Know thyself? If I knew myself, I'd run away.

June 27, 2004

I have had an entirely new experience of summertime heat. This is not to say the temperature here has reached record highs, nor have I set a new personal record for surviving extreme discomfort due to meterological conditions. In fact, I daresay I have perspired to most every 'hot' situation this planet has to offer: from the tropical humidity of South-East Asia to the lip-chappingly dry air of Death Valley to the oven-like searing of downtown cores during heat waves to Neil Diamond on a hot August night. I am not bragging here, either - I hate hot weather. Give me a cool, overcast sky any day - but this is another story.

What I am talking about here is something that in all those sweat-soaked, cold shower-filled days, this past week I have seen something entirely and utterly (for I love redundancy) new.

I spent last Saturday afternoon out on the open road, heading south on I-5, singing along to the radio and generally enjoying a beautiful, sunny summer day. Note that I had the windows open, otherwise I'd be writing bitterly about how hot and miserable a drive it was - though it must be said that I did have to pull over to shed some garments... again, another story. I had just pulled back out onto the highway and gotten back up to speed when a sizeable insect ended its fleeting existence in a loonie-sized splatter on my windshield. I made a mental note to wash it off the next time I got gas; a note which promptly got lost as Guns N' Roses came on the radio - it was on the passenger side, anyway.

A couple of days later, I hopped in the van and drove a few blocks when I noticed that the remnants of the recently deceased critter - which had since dried - had melted and were slowly running down the windscreen. Ew. It looked like someone had applied a small dollop of clear honey to the window; I decided that I should continue observation of this phenomenon. Over the next few days, the spatter repeatedly melted and recrystallized, slowly making its way down to the wiper blade, seemingly increasing in volume the whole time. Once a small amount had pooled on the top of the wiper blade, I decided to conduct an experiment in denatured insect fluid viscosity: I hit the wiper switch.

I think the truly great thing about conducting extemporaneous experiments is that although one has certain expectations (no doubt spawned on the spur of the moment through a combination of experience and logic - a spontaneous hypothesis, if you will), one is at times completely flabbegasted by the results.

The windshield wiper didn't budge. It was stuck in place like it had been glued there. I was so stunned I forgot I was driving, and almost rear-ended the Hummer in front of me. Image trying to explain that one.

That was this morning. I spent a good ten minutes at the gas station furiously scrubbing with a squeegee before I got it all off. I am curious to know just what kind of insect it was, but I guess that will remain a mystery.

June 15, 2004

Somebody call the geek police... I'd like to turn myself in. There can be no question of my guilt, as I have adjusted the colour scheme of this here webpage to show my support for Holland in the Euro Cup. Oh, yes. I'm a geek. It took but a single game to get the fan glands working overtime. I'm thinking about making T-shirts - that's how bad I've got it. Those of you who'd like to continue to think well of me - may the Lord bless and preserve you - can tell themselves that orange is a nice, summery colour. It's a seasonal thing, yeah.

June 9, 2004

I have developed a penchant for cooking roasts of late. There is something inexplicably satisfying about having over a kilogram of meat in the oven, counting the minutes until it is done, with the scent of garlic and hickory marinade slowly filling the apartment. It's been twelve minutes so far and I'm already salivating more than Pavlov's dog ever did. I have no idea how I'm going to make it through the next fourty-eight - I might have to change my shirt.

Those who knew me in my university days are likely picking their jaws up off the floor as they read this (well, I like to think so, anyway), remembering that I was a vegetarian for a number of years. Those with particularly elephantine memories are probably not all that surprised, as they might recall that I was also straight-edge... but that's a whole other slab of beef, so to speak. I have, however, become unabashedly carnivorous (and pickled, but that's a whole other hunk of cow, to continue to speak) in recent years. As my metabolism seems hell-bent on having my body digest itself, I think this change of heart constitutes a Good Thing.

All gastronomical prelidictions and lifestyle alterations aside, I wonder what it is about cooking certain types of food that I find pleasing on such a visceral level. Note that it is not just roasts that I place in this category; certainly soups and stews are to be recognized, any and all baked goods definitely fit the bill - but a pot of rice just doesn't cut it. Nor grilled cheese sandwiches, nor any of the 'breakfast foods' (but really, who gets excited about toast?). Pasta dishes reside somewhere in between: bolognese and marinara are in, alfredo and carbonara... out. Could it be cultural; upbringing perhaps? One might think so, but in my particular case (which is the only case that matters, really, I being the auteur here) there's something of an argument against it. I've lived a third of my life in Asia: I can't even be in the house if someone is whipping up a batch of Singapore Noodles - I'd eat right out of the pan if I could. Growing up, my mom never really made roasts (except for holidays, but they were usually ham), so why do they affect me so?

As of this moment, I don't know. I'd sit here and ramble aimlessly for a while, but I have to go make the boring part of my dinner now. You think about it, I've only got twenty more minutes to go.