photoMA30921372-0002

How I Chose My College – Or How It Chose Me

/0 Comments/in , /by

I loved college. I really loved it.  Don’t get me wrong, it never was easy, and there were some tough parts—calculus, two semesters as a sophomore in a freshman dorm, Minnesota weather—but the four years I spent earning a BA were terrific.

I didn’t always think they would be; in fact, for most of high-school I didn’t want to go to college.   

During fall 2003 my senior classmates were feeling the pressure and frantically completing applications. Not me though—I wasn’t in a hurry and besides, I wasn’t sure about this school business. I would’ve rather become a fireman or joined the army, or become a jeweler, things that shouldn’t require much additional class time.

These revelations did not please my father, a teacher, who’d spent the better part of 20 years, and considerable money, ensuring my sisters and I received the best possible education. Nor would this information have thrilled my private high school’s administrators, who prided themselves on a near perfect record of sending graduates to college.

In a latent effort to make him and myself feel better, I applied to a few schools, mostly places I’d heard of nearby. One evening as the application deadline drew close, my dad handed me a brochure embossed with fall leaves—a rarity in evergreen California. The school was called Macalester.

“You’ll like this place,” he said. “They march to the beat of a different drummer.”

I read the brochure silently.

“It’s off the beaten track,” he said.

Not one for mixing metaphors, my dad was clearly excited. In this instance ‘off the beaten track’ meant the Midwest, but his enthusiasm convinced me to include the school in the common application.

By the time acceptances and rejections began arriving, I’d come up with a unique plan; I would join Americorps and go to the East Coast, where I’d be close to my college-bound girlfriend. As a concession, I’d accept and defer admission to one college. If I changed my mind about school, at least I’d kept my options opened.  

A trip to the mailbox revealed a flaw in my designs. Despite an aloof approach I hadn’t expected many rejections, but my applications to most colleges and to Americorps were denied. I did, however, get into a few places, including Macalester, which pleased my dad immensely. And, the more I learned about the school, the more appealing it sounded. A college with a reputation for internationalism sounded nice; I’d never been to Minnesota before, and of course I liked that I got in.

That didn’t mean I was ready for college, and I did defer admission, choosing to travel around Europe for some time. This journey turned out to be its own great and eye-opening experience, and when I came back to the states, I volunteered at a mentoring organization in New York City, living in a Brooklyn YMCA where I played a lot of basketball and read a lot of books in my free time.

Time ran its course, and when I returned home that summer, I was looking forward to school. I’d learned so much from working in an office, travelling through 13 countries, and plotting a path largely by myself, but I’d also realized I wasn’t 100 percent prepared to spend the rest of my life outside a campus. 

From friends who had not taken a “gap year” I’d heard that college was a place where you could live on your own, make mistakes surrounded by people who wanted to help you, and prepare for whatever next step you wanted to take. That sounded really appealing. When fall arrived, I was not simply ready, I was excited to get to school.

I’m always a little embarrassed telling this story, but I’m undeniably grateful that a brochure turned up in my mailbox. Macalester was a great fit for me. Could I have found a better one through careful research and planning? I don’t know. But I do know from subsequent visits to various colleges and conversations with undergraduate friends that America is blessed with lots of great schools. If you are prepared to seek out opportunities, regardless of where you wind up, you’ll find something, and probably many things, to love about college.

I also know that for me, perhaps most importantly, waiting was something I needed to do in order to appreciate the opportunities to come at Macalester. Today I count them among my life’s great experiences.

-Will-

 

clip_image002MA30888014-0001

Hey, Chickpea

/2 Comments/in , /by

Another dive into my pantry this winter has uncovered my favorite bean: the garbanzo, otherwise known as the chickpea. In Italian, the word for this little member of the pea family is ceci pronounced “che-chi”. “Garbanzo” comes from the Spanish calavance or garvance. Why a simple pea has so many different names is beyond me, but needless to say it’s delicious.

Traveling to Crete this past spring on a high-speed ferry, I sat in a stiff chair with a blazing three-aspirin headache, wondering if I was going to make it to the island before I started feeling like the Cyclops from the Odyssey. Fortunately the ferry arrived to the island in the same time it took the aspirin to do its job. Getting off the boat, I stumbled onto solid land at the Irakclio dock in woozy post-headache relief, just as the sun melted behind a line of dark blue Cretan mountains into a pool of neon pink. 

Walking onto the street with my giant pack, I was greeted by a street vendor who’d stacked bunches of brilliant green stalks atop milk cartons beside his cart. Walking closer, I discovered that the stalks were in fact in the pea family, and that this vendor was selling fresh chick peas on the stem.

I suppose there should be a unique category of euphoria for discovering the tastiness of something fresh and raw that previously you’ve only known as cooked or dried. Imagine only knowing a raisin and then discovering a grape. Or only eating prunes until someone presents you with a plump, ripe plum.

Upon discovering the fresh chickpea, whose flavor has even more depth and richness than an ordinary fresh garden pea, I thought to myself: “why aren’t we eating these all the time?”  The answer being that it’s a lot of work to shell these little guys. After buying a bunch of stalks from the vendor for 1 Euro, I headed to a youth hostel with my friend and traveling companion, Tamara, and the two of us sat on our beds and shelled and ate chick peas for close to an hour. It was like eating candy. The fuzzy pods contained generally one or two chickpeas, and sometimes squeezing them to extract the peas would make them fly out of their pod across the room. The peas were bright green and firm and would’ve been delicious in a rice salad with sun-dried tomatoes and olives. But alas, we were at the mercy of traveling and when we’d found all the peas we could, we looked around at the mess of empty pods and leaves on the beds and realized we were still hungry. Despite their divine sweetness and crunchy texture, a bunch of raw chickpeas doesn’t make a dinner.

But a bunch of dried chickpea does. When you’re not on the island of Crete but rather navigating your way through a cold, snowy winter, chickpeas can either be bought dry by the bag like other beans, or pre-soaked by the can. Buying them by the bag is certainly more economical, but it takes the foresight to soak them overnight.  Still, some things are worth the foresight, and it’s a lot easier than shelling them from the pod.

The versatility of this pea is astounding. Chickpeas can be added to stews or baked on a cookie sheet as a snack or pureed into a spicy soup or combined with tahini to make hummus. Its richness and cooling character make it a wonderful base for herbs and spices, which is why it can be found as an ingredient in a variety of cultural dishes from Italy to India.

One of the most delicious recipes I’ve found for chickpeas is an Italian style salad that makes a great dish to bring to a dinner party or alternatively, makes an easy lunch to bring to work. This recipe is very flexible, so if you want to add other veggies or olives or spices, go for it. The dressing is carefully crafted though, and worth the measurements.  If you have fresh herbs, all the better, but I’ve listed amounts for dried ones since it’s wintertime.

Don’t use dried parsley though if you can help it. Fresh parsley is readily available and makes all the difference. Store it like fresh flowers  in a vase and it will stay fresh for two weeks.  Annie suggests serving this with grilled eggplant and big, flat croutons. Yum!

-Claire-

***********************************************************************************

Chick-pea and Sun-dried Tomato Salad

Adapted from Annie Somerville’s Fields of Greens
Bantam, 2003

 Serves 4-6

 1 1/2 cups dried chickpeas, about 9 oz soaked overnight

1 bay leaf

1/2 tsp dried sage

1/2 tsp dried oregano

1/2 tsp dried red pepper flakes

1/2 cup frozen or freeze-dried green peas

1/2 small red onion, diced about 1/2 cup

Champagne vinegar

1/4 cup red wine vinegar

1 garlic clove, finely chopped

Salt and pepper

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

2 sundried tomatoes packed in oil, drained and diced about 1/4 cup

2 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley

Drain and rinse the chickpeas, place in a large saucepan and cover generously with water. Add herbs and bring to a simmer. Cook for 50-60 minutes.

Meanwhile bring a small pot of water to a boil, add the onion, and cook for 15 seconds. Drain and toss with a splash of Champagne or white balsamic vinegar. Combine the red wine vinegar, garlic, 3/4 tsp salt and few pinches of pepper in a bowl. Gradually whisk in the oil.

When the chickpeas are tender, add the green peas and cook for 1-2 minutes more. Drain, then toss immediately with the vinaigrette, onion, and sun-dried tomatoes. Marinate for an hour, toss in the parsley, and serve.

photoMA30885307-0011

Part 2 – The Engagement

/3 Comments/in , /by

 

My Engagement
or
How A Procrastinating Pragmatist Rediscovered Romance

Continued from Part 1 – An Engaging Story:   Mid-morning on April 18th I woke up, looked at my phone, then rushed to the laundry room for pants. I had a lunch appointment with my girlfriend’s mom. I needed permission to marry her daughter. The rest of the day would be for ring shopping…

… I had two things remaining on my to do list: 1) find a ring; 2) tell my parents. I didn’t get around to either that day.

It was now April 19th, the day my girlfriend turned 25 and we were meeting for dinner at 6:00. I had a writing assignment due at 3:00. I finished it at 3:01 and drove home from school.

On the family patio I ran into my father balancing our trusty stone fountain with a screwdriver and some pennies. Water started gurgling from the angel faces on all four sides. 

“Dad I’m–getting engaged.”

He stood up. “When?” The angels went silent.

“In two hours.”

“You better tell your mother,” he said. Those were his words anyway, but the look said, “Son, you’ve stepped in it.” 

I took a deep breath and stared at the gaping cherubs on the imbalanced fountain. “Don’t look at us for help,” they seemed to say. “You’ve really done it this time.”

My mother interrupted these reflections by opening the front door. There was no time for a lengthy explanation and the words spilled forth in an unbroken stream.

“Hi Mom I’m getting engaged.”

“That’s…”

“Before you say anything I have to do it in two hours and I don’t have a ring and I really need your help.”

My dad needed to be at work, but he came too. We drove to the downtown jewelry shop where he’d once taken me to buy my girlfriend a silver necklace inlaid with purple-glass. That was the night of junior prom.

“Good afternoon,” my mother said to the jeweler lady, “We’re looking for engagement rings.”

“Congratulations!” she smiled at me sympathetically. “We don’t have a huge selection, but you’re more than welcome.” She removed a case with about 30 rings of assorted shapes and sizes. The prospects were dim. 

After a while my mother picked out an imperial-looking ring whose center stone rose high above two bulbs of carbon. It was quite probably the best of the lot, but it wasn’t good enough.

A procrastinating pragmatist with a heart of gold

“Wait a minute.” I pointed to a better one. “She’d love this.”

It was a band topped by an elongated, angular face with a pearl coming out of the head like a turban or a partially popped piece of corn or an exposed, giant-white brain: A Temple of Doom ring.

“You can’t,” my mom said.

“It’d be kinda funny.”

“An engagement is something a girl never forgets. It’s supposed to be romantic.”

 “It’d just be a place holder…”

“If you buy that, she will say no.”

“…Till I can afford something nicer.”

My dad was extra silent.

“I will tell her to say no,” my mother said.

I nudged her in the “let’s keep our voices down in front of strangers, you’re embarrassing me” way, but she was rolling and there was no stopping her.

I sighed and looked back at the potential symbols of my engagement. I was pretty set on the Temple of Doom ring. I tuned back into my mom. 

“You can’t put everything off,” she concluded.

I glanced once more at the case, and there they were: five small diamonds shining from a gold setting that looked white, but proved yellow on closer inspection. It was modest. It was elegant.

I plucked the ring from the lackluster assembly. My mom looked pleased.

“That’s the one.”

“That’s pretty good,” my dad said.

The jeweler placed it on a measuring rod. “Size six and a half, but I can have it resized by next week.”

“That won’t be necessary. I need it in an hour.” The ring was a perfect fit. Or pretty close. “I’m meeting her for dinner downtown.”

“Wonderful!” said the jeweler. “Where’d you make your reservation?”

***

I brushed the lint off my black jacket and tied the knot on the skinny tie my girlfriend likes with a few minutes to spare.  The ring was in the cookie box. The cookie box was in a bag.

I picked her up on time, and my girlfriend and I drove back to the downtown and parked outside its nicest restaurant. The jeweler had called ahead to save us a place. 

“This is so nice,” my girlfriend said.

And it was. Over our food we debated the merits of BBC’s Pride and Prejudice miniseries versus the Hollywood production and laughed and cast people from our high school in roles from Anna Karenina. I brushed the bag under the table with my foot and felt confident.

It was very dark when we finished, but not cold. Outside I placed my jacket over my girlfriend’s shoulder’s and asked if we could go for a walk. We strolled beneath the old iron street lamps, past the cluttered display of the jewelry shop, the town hall and the pizza place we’d been to on a chaperoned date. We walked past the watch maker’s corner shop and turned toward the wooden-planked bridge that leads to a small park. I heard water meandering down the creek bed.

One night after class as a 17-year old I’d walked to my girlfriend’s house on the county line to say “I love you” for the first time, but I’d known it in this little park before that, leaning on a railing and listening to the stream beneath the cool redwoods.

We crossed the bridge and I felt nervous for the first time that day. Beside the railing I took out the cookie box.

“I got you a present. Something small.”

“You did?”

“Well, your mom went to Paris and I asked her to get those macaroons you always talk about.”

“Awwww.”

She took the box and balanced it on the rail to give me a hug. It tottered for a moment.

“Let’s take a step back,” I said.

I grabbed it, handed it to her once more and as she peered inside I lowered myself onto one knee. She saw the ring, then saw me looking up at her.

“Will you marry me?” I asked.

I looked at her face. She didn’t say anything, but I got the feeling I’d just drank something very warm except in reverse, starting in my stomach and moving to my chest. She was crying. I stood up. 

“Yes,” she said.

Did I tell her how much I loved her and how happy she’d made me right there and then? No. I smiled and wrapped my arm around her. I had the rest of my life for that and I didn’t want to spoil this moment with words.

-Will-

A Procrastinating Pragmatist With A Heart of Gold

Part 1 – An Engaging Story

/2 Comments/in , /by
A Procrastinating Pragmatist With A Heart of Gold

My Engagement

or

How A Procrastinating Pragmatist

Rediscovered Romance

I was romantic once.

It was late summer and I’d been walking with my girlfriend of somewhere-between-eight-and-nine-years down a rolling, park single-track. We’d climbed the dusty hill, descended the empty river bed and were just passing the riding ring and red barn of a stable I know intimately. It was where my mother brought my sister and me as children, ostensibly to pet and feed horses, but actually to inoculate us against farm diseases. 

The stables smelled of old redwood, dry hay, and also of horse manure, which as manures go is quite pleasant. And I felt quite pleasant, even though she and I were fighting.

It was one of those arguments, where problem A (I’d ditched her friends) was presented as the issue when in fact it was problem B (we weren’t engaged). I was winning.

As I petted a mare that searched my hand fruitlessly for something good to eat, my girlfriend broached the real subject.

“All I want,” she said, “is a sign that you are committed to this relationship and to me and that we have a future together.”

It was a very practical thing to say, and “Be pragmatic” had recently become an unofficial motto, a companion to the official: “When in doubt, procrastinate.” These may be difficult to reconcile, but I can be persistent.

“Listen,” I said, “give me one year and I’ll do it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

We’d reached the edge of the park and were walking quietly past a bulldozer idling on a vacant lot when I had a flash of inspiration. I would propose on her birthday, April 19th. She’d like it. It would be romantic. It would be easy to remember.

At that moment I was excited. I was committed. Then I forgot.

***

Mid-morning on April 18th I woke up, looked at my phone, then rushed to the laundry room for pants. I had a lunch appointment with my girlfriend’s mom. I needed permission to marry her daughter. The rest of the day would be for ring shopping.

Seated across from the woman who’d once found you in your underwear, hiding in her daughter’s closet, might be intimidating for some, but not for me, until it came time to propose the big pre-question. 

“I’d like to ask your daughter to marry me tomorrow, but I wanted to ask you first.”

 “Awww, that’s nice,” she said. “Why should I let you?”

She looked at me keenly. I was unprepared and didn’t ace the response.

 “Well, it’s a responsible thing to do… it’s important to have commitment… it’s been such a long time…”  Then I rallied for a solid B-. “When it comes down to it, we really care for each other.”

I’d come out of the lunch date with more than I had going in and felt good walking my future mother-in-law to her car. I’d received her blessing, plus she’d improved my proposal plan. Instead of handing over a simple ring box, I would hide it in a second box filled with my girlfriend’s favorite Parisian macaroons, which they just happened to have at home.

I held the car door open for my girlfriend’s mom.

“I’m so happy for you,” she said, “But a taqueria? Couldn’t you have chosen a nicer place?” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to give any illusions about the kind of guy I am.”

***

To Be Continued –  in Part 2: The Engagement

-Will-

photoMA30876524-0009

<3 At First Bite

/2 Comments/in , /by

 

“Just made brownies.” 

This fb post set off a string of comments (not to mention a couple dozen “Likes”)

–Mmmmmmm.

–YUMMY!

–On my way over…

–Wish I were there

–Need to make some NOW too!

–WOOT!

— <3

So what is it about brownies that make them so evocative?  Let’s start with the smell.   If you’ve ever baked brownies (or been in the kitchen of someone who has) the aroma is unmistakable and almost universally appreciated.  That sweet smell of cocoa lingers in your mind long after the last brownie has been gobbled up.  In fact, the smell is so appealing that in some ways, it surpasses the actual brownies themselves! (in some ways!)

Then there is texture and style.  Brownies can be cakelike or chewy!  They can be loaded with nuts, m&m’s, caramels, marshmallows, coconut, chocolate chips, toffee, butterscotch and/or vanilla morsels, to name a few.  They can be served frosted, double frosted, powdered sugared or straight from the pan.

And they can be dressed up or down, depending on the occasion.

Take Valentine’s Day.  Brownies are a perfect alternative to the traditional box of chocolates.

Why?  Because they are delicious and because presumably, someone went out of their way to make them. 

Ironically, it doesn’t take an expert baker to produce good brownies.  The best advice for novices – buy a box mix!  Pillsbury, Duncan Hines and Betty Crocker haven’t spent decades perfecting their recipes for nothing!   A couple of eggs, half cup of oil, quarter cup of water – good to go.  How easy is that?

Their recipes are so fool proof that even accidentally switching the measurements for oil and water still yielded tasty (not to mention low fat) brownies! (hey – not necessarily recommending it – just sayin’!)

Load them up with goodies; suddenly they become “gourmet.”  Decorate them with colorful candies, like hearts for Valentine’s Day, and voila – instant holiday fare.  Get creative: avant garde artiste.   Few foods offer so much opportunity for this kind of freedom and still come out delicious.

Given the assignment to “bring something to share” to a party or picnic, brownies are a sure winner!  Unlike cookies, they are quick and easy to make – throw them in a pan and bake for half hour and you’re done.  And unlike their close cousin – cake – they are easy to eat. They don’t require silverware, leave many crumbs, or make fingers sticky. Even if several other people show up with brownies in hand, by the end of the night, no one is taking them home.  Plus they don’t spoil, so if by some chance they are left over after sitting out for hours, that’s just a bonus because they only get better with age (at least for the first few days after they’re baked).

That’s not to say  they can’t be served formally.  Decorate them in the pan and throw on a few candles; you’ve got a birthday cake!  Add a scoop of ice cream, a spoonful of hot fudge, caramel and/or chocolate sauce and a dollop of whipped cream, toss on a few slivered almonds and you have now created a gourmet dessert worthy of the finest restaurants.   Talk about versatile!

-Nancy-

*************

photoMA30819594-0002

Reaching New Heights

/0 Comments/in , /by

EntertainingYourself.com writer Martin is off on an adventure in China!  He’s traveling around the country on foot and via trains, boats, and buses to find the best views.  Here he’s seen climbing his way to the top of Green Lotus Peak overlooking Yangshuo!   So this is what it’s like on top of the world!

For more fun pictures of Martin’s adventures check out EntertainingYourself.com’s facebook page! 

Or check back here – we’ll be sure to update again soon.