what’s for lunch: wheatberry salad

I made an obscene amount of wheatberry salad for my lunches this week.  But I may be eating it for the rest of the month if it doesn’t disintegrate into sludge.

wheatberry salad with kale, fennel, hazelnuts and orange

Does this picture give you a sense of the epic proportions of this salad?
I started out mixing things in my largest glass mixing bowl.  But had to resort to the bad mama-jama salad bowl to finish.

It’s chock full of good, seasonal, good-for-you ingredients, though… there’s no such thing as too much of it.  And it’s pretty awesome.
Wheatberries are hardy little buggers, so this salad really should hold up.  You can change up the ingredients to reflect what you like best, or what’s in season, but it’s generally easy to put together and once you’ve created a vat of it, it’s a happy little lunch.

look at all the goodness!

What Goes In
2 cups of dried wheatberries (you can find in the bulk section of Whole Foods)
2 bunches of dinosaur kale (that’s the nubbly, pebbly one – what a dinosaur hide might look like)
2 oranges, zest the rinds and then cut up segments of both
1 cup of hazelnuts, toasted and coarsely chopped in the food processor
1 bulb of fennel, cut into eighths and then thinly sliced
1/8th of a red onion, thinly sliced
6 ounces of goat cheese
1/4 cup of white wine or champagne vinegar
1/4 cup of olive oil
salt and pepper

What to do
– Cook the wheatberries – it takes kind of a long time.  Berries and about 8 cups of water go into a medium pot.  Bring to a boil and then cover and reduce to simmer.  Give it about 45 minutes to an hour.  Keep an eye out and make sure  you don’t run out of water.  The wheatberries are done when they are chewy, but should not be too hard.  But you decide how done you like them.
– Chop up kale.  I was feeling meticulous and I removed the ribs of the kale, but you could potentially leave them in.
– If you’re not familiar with segmenting citrus, you may want to skip this element and maybe just squeeze the juice as a part of the dressing.  Segmenting citrus can be messy and is a pain in the tuchis, but is something that a Maggie will do anyway.  But definitely use the orange zest!
– Thinly slice your fennel and the red onion.
– Toast the hazelnuts if they came raw, and give the hazelnuts a chop chop in the processor.   Other nuts would also totally work.
– Start dumping stuff in the biggest bowl you have.  Break up the goat cheese into little globs and start mixing.  The cheese should start to break up and turn into more of a coating than little separate cheese bits.
– Add your vinegar and oil, salt and pepper, and mix.  Taste it and add more salt.  Taste some more, reflect, and add more seasoning if you need to.

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happy valentine’s day

Image

*sent to me in 2008 by my magical friend, Alysha.  

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I like you: Jenn Shifflet

Oakland has this thing, the first Friday of every month – a bunch of art galleries stay open from 6 to 9 pm, the main drag is closed to car traffic, a bunch of food venders set up booths, and all of the cool kids from 5 counties come swarming to cluster, smoke, and compare spectacles.

Even though this has been going on for almost 8 years, I’m about a decade too old and I have perfect vision, so I didn’t know about Oakland Art Murmur until just recently when I went to meet some friends there for the first time.

I wanted to escape the throngs almost as soon as I finished eating my street cart sausage, but am so glad we prevailed enough to push our way into the gallery displaying Jenn Shifflet‘s paintings, because I can’t stop thinking about them.

Falling into Place

I love the dreamy, ethereal quality of her work, and the way they feel like they could be a landscape from some faraway planet or an underwater depth.  Primordial ooze or the light and reflections of an otherworldly atmosphere. I love the fuzzy bokeh and the strange, sharply clear little details of plants or swirls of constellations or microorganisms.

And oh, do I love these colors.  These blues and greens speak the exact language of my little Maggie soul.

Wishing on the Wind

Dreaming in Turquoise

Anicca

Adrift

(Doesn’t this last one look like what Monet might have seen if he were holding his breath underwater looking up at his water lilies?)

I love that these paintings make me feel like closing my eyes to further bask in the soothing quiet, but that I need to keep them open to keep looking.

I love that Jenn was kind enough to share some of her images with me, so that I could write about and share them.

And I love that she’s making me think about something I like about being in my mid-thirties… being old enough to consider buying art that doesn’t get attached to the wall with tacks.

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blogging for grown-ups

The content director here asked me if I’d be interested in helping out with the Blurb blog and, of course, I’m all “More blogging!  Hoot!”

And then a few days later she’s specifically asking me if I can have a book of the week post ready to go in a few days time.

So, have at it!  Write a blog post!  I can do that.  Sort of.

It’s actually much harder to do for reals, but I’m sure it was good for me.

Funnily enough amongst the zillions of books from the past week, there was a book of official ALT photos and that’s the one I got to choose and write about.

photos of the mini-parties

So now I’m a real private blogger.  A blogger for money.  I’ll do what you want me to do.

Book of the Week:  ‘ALT Design Summit – 2012’

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hate-running

I do a lot of running.  4 or 5 days out of the week.

As little as 30 minutes at a time.  Sometimes 2 hours or more.

In the dark.  On a sunny day.  On a treadmill.  Next to the bay.  Around and around the lake in my neighborhood.

Consistently for 2 years now and intermittently for 5.

And I hate it.

Every time.  The whole time.  I am filled with dread preparing to do it and I am not getting high when it’s over.

So why, then?  Why do something that I hate?

I have an uncanny ability to force myself to do things I’d rather not do.
Hate is not as much of an impediment for me as you’d expect

More importantly, I have a big dedication to exercise.  And not just that banal pleasantry of “keeping active,” I mean sweaty ass exertion, it doesn’t count if it doesn’t suck.
The fitness element is, of course, important, but exercise also keeps me in check across the board.  When I’m in a regular habit of exercising, my eating is more healthful.  If I take a week off, then my eating habits slide.  Into a bucket of cheesecake caramel swirl ice cream.

So, because I value not being in a constant state of inflation, I choose to subject myself to exercise.

And running?   Why does it have to be the absolutely most torturous form of exercise?  (Other than rowing.  Rowing can suck it.  Sorry.)

Primarily, it’s the calorie burn.  Weight loss is always foremost in my exercising mind.  And if it’s not loss, then for pete’s sake, it’s at least non-gain.  Pretty much nothing beats running when it comes to good old cardio.  Except cross country skiing.  Which blows in San Francisco.  I do not recommend.

That running easily sets you up for specific goals is a really close second reason, though.  Road races happen every weekend.  There is a 5K, 10K, half marathon, full marathon option to shoot for whenever you feel like shooting.  Committing to an event on the horizon means that you have to train in order to complete the event.  There’s a constant sense of plan and purpose.  And the races themselves are actually kinda fun.  A weird sort of fun that is over as soon as I start running (but comes back once I cross the finish line).  It’s the anticipation and the crowd and the ceremony of it all that’s compelling.

Sure, maybe there are a few other options that might meet these criteria, but those require owning a road bike and/or being a competent swimmer.  Even so, there wouldn’t be nearly as many opportunities for event participation in those sports.  (And then there’s the sunshine.  I shun it.  Those people on bicycles are always out there in the vampire killing sunlight.  It’s heinous.)

. . . . . . . . . . . .

I kept waiting to catch the running bug, like people said I would.  It didn’t happen, but I’m open to the idea that it still could.  Maybe as I get faster, fitter, stronger.

But it doesn’t matter.  I’m going to keep doing it.  And even if I hate it, every time, I do love that moment when I’ve finished and I can say to myself with grim certainty, “I fucking did it.”

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what’s a solo, but not single, girl to do?

My valentine is going to be in Argentina this year.  Without me.  That is not a location I anticipate being in on February 14.

After too many years of sad, sad singleton-ness in my days of yore, I like a little Valentine’s hoopty.  Not a lot.  But a nod of gratitude to having, when I am well familiar with the wallowing of have not.

I fear that I might succumb to a small amount of irrational wallowing next Tuesday, despite actually *having* a Valentine, so I’ve cultivated a plan to celebrate solo.

1.  I’m going to light candles around a framed portrait of The David, drink a bottle of wine, and sing Muffin Top.

Just kidding.

1.  Hour long massage and foot reflexology treatment.

2.  St Agur cheese.

3.  Pyjama pants and television programming intended for females aged 18 to 24.

I’m pretty sure that is going to feel like some really good hoopty to me.

Getting a massage pretty much trumps anything, but going to see The Vow by myself with a popcorn companion was a close alternative.

Anything tempting on your agenda?

 

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valentine’s present for your fella

Who says the fancy lingerie gifting is for women only?

Get your guy a man-panties & tank set!  The orange and green stripes say he’s sporty.  The bulge-y bits say he’s sexy.

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you eat one piece…

20120206-205548.jpg

I don’t do a lot of baked good making.  I already spend enough time in the very small kitchen making the meals that are necessary for the daily hoopty.  And if you’re gonna eat some snacktastic calories, it’s cheese, people.  Cheese.

Most meals we make leave behind a lunch or two’s worth of leftovers.  But baked goods? Weeks of tempting treatlets to consider.  If you don’t eat the whole kitten at once.

And yet.

Make this cake anyway.

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cry me a river

The David and I have been seeing a couples counselor once a week for about 7 months.

We’ve been together going on 4 years now and still aren’t really sure about some of the big questions… are you the one?  do we want to get married?  or have kids?  how do we reconcile you giving off the heat of a thousand suns with my charming propensity to get sweaty in my sleep?

Counseling is supposed to help with all that.

But me being me, it mostly feels like a medieval device engineered specifically to drive me to the highest levels of torment.  There’s a lot of “Can you make space for David’s trigger points?” and “How does it make you feel to hear Maggie share something like that?”  Her master plan is that if there’s oodles of communication, then there will be closeness and it will be “yummy.”
In all fairness, The David seems to like it.  He’s much more sensitive than I am, so he really gets into having these opportunities to open up.  But I’m wired differently; I will share information and I’m pretty straightforward and honest, but I don’t need to talk about feelings so much.

Last night was our last session before The David leaves for his month-long trip to Argentina and she wanted to talk about how we felt about this pending separation.

And it went a bit like this:

Maggie:  I feel sad about it.

Counselor:  What does that sadness feel like?  Do you feel it in your body somewhere?

Maggie:  Mostly in my eyeballs.  Like I want to cry.

Counselor:  Why don’t you cry then?

Maggie:  It’s silly to cry about something that hasn’t even happened yet.

Counselor:  Isn’t it judgmental to call your feelings silly?  You should be allowed to cry.  Why don’t you zero in on these feelings?

I try to zero in on feeling sad.  Sadness ensues.  A few leaky tears escape.

And then I don’t even know.  Something like:

Counselor:  You feel sad?  How sad?  Really sad?  Are you really *feeling* the sadness?  Breath into it!  Look at David!  Let him feel your sadness!  Really really sad?

Until I am full on sobbing.  And snotting up a storm.  Wadded up tissues are piling up ridiculously.  No matter how much I toot and squirt, I can’t breath through my nose.  So I am mouth breathing.  I can’t talk without gasping and squeaking.  My nose is on fire from the scratchy sub par tissues.  My eyeballs feel about 3 sizes too large for their sockets and I’ve got a low thrumming headache.

I am tapping on David’s hand in a far fetched wish that I knew Morse code, that David knew Morse code, and that I could beg him to get me out of there.

And she is telling us how beautiful this is and how much love she is seeing.

Love is not the thing I am feeling.

But The David is feeling touched by just how sad I am that he’s leaving and protective that I’ve been all vulnerable.  And he didn’t have to talk about feeling sad about anything, so it’s all fine over there.  I’m the only one on Planet Insanadoo.

I guess I was supposed to feel better after having a good cry.  It should be cathartic?  And I feel all connected because I exposed my sad, sad underbelly?

Instead, I am exhausted and defeated and should clearly be lying quietly in the dark somewhere with chilled pads on my eyes.

And realizing that a month long separation from The David comes with a wonderful gift:  a month off from couples counseling.

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“you’re dead, dude. get over it.”

When it comes to suffering sickness, I have few needs:  my couch, freedom from the shackles of pants, and copious amounts of television.

Happily (or as happy as one can be in such circumstances) all of these things were available after coming home from Alt and commencing with the neverending Cold.  Meanwhile, The David was away for work for a week, which meant that I was all sickly, pitiful and alone – but also free to watch whatever I wanted on the television machine.  And I’d just had a timely recommendation from a lady friend

Oh, the perfect chicken soup for my soul:  The Vampire Diaries.

44 episodes are available on Netflix streaming right this very minute.  And if you want to know if I watched them all in the past 8 days, the answer is yes.  Yes, I did.

Let me give you some snippets of why this totally trashy show from the CW is just so riveting…

Elena is the central character.  She is incarnate good-girl, with long straight hair.

Elena starts dating the new guy at school, Stefan, and learns that he’s a vampire.  There is some balking at this unexpected affliction, but she lurves him and it is all systems go for teenage-dream.

Stefan has a brother, the smoldering hot Damon, also vampire.

Damon drinks people blood and kills the local townies.  Stefan does not.  Arguments about vampire morality.

Behold!  The town is governed by a committee of vampire killers!  They are riled up about all the blood-drained dead people, but don’t know who the vampires are.  In fact, they invite Damon to join their committee.

Elena looks EXACTLY like this vampire, Katherine (very long curly hair), who was responsible for Damon and Stefan’s undeadness in Civil War times.  Both brothers were in love with her.  So there’s a fancy triangle with the two brothers and Elena/Katherine.

And Elena’s best friend has newly discovered that she’s a witch!

There are also werewolves, ghosts, and gay dads.  No zombies.  As of yet.

That’s just a teeny tip of a big iceburg, but I don’t want to reveal too much, just in case you’re tempted to indulge.

My cold is on the way out, The David is back home again, and I’m up to date on episodes.  Now that I’m free from the viewing frenzy, I’ve gained enough perspective to somewhat sheepishly concede the level of drivel that is this show. Which has nothing to do with what I’ll be doing this Thursday night…

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