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Homemade curries are a risky proposition, though.
In my recent Mormon gathering experience (mostly family), there's been a decrease in Jello and casseroles and an increase in fresh fruits and vegetables, cheese and charcuterie. There was a temporary fad involving a salad with romaine lettuce, crunchy ramen, chicken, and sesame flavored dressing, but I think it's mostly over.
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Personally I think it's an artifact of the culture that has stuck around so long solely because people make fun of it.
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We used to do a really good broccoli salad with bacon and a tangy dressing. But even that got old after a while. Currently, with little girls and no time to cook anything elaborate, we're the quick green salad or rolls from Albertson's family.
I wouldn't mind some more curry dishes at potlucks, especially if there's a way to keep them warm in a crockpot the whole time. A good dish would make you a superstar on the potluck circuit. Mostly, though, it's best to bring something that tastes ok at room temperature while not imparting salmonella poisoning within the first half an hour or so.
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We had a chili cookoff recently, and I thought it was a smashing success. But yeah keeping things warm is definitely a challenge.
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You should do German potato salad. It is good all the way from hot to just slightly above room temperature.
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I am an unironic fan of all those potlucky-1950's-style-processed-food-abominations that very much so feel like a product of the era
you know, like:
"broiled grapefruit, Jell-O molds, cheese-filled celery stalks, deviled eggs and pimiento-stuffed olives -- arranged in patterns, placed on tiered servers, layered to improbable heights or speared with frilly toothpicks. Move on to the main course with more purely '50s fare, like chicken divan, tuna casserole, Swedish meatballs or pineapple-Spam kabobs. Dip pieces of pound cake and fruit into chocolate fondue for dessert, or serve up slices of a mile-high chiffon cake."
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You basically just described the cover of every cookbook I inherited. You have to imagine the low-contrast oranges and ambers and greens that used to pass for color printing.
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quote:Originally posted by PSI Teleport: You basically just described the cover of every cookbook I inherited. You have to imagine the low-contrast oranges and ambers and greens that used to pass for color printing.
quote:Originally posted by PSI Teleport: You basically just described the cover of every cookbook I inherited. You have to imagine the low-contrast oranges and ambers and greens that used to pass for color printing.
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When I liberate this world and found The Glorious People's Republic of Samprimarystan, the first counterrevolutionaries to be executed will be the ones who leave the packaging plastic on their phones and appliances and crap. It literally makes no sense and is hella dumb so Central People's Satisfaction Police will not let it stand.
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Are you talking about the clear film that comes stuck on screens and shiny surfaces? If so, my theory is that people think their stuff will stay nice for longer.
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quote:Originally posted by scifibum: Are you talking about the clear film that comes stuck on screens and shiny surfaces? If so, my theory is that people think their stuff will stay nice for longer.
And in like two or three days the plastic covering is all bubbly and hideously ugly, guaranteed
So they're basically guaranteeing it looks uglier faster, paradoxically by being ocd about potential cosmetic damage
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I can get some of my brother-in-law's Chiropractic buddies to come post about the problems with medical sciences, corporations, and government. You might learn a thing or two.
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OK....OK...ehem...EHEM....Jeezus, I'm choking on my own enthusiasm here Samperoonie, but did I tell you the one about the tapeworm? Well...it's like...let me get this straight...it's like...Well...it's like complex. Yes. Complex. Multi-segmented, a real little egg-layer, not to be mistaken either for an onion ring (the worm, that is) or a story (the joke, that is). There are tarts in it too (worm and story). It neverends very very badly. So
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one night, No! one late afternoon... it was indefinitely afternoon...dusky... elegiac even... lure call of angels, etc.(manifest as a little scratching sound) when
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When? Evening. Where? Nowhere--"Without No"--(that is). So? The Blair-meister made an appointment with his doctor, hung up the phone and walked toward the fridge, stalked by his anonymous cat. "Something's wrong with me," he sung in a Dylanesque nasal whine, pulling out some leftovers. Cold Kraft Dinner (Classic)welded into the bottom of an aluminum pot. The so-called cat struggled mindlessly with sparks of self-consciousness. Blair reached for the old universal kitchen knife with a mind to prying some KD off the bottom of the pot. The tapeworm stretched out in a fold of Blair's little intestine and afixed his little fang there in anticipation.
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(Note: A movement in his bowels fatally foreshadowing a movement of his bowels that would later set a world in motion.)
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Holding the pot handle in his left hand, old Blairsky pushed that pot right into his stomach supporting it on his Screamin' Eagle belt buckle (with a little tightening of the stomach muscles). With his right hand, well, with the blade aimed right at his tummy, he wedged the tip underneath the edge of that congealed KD, you know, such that the geometry of tensions and compressions (in this garden of forking paths) well, pushing and prying you know, blade bending while the congealed noodle mass lifts just enough to tantalize the Archimedean inevitablity of the thing, well, something was gonna give, life being a mystery to him.
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As I was saying: knife jammed into pot, B. prying with all his considerable might because, like an eczema scab you're not supposed to pick at, the KD begins to perceptibly lift off and of course-- Sproing! He's stabbed himself in the stomach. Ouch. The pot clatters down, the so-called cat scampers back a foot or two, the worm churns, the myriad of little calico bugs in the first blood drop to hit the linoleum floor assume their Brownian dance formation, B. reaches an arm out and "Ker-bang!" fails to break his fall.
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Footnote #1: I have an hypothesis. There is a personal hygiene conspiracy afoot. Let's say you smell pretty bad, so you take a shower and wash with a bar of Irish Spring....then you walk naked into your room and grab your trusty Mennen Speed Stick and lay a few greasy licks into the warm nests of your armpits. You sniff check and you're ready to go, right? (Well, there's the clothes part, but you know what I mean). Oh no no no. There's some chemical reaction going on between the product and your future sweat (and maybe even between the competing brands of soap and deodorant) that now begins to manufacture the stench you're trying to protect against. Sure, you'll get an hour or so of a chemical 'Sea Breeze' wafting up -- but soon a bloated dead seal washes up on that windless beach, under a supernaturally hot sun, eyeballs pecked out by gulls...they probably used stem cells to genetically engineer the nauseating olfactory effect...and the next thing you know you're slathering more greasy dollops into the putrid, nose wrinkling nests...I'd like to think that this wasn't the last thought that passed through Blair's head, and it wasn't.
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God. I hate these boxes. It doesn't matter. So, If only sound waves could travel through space, then somewhere someone would understand that all these crickets on a late August night are joined in one sublime incomprehensible chorus singing the song of the world.
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I feel I should add that this phenomenon, the continuity of cricket chirping,, has been backed up by recent empirical research using a green Pinto station wagon with the windows rolled down driving through late summer fields by way of secondary roads; for miles and miles an miles and over days and days the aural soundscape is filled with the pulsating crinkle and whir of the cricket (on the hearth of the world!).
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And it turns out those crickets are smiling, the evening smile of the sphinx (as Brian told me).
Footnote #2: It sems that mirus (‘wonderful’, ‘marvelous’), the root of the miror in that mirror of admirration, is itself rooted in the IE smeiros, from smei-: to smile (a laughing smile). The mirror just is the admirring smile. The stelic smile of the kouros (‘The simplest of all solutions to the riddle of the archaic smile: he smiles because he’s happy’). The evening smile of the sphinx, Atum, god of the evening. And the home-aching smile of comedy; which, even before this last thing fell into place (or rather no place), I realized that I valued (and why I valued it) more than tragedy (way back on p. 9).
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A gentleman thief was planning to steal the most expensive and rediculous items of the fall collection. However, the gendarmes had caught wind of his plan and set up a trap to catch the elusive crook. While donning his wetsuit, needed for his plan to case the targeted studio, the criminal was caught with his pants down.
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Crickets aside, archaic smiles flashed into oblivion, the funny part:
So,
Crawling over to the phone, entrails caught on the head of a nail and spooling out like a garden hose over the kitchen floor,
No.
Where's my lemon tart?
No.
"Where's my Cherry...," Ta-Wham! and the Doctor creams the worm with an incredible blow from his Eastwing roofing hammer, viscera spattering all over the floor and walls of the little examination room,
...grabbing the worm by its dead-duck neck and pulling all 10 feet of it out of Blair's guts to the accompaniment of an astounding, sphincter loosening, eye-watering blast of flatulence, which overpowers the lingering aroma of cherries...
The doctor recoils violently, failing to conceal his incredulity. Blair whimpers and becomes acutely aware his testicles have migrated across the land bridge to Alaska in fulfillment of a typological prophecy, the impregnation of the inscrutable native islanders who otherwise are happy bobbing about on their little kayaks.
The hammer drops to the floor with a persuasive thud.
The doctor peels off one of his little rubber gloves, wipes a globule of spatter from his cheek, and tosses the gloves towards the garbage pail.
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Adrift in this wide Sargasso sea with the mindless swells lapping at my toes.
The visual narrative of the average Ice Bucket Challenge video compared with that of the ISIS beheading. What's the same? What's different?
Blair sits up on the examination table and turns the stirrups back in by force of habit. The sea is full of weeds. They are on their knees and waiting. He just wants to get dressed and go home. The water is too warm and full of jellyfish. He stands up and reaches for his pants hanging on the back of the door. The heart races and the ice-water slashes at the external carotid artery, a grimace then a smile filling with pulses of salt water.
Reaching the phone he phones, with a grimace.
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"Rick Perry sold the right to tax Texas highway drivers to Spanish billionaires, let a British firm write a law authorizing the sale of virtually all Texas state property to foreign corporations, and tried to literally sell the lives of retired Texas schoolteachers to a Swiss bank. Yet he's somehow built a reputation in the national media as a fist-shaking America-first nativist, with a Tea Partier's passion for small government. How Perry has managed to sell this fictional version of himself is a testament to the extraordinary power of marketing over reality in our modern political system."
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"According to Texans for Public Justice, Perry appointed 921 of his donors and their spouses to government posts over the past decade. All told, those appointees gave a staggering $17 million to his campaigns – 21 percent of the entire amount he raised during that time. To give an indication of just how completely for-sale public appointments became during his administration, Perry collected $6.1 million from the 155 people he appointed to be regents of state universities in Texas.
You can get a fairly decent summary of Perry's track record as governor just by going down the list of political favors that were granted to the 204 "Central Committee" members who collectively contributed half of his campaign money. Start at the top: Perry's biggest single donor, the homebuilder Bob Perry, was rewarded with his very own regulatory agency."
haha I'm reading Taibbi vomit hate at Perry but this is very instructive about conservatism's latest habits
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