daring balance between salty and sweet, cream and solids...

I used to avoid garlic for fear of offending people with my breath when they get close enough. Fuck it. If you avoid garlic or you only eat sparingly, get over it. Garlic is good. I have gone through 2 jars of minced garlic and am working on my third, all in the past month. Pile that shit on. It adds that essential base to anything you're making. It should be as much of a staple as bread.

I sound like I know things about food, but I don't. But I know what I like (flavor, freshness) and what I don't like (cooking, onions).

So here it is. Try this when you are super hungry and super lazy and super tired.

Ingredients: (You can buy everything at Aldi except for the veggie burgers)
-Tomatoes
-Spinach leaves
-Fresh ball of mozzarella
-English muffin or some kind of sandwich roll, go for whole wheat
-olive oil
-sea salt
-minced garlic
-one egg
-avocado
-garlic powder
-boca burger (or salmon burger, morningstar burger)

A toaster oven is perfect for to make this sandwich. While this apartment has an oven and stove, I've never felt like it wouldn't blow up if I tried to use it. Whether you're using a toaster oven or a regular oven, set it at 350 or 375 degrees. Set the timer at 20 minutes. Place the frozen burger in right away directly on the rack. Cut the roll, english muffin or whatever bread you're using in half. Pour enough olive oil on the inside of each piece to cover the surface area. Scoop out a small spoonful of minced garlic and spread on the with the olive oil on each side. Slice some pieces off the mozzarella ball and place on top of the olive oil and garlic. Once the burger has been in for 10 minutes, put in the breaed pieces cheese side up.

While the bun and burger are cooking, slice a tomato. You'll need 4 slices but you'll end up with at least half a tomato. Sprinkle a little sea salt and galic powder on the left over tomato, slice a piece of mozzarella and place it on top of the tomato. Take a bite and prepare your pallette for what's about to come.

Use half an avocado and make sure it's ripe. If you can't find ripe avocados, buy a couple and leave them for a couple of days together in a bag at room temperature. Make a quick and simple version of guacamole with the half avocado. Chop it up with a fork, add seal salt and garlic powder to taste and mix it up.

Start cooking an egg in a pan over medium or over easy. When the bell rings and your burger and bun is ready, spread the avocado onto melted mozz. Place the tomatoe slices over the avocado on each bun. Next place the boca on the tomato slices, spread some spinach leave on next, cover with the egg and place the other prepared bun on top.

Cut it in half so that all your sense are focused on the gooey yuminess and not the gooey mess that your sandwich has become.

I hope one day that this will aid your hungry tummy and you will think of me.

Can people change?

It's really just as useless a question as "what is our purpose in life"? There's really no way of knowing for sure and yet we're forced to make a decision in order to go on with life. Everyone at some point has to make a decision about a person's ability to change. But even when you finally do come to your decision, the examples of persons you used for the basis of your decision may not be the best examples. The evidence could be flawed. People who you thought changed perhaps are only acting or are only temporarily swayed. People who don't seem to be able to change may not have arrived at a motivation to change. So, really, our answer to the question doesn't matter. It only matters that you have an answer.

I'm sure my ideas about this will change, be tweaked and completely evolve with time. For now, though, I've made my decision. Some people can change. Others can't.

Of course, no one can have it all. People who are capable of changing themselves, who have maliable dispositions or ways of thinking are capable of becoming better or worse people. Not everyone changes for the better.

People who can't change are limited. Some situations and experiences require and sometimes even depend on a individual's flexibility. On the other hand, it seems peoople who can't change, at least when they know they are incapable of changing, know what they require from life and make sure to surround themselves with what is capable of change and what they know they need. And maybe they have things a little more figured out than others. Then again, not every person incapable of change needs to change. Their lives may be better off by not changing.

What you decide may not be the right answer but it will become the basis of who you keep and let go of in your life. You can either tolerate or let go of the people who can't change. You can wait on as little or as long as you want on those you believe can change.

Either way we're fucked. What happens when you're not sure if a person can change? Letting them go sucks. Waiting around to see if the person will ever find something worth changing for could suck even more.

Can people change? I'm sure I think about this way too often. What is it that I'm going to live my life by? It's funny that what I don't think about as often is which kind of person I am. Can I change? Do I need to? Am I missing out on something if I can't? Would I be worse off if I can and do change?

So... I've diluted myself into thinking I've found my answer. It doesn't really change anything and doesn't quench my desire for truth. But everyone has to decide on something. It's part of growing up. I guess.

Pa amb Tomàquet (Pan con Tomate)

I think I’ll write about Spain in increments. Instead of telling you about about how my trip went, it’ll be less daunting to share some experiences instead. I’ll start tonight by forwarding some knowledge. The best kind. Food Knowledge. Skip down to the bottom for the recipe.

If the food in Spain is anything, it’s fresh, wherever you go. Even if it’s not authentic, it’s at least fresh. Food is important to the Spaniard and if you’re going to eat, why not eat good every time. For food being such an important part of the culture, only 10% of Spanish land is considered excellent for crop growing. However, Catalonia, the region of Spain that Barcelona and Tarragona belong to has a climate that makes the land versatile and allows for diverse agriculture. Tomatoes and olives (olive oil) are one of the principal crops.

Dining in Tarragona was a challenge. Since the three of us (my sister Paula, her friend Betzy and I) had educated ourselves on language, culture and especially food of Spain, we knew too well when we were being fed tourist food and when the food was authentically from Spain or from the region. We traveled across three main areas of Tarragona. Our lodging was in Salou and we took a bus daily past La Pineda and into the city center area, Tarragona. Salou and La Pineda are rich in beautiful beach shoreline but also heavy in tourists from the U.S. and Europe which made it difficult to find food that wasn’t geared towards tourists. We did our best to seek out the good stuff and as you get closer to the city center and the shoreline near the city center, you find more authentic places, but it does take some searching. We found an excellent little restaurant right outside the Tarragona market with a fantastic tapas bar.

This brings me to the experience that accompanies this food knowledge forward. Catalonia, as most other autonomous communities of Spain have a very distinct language, culture and gastronomical traditions. Every region is proud and very particular about who is considered a true part of their region and who isn’t. While there is no real prejudice, there is sometimes a sense of separatism or even snobbery that accompanies regional, and especially Catalan pride. But for every rude Spaniard we almost immediately found one (all of them were men) that more than made up for it in kindness, charm or both.

We read about a restaurant called Ares in our little guide book. We bought our TarraGO!na cards in advance. This gave us access free admission to many of the museums, discounts on stores and restaurants and for free bus rides. “modern Catalan cuisine. Vinoteca: wine tasting, tapas and miniportions” . It was a little difficult to find but it was more than worth it.

We arrived and were first served wine, water, a plate of small slices of toasted French bread, another plate with tiny tomatoes and cloves of garlic, an oil vat and a small saucer of sea salt. Each of us proceeded to take one of each. You pour some olive oil, add some salt, cut the tomato and eat it all with the bread, maybe take tiny bite of garlic, right? Wrong. Betzy sat there trying so hard to cut her tiny tomato with her butter knife and it kept sliding all over the place. The guy sitting next to us looked over and smiled to himself but was most likely laughing to himself. By then my sister had just eaten her tomato like an apple. The waiter came to refill our water glasses and looked extremely annoyed by the sight. We were also asking a million questions about the menu. Me gnawing on some really hard toast, one tomato completely gone and the other trying to hack away at one. He then took a step back put his pad down and said, “Okay. Where are you guys from?” He refilled the water glass for the guy next to us and they spoke to each other in Catalan. He went back into the restaurant where I imagine the following declaration was made:

Disgruntled Waiter: Rafael, I can’t deal with this right now. We have a situation out there with the Pa amb Tomàquet. I’m not going back out until you fix it. These broads are publicly disgracing our culture.

A few minutes another waiter, Rafael, came out to our table and promptly put an end to our embarrassing behavior. He explained that the tomato was not for eating. He then showed us how to prepare Pa amb Tomàquet. His manner was urgent, as if the quicker he was to correct us, the less damage there would be to his Catalan pride. But he was also gentle, respectful and forgiving.

We conversed further with Rafael. He recommended we share our dishes to get a good taste of Catalan cuisine. The meal was perfect. Delicious and just what we were looking for. We talked a little with the guy sitting next to us which found our lack of Catalan knowledge more amusing than annoying. We continued to talk and made apparent that our purpose was to learn about the Catalan culture, to live it while we were here to do our best to have the most authentic Spanish experience possible. Rafael understood. Many tourists often stumble upon this restaurant and ask for burgers or chicken and don't make any effort to learn about the land, the culture, the people, or make any attempt at the language. Rafael is from time to time distressed at the fact that when people think of Spain, they think of bullfighting and Flamenco which almost exlusively Andalucia's. He explained that the equivelent of such thinking was that everyone from Chicago was related to Al Capone. He did, however, see in us an honest and genuine attempt at doing our best to learn.

We finished with most scrumptious desserts, pictured below and some coffee.

Torta de Chocolate (Chocolate cake, whipped cream Queso con miel (Very light cheese, almost like
and raspberry sauce.) ricotta, topped with honey and wafer stick.)

The inside part of the restaurant was really unique:

In the end, we all got along. The disgruntled waiter, Paolo, warmed up to us and took the following pictures. I asked for Rafael's name as we were leaving. "¿Mi nombre? ¡Rafael El Guapo para quien quiere saber!" ("My name? Rafael the Handsome for whoever wants to know!"

Just charming.

Below: Betzy, Rafael el Guapo, Paula, Teresa

The restaurant was part of a plaza:

RECIPE!
Pa Amb Tomàquet ( Bread with Tomato):
Rafael taught us how to do this. This simple nibler has become a Catalan trademark. This is super simple, does not require preparation or cooking (my favorite).

Slice a few slices of a french bread on an angle so that you get more surface area to work with. Toast it on medium. It should be pretty hard but not burnt. Slice the end of a small garlic clove. Do not peel it. Hold the garlic clove and rub the cut end all over the toast. Cut the tomato in half at the belly, NOT from end to end. Gently squeeze the tomato while you rub it on the toast. You should get a good layer of tomato (paste) on the toast from the rub. Pour a generous amount of olive oil on the toast. Add some sea salt to taste. Munch.

It's all natural and makes for a flavorful snack or appetizer. I used a 2 dollar 9 grain loaf and olive oil from Aldi. Super cheap and tasty. The sea salt and garlic cloves you can get at any grocery store. The tomatoes I'm not sure about. I haven't tried looking for the little tomatoes from Spain. I do know they should be very very ripe and juicy so that it rubs easily into the bread. I used Roma tomatoes but I'm going to try looking for the right kind.

I hope updates don't have to be interesting

A month later, and I'm still trying to make it feel like home. Living here no longer freaks me out but I also don't think I'll be here long enough for me to feel completely at ease. I do feel better, though, accepting that I'm just here temporarily. I'm not forcing a "home feeling" on it but it still has its purpose. Sometimes it helps to pretend that I'm spending the night at my grandmother's home in Mexico. Insects are just a part of life there. So are mini lizards that make kissing noises. Spiders aren't as cute, though.

I still kill at least one bug a day. Usually a wasp.

I work from the apartment 2 days out of the week. It's really sweet and saves me a considerable amount of gas. The new VISTA will be getting here in June instead of July. My supervisor failed to tell me this. Now I have to find something for him to do.

I started the South Beach Diet on Saturday. I was on it in my junior year of high school. Looking back, it doesn't seem healthy for me to have been on a diet at 17. It was successful, and I must say, the South Beach Diet in particular is very healthy. I didn't have self-image issues or anything but weight is always a bit of an issue among Hispanic families. In my family, it was mostly the women, my grandmother especially, that was completely uninhibited about criticizing weight issues. Her biggest concern was that I wouldn't find someone to marry. As a teenager. I guess I did it for her. It's going well. I can't tell you about any progress, if any. I don't have a scale. I didn't weigh myself before I started and my jeans feel a little bit loose but I've also worn them all once already. I don't mind the diet and I only get cravings a few times. Mostly, when I pass the Wonder Bread/Hostess outlet store. That's pretty brutal.

Most of my belongings are still in black garbage bags on the living room floor. I don't have enough room for my clothes. I currently have one failed clothing rack and a laundry basket that I'm living out of. To be honest, I don't see myself ever completely unpacking. By the time I'm done, it'll be time to move again.

The Farmer's Market on the Mississippi begins tomorrow. Nick has an early game so we might have time to go together. I can't remember the last time we did anything together.

I took Atti for her first walk today. I got her a bright pink harness and leash so that she'll stand out better. Our 45 minutes walk turned into 2 hours. Most of that was spent dragging her along. Literally, dragging her. She wanted to sit and soak it all in. I guess I should've just let her do that. Soon, she was so pissed she got loose from her harness and slipped under and into a nearby truck. I layed in the grass for about 25 minutes trying to coax her out. She hated me a lot a that point, though, so she really had no plans to leave the complicated and shady underbelly of a pickup. I knocked on an elderly couple's door and the husband layed under the truck. Atti didn't like him intruding on his own truck so she moved to another spot where I was able to reach and grab her. She is dirty and disgusting right now. Our shower sucks and I know what a nightmare it's going to be to bathe her.

I got a solo. Not just an unnecessarily high note either. The Galesburg Community Chorus is doing several selections from various operas and operettas for our concert "A Night at the Opera" on May 22nd. We have hired soloists one of whom will be taking the latter (and cooler) part of my solo because our director "needed to get them back on stage for the finale", regardless of the fact that the woman playing the antagonist would now be singing the protagonist's part. The song is in English. Everyone will notice. So....I'm not quite as thrilled about the solo anymore.

I honestly didn't think I'd be get so bored while writing about my life. Perhaps pictures would help. I'll take some tomorrow. I'd like to blame my bland tone of this post on the fact that I watched The Royal Tenenbaums for an hour before starting this post. It's still playing in the background.

Moving Day

Nick and I (and Atti) are moving to Burlington, IA. It's about 35 minutes from Monmouth. Baseball season for the Bees starts on Thursday so from then on, Nick will be working days and evenings nearly every single day, through September. Living in Burlington will be easier on him. My AmeriCorps job here in Monmouth will end at the end of July, so I'll be commuting to work until then.

Not only will Nick be closer to work, but I'll get to see him more than I would had I decided to stay in Monmouth. Also, Monmouth has a way of warding off inspiration, sucking the energy out of me and overall making me feel less alive. Many of its businesses have closed in the last couple of years. I'm sure it was a happenin' place in its day but there's just nothing here now. Burlington has a farmer's market, a riverwalk, Artisan festivals, a pretty big library, your average mall and superstores, not to mention it's a city that will take more than a 10-minute car ride to explore.

The apartment is.....quirky. It's the 3rd floor of an old Victorian house that used to be the maid's quarters. A good amount of room, 1 bedroom living/dining room, kitchen, bathroom. Some of its major features include a fake fireplace, cool windows, fire escape, and my favorite, a tiny little deck for two that has a view of the Mississippi and sunsets.

The apartment......needs some work. When we first saw the apartment I saw only potential. I was excited to clean and fix it up. I saw us sitting on the deck with beers, hosting a dinner party for my birthday, watching TV at night....

Last week I decided to do whatever cleaning I could without electricity, since it wasn't on yet. I got there and all of a sudden, things didn't look as easy as they did the first time. The only thing I could do at that point is dust a little. Every time I tried to, I ran into a dead bug. Nothing as serious as an infestation but the apartment had been vacant for a month. I don't do well with insects. I had to kill a wasp with carpet cleaner. My allergies were killing me, I had body aches and a sore throat. The carpet was in worse shape than I had originally thought. Today I'll be vacuuming and more importantly, giving it a good Stanley Steamer cleaning.

Needless to say, I got discouraged. I asked myself what we had gotten ourselves into. I need to vacuum, shampoo, scrub, mop and disinfect every inch of this space before we move any big stuff in.

Whether moving ends up being a good idea or not isn't clear yet. While I am still excited to tackle this job, I have a reasonable amount of fear and anxiety as well. It's possible that my expectations for this apartment are too high and that I'll only end up disappointing myself. It's going to be a little while before I'll feel comfortable in this new place. Until then, I'll hate the fact that I'll feel displaced.

On the up side, at least I have a project, something more for me to do. As per Mary E's request, I'll be sure to post some pre-move in pictures. I feel a before and after is in order soon.

In Memoriam

Lars Paul was my male betta, named after the Swedish founder of Augustana College, Lars Paul Esbjörn. He is, unfortunately, no longer with us. Either of them.

Nick got him for me as a birthday present. I'm unsure of the day I purchased him as well as the exact date of his death. All I know is, he is still floating upside down in his fish tank, growing more colorless everyday.

Before you judge, let me just say that during his lifetime, Lars received everything a betta needs. Food, a one-gallon tank with blue gravel and glass pebbles, a filter and air pump, a few fake plants and a small buddha. His current lingering state is due partially to the fact that I plan to take him home and bury him next to his predecessor, Gilbert. The water's not gross because the filter's still running. I thought about taking him out and freezing him to avoid nasty decay before I leave for home. That still hasn't happened. So, mostly, he's still in his tank because of the fair amount of guilt I feel when I attempt to take him out.

Showing affection for a fish looks and sounds as ridiculous as it seems. Hard to do but principally manifests itself as either baby talk or illusory ideas that it is happy to see you or that it gets excited when it knows it's going to be fed. As time passed, the thrill of moving out on my own and starting a new job began to fade. I adopted a six-week-old black female kitten and named her Atticus (Atti) after my favorite To Kill a Mockingbird character. I grew bored of Lars and except for his cleanings and feedings, I mostly ignored him.

It seems silly and it is to some degree. I'm sure I paid more attention to my fish than plenty of other fish owners and was a better owner. What bothers me is that I was affectionate at some point because I was capable of it. I wanted to show a fish love. Once it stopped entertaining me and something more fun came along, he annoyed me and I grew tired of him. At one point, I even wished it would die so that I wouldn't have to clean his tank anymore. I didn't love Lars like but I did like him, initially. Even with a matter as trivial and small as the death of a Wal-Mart fish, my own standards are the ones that matter and for me, it only seems right to own up to my own degree of selfishness.

This entry is similar to the act of reconciliation or confession in the Catholic church. While I never agreed with the idea of using a middle man to confess your sins in order to be absolved....there is something about the process of saying things aloud to someone (even in some virtual fashion). It's as if faults seem real, regardless of your own thoughts, only when you've openly admitted it as a fault.

I doubt Lars died of a broken heart or a lack of attention. To him, I was probably only some sort of visual and audio stimulus. But that's irrelevant. Even if my guilt stems from a combination of 18 years of Catholicism and too many viewings of Finding Nemo, if I am to be honest with myself, I must admit, I could've been better to him.

To Lars, who was good at swimming and looking beautiful. Skål.