Tag Archives: food

Yo da le la lu the weird version of (Rules for) Living Life on the Lime (989)


I just think everyone should know that I’m super happy.

Job applications in the works. Let me know if you hear about something in the legal field that doesn’t require a JD: k great thanks.

Also, listen to some Foster the People because it will make you happy. The whole album is the best option.

If someone offers to show you how to do a back flip, do it. Then teach me.

Eat greens.

Then eat ramen and Captain Crunch — the one with colorful stuff is better but might have worse chemical colorings in it.

Free association.

God, bears are cool.


Editing. Running.

Oh my gosh and I’m finally reading The Hunger Games. You should read it too. I couldn’t stop and stayed awake until 2:30 am. This means that I made it through half the book and tonight I’m going to get in bed at, like, 9 so that I can finish it before I go to sleep without also preventing myself from getting enough sleep.

Sleep is super great.

I actually kind of like Twitter. Let’s Tweet together. You can follow me.

Now it is time for me to listen to Lonely Boy. RIGHT NOW.

A woman was yodeling the other afternoon at Montana Jack’s (that’s in Dean, MT, — I dare you to find it without asking for directions) and it was cool.

EmPeeTee — I bet you could learn to yodel. It would be hilarious.

Signing off,
the one and only, really truly alive and attempting to write, LIME

serenity, serenity. Oh, I have serenity.

The Ongoing Saga of Psycho Chicken – AKA the Brooding Hen


My parents gave away three of their chickens while I was away counseling (sad face, says the obsessive egg-eater). But there are still two in the back yard. When I arrived, one of the two was sitting in her berth on the inside of the shed where they roost at night.

I assumed she was laying an egg — I’m not big on schedules or whatever, so it didn’t occur to me that it was 3 pm and usually chickens lay eggs in the morning. The next morning, the same chicken was in the same thought and I thought… Oh, no. So I called my mom.

(Me): Mom, there’s something wrong with one of the chickens. It’s just sitting there and won’t move.

(Mom): Oh yeah, she’s brooding. It’s annoying.

(Me): Ok, well, am I supposed to do something?

(Mom): I got her out once or twice a day to make her run around and I put her in cold water once because the internet said that might work. Apparently this can last for up to 21 days.

(Me): Awesome.


(Me): So I should get her out of there?

(Sidenote): The chickens nesting berth area is like a cubby hole. Not super easy to get your hands in there.

(Mom): I don’t know. I used newspaper so she wouldn’t bit me.

(Me): Mom, she looks like she’s going to die.

(Mom): Huh, yeah, she might. You should probably get her out.

(Me): MOM! She can’t die while I’m HERE.

(Mom): Ok, well you should probably get her out.

So I’ve been doing that. Going in two or three times a day to get out the psycho chicken who then proceeds to dash around the chicken pen area, wings out. She drinks some water, pecks around and then goes back to sit in there with all of her feathers puffed out. Nut. Anyway, this morning, I go out there to get her out, and what do I find, but both chickens in the same cubby, looking mischievous. So one of these chickens is not brooding, but I think that the left cubby is where she likes to lay, so she has crawled in there despite the presence of her psycho friend and looks out at me like I’m interrupting something.


And that is the ongoing saga of the psycho chicken.

My Tibetan Masseuse


My Tibetan masseuse told me that her husband is in Paris. He is studying French to become a citizen.

She tells me that she is not attracted to black men; we talk about the challenges of overcoming culture in marriage. I think about racism. She tells me that even marrying a Tibetan born in India – a second-generation refugee – is difficult. A friend who came with her from Tibet married a second-generation refugee. He eats rice and dahl like Indians. The friend likes noodles like Tibetans. My masseuse laughs and says they will not cook for each other. They will not eat the other’s food. But her husband will eat anything, she says, He hates to cook and misses my food. He has been in Paris two years now. She is 37. I told her my sister has twin babies. She wants twin babies.

Her nephew still lives in Tibet with her brother and her mother. He asks her to send a bicycle.

She came to India ten years ago. She learned Tibetan massage from her grandfather. She is strong.

She tells me that if a Tibetan family has two girls and a boy, the boy will be expected to care for his parents as they grow old. If there are only girls, the youngest is responsible for the parents. They are allowed – expected – to marry. The grandparents will care for their grandchildren while the grown children care for their parents.

Her cell phone rang before she finished with my back. There had been confusion. Someone had expected her somewhere else. She explained when she hung up that it was another masseuse, an Indian woman she had called the day before to schedule a massage for her lower back. She had tried to leave a message for the other masseuse, to let her know we had scheduled massages that morning, but the other woman had not gotten the message.

I always wondered whether the masseuse goes for massages. Then I felt bad because I knew her lower back would hurt more because the bed was low. Maybe that was why it hurt in the first place. She leaned over me to knead through the muscles and I let go of the worry.

Afterwards I tell my mother what I learned during my massage. She is surprised because she had a massage from the same woman and it was quiet. The masseuse had only chanted occasionally in a low voice.

We guessed that it was because I was nervous and she knew. (I did not want to remove my underwear for the massage although it was an option). (This is probably a sign I am accustomed to the puritanical or sanitized aspect of American culture). So she talked.

We thought also that maybe she was bored or feeling sleepy, and wanted to talk.

Either way, I was happily massaged.

My Tibetan masseuse does not speak French, yet she is planning to join her husband in France. I will worry about that for her. And hope for twins.

(Rules for) Living Life on the Lime (425)


A. Be a radical optimist.

  1. Smile more because it makes you happier.
  2. Sleep more because it also makes you happier.
  3. Remember what it’s like to be around grumpy people.
  • (not super fun).

B. When traveling by train at night in India, use the Western style toilet.

C. Consider the usefulness of hanging upside down.

D. Appreciate your ankles and air that is clean and sweet porridge and brightly colored clothing.

  1. Expressing appreciation will make you happier.

E. Eat turmeric.

  1. Apparently it reduces the risk of degenerative brain diseases.
  2. Try turmeric on sweet potatoes with paprika or in split pea soup. Yum yum.

F. When you see locals dashing into a cafe run by a monastery, follow them!

  1. Maybe you will find ginger tea and authentic Indian tea and fried rice and sweet porridge.
  2. Maybe you will sit in the balcony and see goats on the roof not quite next door, but nearby.
  3. And maybe you will discover secret stairs and foot paths that wind between the apartment buildings and shanties and then you will feel in-the-know.

Delhi: Aerocity, the Radisson Blu, and the street (highway) in between


My Mom explained to me that we were staying at a hotel something like a Super 8 in the states. That seemed reasonable to me — given my proclivity toward hostels and friends’ couches, I wasn’t worried in the least. And I didn’t need to be. Our hotel is nice. It has air conditioning, wifi and a restaurant with complimentary breakfast.

Traffic is more frightening than Argentina, but maybe less frightening than expected. It doesn’t seem as fast and people on foot weave in and out of the lanes and one ways don’t seem to be actually one way. The horns seem to coincide with some purpose, especially encouraging a car or pedestrian to stay out or get out of the way. It’s reassuring — like drivers really don’t want to run you over.

We slept in this morning. Little JK tells me that our bodies can record up to 30 hours of missed sleep, meaning that we can need catching up for quite a few nights in a row. She’s a neuroscientist, which means that she probably knows everything, or will eventually know everything. So it was good to sleep in.

Then we did jumping jacks in the room for 25 minutes (that’s an average because my Mom did 30 minutes and I did 20 minutes because I got started slow). Then we ventured onto the streets of Delhi, or down one street of Delhi, where the man at the front desk said we should go to the Radisson Blu for coffee. I looked at Mom when we left and said “where?” because I didn’t get why we’d walk to another hotel for coffee. But then we walked for about thirty seconds and between feeling very White and tourist-y looking and trying not to look at the all-bones little boy who walked in front of me for 20 yards, tapping Mom’s elbow and holding out his hand. You don’t want to look, but you don’t want not to look. You want everything to change. As I understand it, giving money to children in India is basically a terrible thing to do because an entire industry has built up around it, making it profitable to maim and starve these children to garner pity and thereby money. Slum Dog Millionaire exposes part of that, if I remember correctly, but I’ve heard it repeated elsewhere and, in my Mom’s words “I just want to scoop him (or her) up and take her (or him) home and send them to school. I just want that wholistic solution.”

This she said after we had made our way into the Radisson Blu, where we sat among other Westerners and Indian men in suits, eating a few feet to the left of the chocolate fondue fountain and the massive buffet of food. I wondered how much of it is saved. At the Old Course, they tried not to waste food, tried to keep things in date and not order to excess, but every day we threw out a mountain of perfectly decent food that would go bad unless used within 24 hours. I couldn’t help wondering where the nearest shelter was. Here it seems like the nearest shelter is outside. But then, would giving food away would solve any problems?

Anyway, the Radisson is gated and the security guards check you for metal on the way in, and there are two magnificent, architecturally-intriguing fountains. Maybe it’s the same in New York, but the beggars aren’t standing outside the Radisson and just down the street there are not vendors with motorcycles passing in between, and open-faced storefronts.

Later we walked down a side street that was quieter and there were garages and fruit stands and some children came out on a balcony to point at us and shout and wave and laugh. That was cute.

Dinner last night — yum yum

Barcelona with My Sister… Adventures Galore


It’s official, Gaudi was a genius.

On our first day in Barcelona, I realized I had forgotten my camera in London (ugh) and mostly packed for colder weather (double ugh). Even so, my sister (the major champ who had flown all night from NY) and I hit the ground running around 1 pm by eating a magnificent something or other at a bustling market, visiting the Sagrada Familia, and walking through L’eixample to discover a tapas bar with a line out the front before it opened at 8:30 and we just managed to get inside, garner a tapas coach sitting at the bar and taste some cava (Catalonian champagne — yum).

So that was pretty impressive.

Maybe I should also mention that we slept in a hostel in the middle of the old city, in a room that could really only be described as airless, or windowless, or um, stuffy. So that was less pleasant, but we did ok, and we probably spent all of the money on delicious food that we would have spent on a more ‘ideal’ or ‘pleasant’ hotel.

We did a beach walk the second day, stood wait deep in the Mediterranean and noticed that Barcelona is European and therefore somewhat topless. We also ate ice cream and managed to arrive an unfortunate 45 minutes late to dinner with a friend who lives in Barcelona. Slightly embarrassing, slightly impressive.

The next morning we saw Gaudi’s Guelle Park north of the old city. It’s mystical. He was sort of like the Disney of architecture without the dirty mind. Or maybe he had a dirty mind. Who knows.

Then we shopped (wow for shoes in Barcelona) and we had small fish chew on our feet (pedicure) and then we ate paella. Super success.

We even managed to catch our flights in the morning and return to normal life yesterday (which for me included the Queen’s Jubilee — ok so maybe not quite normal life).

Right. That was cool.

The Offbeat Answer to Life


I really like being weird.

I like being the person who insists on reading a random poem aloud to a friend because it occurs to me. I like knowing how to do a handstand, but only against a vertical surface (including trees, although it’s more precarious). I don’t like trying to write down ideas for poems or essays while on a train or in another moving vehicle — like an airplane or a car — when it causes my handwriting to be not pretty and or not linear.

I like carrying four or five bags in the New York City subway system and arriving everywhere sweaty but with larger muscles. I also like committing myself to excessive amounts of reading and explaining to people that this is just what I need to be doing with my weekend. I like keeping a blog.

I hate ordering food in a restaurant, discovering I don’t like it but still have to pay for it. More than that, I hate knowing I don’t like a food very well but have to order it because it’s the least bad option on the menu. I love sleeping in my parents’ basement. I love having a massive whiteboard only to use it intermittently for random tasks like making a single weekly schedule or writing a list of every book or author I discovered I want to read in the last three months.

I like doodling in class. I like listening to intensely intellectual podcasts while I run. I do not like places that don’t serve brunch on particular days — every day could be a brunch day. I do like making funny faces at babies. Even better, I like carrying my niece and nephew on my shoulders, especially when it makes them happier than they were before. I like arguing.

I hate being mean on accident, or insensitive, or ignorant. I also hate being mean on purpose even more. It’s so much worse. I love maraschino cherries and I love steak. I hate imagining my death over and over again while seated next to a random and/or smelly person on an airplane.

I really enjoy cutting up bananas with a spoon over my cereal and then pouring on the milk. I love staying at my sister’s house and getting up really early to go to the gym and then coming back and feeding the twins bites of my cereal while they run around.

I love thinking of the van as an animate object that informs my mother it is time to go to Dairy Queen. I do not like the smell of dead leaves after a few weeks, but it’s not nearly as bad as the smell of rotten meat. I love running sprints up and down the lane next to the river cabin with my dad and timing it obsessively. I even love reporting the times back to my dad when he can’t come with me, although it’s not as much fun when he’s not there. I like popcorn with brewer’s yeast.

I like The New Girl so much that sometimes I wish I would dream about it so that I could have a few of my own personal episodes to remember. I really dislike mixing foods together unless I am certain it will not decrease their individual fabulous flavors.

I like discovering my brother-in-law in various outdoor locations, doing a crossfit workout at a superspeed pace. I hate mosquito bites so much that I will drench myself in gross-smelling repellent to avoid mound-like bite reactions on my excessively sensitive skin.

I really like being weird.