Sproutin' Flavor

Anytime I blog about food I'm surprised that I don't do it more often. I love cooking. I love baking. I do both frequently, but rarely do I record my ventures here. I love cooking produce and seafood, in particular. My most recent obsession happens to be Brussels sprout. If you follow me on Twitter you'll see that I devote at least one tweet a week to this magical vegetable, and I truly believe that I have perfected the art of cooking these mini-cabbage delights.

As a church staff we recently (as in today) completed a five day juice (consuming juice and water only) fast in celebration of what the Lord has done through our church in the past five years (11,000+ salvations... unbelievable) and to develop a spirit of expectancy of what He will do in the next five. I was surprised that I didn't have more trouble on the fast. A self-confessed caffeine addict, I only experienced one caffeine headache despite dropping that habit cold turkey on day 1. I was not nearly as hungry as I expected I'd be, but what I missed the actual action of eating. And I discovered that I got really tired of sweet, fruity flavors really quickly. I didn't crave anything in particular... except these sprouts of goodness. I can't explain to you how badly at the end of day 2 I wanted just a bite of a Brussels sprout.

I hadn't grown up eating these sprouts. My mom abhorred them as a child and didn't make them for us. I just assumed I'd hate them because common kid-speak would advise that they were disgusting, and my mom's distaste for them only cemented that idea. A few months ago after tapping out the different ways I could eat asparagus, zucchini, squash, and broccoli, I happened upon a lovely little bag of Brussels sprouts in Harris Teeter and decided to give them a whirl. Try them. I promise you will not be disappointed. I just made up this recipe on the fly, but I'm thrilled with the results.

Roasted Brussels sprouts:
Chop tough ends off of Brussels sprouts then slice in half. Place all sprouts in an oven-safe casserole dish. Drizzle with olive oil. Coat with liberal amount of white balsamic vinegar (this is the secret, in my opinion. I think regular balsamic vinegar would be too strong, but the white is sheer perfection and gives them the ideal bite. I tend to put a lot on mine, but do it to taste). Sprinkle with black pepper and Tony Chachere's cajun seasoning (the other secret ingredient. I adore Tony's and put it on e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g). Top with liberal amount of coarse sea salt and one thin pat of butter (optional... I make them with and without butter and can't usually tell a difference. I think the butter just adds a nice finishing note). Place in 350 degree oven for about 20 minutes or until centers of sprouts are softened. Sprinkle with Parmesan cheese and enjoy.

Seriously, I'm drooling for these right now. I eat them almost daily and could really go for a big ole bowl as I type. It's 9:54 a.m.

Stinger

This morning I hopped in the shower as I do every morning. I felt my foot hit something almost papery and assumed it was a Band-Aid that had washed off the previous day (clearly I love leaving trash in my shower). All of a sudden I felt a pain coursing through my foot. Looking down I realized I had managed to step directly onto a wasp, which was now violently attacking my ring toe. I shook it off and down the drain, but really? Who else does that happen to? My foot is now swollen, and my leg is partially numb. I kind of feel like Macaulay Culkin in My Girl. Let's hope my ending is a little less tragic. The Vadas in my life need me.

Called Out!

Today I got called out by my sweet friend The Shabby Princess. She totally held me accountable for not having updated this little cobwebbed corner since January 2nd. That is pretty ridiculous.

So here's what's been going on with me: lots of work and little downtime. And I don't mind one bit. Not one tiny bit! Y'all, I am in love with my new job. It's intense and overwhelming and tough, but I'm thriving in the environment. Being able to work in an insanely creative environment with fantastic people bringing glory to God? I mean, it's phenomenal.

My dating life hasn't been all that shabby either. I've been spending time The Pilot, The Chemist, The Cook and a few others who haven't been given nicknames as of yet. Nothing significant but lovely nonetheless.

Life is just all around good right now, but I can't help but feel some days like a bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper that some jerk cashier leaves on the rotating belt so that when it reaches the end it falls over. When you open it, it fizzes out and then falls flat. I am certainly full of bubbles these days, but I can help but let the excitement fizz out and feel a little flat. Does that make sense or just whiny? And is this the worst comeback post ever? More than likely. Buuuut it's what I've got tonight.

How to Make an Entrance

Following an incredible week of Christmas worship experiences at work, the staff of Elevation was given the week after Christmas off. It was so nice to just unwind and relax and decompress. After spending a few days at home being lazier than lazy, I jetted to New York to spend time with The Supermodel and ring in the new year in the city. I'll post pictures and a more comprehensive recap this week, but the trip up there was just much too exciting to share.

I arrived at the Charlotte-Douglas airport with little trouble. Checked in, checked my bag, made through the metal detector. Following my body scan, however, I was pulled aside and asked if I had anything concealed in my left pocket. Immediately I reached in to grab the bobby pins hiding inside. "No! Do not touch your pocket!" my TSA comrade demanded. I explained that I merely had some hair accessories in there, and she let me slowly and cautiously pull them out to show her. "Because you set off our system," she explained, "I will need to search your lower body thoroughly." She made hand motions as to what that would entail, and she was right. It was thorough. I passed.

Following that nerve-jangling ordeal I made a pitstop at the airport bar for a quick libation before boarding my flight. A woman came and sat next to me at the bar with her book Emotional Unavailability and How to Combat It. She was clearly battling it with some strong liquor. I quickly finished my beverage and dashed over to my gate to board.

I'm generally not one to chat with my airplane seat mate, but on this flight I befriended my neighbor - a cinematographer who not only has a documentary currently on the Oscar short list, but also worked on The City. He educated me on both honor killing in Iraq and what Whitney Port is really like (thumbs up). As we were chatting, I noticed the man sitting in front of me starting to get a bit agitated. Before I knew it he had turned around and begun angrily telling us off in a mix of Russian and broken English. From what I gathered, apparently we were disrupting him. A flight attendant intervened to calm Stalin down, and normalcy resumed.

After landing at LaGuardia my bladder decided it was past due for a potty break, so on my way to baggage claim I pit-stopped at the ladies' room. When I got to baggage claim I made a quick search for my phone and realized that it was nowhere on my person. Frantically I dashed back to the bathroom hoping I had simply left it on the counter when I washed my hands. It was nowhere to be seen, so I peeked into the stall I had exited, and sitting daintily at the bottom of the toilet bowl, covered in commode water was my phone. I plucked it out, and miracle of miracles it worked! For precisely 30 seconds. Then it gave up life and died. Excellent start to the journey.

After gathering my bag, I headed out to grab a taxi. On previous visits I've used a car service, which is less expensive and more convenient than a cab, but with the holiday and a slew of reidrected flights, the company was sold out. I figured it would be no problem to just hail a taxi and make it to The Supermodel's apartment. As would be my luck, however, the cab line wrapped around the building, and we were informed to expect to wait for hours. Panic started to set in as I realized I had a dead phone, no transportation and no way to let my hosts know I would be delayed.

My eyes settled on a city bus, and I assumed my best option would be to take the bus to a stop and catch a cab there to hop over to the Upper East Side. I entered the first bus armed with cash and was told Metro Card or change only. I traded several bills for approximately $2 worth of change with a sweet homeless woman who directed me to the proper bus line. As it happened I was still short on change, but between my flustered movements, incessant chattering and huge suitcase, the driver told me I was fine and insisted I just go ahead and get on.

As we started moving on the overly crowded vehicle, I realized I had no idea where to get off or even what I was doing. I befriended a very competent (almost frightfully so) 12 year old who happened to be a bus regular. She told me that lots of people she knew use the Astoria Boulevard stop. As soon as I reached that one I knew it wasn't for me. The next stop was 125th & Lexington. "LEXINGTON!" I thought excitedly. I know that avenue, so it must be a good choice. Yeah. Not so much. Unless you can picture me in Harlem after dark. Let's just say that I received lots of helpful offers from the neighborhood crowd.

Finally, an unmarked car pulled up and offered me a ride. I was dubious of whether or not it was actually a taxi, so I requested to see his registration, and he obliged. Although I saw it, I'm still not positive. He charged me an arm and a leg, but deposited me safely on the Upper East Side. It only took me two and half hours and a few gray hairs, but where would the fun be in making it easy, right?

The Punchline

This morning I received a text message from my friend The Joker announcing that he's seeing someone. And, as it so happens, that someone is not me. He declares that he loves spending time with and talking to me and would love to continue doing just that, but he wanted to be honest and upfront about the situation.

So. There's that.

I'm definitely bummed, but I completely respect him for just telling me. He didn't owe me that, and he wasn't obligated to give an explanation. I applaud him for being a truly good guy. Now on to the next!

On deck? The Pilot. A sweet, handsome, Southern gentleman a couple of years older than me who went to Auburn and flies corporate jets for a living. We've done coffee and lunch and tonight is the natural next step... dinner. Cheesecake Factory. I'm pretty excited. I was also pretty excited when he asked me to fly with him on a private jet he was piloting to New York on Sunday, but alas, snow and wind made me nervous, and I declined. I felt like I'd turned down an opportunity to star in my very own Bachelor episode, so hopefully he'll bring a rose tonight to get me back in the game.

In other news, I hate roses.

And So It Goes

The next time I signed onto Match following the Kevin/Michael/Kevchael/Mikevin name debacle I had a new message from a new user named "Kal El." He'd sent me a lovely email that was, of course, signed "Kevin."

Clearly it's fate.

Rule #42 - The Name Game

After several days of exchanging Match messages, I was given a phone number. Today, I decided to text it.

Me: "Hi Kevin! It's Polka Dots from Match. Happy Friday to you!"
Response: "My name is Michael."

Well played. I see a long, happy future for me and Kev.

Rule #41

When preparing to bake cookies for your new coworkers, it is important to remember that there is quite a difference between chocolate chips and chocolate flavored chips. No matter how hard you try, mockolate and chocolate do not taste the same.

What Had Happened Was...

So this Match thing is growing on me. I'm actually really enjoying going on dates and meeting some fun people. Or, I was, until tonight.

You see, early, early on in the Match process it was suggested that I would be soul mates with a guy whose brother I "went out with" in middle school. Let me just say that that 7th grade romance was intense. In fact, upon breaking up, his brother announced that I was doomed to divorce in my adult life since I couldn't handle a real relationship, and that I convinced him to kiss dating goodbye until he got married. It was fantastic.

Anywho, fast forward to Match's suggestion. It's amazingly awkward to be matched with someone I know from real life, and when I was matched with the older brethren of my juvie-ex I just laughed. I was embarrassed because I knew he was seeing me, but I felt overall okay about it knowing that 1. he most likely didn't remember me (he's several years older) and 2. I would never see him in real life.

Well, seeing as how my life is like a poor man's Friends or other happy-go-lucky sitcom, our paths crossed. You see, this fellow (who doesn't even get a nickname right now) happens to volunteer with my church, and tonight we just so happened to be attending the same party at a mutual friend's house. CLEARLY, and I mean CLEARLY, we were both acutely aware that we knew the other one's secret. We were "Matched." So, I did what any one who is me would do in a situation that is less than pleasant: employ maximum avoidance techniques.

But as I should have predicted, these tactics were completely ignored, and he approached me directly. "Polka Dots, right? It's been like eight years! What have you been doing???" "Filling out online dating applications much like you, my friend," I nearly replied. Instead I couldn't even muster my fake, enthusiastic voice (and if I can't even pretend to be excited to be talking to you, which I am typically spectacular at doing, then you should give up) as I described the past few years. Then he went in for the kill, "Didn't you and my brother have a weird middle school thing?" "And by 'weird middle school thing,' I'm sure you mean 'wasn't my brother a psycho in middle school,' and in that case, yes," I struggled to internalize. He went on to tell me that his brother is now happily married, which just proves that he's some sort of demon prophet, and I haven't been able to hold down a relationship into matrimony, and he has.

I suddenly have this really uneasy feeling that I'm destined to either a life of loneliness, or worse, fated to become his sister-in-law.

The Cows & The Bees

The Bible describes the Promised Land as a place flowing with milk and honey. Utter decadence. But milk and honey are produced by cows and bees. Buzzing, stinging bees and stinky, patty dropping cows.

If you feel like you have arrived in the Promised Land that God has led you into, but you can't help but notice a faint odor, some stink on your shoe, or a sting on your arm, don't be discouraged. A promised land isn't a perfect land. There will still be trials and frustrations (the cows and the bees), but they serve as a reminder that even in the palm of God's will, reliance on the Father is necessary to receive the reward of milk and honey.

Remember James 1:2-5, which reminds us to, "Consider it pure joy, brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything."

And when you're in the midst of a field of cow patties, which assures one false step will be a "crappy" one, be encouraged by Philippians 4:8-9, which urges, "Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable - if anything is excellent or praiseworthy - think about such things."

Milk and honey surely flows in the land where God leads, but don't be surprised when you have to battle a few bees and cows in the same place. When you see them, you know that the reward will follow shortly.