Meat Superstar

Seriously, what was I thinking when I was a vegetarian? I've only been a bonafide omnivore for a little over a month, and already my love of meat products has gotten me some prestige in the SF foodie community.

Mission Mission recently hosted a competition to see who had the best meat story. Everyone's favorite indie rock butcher, Ryan Farr, was the judge. And I won that shit. My prize is a 4505 Meats shirt, but I hope Ryan will consider sending me a poster instead because classic American Apparel tees make me look like I should be shopping at Home Depot with my wife and our adopted Vietnamese baby, if you catch my drift.

Anyway, here's my story! And I recommend you get off your ass and try some of these Chicarrones!!! Also, those shirts are mega cute if you don't have a waist and boobs. And also, the girl in that pic on Mission Mission is not me. Not even a little bit me.

Easy. I’ve been a vegetarian for fourteen years, but every time my friend Alli and I get drunk at Elixir (which is less and less now, thank you douchebags) she tries to shove chicharrones down my throat. She has actually held them to my lips, gently applying pressure, while simultaneously carrying on a conversation with a group of new friends, because, as far as her logic goes, I will have to open my mouth sometimes.

Yes, we turn into eight-year-olds when we drink.

Anyway, I recently decided to give in and eat the meat, although slowly so I don’t puke and poop at the same time. I have had a few bites of prosciutto here and there, and the other night I stepped into Elixir (filled with d-bags, to the brim), and Alli was there. She looked H-A-P-P-Y-D-R-U-N-K and exclaimed, “Close your eyes and open your mouth!”

Under normal circumstances, I would have given her a dead leg, but I knew where we were and what was coming. I obliged, and had my third intentional experience with meat to-date. Although I’m not sure if chicarrones are meat. I mean, I know they are meat-based, but do they qualify as meat? I don’t know.

Answered

Me: I know something you don't know.

God: No you don't.

Me: Oh, shit. Wrong dial.

God: You've been drinking.

Me: Underpants! Bye bye!

God: Sigh.

Hapiness is Fleeting Like the Fox

Whenever I am sad or stressed, I fantasize about the things that would make me happy. I envision everything from a perfect glass of wine to a Pegasus coming to take me away. I imagine meeting a genie straight from the bottle and I picture Romeo whisking me off my feet, except he's not fifteen and he's Jewish. Eventually, something changes and I am happy again. Either the heartbreak mellows, the finals are over or I am flying on a magic carpet. But, and herein lies the problem, I am not relishing it!

No! My messed up wiring has me thinking about what could go wrong to ruin everything EVEN WHEN I AM SUPER FUCKING HAPPY. What is wrong with me? It's like my Jewish guilt won't let me be happy. Why Jewish guilt specifically? Well, because I'm Jewish and it would be strange if I was suffering Catholic guilt. Plus, as my former roommate pointed out, I might be a little neurotic, which really pissed me off until I looked up the definition of 'neurotic' online. Then I got scared and a little paranoid that everyone I know is only being friends with me out of pity for the crazy girl. But then I calmed down because I realized I was just being neurotic.

Anyway, the moral of the story is that I am happy right now, even though that could change at any moment, I'm not going to waste my time thinking about that and instead focus on the positive things. Here's a list of why I'm happy right this second:

1. I have my very own apartment
2. I live in a wicked awesome, famous, and wacky city.
3. My friends are super great.
4. My hair is finally at a length that attracts boys, instead of just girls.
5. You are reading my blog (shout-out to my seven followers).
6. I am going to BERKELEY!!!!

What makes you happy? I'd love to hear! Because that would probably make me happy, too.

Fun Crap I Do When I Should Be Studying

Last night was fun. Super fun. I had one beer too many, and I wrong texted a man with a fancy beard, but other than that, I wouldn't change a thing - pig bladders and all. What? Shhhhh.

Not only did I get to hang out with my super awesome friend who I haven't seen in way too long and I was starting to really miss, but I also ate some delicious nibblins in The Mission here in SF. But back to my awesome friend. I haven't seen her in over a week! I usually text this woman between two and thirty-eight times a day. Not seeing her was getting pretty tough. I think it was harder for me than for her. Codependent, much, Melanie? Who typed that?

We started off at The Mission Statement, but not because we wanted to make funky, arguably hip fashion choices. We went to jam out with our...(don't write 'clam out,' don't write 'clam out') colorful tee shirts. And jam. Like, spready stuff that goes on crackers. Dafna Kory of INNA Pickle/INNA Jam was there, handing out sweet samples.



My aforementioned friend may or may not have some influence over a fancy local store who is looking to 'revamp their jam section,' so we talked to Dafna for quite awhile. And she is so nice. And so cute! Plus, she doesn't drive, just like me! Well, I think she doesn't drive because of the environment, while I don't drive because it makes me cry, but, still - she is going on my personal list of 'Heroes Who Don't Drive,' right after David Sedaris and Zoe Milgram.



As an aside, sometimes, in my head, I say 'Jam it in the jammy hole,' for no real reason, and I can't stop saying it right now. I think that is because I jammed Dafna's jams in my jammy hole last night. I never really thought about it, but I guess a jammy hole is a mouth. Oh, that sounds dirty. It wasn't.

Anyway, look how cute she is!!! And look at her jam/pickle delivery bike!



Wow. I did so much other stuff last night that I want/need to write about, but it's 12:30 PM and I have done nothing on my To Do List, except 'eat breakie,' which is a lame ass task because I never forget breakfast, but I always put it on there so I get to cross at least one thing off.

So, for now, I will leave you with a picture of this girl I may or may not know and/or love getting ready to jam some jam in her jammy hole:

Answered

Me: Hey, God?

God: 'Sup?

Me: Is it OK if pants are optional in my new house?

God: Yes, just not on the couch.

Me: But I live alone now!

God: You always wear pants on the couch, Melanie. Always.

Answered Prayer

Me: Dear God, why does my tummy hurt?

God: Wine.

Me: But I should be able to drink a little wine and not get sick. You did, right?

God: I wasn't finished. Wine, vodka, beer, ice cream. That is why your stomach hurts. I added a little extra pain 'cause you did it on a Thursday.

Me: Jerk.

God: (Raises eyebrow)

Me: Just kidding.

Equestrian Mark?

Doesn't my new bike helmet make you want to ride a horse?



It's from Bern. It fits good. And I seriously look like I'm headed for the stable.

Happy Bike to Work Day!

Answered Prayer

Me: Oh, God. Why does my tummy hurt?

God: Might be the Heath bar you ate. Or the morning bun. Or all those cherries. Or -

Me: Stop! I get it. Murph pmthhh.

God: Are you eating...granola?

Me: (Hangs head in shame) Yefsh.

Granola Winner

Ok, so that whole granola giveaway didn't work as well as the coffee one. Hmmmm. Only one entry. It sure is a good thing that it was an awesome entry!

Congratulations to Sharon! You are hilarious! Part of me really wants to go camping with you, and the other part of me just kicked that part in the knee really hard. Email me at melanie.duve@gmail.com with your address so I can send you some amazing granola!

Here is her story, in case you missed it!

My ex-husband (patience, clues to follow) was a camping nut. Needless to say, being interested in other of his stuff, I decided I could learn and like this camping thing. He planned this elaborate honeymoon ... freeze dried food (food? in packets?? - this was back in the 80's, so you can imagine the quality of said food.) He used words like "base camp" and "100 pound pack, max" and "bears" and "mountain lions".

I was game, I swear I was.

I think things really started falling apart on the ten mile hike back down to the "base camp". Or, it may have been the adolescent black bear that I came face to face with as I rounded the corner of our "trail tent" clinging to my sparse roll of toilet paper in the middle of the night. One of us had more fear than the other and I'm not sure it wasn't the bear.

Did I forget to mention that I bought new hiking shoes for this "adventure"?

Well, the blisters won one day right in the middle of this godforsaken trail and something snapped ....I threw off my pack and lay down in the middle of the trail in the dirt, imitated an old mule and said "Enough! I quit." Nothing he could say could convince me to do anything more than carry anything more than my tired old carcass down the trail, with him carrying my pack and his.

I have had moments in thinking back where I've felt like a total shit for doing that, and I have had few moments of such stubbornness in my life since.

Yes, the marriage failed. Writ large that day? Probably so ...

Salmon

This here blog post is in appreciation of salmon. The fish, not the color. I don't really like the color salmon. Wait - that's not totally true. I like the color of salmon when it means I will soon be eating lox from Zabar's. I do not like the color salmon when it means I will be wearing a hideous bride's maid dress. Like this chick, who obviously did something terrible to the bride:



Man, is she a good friend. But that is not what this post is about. This post is about the fish salmon, before they are caught, smoked and put on bagels. Clever and interesting little critters. If you continue to read, I promise you will learn something. And that it will take less than five minutes. Because this is being graded. For school. And it has to take less than five minutes to read. Also, don't leave any lewd comments. Jerks.

Anyway...

Did you know that salmon are anadromous? No, that doesn't mean that boy salmon dress up like girl salmon. It means that they can survive in both salty and freshwater, through a process called osmoregulation. I think that's pretty cool. I had thought only the little mermaid could do that, but no! Salmon can, too.

Salmon typically live in the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans, as well as in some Great Lakes. If I was a salmon and I could pick where I lived, it would probably be in the Atlantic because then you get New York AND London. But, if I were a salmon, I probably wouldn't care about discount designer shopping as much as I do now. I just don't think I would want to be in the Great Lakes because it seems so sheltered and confined, you know? But then I guess I could be near Chicago. Wait a minute, what am I talking about? Of course salmon care about discount designer shopping.

Let's focus on the life cycle of a typical salmon. Their eggs are laid in freshwater streams at high latitudes. It's easy to remember that if you just think about the mile high club. Oh, man I can't believe I just wrote that in a science blog. Betcha aren't bored, though. This here is what the eggs look like, thank you US Bureau of Land and Management:



Then the little samalams hatch into something called alevins. Wikipedia told me this is one of the finest images available of this hatching. To me it looks like a baby monster from The Mothman Prophecies:



Scary, no? Don't get too freaked out - they change into something else quickly. These little winged monsters become salmon parr, which is the closest to being cute that salmon will ever officially get, as per this picture I found on the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service's digital library:



The parr stay in their cutsie patootsie stage for 6 months (for the early developers) to 3 years (for those late bloomers) before becoming smolts. Those itty bitty salmon must be tasty because only about 10% of the eggs make it to the smolt stage. What is the smolt stage, you ask? Well, I will tell you because I like saying 'smolt' in my head. Smolt. Smolt. Smolt.

SMOLT! They are usually bright and silvery. If I were a salmon superhero, I would call myself 'The Smolt Bolt.' Look at these shiny lil' fishies from this Alaska lovers site.



These smolts have it pretty rough. Not only are they 72% less cute than parr, but their scales are really easily rubbed off. And they often get caught in turbine blades, or cannot stand the pressure changes during their passes through dams. Damn dams! Killin' all the smolts.

So the smolts are basically chillin' and waiting to be flushed out into the ocean. They float tail first, which is a little wacky, but hey, at least their theme song can officially be 'Back That Thang Up.' They tend to spend some time in brackish water (like in an estuary) while their bodies get used to that osmoregulation we talked about already.

So then the adult salmon get to the open ocean, spending their days avoiding fisherman and garbage, until one day, when they turn 26 and all their other friends are getting married, their biological clocks kick in - oh, wait. That's me. Salmon get ready to spawn after 1 to 5 years, depending on the species. And, to be clear, I am not ready to spawn yet. I just want to meet a nice Jewish boy. Don't judge or I'll sic The Smolt Bolt on you.

During their time in the ocean, salmon get a little freaky. They can develop humps and canine teeth. Which is weird to me because they are fish. I'm suddenly having second thoughts about the subject matter I've selected for this project. I fear I will now suffer from a condition I just made up called 'sushi dentata,' which is when you are scared your sushi has teeth. Oh. I'm over it. And now I'm hungry.

Ok, where were we? Ah, yes. The ugly salmon leave the ocean and return to the same place they were born to spawn. Crazy, right? If I were salmon then I would have to have my kids in Danbury, CT. I hate that place. I am so glad I am not a salmon right now. Although my teeth have gotten pointier...

As you can imagine, switching their locale back to freshwater after being in saltwater for so long wreaks havoc on their bodies. They start to deteriorate, and almost all of them die shortly after spawning. Sad.

So, that's my blog on salmon. To recap: I would make a terrible salmon.

Or would I????

A Very Crunchy Giveaway

H-O-L-Y-S-H-I-T

I am a girl who makes no secret of, well, anything, but specifically I do not hide my love for granola. Mama always said no relationship is worthwhile if you have to keep it a secret. Plus, granola is a very tasty treat and a great addition to the first meal of the day. I love some seasonal fruit in a bowl, with a little yogurt, topped with some granola. But you can make it any way you want and still have wonderful success. The sweetness and crunch are so satisfying and the meal is still healthy. Well, it CAN be unhealthy if you eat too much, but you knew that. And if you are reading my blog for health tips, I fear you might die young.

But...I just had the BEST GRANOLA EVER CREATED. This is the Usain Bolt of granola. Rodney's Homemade Granola from Bi-Rite Creamery. It tastes so good that I cried when I ate it. Twice. Imagine eating a diamond encrusted slice of David Bowie's - nevermind. Just trust me that it is SO GOOD. I would tell you what the ingredients are, but I was so excited when I opened the package that I accidentally ripped that part off. But there might just be some crack in here.

So, like any good crack dealer, I want to share it with you! That's right! It's time for another 'Broke-Ass College Kid's Kinda Cheap Giveaway!' The winner, no matter where they are located in the world, will be shipped a bag of this delightful crunchity goodness. And all you have to do to win is tell me a story about camping - best one wins. For some reason, granola makes me think of camping, which I am afraid of, so help me conquer my fear. Or just make me laugh. The winner I've selected (and their story) will be posted on TUESDAY! Post your tale in the comments section below.

Can't wait to read your stories!!!

Meat Me For Dinner?

I am no longer a vegetarian.

You can tell because the other night for dinner, I helped cook this:



The wildly attractive head chef knew this was my first time preparing my own meat in this half of my life, so he added a sense of humor to the job.

Please note: the meat smile is made of kielbasa. Holy hell. Have you ever had a kielbasa? That shit is A-Mazing. So salty and juicy and yummy and I loved it and now sometimes I think about it when I am alone.

Tofu is all like, 'Hey remember me?'

And I'm all, 'Shut up you stupid hippie food, I'm thinking about kielbasa right now.'

Although, to be honest, sometimes I am thinking about prosciutto. Or homework.

I loved my happy meat dinner so much that I texted that pic to my friends. You can tell they are my friends when this is what they text back:

Being Happy Gives Me Writer's Block

Quick! Someone break up with me!

Wait. Just kidding.

Or am I?

What would I rather: writing or happiness?

Happiness, I suppose.

Fine. I'll just have to adjust. Don't break up with me.

What do you mean, I don't have a boyfriend?

Who the hell are you anyway? You're just a voice that lives in my fingers and comes out when I type. Oh! I'm writing!

Yay!

Sign Language

Passive aggressive signage - the newest weapon in the war on drugs. I took this pic on my phone outside a video store/espresso bar near my house in San Francisco this afternoon. Hey, at least our junkies are environmentally friendlier than yours.



Way to go, Faye's, way to go. Also, nice blog - who knew?

Beer Goggles

As far as I am concerned, when I am drunk I am a fantastic dancer. If you have any information that nullifies, contradicts or otherwise disagrees with that statement, keep it to yourself mo fo.

Also, this should be a lyric in a rap song written about me:

When I dance, they call me 'Meat' 'cause I'm a grinder.

Ahahahah. Dancing! So fun!

Oh, also, I got in to Berkeley! Boo yah! More on that over the next two years.