I may be unable to purchase a new computer - for once it's not lack of funds, but a working credit card, sigh - but I can still make a really really good soup.
I nabbed a five star recipe for Acorn Squash Soup off one of my favorite cooking sites, and because it wanted food items I didn't have and it skipped a few steps I think are necessary to make the soup, I had to wing it at times. But since this is one of the best soups I've had in a while... which isn't really that long, I eat a lot of good soups... anyway, I thought I'd share my version.
Winter Squash Soup
Ingredients
1 butternut squash
1 small onion, chopped
1 stick of celery, chopped
2 tbsp butter or margarine
2 tbsp all-purpose flour
1 tsp chicken bouillon cube ground up
1/2 tsp dill
1/4 tsp curry powder
dash cayenne pepper (according to your taste)
2 cups chicken broth/prepared bouillon
1 1/2 cup of light cream (12 oz if you must)
salt and pepper to taste - easy on the salt
bacon bits for the top (best if you chop and fry some bacon yourself)
Directions
1. Preheat oven to 350 F. Remove stem from squash and chop in half lengthwise. Remove seeds. Place both halves cut side down in a baking dish that has about a cup of water in the bottom (to keep your squash from adhering to the pan). Bake the squash for 45 minutes or until soft. Remove from the oven and let cool slightly. Scoop the squash from the skin and set aside.
2. In a medium sized pot, saute the onion and celery in the butter. Add the flour, bouillon, dill, curry and cayenne. Stir until blended. Add the broth and cream. Bring to a boil. Cook and stir for two minutes. Add the squash.
3. Blend by any means necessary. If you have an immersion blender, now is the time to use it. Be wary of the large chunks of squash that tend to shoot around the pot. You can also use a blender, processing in batches, if you must.
4. Heat the soup through. Now add salt and pepper to taste. Remember, there may be bacon in your future, so easy on the salt.
5. Serve, garnish with bacon.
If you aren't cool with curry... well, I'm sorry for your loss. You could probably have this without curry. I don't know why you'd want to, but you probably could.
The Danish Boy pointed out that this would have made a great sauce and I have to say, he's probably right. If I used half and half in order to make it thicker, skipped the bacon, but added some cooked chicken in step 4, I could probably serve this over rice for a nice hearty meal. I might see if I can swap out the squash for potatoes, which are cheaper and I can quickly boil up instead of bake, cutting down the prep time for this meal considerably.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
The five stages of grief
I am slowly coming to terms with the loss of my mac. It was a lot more traumatic than I'd anticipated and I think my husband was a little shocked at my complete breakdown on day three of the Mac crisis.
The crisis is now reaching epic proportions. I cannot seem to be able to buy another Mac - my credit card seems to have become as unreadable as my hard drive. I now need to order another credit card. And somehow get that mailed to me since Bank of America doesn't like to mail credit cards overseas.
Also, did you know that in times of extreme stress, you sweat a lot more than normal? And that you can smell, like, twenty times as bad as you would on a normal day, even if you had forgotten deodorant? Talk about a week I would not like to relive. My clothes and the Danish Boy would very much like to avoid another week like that one as well.
I'm still a little shellshocked, but according to the Kubler-Ross stages of grief, I may be coming to acceptance and recovery.
Oh I went through all the other stages. Denied that my computer was dead, denied that it would bother me, denied that I was really upset about it. Denial was hand in hand with panic that first night. "This is NOT happening!" was a constant refrain. Then after being told that it was unlikely that they would be able to get my data and even if they did, there was no guarantee that the computer would last much longer, I just said, "Oh, well, then I guess I should get another computer then." I went home, figured out how I could buy another computer with my credit card and picked out my new computer as if I didn't have a care in the world. Then there was the anger. I was mad that I hadn't backed up my data (still in denial about how it wasn't really the data that bothered me) and that I had only turned off the computer on that fateful day in order to save two kroner on energy costs (still pretty mad about that actually). I moved right into bargaining after that. "If the Mac guys can just get the data off the computer, I'll be happy," I said. This wasn't in the least bit true, it turns out. I haven't had word on my data yet, but I doubt I'll be really happy, even if they do. By day three of the crisis, I had entered depression, which ended in hysterical sobbing, much to my husband's shock.
It's now day 5. I still wonder if there was any way that I could have fixed it. That I could somehow get my Mac back. On one level I know it was on it's last legs. The fan ran constantly, the heat coming from the computer made it too hot to touch sometimes and it was getting harder and harder to reboot the computer after installing the standard updates. It had a long life for a laptop. Especially one that had been dropped that many times (the power cord didn't quite fit right after I dropped it last year), gone to so many foreign countries, had coffee, beer, and indian food spilled on it, been broken in half in the airport (never did get any money back for that), and hadn't been properly cleaned in years... okay, ever.
But like a faithful pet that has to be put down after a sudden trauma, I wasn't ready to lose my Mac. It was one of the few things I walked away with in the divorce. It was my link to the outside world while I am stuck in a small office, trying to have brilliant thoughts. It was my means of contacting friends and family while I'm thousands of miles away. It wasn't just a computer, it was a piece of my soul.
Someday (hopefully soon, this PC is killing me) I will have a new Mac. It won't replace the Powerbook G4, and I don't expect it to. I miss you, my Mac. Thanks for everything.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Too much anxiety... need diversion!!
Your result for The Harry Potter Husband Test...
Mrs. Lupin
Your perfect HP man is Remus Lupin.
You like a nice, kind guy with a bit of a fierce streak and you don't mind if he comes damaged. Sure, he may take some convincing since his self-esteem's so low, but once you win him over, you know he's yours for life. Unless of course he has an attack of "I'm not good enough" and runs away, but luckily he's also good at making friends who will push him back into line if necessary.
(Art by Gold-Seven http://gold-seven.deviantart.com/ Used with permission.)
Things to do while waiting for my Mac
Your result for Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz...
You Are a Doris!
You are a Doris -- "I must help others."
Dorises are warm, concerned, nurturing, and sensitive to other people's needs.
How to Get Along with Me
- * Tell me that you appreciate me. Be specific.
- * Share fun times with me.
- * Take an interest in my problems, though I will probably try to focus on yours.
- * Let me know that I am important and special to you.
- * Be gentle if you decide to criticize me.
In Intimate Relationships
- * Reassure me that I am interesting to you.
- * Reassure me often that you love me.
- * Tell me I'm attractive and that you're glad to be seen with me.
What I Like About Being a Doris
- * being able to relate easily to people and to make friends
- * knowing what people need and being able to make their lives better
- * being generous, caring, and warm
- * being sensitive to and perceptive about others' feelings
- * being enthusiastic and fun-loving, and having a good sense of humor
What's Hard About Being a Doris
- * not being able to say no
- * having low self-esteem
- * feeling drained from overdoing for others
- * not doing things I really like to do for myself for fear of being selfish
- * criticizing myself for not feeling as loving as I think I should
- * being upset that others don't tune in to me as much as I tume in to them
- * working so hard to be tactful and considerate that I suppress my real feelings
Dorises as Children Often
- * are very sensitive to disapproval and criticism
- * try hard to please their parents by being helpful and understanding
- * are outwardly compliant
- * are popular or try to be popular with other children
- * act coy, precocious, or dramatic in order to get attention
- * are clowns and jokers (the more extroverted Dorises), or quiet and shy (the more introverted Dorises)
Dorises as Parents
- * are good listeners, love their children unconditionally, and are warm and encouraging (or suffer guilt if they aren't)
- * are often playful with their children
- * wonder: "Am I doing it right?" "Am I giving enough?" "Have I caused irreparable damage?"
- * can become fiercely protective
Take Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz at HelloQuizzy
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Disaster
Last night my Mac, my beautiful, wonderful, trusty Mac, which has had horrible things done to it, survived and continued to march along side me, died.
Some sort of catastrophic failure of the hard drive. The guy at the Mac store could see the hard drive when he tried running my Mac through another Mac, but couldn't access the data. Or the drive, for that matter.
I've sent it off to try to recover the data, because that's about all that can be done with it. It would require too much work to repair and replace all the bits that might need to be replaced, since it's not particularly clear what all happened for this failure to occur.
I'd really like the data... my last two weeks of work on my dissertation wasn't backed up. Stupid, I know. Back in the days when I used floppies, I always kept my papers on disks, not the hard drive, but lap tops lack disk drives these days, you have to keep things on data sticks and I haven't become used to saving data to these devices. At least the rest of my dissertation is backed up, not only on my husband's PC (which I'm currently using, sigh), but on a data stick and a hard copy (print out).
So it's time for a new mac. I probably won't be able to get a MacBookPro, like I'd love, but I don't really need all that extra power and bells and whistles and... oh, I wish I could have one!!
Some sort of catastrophic failure of the hard drive. The guy at the Mac store could see the hard drive when he tried running my Mac through another Mac, but couldn't access the data. Or the drive, for that matter.
I've sent it off to try to recover the data, because that's about all that can be done with it. It would require too much work to repair and replace all the bits that might need to be replaced, since it's not particularly clear what all happened for this failure to occur.
I'd really like the data... my last two weeks of work on my dissertation wasn't backed up. Stupid, I know. Back in the days when I used floppies, I always kept my papers on disks, not the hard drive, but lap tops lack disk drives these days, you have to keep things on data sticks and I haven't become used to saving data to these devices. At least the rest of my dissertation is backed up, not only on my husband's PC (which I'm currently using, sigh), but on a data stick and a hard copy (print out).
So it's time for a new mac. I probably won't be able to get a MacBookPro, like I'd love, but I don't really need all that extra power and bells and whistles and... oh, I wish I could have one!!
Friday, October 10, 2008
If I'm neither tough, nor idealistic, can I at least be cynical?
I used to think Americans were tough and idealistic. We take a hit and then get right back up and proclaim the American dream. But then I travelled to Israel. Those people are tough. In Chicago, the mobster's creed was "if he sends one of your guys to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue." In Israel, it's "if he sends one of your guys to the hospital, you send him to the morgue, his family to the streets, and several completely unrelated bystanders to the hospital." So America - not so tough, not so hard. Maybe not cuddly, but certainly not so hard. But we still had the claim to idealism, right?
Nope, because now I'm living in Denmark, the most idealistic country on the planet. They voted themselves the happiest people in the world because they live in Denmark, obviously, and Denmark is perfect and wonderful. It's like they're living in a Danny Kaye movie.
Denmark is so idealistic and, shall we just say, a lot naive, that they're pretty sure they only have 1,000 to 5,000 illegal immigrants in the entire country of 5.2 million people. The Danish Boy has been working hard on various stories around immigrants, both legal and otherwise. A year ago he went to Morocco to talk to immigrants preparing to cross the sea and illegally enter Europe. There were a lot of them and they were not about to give up and go home even though death or deportation was likely. Now Denmark may be a long way from Spain, but several of the immigrants the DB spoke to were talking about going up to Germany. Denmark is pretty close by. If there are no North African illegal immigrants in Denmark, I'll take up missionary work in deepest Africa (where I can tell them all about this great little country that doesn't believe in illegal immigrants). Meanwhile, the DB has located a number of au pair girls from the Philippines, who are working extra illegal under-the-table hours and some that have over stayed their visas. When he spoke to various ministers of parliament, one said she'd like to ask Danes to not hire illegal labor, because it's wrong, and one said that they should increase the minimum wage, because if the girls were making more money, they wouldn't want to go out and make more money.
Just about everyone he's spoken to insists there's no problem, because Denmark doesn't have illegal workers. That one researcher has shown that there may be between 1000 and 5000 comes a shock. I laugh because those numbers are seriously low but the interviewed MPs seem to think that those numbers are too high. The friendly MP who wants to ask Danes to hire legal help also thinks that these people would be caught very quickly by the government when they went to get health care or something. But I can tell you, having been here for quite some time with only questionable legality, you are not going to catch them. If I started working under-the-table and made enough money to pay the doctor fees for non-residents, no one would turn me in; Danes love cheap labor, doctors like getting paid cash, no one is going to run a check on me unless I do something stupid like hold up a 7-11 with a hand gun.
I also laugh at the Danish identity card, which I am sure any computer geek could crack and reproduce for illegal immigrants. This is one step beyond what my DB is willing to accept. He's sure that the CPR system is unbreakable. But if computer hackers can get into the CIA, the FBI, the Dept. Homeland Security, then what (other than the fact that these hackers may have never heard of Denmark) makes Danes think it's so perfect?
It's really a mind boggling notion - the CPR system is perfect because as far as they know, it's never failed. But Danes aren't looking to see if it might have, because they truly believe that the system is perfect and therefore it can't have failed.
I really wish I was a computer hacker and had a criminal mind and some black-market connections. I could make a small fortune selling identity cards to all the illegal immigrants that I know are out there.
Nope, because now I'm living in Denmark, the most idealistic country on the planet. They voted themselves the happiest people in the world because they live in Denmark, obviously, and Denmark is perfect and wonderful. It's like they're living in a Danny Kaye movie.
Denmark is so idealistic and, shall we just say, a lot naive, that they're pretty sure they only have 1,000 to 5,000 illegal immigrants in the entire country of 5.2 million people. The Danish Boy has been working hard on various stories around immigrants, both legal and otherwise. A year ago he went to Morocco to talk to immigrants preparing to cross the sea and illegally enter Europe. There were a lot of them and they were not about to give up and go home even though death or deportation was likely. Now Denmark may be a long way from Spain, but several of the immigrants the DB spoke to were talking about going up to Germany. Denmark is pretty close by. If there are no North African illegal immigrants in Denmark, I'll take up missionary work in deepest Africa (where I can tell them all about this great little country that doesn't believe in illegal immigrants). Meanwhile, the DB has located a number of au pair girls from the Philippines, who are working extra illegal under-the-table hours and some that have over stayed their visas. When he spoke to various ministers of parliament, one said she'd like to ask Danes to not hire illegal labor, because it's wrong, and one said that they should increase the minimum wage, because if the girls were making more money, they wouldn't want to go out and make more money.
Just about everyone he's spoken to insists there's no problem, because Denmark doesn't have illegal workers. That one researcher has shown that there may be between 1000 and 5000 comes a shock. I laugh because those numbers are seriously low but the interviewed MPs seem to think that those numbers are too high. The friendly MP who wants to ask Danes to hire legal help also thinks that these people would be caught very quickly by the government when they went to get health care or something. But I can tell you, having been here for quite some time with only questionable legality, you are not going to catch them. If I started working under-the-table and made enough money to pay the doctor fees for non-residents, no one would turn me in; Danes love cheap labor, doctors like getting paid cash, no one is going to run a check on me unless I do something stupid like hold up a 7-11 with a hand gun.
I also laugh at the Danish identity card, which I am sure any computer geek could crack and reproduce for illegal immigrants. This is one step beyond what my DB is willing to accept. He's sure that the CPR system is unbreakable. But if computer hackers can get into the CIA, the FBI, the Dept. Homeland Security, then what (other than the fact that these hackers may have never heard of Denmark) makes Danes think it's so perfect?
It's really a mind boggling notion - the CPR system is perfect because as far as they know, it's never failed. But Danes aren't looking to see if it might have, because they truly believe that the system is perfect and therefore it can't have failed.
I really wish I was a computer hacker and had a criminal mind and some black-market connections. I could make a small fortune selling identity cards to all the illegal immigrants that I know are out there.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
My life is a choose your own adventure...
Except in my case, it's not so much of a choice. But then, those "choose your own adventures" rarely were. Given the option of talking to the creepy old man or the ugly woman, I always wanted to "stay quiet, listen, and then pick the more rational of choices" which for reasons that escape me, was never actually an option. You had to pick a door to go through and were given no clues to help you choose. It was "You go through the left door - turn to page 60" and "You go through the right door - turn to page 72." On page 60 was a tiger that ate you (leaving me to wonder, what, was it the world's most quiet tiger? How come the previous page didn't say "There are two doors, the left one smells slightly of cat and you can hear heavy footsteps and some faint purring?") and meanwhile on page 72 you find a man holding a knife to your throat and your two options are to "Laugh and say you've entered the wrong room - turn to page 48 or Try out a judo move - turn to page 23" when I know very well what my decision would be, to HOLD FREAKIN' STILL!
Can you tell how much I didn't really like Choose Your Own Adventure novels? I used to just read them front to back or just look for the funny deaths. Sometimes I would work backwards from the ending I liked best (often a hilarious death) to see what moves had placed you there. I was certainly not fond of being forced to chose between two options without any hints as to the result or discussion on the matter.
And that is where my life seems to stand.
There is so much going on in my life, dissertation, economic, residency... that I cannot plan beyond the next event. And I don't even know what that event will be. With this many variables, I also can't make plans for all eventualities because there is just so little that I can know or control about the future of many of these things.
So the page in my life right now reads: Page 29: You've decided to continue working on this dissertation! It's hard work but it's going well. Suddenly everything changes!
Did you get residency? if yes, turn to page 7, if no, turn to 25.
Did you lose your home? if yes, turn to page 193, if no, turn to page 8.
Did you finish your dissertation? if yes, turn to page 49, if no, turn to page 9.
On page 7 I get the choice to continue working on my dissertation (page 75) or get a job (57), or do both (36). To work on my dissertation takes me back to page 29 to either enter a continual rut of flipping between 7 and back again until I can reach page 9, or perhaps I'll get lucky and lose my home so I can turn to page 8, if I get a job I may or may not still lose my home (pages 193 or 8) and I may or may not be able to finish my dissertation (page 49 and 92) so I may or may not be able to get a good job (100 and 121), if I do both, I die of exhaustion (on page 36). On page 25 I have to chose between Mälmo and California, on 193 I chose between California and Ebeltoft and on page 8 I am returned to waiting for residency and dissertation writing.
How can anyone plan for anything when your life is reduced to this?
The Danish Boy has to pick what job he wants for the last 6 months of his internship and we have no way of knowing which is the best option. Any of his choices could put us in the room with the tiger. Or they could lead us into a room with the treasure, the bad guy knocked unconscious on the floor by the bowling ball I accidently dropped on page 12 and we all live happily ever after.
Why is it that life is so often reduced to book metaphors?
Can you tell how much I didn't really like Choose Your Own Adventure novels? I used to just read them front to back or just look for the funny deaths. Sometimes I would work backwards from the ending I liked best (often a hilarious death) to see what moves had placed you there. I was certainly not fond of being forced to chose between two options without any hints as to the result or discussion on the matter.
And that is where my life seems to stand.
There is so much going on in my life, dissertation, economic, residency... that I cannot plan beyond the next event. And I don't even know what that event will be. With this many variables, I also can't make plans for all eventualities because there is just so little that I can know or control about the future of many of these things.
So the page in my life right now reads: Page 29: You've decided to continue working on this dissertation! It's hard work but it's going well. Suddenly everything changes!
Did you get residency? if yes, turn to page 7, if no, turn to 25.
Did you lose your home? if yes, turn to page 193, if no, turn to page 8.
Did you finish your dissertation? if yes, turn to page 49, if no, turn to page 9.
On page 7 I get the choice to continue working on my dissertation (page 75) or get a job (57), or do both (36). To work on my dissertation takes me back to page 29 to either enter a continual rut of flipping between 7 and back again until I can reach page 9, or perhaps I'll get lucky and lose my home so I can turn to page 8, if I get a job I may or may not still lose my home (pages 193 or 8) and I may or may not be able to finish my dissertation (page 49 and 92) so I may or may not be able to get a good job (100 and 121), if I do both, I die of exhaustion (on page 36). On page 25 I have to chose between Mälmo and California, on 193 I chose between California and Ebeltoft and on page 8 I am returned to waiting for residency and dissertation writing.
How can anyone plan for anything when your life is reduced to this?
The Danish Boy has to pick what job he wants for the last 6 months of his internship and we have no way of knowing which is the best option. Any of his choices could put us in the room with the tiger. Or they could lead us into a room with the treasure, the bad guy knocked unconscious on the floor by the bowling ball I accidently dropped on page 12 and we all live happily ever after.
Why is it that life is so often reduced to book metaphors?
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Chores I deplores
I hate doing laundry. Absolutely hate it. There's the sorting and the piles and the going back multiple times to change loads out and put new loads in and then there is the folding of the dry laundry and the putting of the laundry away... I really hate it. Yes, in normal life I'd only have to wash my clothes once a week. And in the lovely life I used to have, my husband did the laundry for me. I would fold and put away, but then he helped me with the dishes... sort of.
Well, now things have changed. We live with roommates which means no using the timer to start the laundry an hour before the husband comes home. I've got to get the laundry done and I've got to get it done before people come home and want to do their laundry, or worse, take up the space on the drying rack.
Originally I had been banned from the machine for a certain pink incident but now I have to do the laundry if we ever want clean clothes. This is difficult for my husband to grasp. He says things like, well, just take the load out and I'll sort it before bed. Yes, I say, meaning that we'd get one load done in a day, and there would be no room on the line for our clothes now that everyone else has also done their laundry. Do you want clean underwear or not?
I finally got sick of the whole thing and started doing my own laundry. No one died and I think the DB is starting to relent. He's not nearly so upset about my accidently drying his black shirts as he was 5 years ago. I think he's starting to learn that if your black shirt gets accidently machine dried twice in 5 years, it is not worth your marriage to make a big deal out of it.
Of course my relationship to clothes is: if you can't take the heat, you don't belong in the closet. I don't read most of the tags in my clothes. Though often I will if I am debating buying something. Dry clean only gets returned to the shelf unless I really love it or I think it can handle the wash. I separate into darks (cold water wash), whites and underwear (hot water wash), and colors (everything else in a warm water wash). I sort by what the article looks like (color) and ignore it's pleas regarding fabric and wash-inside-out-ness. Yes, I have in fact put wool in the dryer. Once. So's my husband ("how was I supposed to know it was wool" because I call it my wool knit hat perhaps? Eh, it survived. I'll probably dry it myself someday), you wanna make something of it?
I am slowly learning the little signs they put on labels. The X over the box with the circle in it, that might represent a dryer to those who are into symbology, means don't dry. I think. Items that have this symbol are not going into the dryer.
There is a website for all this. http://www.textileaffairs.com/lguide.htm
But I can't remember all that and I am not taking my computer into the bathroom. Maybe I'll print it out for myself.
This does not solve the other problem. The washing machine is Danish. It doesn't use these symbols. It has words like "Kort" and "stortskraeling" or something. It also uses Celsius rather than Fahrenheit and has no such thing as Permanent Press. Not that I know what Permanent Press is, but I know it is very good to wash everything on this cycle and dry everything with this cycle. It is the best cycle.
But at least I'm getting clean clothes again. Clothes that are dried the civilized way, in a tumble dryer. Even if they shouldn't be tumble dried. The husband will also be getting his clothes cleaned. And if he's lucky, his black shirts will not accidently end up in the dryer, but on a line.
In return I've asked him to wash the dishes if I've cooked. Because he's getting out of all the chores these days and it's a bit unfair.
Well, now things have changed. We live with roommates which means no using the timer to start the laundry an hour before the husband comes home. I've got to get the laundry done and I've got to get it done before people come home and want to do their laundry, or worse, take up the space on the drying rack.
Originally I had been banned from the machine for a certain pink incident but now I have to do the laundry if we ever want clean clothes. This is difficult for my husband to grasp. He says things like, well, just take the load out and I'll sort it before bed. Yes, I say, meaning that we'd get one load done in a day, and there would be no room on the line for our clothes now that everyone else has also done their laundry. Do you want clean underwear or not?
I finally got sick of the whole thing and started doing my own laundry. No one died and I think the DB is starting to relent. He's not nearly so upset about my accidently drying his black shirts as he was 5 years ago. I think he's starting to learn that if your black shirt gets accidently machine dried twice in 5 years, it is not worth your marriage to make a big deal out of it.
Of course my relationship to clothes is: if you can't take the heat, you don't belong in the closet. I don't read most of the tags in my clothes. Though often I will if I am debating buying something. Dry clean only gets returned to the shelf unless I really love it or I think it can handle the wash. I separate into darks (cold water wash), whites and underwear (hot water wash), and colors (everything else in a warm water wash). I sort by what the article looks like (color) and ignore it's pleas regarding fabric and wash-inside-out-ness. Yes, I have in fact put wool in the dryer. Once. So's my husband ("how was I supposed to know it was wool" because I call it my wool knit hat perhaps? Eh, it survived. I'll probably dry it myself someday), you wanna make something of it?
I am slowly learning the little signs they put on labels. The X over the box with the circle in it, that might represent a dryer to those who are into symbology, means don't dry. I think. Items that have this symbol are not going into the dryer.
There is a website for all this. http://www.textileaffairs.com/lguide.htm
But I can't remember all that and I am not taking my computer into the bathroom. Maybe I'll print it out for myself.
This does not solve the other problem. The washing machine is Danish. It doesn't use these symbols. It has words like "Kort" and "stortskraeling" or something. It also uses Celsius rather than Fahrenheit and has no such thing as Permanent Press. Not that I know what Permanent Press is, but I know it is very good to wash everything on this cycle and dry everything with this cycle. It is the best cycle.
But at least I'm getting clean clothes again. Clothes that are dried the civilized way, in a tumble dryer. Even if they shouldn't be tumble dried. The husband will also be getting his clothes cleaned. And if he's lucky, his black shirts will not accidently end up in the dryer, but on a line.
In return I've asked him to wash the dishes if I've cooked. Because he's getting out of all the chores these days and it's a bit unfair.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Change is good for the something something.
The time is once again to change the format of the blog. Why? I mean, I just changed it. What's with all this CHANGE anyway? Isn't anything sacred anymore? Why does everything have to change!!?!!
Because otherwise things would be boring.
Learning, for instance, is part of change. Everything we learn changes us in a way, either a small way or a great way. So even if we could freeze ourselves at this very moment, never to age, and freeze the seasons so that nothing would grow, nothing would die, and nothing would change... it still would change the very second someone learned something new.
It was a crazy thought I had. And unlike my dear husband, the philosophy nut, I have steered clear of the very people who have probably pondered this particular thought before me and thus have articulated it better. Screw them, the ponces.
(Here's something for you to learn that will change you in a little way: ponce is a man who lives off of the earnings of prostitutes. Like "pimp" only with a much more negative connotation, since rap has glorified the P-I-M-P.)
Meanwhile, the season changes from summer to winter. The Danish Boy says "This is the season we call 'fall.' It happens between summer and winter," in response to my declaration of seasonal changes.
But this is not fall. Fall is a lovely few weeks were the days get shorter and the weather gets crisp and cool. Frost may appear on the ground in the morning, but is burnt away by the sun in the afternoon. The leaves change color, slowly, and gently drop, one by one to the ground. Fall is not a horrible few weeks in which it suddenly begins to hail, the leaves change colors overnight and are summarily bashed to the ground by the ensuing downpour and hurricane force wind that comes out of nowhere to freeze your butt cheeks off if you lean against the wrong thing. Denmark has no fall. It goes straight to winter from summer, without a by-your-leave.
It's freezing cold. We tuck ourselves under our winter duvet (heavy, stuffed with down) and I still have to keep the heat on in our little room because my nose runs and my eyeballs feel like snowballs stuck in my skull. And in typical Danish fashion, my dear husband is so hot, he's on top of the covers while I shiver in my flannel pjs curled up into a ball. Thankfully we know that if I am cold, no one sleeps, whereas if he's just slightly too warm, but I am just fine, everyone sleeps a full 8 hours.
No one else in the apartment seems to agree with my temperature requirements, so I go from room to room turning up the heat when I am there and down again when I leave. I spend most of my time in my office since I am dissertating (at the moment, reading this horrible article that I am sure will be very important for me, I have taken lots of notes, but it is written in such horrific classical scholarshipness, with quotes in other languages and WAY too many words that I despair), so it is not so bad.
So with change in the air (along with the cold) and a horrible confrontation with my worst fears (no, not spiders... academic writing... it makes me feel so dumb) I needed to do something to take my mind off it all. Enter my new banner. I made it myself, you know. I discovered I had an old version of Photoshop hiding in my Mac OS 9, which is part of my partitioned hard drive. I was actually contemplating getting rid of OS 9 and the partition to make room on this side of the computer, which runs on OS 10.4 and is simply running out of room, when I read that this would reformat my drive. Since that sounds like it would erase my computer entirely, I decided ehhhh, no, I would not worry about OS 9, it could just sit there and rot.
Thank the computer gods I did, because that is where I had put Photoshop, way back when I first got the computer and all the programs were still running on 9 because 10 was still just too new. For the Mac people of the world, this was a dreadful time of change and adaptation. But I digress. The partition in my computer has been put up in such a way that I can actually run OS 9 programs in OS 10.4. It looks a little weird, but it works marvelously.
Have I mentioned how much I love my computer? I love it.
So it is due to the brilliance of my Mac (and associated Adobe programs) that I could create a brand new banner for my blog. And upload it.
Change is good. Learning computery stuff to make change - html, photoshop, partitioned hard drives... very cool.
Because otherwise things would be boring.
Learning, for instance, is part of change. Everything we learn changes us in a way, either a small way or a great way. So even if we could freeze ourselves at this very moment, never to age, and freeze the seasons so that nothing would grow, nothing would die, and nothing would change... it still would change the very second someone learned something new.
It was a crazy thought I had. And unlike my dear husband, the philosophy nut, I have steered clear of the very people who have probably pondered this particular thought before me and thus have articulated it better. Screw them, the ponces.
(Here's something for you to learn that will change you in a little way: ponce is a man who lives off of the earnings of prostitutes. Like "pimp" only with a much more negative connotation, since rap has glorified the P-I-M-P.)
Meanwhile, the season changes from summer to winter. The Danish Boy says "This is the season we call 'fall.' It happens between summer and winter," in response to my declaration of seasonal changes.
But this is not fall. Fall is a lovely few weeks were the days get shorter and the weather gets crisp and cool. Frost may appear on the ground in the morning, but is burnt away by the sun in the afternoon. The leaves change color, slowly, and gently drop, one by one to the ground. Fall is not a horrible few weeks in which it suddenly begins to hail, the leaves change colors overnight and are summarily bashed to the ground by the ensuing downpour and hurricane force wind that comes out of nowhere to freeze your butt cheeks off if you lean against the wrong thing. Denmark has no fall. It goes straight to winter from summer, without a by-your-leave.
It's freezing cold. We tuck ourselves under our winter duvet (heavy, stuffed with down) and I still have to keep the heat on in our little room because my nose runs and my eyeballs feel like snowballs stuck in my skull. And in typical Danish fashion, my dear husband is so hot, he's on top of the covers while I shiver in my flannel pjs curled up into a ball. Thankfully we know that if I am cold, no one sleeps, whereas if he's just slightly too warm, but I am just fine, everyone sleeps a full 8 hours.
No one else in the apartment seems to agree with my temperature requirements, so I go from room to room turning up the heat when I am there and down again when I leave. I spend most of my time in my office since I am dissertating (at the moment, reading this horrible article that I am sure will be very important for me, I have taken lots of notes, but it is written in such horrific classical scholarshipness, with quotes in other languages and WAY too many words that I despair), so it is not so bad.
So with change in the air (along with the cold) and a horrible confrontation with my worst fears (no, not spiders... academic writing... it makes me feel so dumb) I needed to do something to take my mind off it all. Enter my new banner. I made it myself, you know. I discovered I had an old version of Photoshop hiding in my Mac OS 9, which is part of my partitioned hard drive. I was actually contemplating getting rid of OS 9 and the partition to make room on this side of the computer, which runs on OS 10.4 and is simply running out of room, when I read that this would reformat my drive. Since that sounds like it would erase my computer entirely, I decided ehhhh, no, I would not worry about OS 9, it could just sit there and rot.
Thank the computer gods I did, because that is where I had put Photoshop, way back when I first got the computer and all the programs were still running on 9 because 10 was still just too new. For the Mac people of the world, this was a dreadful time of change and adaptation. But I digress. The partition in my computer has been put up in such a way that I can actually run OS 9 programs in OS 10.4. It looks a little weird, but it works marvelously.
Have I mentioned how much I love my computer? I love it.
So it is due to the brilliance of my Mac (and associated Adobe programs) that I could create a brand new banner for my blog. And upload it.
Change is good. Learning computery stuff to make change - html, photoshop, partitioned hard drives... very cool.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Dissertating once again...
There's nothing like writing a dissertation to make you doubt your intelligence. My theory chapter is starting to look like it could be a chapter in the next Ian Hodder book, which means I'm either a genius or rambling insensible jargon in increasingly complicated clauses.
The Danish Boy says it makes sense to him and it reads well. This is the joy of being married to a former archaeologist who has read a lot of theory. I am, however, wondering if he is a bit biased. Or perhaps he's simply wise enough to know that he should be nice to the woman who makes his food. It's not supposed to read well anyway, it's supposed to be academic, which is latin for "impenetrable use of jargon in complex sentences containing multiple clauses." Or maybe that's the German definition of "academic," I can never remember.
Anyway, without counting catalogue and appendices (I am really not sure if I want to include all of them, it seems a bit over the top if you ask me) I had 80 pages single spaced.
Whoopee! I exclaimed. Until I discovered that when I made it double spaced, as I need to for final publication, I did NOT have 160 pages. I had 149. Grumble grumble.
So... so far I have used 149 pages to answer the question I posed in the beginning of my dissertation. I could probably answer that question in 3 pages, but brevity is the soul of wit, not dissertations, which are not in the least bit funny.
The Danish Boy says it makes sense to him and it reads well. This is the joy of being married to a former archaeologist who has read a lot of theory. I am, however, wondering if he is a bit biased. Or perhaps he's simply wise enough to know that he should be nice to the woman who makes his food. It's not supposed to read well anyway, it's supposed to be academic, which is latin for "impenetrable use of jargon in complex sentences containing multiple clauses." Or maybe that's the German definition of "academic," I can never remember.
Anyway, without counting catalogue and appendices (I am really not sure if I want to include all of them, it seems a bit over the top if you ask me) I had 80 pages single spaced.
Whoopee! I exclaimed. Until I discovered that when I made it double spaced, as I need to for final publication, I did NOT have 160 pages. I had 149. Grumble grumble.
So... so far I have used 149 pages to answer the question I posed in the beginning of my dissertation. I could probably answer that question in 3 pages, but brevity is the soul of wit, not dissertations, which are not in the least bit funny.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Iced coffee for archaeologists
Whoa, a sort-a archaeology post!
So, coffee is part of being an archaeologist. There are archaeologists who don't drink coffee. But they are weird. Coffee is something MOST archaeologists need. No, not "like" or even "desire," but NEED. In a kind of if-they-could-only-invent-an-IV-drip-that-could-put-the-coffee-directly-into-my-veins kind of way. Of the two digs that I'm on per year, one in Israel and one in Jordan, the one in Israel used to be the best-coffee dig. We had The Sacred Coffee Pot that brewed REAL coffee, because most of Israel believes that Nescafe instant coffee is the god-given drink of the chosen people. If so, God really hates the Jews. I wouldn't wish Nescafe on anyone. Well, maybe the Taliban. Those bastards are drinking delicious Arabic coffee in their hidey-holes and I'm stuck with Nes? Gah!
Anyway, this year the most horrible thing happened. The Sacred Coffee Pot, brought to Israel in the mid 80's, surviver of two intifadas, two confrontations with Iraq, two American presidents by the name of Bush, one fire (which it started), several blown fuses (which it caused) and god knows how many dig seasons... died. Now, normally at 4 in the morning, you aren't brewing coffee, you make Nes to get you going, but we had a carafe out on the site for coffee, proper coffee, with breakfast. And then there was pre-pottery washing coffee at 3:30. And I have to tell you, Nes, at 3:30 is horrible. You are awake to actually taste the horror that is the instant coffee.
So now the coffee on the Jordan dig is better. If you can get to the Bodum coffee press while there's still coffee in it. I used to get up earlier than the people in my cabin to get to the coffee, but when it became apparent that they were getting up WAY to early and I really didn't need to go very far (I worked in the house, meaning instant access to instant coffee all day), it seemed prudent to sleep in that extra half hour. So no French press for me. It was Nes and nothing but Nes, all the way.
The problem with coffee on an archaeological dig in the desert, however, is that it's damn hot (both coffee and environs) and really, you'd give just about anything for a nice cold lemonade. Provided that the lemonade had A LOT of caffein in it. What to do?
Well, this year was the first year we had REAL MILK for our coffee. Yeah, we really were living it up. I mean, the toilets still don't flush and you have to use the water from the shower to flush them (only when you have to) and you can't put toilet paper in them (use the little trash cans), but we had REAL MILK. This led to the creation of Iced Coffee.
God bless Dr. McP! This is why he has the degree, you know.
Archaeologists have a little bit of MacGyver in them. Everyone thinks that archaeologists run around with trowels and now-a-days GPS units (I've actually never seen one) and we dig holes and look at broken pottery. We do that. But we also have to work in substandard conditions with broken materials. Archaeology is a field where, if you are not at the top, you don't get the nice shinny toys. You have to make do with what you've got. And often what you've got is duct tape and styrofoam.
So how to make iced coffee in the desert.
You need: a working freezer that makes ice, water, fire (of some sort), Nescafe, milk, one pot to heat water in, one large mug to drink the coffee from, sugar if you like that sort of thing.
If you'd like to feel like a real archaeologist and try this at home, I suggest you try to stick to what we really have in the field. So ignore the microwave. Some digs have hot water heaters (like the one in Israel does), others have kettles. Try it out with the kettle. A great number of archaeologists can congregate around a boiling pot, it's like the water cooler in offices. For your coffee mug, do not even think that your normal coffee mug will suffice. It will not. Think thermos, flower vase, jug, some large vessel that can be filled with coffee.
If you are really nuts, you can even dig a bunch of holes in the back yard first - although if you are really that fired up about feeling like a real archaeologist, I'd suggest just going on a dig. Digging holes in the backyard is great... right up until you mow the lawn.
So, coffee is part of being an archaeologist. There are archaeologists who don't drink coffee. But they are weird. Coffee is something MOST archaeologists need. No, not "like" or even "desire," but NEED. In a kind of if-they-could-only-invent-an-IV-drip-that-could-put-the-coffee-directly-into-my-veins kind of way. Of the two digs that I'm on per year, one in Israel and one in Jordan, the one in Israel used to be the best-coffee dig. We had The Sacred Coffee Pot that brewed REAL coffee, because most of Israel believes that Nescafe instant coffee is the god-given drink of the chosen people. If so, God really hates the Jews. I wouldn't wish Nescafe on anyone. Well, maybe the Taliban. Those bastards are drinking delicious Arabic coffee in their hidey-holes and I'm stuck with Nes? Gah!
Anyway, this year the most horrible thing happened. The Sacred Coffee Pot, brought to Israel in the mid 80's, surviver of two intifadas, two confrontations with Iraq, two American presidents by the name of Bush, one fire (which it started), several blown fuses (which it caused) and god knows how many dig seasons... died. Now, normally at 4 in the morning, you aren't brewing coffee, you make Nes to get you going, but we had a carafe out on the site for coffee, proper coffee, with breakfast. And then there was pre-pottery washing coffee at 3:30. And I have to tell you, Nes, at 3:30 is horrible. You are awake to actually taste the horror that is the instant coffee.
So now the coffee on the Jordan dig is better. If you can get to the Bodum coffee press while there's still coffee in it. I used to get up earlier than the people in my cabin to get to the coffee, but when it became apparent that they were getting up WAY to early and I really didn't need to go very far (I worked in the house, meaning instant access to instant coffee all day), it seemed prudent to sleep in that extra half hour. So no French press for me. It was Nes and nothing but Nes, all the way.
The problem with coffee on an archaeological dig in the desert, however, is that it's damn hot (both coffee and environs) and really, you'd give just about anything for a nice cold lemonade. Provided that the lemonade had A LOT of caffein in it. What to do?
Well, this year was the first year we had REAL MILK for our coffee. Yeah, we really were living it up. I mean, the toilets still don't flush and you have to use the water from the shower to flush them (only when you have to) and you can't put toilet paper in them (use the little trash cans), but we had REAL MILK. This led to the creation of Iced Coffee.
God bless Dr. McP! This is why he has the degree, you know.
Archaeologists have a little bit of MacGyver in them. Everyone thinks that archaeologists run around with trowels and now-a-days GPS units (I've actually never seen one) and we dig holes and look at broken pottery. We do that. But we also have to work in substandard conditions with broken materials. Archaeology is a field where, if you are not at the top, you don't get the nice shinny toys. You have to make do with what you've got. And often what you've got is duct tape and styrofoam.
So how to make iced coffee in the desert.
You need: a working freezer that makes ice, water, fire (of some sort), Nescafe, milk, one pot to heat water in, one large mug to drink the coffee from, sugar if you like that sort of thing.
| Iced Coffee for Archaeologists | |
|---|---|
| Step 1: | Make sure you have the above items. You cannot make iced coffee without ice. Really, you can try, but I doubt you'll succeed. |
| Step 2: | Add the normal amount of Nescafe to your mug as you would for a normal large mug of hot coffee. Put some sugar in there. Normally I add my sugar to my hot coffee after I've melted the instant coffee with hot water, but in this case, it doesn't matter. |
| Step 3: | Add just enough boiling water to melt coffee and sugar into a nice black, slightly thick, soup. Should only take up the bottom fourth of your mug. That had better be a big mug, by the way, because you'll wish you had more otherwise. |
| Step 4: | Add ice, right up to the top of the mug. Since the ice is going to melt, make sure that you used potable water in making the ice cubes. If your water is icky bad and has to be boiled or iodined or whatever, make sure you do that before you make the ice cubes. |
| Step 5: | Swirl it around a bit, maybe smash the ice with a knife, trowel, small hand axe, whatever, if you like your ice in smaller pieces. I'm lazy and I want the yummy coffee NOW so I skip this step. |
| Step 6: | Add milk right up to the top. Some folks like to add a bit more hot water to help melt the ice cubes, but when it's over 100F (or worse, 50C), the ice is going to melt pretty damn fast anyway. I say, enjoy the icy coolness. |
| Step 7: | Stir. You'd be amazed at how often I forget this step. |
| Step 8: | Drink. |
If you'd like to feel like a real archaeologist and try this at home, I suggest you try to stick to what we really have in the field. So ignore the microwave. Some digs have hot water heaters (like the one in Israel does), others have kettles. Try it out with the kettle. A great number of archaeologists can congregate around a boiling pot, it's like the water cooler in offices. For your coffee mug, do not even think that your normal coffee mug will suffice. It will not. Think thermos, flower vase, jug, some large vessel that can be filled with coffee.
If you are really nuts, you can even dig a bunch of holes in the back yard first - although if you are really that fired up about feeling like a real archaeologist, I'd suggest just going on a dig. Digging holes in the backyard is great... right up until you mow the lawn.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Spread the miser... joy.... I meant joy.
I have the WORST ear worm EVER. And so I share.
Do you remember The Connells? 74'-75'? Oh, you will. You will.
Do you remember The Connells? 74'-75'? Oh, you will. You will.
Yes, I am the Keeper of All Knowledge
It happens in all relationships. That moment when it becomes apparent that one of you has been chosen to be the Keeper of All Knowledge. How do you know if that person is you?
Question 1: Have you ever been asked "Where are my keys?"
Question 2: Do you know where the keys are?
This knowledge will include EVERYTHING from the location of keys that do not belong to you to what was that strange beast that ran in front of the car the other night.
On the other night in question, my husband and I were driving along when this small furry beast zips across the road.
Beast: ZIP!
AG: Whoa! What the hell was that?
DB: I don't know. What kind of animal was it?
Now if you think that's an odd response to my question, you perhaps are not the Keeper of All Knowledge in your relationship. But are you familiar with this conversation?
You: Where are my keys?
Other Person: I don't know. Where did you put them?
Obviously, if you knew where you put them, you wouldn't ask, now would you? But the Other Person is not the Keeper of All Knowledge, so they cannot tell you. They can only ASK the questions, not answer them. (See, I told you enlightenment would follow.) This is why the Danish Boy asked me what animal it was, after I had already exclaimed "what the hell was that?" If the conversation with the keys is very familiar to you, but you are most certainly not the Other Person, you are probably the Keeper of All Knowledge in training. Here's a hint to get you on the path to further enlightenment: it does not matter if you can ever find your keys, as long as you always know where the Other Person's keys are.
The Keeper of All Knowledge has an important role in the relationship. You can be guilty of not knowing everything all the time, but you have to be able to pull answers out of your ass every now and then to keep your title.
So two nights ago, when the DB was reading the instructions for deep-freezer maintenance (in Danish, otherwise guess who would have read them already) and then began ranting about how there was no button for super-freeze, it was my job, nay my mission, to then walk over to the deep freeze and say "you mean this button right here that says 'super'?" And then push the button.
In his defense, the Danish word for super-freeze-button (which is a very long word that I can't pronounce let alone spell) is not in the least bit like the word "super" which was the label above the button. The "super" button also looked suspiciously like an indicator light.
But that's the job of the Keeper of All Knowledge, to know that sometimes an indicator light is really a button in disguise and that descriptions of items in manuals are often not at all like the real object.
Quite often I get phone calls from the DB asking very odd questions. Because, he says, it's easier to ask me than to google.
Yeah, it makes me all tingly too.
Hence our conversation in the car the other night.
So what was the animal that zipped across the road? Well, it could have been a European Polecat. It wouldn't be the first polecat we've seen.
I assure you, that is a picture of European Polecats and not ferrets. The going theory is that ferrets are the long domesticated versions of the polecat. They can breed and produce viable offspring. But this is probably not what we saw.
It was more likely a European Pine Marten.
It had the fox like tail and was very dark in color. See the puffy tail? The dark coloring? Isn't it cute??
Yes, I am the Keeper of All Knowledge.
Question 1: Have you ever been asked "Where are my keys?"
- If the answer is "No, I have never been asked this question" then the answer is, no, you are NOT in fact the Keeper of All Knowledge.
- If the answer is "Yes" proceed to the next question.
Question 2: Do you know where the keys are?
- If the answer is "No, where did you put them?" You are NOT the Keeper of All Knowledge. You are the Other Person. See below for enlightenment as to your position in the relationship.
- If the answer is "No, I have no idea where the keys are." It means you have a way to go yet, young padawan of knowledge.
- If the answer is "Yes" then congratulations, you are the Keeper of All Knowledge.
This knowledge will include EVERYTHING from the location of keys that do not belong to you to what was that strange beast that ran in front of the car the other night.
On the other night in question, my husband and I were driving along when this small furry beast zips across the road.
Beast: ZIP!
AG: Whoa! What the hell was that?
DB: I don't know. What kind of animal was it?
Now if you think that's an odd response to my question, you perhaps are not the Keeper of All Knowledge in your relationship. But are you familiar with this conversation?
You: Where are my keys?
Other Person: I don't know. Where did you put them?
Obviously, if you knew where you put them, you wouldn't ask, now would you? But the Other Person is not the Keeper of All Knowledge, so they cannot tell you. They can only ASK the questions, not answer them. (See, I told you enlightenment would follow.) This is why the Danish Boy asked me what animal it was, after I had already exclaimed "what the hell was that?" If the conversation with the keys is very familiar to you, but you are most certainly not the Other Person, you are probably the Keeper of All Knowledge in training. Here's a hint to get you on the path to further enlightenment: it does not matter if you can ever find your keys, as long as you always know where the Other Person's keys are.
The Keeper of All Knowledge has an important role in the relationship. You can be guilty of not knowing everything all the time, but you have to be able to pull answers out of your ass every now and then to keep your title.
So two nights ago, when the DB was reading the instructions for deep-freezer maintenance (in Danish, otherwise guess who would have read them already) and then began ranting about how there was no button for super-freeze, it was my job, nay my mission, to then walk over to the deep freeze and say "you mean this button right here that says 'super'?" And then push the button.
In his defense, the Danish word for super-freeze-button (which is a very long word that I can't pronounce let alone spell) is not in the least bit like the word "super" which was the label above the button. The "super" button also looked suspiciously like an indicator light.
But that's the job of the Keeper of All Knowledge, to know that sometimes an indicator light is really a button in disguise and that descriptions of items in manuals are often not at all like the real object.
Quite often I get phone calls from the DB asking very odd questions. Because, he says, it's easier to ask me than to google.
Yeah, it makes me all tingly too.
Hence our conversation in the car the other night.
So what was the animal that zipped across the road? Well, it could have been a European Polecat. It wouldn't be the first polecat we've seen.
I assure you, that is a picture of European Polecats and not ferrets. The going theory is that ferrets are the long domesticated versions of the polecat. They can breed and produce viable offspring. But this is probably not what we saw.It was more likely a European Pine Marten.
It had the fox like tail and was very dark in color. See the puffy tail? The dark coloring? Isn't it cute??
Yes, I am the Keeper of All Knowledge.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Yesterday was a bad day
And so I'm not going to even talk about it.
Today has been better.
To try to get a handle on all the things that I need to do and break them down into manageable lumps so that SOMETHING can get done every day, I've broken the list into sections and then vow to do one thing from each section. The sections are:
1) do one thing involving paperwork (someday this will be the dissertation section).
2) unpack something
3) figure out dinner and shop if you must
4) move something
Obviously once the move is finished, I can scratch two sections off my list. I'll probably have to make a new list, but for the moment, this keeps me sane. I do not have to work on one thing all day, feeling like I'm falling behind on something else and I can feel at the end of the day like shit got done. And you know how important it is to feel like you've gotten shit done.
Also, because I'm a little OCD, I like to do these things in order.
So if you'll excuse me, I have to go shopping now.
Today has been better.
To try to get a handle on all the things that I need to do and break them down into manageable lumps so that SOMETHING can get done every day, I've broken the list into sections and then vow to do one thing from each section. The sections are:
1) do one thing involving paperwork (someday this will be the dissertation section).
2) unpack something
3) figure out dinner and shop if you must
4) move something
Obviously once the move is finished, I can scratch two sections off my list. I'll probably have to make a new list, but for the moment, this keeps me sane. I do not have to work on one thing all day, feeling like I'm falling behind on something else and I can feel at the end of the day like shit got done. And you know how important it is to feel like you've gotten shit done.
Also, because I'm a little OCD, I like to do these things in order.
So if you'll excuse me, I have to go shopping now.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Grand plans laid to waste
Okay, a little over dramatic. I was going to write about the frittata I had made.
It went like this:
But the frittata turned out to be a bit of a disaster. I need to play with the recipe a bit.
But something also rather strange happened with the bread I baked and with the potatoes I roasted the other day. I hesitate to say, in case reality warps in order to bring this into being, but my oven may be *erk* on the fritz. When you turn the oven to 200* C (400 F for those who care) you should not be able to comfortably stick your arm in there for any length of time. I mean, that's hot, right?
I'm not sure how to test this because my meat thermometer only goes up to 100 C. I suppose I could set it for 100...
I'll think about doing that later.
Meanwhile, I now know why people swear by their bread machines. Gah, the bread I made included the instruction: stir the dough, adding more flour, to form a firm dough. Eventually I had to just take off my rings and dive in with one hand while the other kept shoveling flour into the mess. Sticky sticky dough.
Which would then not come out of the bowl or off the scrubby I used to clean the bowl or my poor encrusted hand.
It tastes pretty good. But I added caraway seeds as per instructions and turns out neither the DB nor I like caraway all that much. Oh well. I only made FOUR loaves.
Which will last about 4 days.
Gad, with only the two of us, you'd think the food would last longer. I got $20 to get us through this week. It looks like cabbage soup and pasta and pesto for the next 7 days.
Today is also chore day. I hate chores. I would much rather clean when I should be doing something else, cleaning is how I procrastinate. So what do I do when I'm procrastinating the procrastinating?
Write blog posts, obviously.
But I don't wanna wash the floor. Or take out the trash. Or go to recycling.
I also do not want to go shopping for milk and spaghetti. And I certainly do not want to chop up 6 cups of cabbage for the soup tonight.
I do not want to go to the other apartment and try to pack stuff and move stuff.
DO NOT WANT!
I think I do want to hold a pity-me party and sip cognac while in my pjs and watch Dirty Jobs on Discovery.
I don't think I have a choice however.
It went like this:
What is a “frittata”?
Well, the word “fri” comes from our word “Friday” which everyone knows really means “free day” or day of freedom and since the 4th of July has been known to fall on Friday this means that not only should you be very free with this recipe, but it may also be your patriotic duty to be free with this recipe.
The word “tata” is another word for boobs, which are also known as “jugs” which are containers that are known to hold all kinds of stuff in them.
Therefore a frittata is a casserole where you are free to put whatever you want into it.
Thus ends our brief lesson about the etymology of the frittata.
But the frittata turned out to be a bit of a disaster. I need to play with the recipe a bit.
But something also rather strange happened with the bread I baked and with the potatoes I roasted the other day. I hesitate to say, in case reality warps in order to bring this into being, but my oven may be *erk* on the fritz. When you turn the oven to 200* C (400 F for those who care) you should not be able to comfortably stick your arm in there for any length of time. I mean, that's hot, right?
I'm not sure how to test this because my meat thermometer only goes up to 100 C. I suppose I could set it for 100...
I'll think about doing that later.
Meanwhile, I now know why people swear by their bread machines. Gah, the bread I made included the instruction: stir the dough, adding more flour, to form a firm dough. Eventually I had to just take off my rings and dive in with one hand while the other kept shoveling flour into the mess. Sticky sticky dough.
Which would then not come out of the bowl or off the scrubby I used to clean the bowl or my poor encrusted hand.
It tastes pretty good. But I added caraway seeds as per instructions and turns out neither the DB nor I like caraway all that much. Oh well. I only made FOUR loaves.
Which will last about 4 days.
Gad, with only the two of us, you'd think the food would last longer. I got $20 to get us through this week. It looks like cabbage soup and pasta and pesto for the next 7 days.
Today is also chore day. I hate chores. I would much rather clean when I should be doing something else, cleaning is how I procrastinate. So what do I do when I'm procrastinating the procrastinating?
Write blog posts, obviously.
But I don't wanna wash the floor. Or take out the trash. Or go to recycling.
I also do not want to go shopping for milk and spaghetti. And I certainly do not want to chop up 6 cups of cabbage for the soup tonight.
I do not want to go to the other apartment and try to pack stuff and move stuff.
DO NOT WANT!
I think I do want to hold a pity-me party and sip cognac while in my pjs and watch Dirty Jobs on Discovery.
I don't think I have a choice however.
Really, would expect any less of me?
From the lovely folks over at Quizfarm - I present: Which Scifi crew would you best fit in with? I think it shows that I really need to get off this planet. Who's with me?
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Supermarket Nexus of Evil
Where I grew up, supermarkets are separated by shopping centers. Each supermarket had it's own shopping center (this would be the supermarket axis of evil, a separate post) which would act as a buffer between supermarkets. The supermarkets would then compete with each other, which is what supermarkets do in a capitalist market economy regulated by labor laws.
Not so in Denmark.
In Denmark, where the labor laws are so strict that they actually keep the worker from actually having to perform any work, supermarkets tend to congregate in what can only be defined as a Supermarket Nexus of Evil.
Within a two block radius I have the following supermarkets: SuperBest, SuperBrusen, Aldi, and Netto. You may think that I am incredibly lucky to live so close to so many supermarkets, but you forget, this is the nexus of evil not amazingly convenient. They've all decided to band together (hence "nexus") and, instead of competing with one another, not lift a finger to differentiate themselves other than the price of the food inside. Everyone knows that Netto and Aldi are the cheapest, followed by SuperBest and then SuperBrusen. They all have the same type of food. You pick your supermarket based on the degree of snobbishness or elitism that you can afford.
(The AG shops at Netto, much to the DB's horror, because we po'. As soon as the DB will stop hyperventilating over the loss of social standing we've taken through my choice of supermarket, he'll realize how much money we are saving. And I may be able to afford to keep buying the whole-bean-organic-free-trade coffee that he loves so much. Or not, because we po'.)
So how could this nexus of supermarkets be *evil*? Because the entire nexus shuts its doors at 5pm on Saturday and does not open up again until Monday. There's no point in being open on Sunday, it's not like you're competing with the other supermarkets in the nexus! This would not be a problem if Denmark were the type of place where you can buy a weeks worth of food in one go. But Denmark is not that kind of place, despite my best efforts, and continues to be a place where you buy small amounts of food frequently.
And 5 pm on Saturday is just too damn early for me to know what we're going to eat on Sunday. Especially since it seems the DB is going to go through a liter of yogurt every two days.
What is the AG to do? Walk her damn self to the next damn nexus is what. Because there is another nexus 5 blocks away, one that is open on Sunday. All those supermarkets are open on Sunday. One of them is even open really really late into the night. There is no discernible reason why this nexus is AG friendly and the local one is not.
And if it weren't so damn far away I'd go there every day and show my support through economic means. Five blocks is damn far when you are carrying everything in a backpack and two large shopping bags. I'd like to see you carry all your groceries home.
I'm just glad that we don't live in the bedroom community of Feldballe, where the single supermarket is open M-F 9-5 and on Sat. from 7am to 11am. Honestly, when do people go shopping?
Oh, wait, that's right, no one in Denmark actually works M-F 9-5...
Silly me.
Not so in Denmark.
In Denmark, where the labor laws are so strict that they actually keep the worker from actually having to perform any work, supermarkets tend to congregate in what can only be defined as a Supermarket Nexus of Evil.
Within a two block radius I have the following supermarkets: SuperBest, SuperBrusen, Aldi, and Netto. You may think that I am incredibly lucky to live so close to so many supermarkets, but you forget, this is the nexus of evil not amazingly convenient. They've all decided to band together (hence "nexus") and, instead of competing with one another, not lift a finger to differentiate themselves other than the price of the food inside. Everyone knows that Netto and Aldi are the cheapest, followed by SuperBest and then SuperBrusen. They all have the same type of food. You pick your supermarket based on the degree of snobbishness or elitism that you can afford.
(The AG shops at Netto, much to the DB's horror, because we po'. As soon as the DB will stop hyperventilating over the loss of social standing we've taken through my choice of supermarket, he'll realize how much money we are saving. And I may be able to afford to keep buying the whole-bean-organic-free-trade coffee that he loves so much. Or not, because we po'.)
So how could this nexus of supermarkets be *evil*? Because the entire nexus shuts its doors at 5pm on Saturday and does not open up again until Monday. There's no point in being open on Sunday, it's not like you're competing with the other supermarkets in the nexus! This would not be a problem if Denmark were the type of place where you can buy a weeks worth of food in one go. But Denmark is not that kind of place, despite my best efforts, and continues to be a place where you buy small amounts of food frequently.
And 5 pm on Saturday is just too damn early for me to know what we're going to eat on Sunday. Especially since it seems the DB is going to go through a liter of yogurt every two days.
What is the AG to do? Walk her damn self to the next damn nexus is what. Because there is another nexus 5 blocks away, one that is open on Sunday. All those supermarkets are open on Sunday. One of them is even open really really late into the night. There is no discernible reason why this nexus is AG friendly and the local one is not.
And if it weren't so damn far away I'd go there every day and show my support through economic means. Five blocks is damn far when you are carrying everything in a backpack and two large shopping bags. I'd like to see you carry all your groceries home.
I'm just glad that we don't live in the bedroom community of Feldballe, where the single supermarket is open M-F 9-5 and on Sat. from 7am to 11am. Honestly, when do people go shopping?
Oh, wait, that's right, no one in Denmark actually works M-F 9-5...
Silly me.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Living in a state of chaos
The last few days have been, well, a bit odd.
There was the moving, which is still happening. I really ought to be unpacking, but I've run out of places to put things. I also ought to go to the other apartment and pack up more things, except where am I going to put THOSE things and I think I need more gas and I don't have enough cash to do that and buy food.
But what has really thrown everything for a loop is the construction that is going on. We had the windows on one side of the apartment replaced, which included the windows in my bedroom, my office, the living room and the dining room. Which left the bathroom as the only room in the house that was unaffected. The bathroom has no windows. I cannot go spend all day in there, we have roommates and presumably, they pee. So I've been a bit cold of late. Yesterday the carpenter put the insulation in, thank god, which means I can no longer hear the street so much and the drafts have finally lessened. Of course, the sun then immediately came out and it is now warmer outside than in here.
I've turned on the heat, but it feels as if the cold has permanently invaded my living space! Perhaps it is the sawdust. Sawdust seems to be everywhere, even in places that it shouldn't, like the refrigerator. I think the sawdust is releasing cold into the room.
Don't tell me that this is thermodynamically impossible.
There was the moving, which is still happening. I really ought to be unpacking, but I've run out of places to put things. I also ought to go to the other apartment and pack up more things, except where am I going to put THOSE things and I think I need more gas and I don't have enough cash to do that and buy food.
But what has really thrown everything for a loop is the construction that is going on. We had the windows on one side of the apartment replaced, which included the windows in my bedroom, my office, the living room and the dining room. Which left the bathroom as the only room in the house that was unaffected. The bathroom has no windows. I cannot go spend all day in there, we have roommates and presumably, they pee. So I've been a bit cold of late. Yesterday the carpenter put the insulation in, thank god, which means I can no longer hear the street so much and the drafts have finally lessened. Of course, the sun then immediately came out and it is now warmer outside than in here.
I've turned on the heat, but it feels as if the cold has permanently invaded my living space! Perhaps it is the sawdust. Sawdust seems to be everywhere, even in places that it shouldn't, like the refrigerator. I think the sawdust is releasing cold into the room.
Don't tell me that this is thermodynamically impossible.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Cup of creamy goodness picked in our own backyard!
Okay, that title is misleading - but this post will end with a recipe for the best kick-ass cream of mushroom soup EVER! Cause, I don't know if you know, but cream of mushroom soup is actually tasty when it's not out of a can. Canned cream of mushroom soup should be banned. It's only worth making bad casseroles and no one should have to eat bad casseroles!
I was not passionate about cream of mushroom soup until last night. But last night I had a taste-bud epiphany and I must now spread the word.
But first a digression - All the windows on one side of the apartment, which includes my bedroom and my office are being replaced. Yesterday the old windows were ripped out and new ones nailed in. This means no heat on all day yesterday. Now the new windows are all open so that the carpenter can easily pack insulation around them. So, still no heat. I haven't felt my nose, fingers or toes for the last 36 hours. God I hope tonight I can turn on the heat and not feel the icy draft that is common to Denmark in the fall.
Denmark in the fall, often gorgeous, but freakin' chilly.
Back to the soup. In order to get to last nights feast of flavor I have to go back two days, to when the Danish Boy was assigned a story by his editor. "I want a story about picking mushrooms!" the editor cried. And for whatever reason, the DB was chosen to write, what he calls "a puff piece." I say it is a great chance to try to write a gonzo-journalist story. l I even offered to write it for him. I was really exited by the idea, as you can see.
So yesterday, my boy gets a chance to write a story that would be relevant for the next day's paper, but because his newspaper is trying this new approach, called the "planned newspaper," his editor refused to let him off the hook and so the DB headed off into the woods to pick mushrooms with a nature guide, instead of writing up a story about the latest Gallup poll on the voting youth of Denmark.
Digression - what the heck is a "planned newspaper"? I mean, that's why they call it the NEWS, fercryinoutloud! You can't plan the news. Or, if you could, could you also give me tomorrow night's stock figures? Honestly, once I get done straightening out the danish political system (psst, everyone who hates the current government, instead of voting for 5 different parties, thus splitting the vote and ensuring that the government will not ever change, could you all just pick ONE FREAKING PARTY TO BACK! And hey, Social Democrats, stop pushing a nanny state solution during your campaigns. No one wants a nanny state, which is why Venstre keeps winning. And Venstre, dump the goddamned Danskfolkparty - they suck and anyone is better than that poor excuse for the KKK.) I'm going to have a go at the newspapers. First on my list, no more "planned newspapers" because that's just dumb. Second, stop laying off journalists and trying to compete with the free papers. The free papers are going to collapse soon, the economy cannot afford it. Nyavisen died, so will the others. Lowering yourself to their tabloid standards is tarnishing your reputation. Gah!
Anyway, the DB goes mushroom picking. He learned what mushrooms you can eat and how they are often in symbiotic accord with certain species of trees and all kinds of other things. He was bored stiff. The DB loves nature. He likes to walk through it and look at it. It's me who points to things and says "what's that!" Or "oh, look at the raccoon tracks! You can tell that their 'coons because of the little thumb print here!" I really should have been the person on that hike and the person writing that story. Damn and tarnation.
So after an hour in the woods (which, incidentally, are all over Aarhus, carefully cultivated and well kept) he brought back a bag of mushrooms. "Here" he says, "I slayed dinner."
Yup, my hero returns from the hunt. Only later would he admit that the guide had picked them. But during that time did I question his ability to pick edible mushrooms? No I did not. I accepted those mushrooms as dinner and up I cooked 'em.
Of course how I could cook them was another story. They were a little weird looking. Not your button mushroom, that's for sure. The DB suggested that I saute them up and serve them that way. Pshaw! I can do better than that. And I did.
So I now present the most awesome of Cream of Mushroom Soups (brought to you by Allrecipes.com).
Digression - all of my measuring cups and things are still packed. I highly doubt the accuracy of the IKEA silverware as measuring spoons. Also, I didn't have enough mushrooms. Actually, although I did use everything listed in the ingredients, I sort of played with the amounts. Okay, so the soup I made may not be exactly what I was supposed to be making. I'll put my changes in italics in the right hand side of this table that I spent hours writing the code for. Hey, I learned something new - html code sucks ass.
1) In a large pot cook mushrooms, onions, thyme and broth until tender - 10-15 minutes. So easy!
2) Puree, it's okay to leave some chunks. Oh thank god for my immersion blender! But there wasn't really enough soup to use it easily, so I had to sort of turn the pot at an angle... that's okay, I am totally doubling the recipe for next time.
3) In a smaller pot, melt butter and whisk in flour until smooth. Add salt, pepper and half and half. Mix thoroughly and add mixture to soup. The recipe writer originally wanted you to do this in a big bowl and add the mushroom mix to the cream, but that's just dumb and uses too many pots.
4) Bring soup to a boil, cook until thickened. About 30 seconds if you use whipping cream. Add sherry. Season to taste. And eat that bad boy while it's hot! So freakin' good!
I was not passionate about cream of mushroom soup until last night. But last night I had a taste-bud epiphany and I must now spread the word.
But first a digression - All the windows on one side of the apartment, which includes my bedroom and my office are being replaced. Yesterday the old windows were ripped out and new ones nailed in. This means no heat on all day yesterday. Now the new windows are all open so that the carpenter can easily pack insulation around them. So, still no heat. I haven't felt my nose, fingers or toes for the last 36 hours. God I hope tonight I can turn on the heat and not feel the icy draft that is common to Denmark in the fall.
Denmark in the fall, often gorgeous, but freakin' chilly.
Back to the soup. In order to get to last nights feast of flavor I have to go back two days, to when the Danish Boy was assigned a story by his editor. "I want a story about picking mushrooms!" the editor cried. And for whatever reason, the DB was chosen to write, what he calls "a puff piece." I say it is a great chance to try to write a gonzo-journalist story. l I even offered to write it for him. I was really exited by the idea, as you can see.
So yesterday, my boy gets a chance to write a story that would be relevant for the next day's paper, but because his newspaper is trying this new approach, called the "planned newspaper," his editor refused to let him off the hook and so the DB headed off into the woods to pick mushrooms with a nature guide, instead of writing up a story about the latest Gallup poll on the voting youth of Denmark.
Digression - what the heck is a "planned newspaper"? I mean, that's why they call it the NEWS, fercryinoutloud! You can't plan the news. Or, if you could, could you also give me tomorrow night's stock figures? Honestly, once I get done straightening out the danish political system (psst, everyone who hates the current government, instead of voting for 5 different parties, thus splitting the vote and ensuring that the government will not ever change, could you all just pick ONE FREAKING PARTY TO BACK! And hey, Social Democrats, stop pushing a nanny state solution during your campaigns. No one wants a nanny state, which is why Venstre keeps winning. And Venstre, dump the goddamned Danskfolkparty - they suck and anyone is better than that poor excuse for the KKK.) I'm going to have a go at the newspapers. First on my list, no more "planned newspapers" because that's just dumb. Second, stop laying off journalists and trying to compete with the free papers. The free papers are going to collapse soon, the economy cannot afford it. Nyavisen died, so will the others. Lowering yourself to their tabloid standards is tarnishing your reputation. Gah!
Anyway, the DB goes mushroom picking. He learned what mushrooms you can eat and how they are often in symbiotic accord with certain species of trees and all kinds of other things. He was bored stiff. The DB loves nature. He likes to walk through it and look at it. It's me who points to things and says "what's that!" Or "oh, look at the raccoon tracks! You can tell that their 'coons because of the little thumb print here!" I really should have been the person on that hike and the person writing that story. Damn and tarnation.
So after an hour in the woods (which, incidentally, are all over Aarhus, carefully cultivated and well kept) he brought back a bag of mushrooms. "Here" he says, "I slayed dinner."
Yup, my hero returns from the hunt. Only later would he admit that the guide had picked them. But during that time did I question his ability to pick edible mushrooms? No I did not. I accepted those mushrooms as dinner and up I cooked 'em.
Of course how I could cook them was another story. They were a little weird looking. Not your button mushroom, that's for sure. The DB suggested that I saute them up and serve them that way. Pshaw! I can do better than that. And I did.
So I now present the most awesome of Cream of Mushroom Soups (brought to you by Allrecipes.com).
Digression - all of my measuring cups and things are still packed. I highly doubt the accuracy of the IKEA silverware as measuring spoons. Also, I didn't have enough mushrooms. Actually, although I did use everything listed in the ingredients, I sort of played with the amounts. Okay, so the soup I made may not be exactly what I was supposed to be making. I'll put my changes in italics in the right hand side of this table that I spent hours writing the code for. Hey, I learned something new - html code sucks ass.
| Cream of Mushroom Soup | Archaeogoddess Style |
| 5 cups sliced mushrooms - any type | 4 cupsish wild mushrooms, I have no idea what type |
| 1 1/2 cups chicken broth | 2 cups or 500 ml, because that's what one cube of bouillon makes |
| 1/2 cup chopped onion | A handful of chopped onion, because it looked like it was probably 1/2 cup |
| 1/8 tsp dried thyme | That's a crying shame, I poured some in my palm and then added another dash or two or more. Hey, I like thyme |
| 3tbsp butter | Totally put in 50g or so, which is more than 3 tbsp, but I like butter |
| 3 tbsp flour | I put three soup spoons of flour in, which were not leveled or in any way properly measured |
| 1/4 tsp salt | Or perhaps more, I used my palm to measure and I'm not good at that at all |
| 1/4 tsp pepper | About the same amount as the salt |
| 1 cup half and half | Used whipping cream. And probably more than a cup, since 1 cup is 235 ml but I used the whole carton - which is 250 ml |
| 1 tbsp sherry | Ha! A soup spoon and a lot more. I like sherry. |
1) In a large pot cook mushrooms, onions, thyme and broth until tender - 10-15 minutes. So easy!
2) Puree, it's okay to leave some chunks. Oh thank god for my immersion blender! But there wasn't really enough soup to use it easily, so I had to sort of turn the pot at an angle... that's okay, I am totally doubling the recipe for next time.
3) In a smaller pot, melt butter and whisk in flour until smooth. Add salt, pepper and half and half. Mix thoroughly and add mixture to soup. The recipe writer originally wanted you to do this in a big bowl and add the mushroom mix to the cream, but that's just dumb and uses too many pots.
4) Bring soup to a boil, cook until thickened. About 30 seconds if you use whipping cream. Add sherry. Season to taste. And eat that bad boy while it's hot! So freakin' good!
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
The trouble with research.
The trouble with research is that it piles up. There is the stuff you need to research and thus goes on a to-do list and takes up valuable thought processes and then there is the physical research debris that you cannot get rid of, because you never know when you might write that article or thesis or need to start a bonfire.
The result is that you have potential research piling up metaphysically, current research piling up on your desk, and previous research piling up on your bookshelves.
I have research coming out of my ears. And most of it, tragically is not my own.
No, I'm not stealing other people's research, I am talking about the Danish Boy's research.
If we were to measure book shelf space and use that to judge quantity of research the numbers would go:
9 feet of research space for the archaeogoddess
16 for the Danish Boy - and that's only archaeological research, there's about another 2 feet of philosophy, 1 foot for journalism, and 2 feet that I'll be generous and say we share since they are encyclopedias (of ancient Egypt and the Near East, which I am not currently working on, but hey).
The most frustrating thing of all, at least to me, is that he's not even doing archaeology any more!! That's valuable space that is being taken up with large binders labeled "Akkadian" and "MB tombs: method and theory". Some of these binders are thicker than the binder I have for one chapter of my dissertation. (Space taken up by all dissertation chapter research: 1.5 feet.)
This is because we have very different ways of doing research. I tend to read something, take a page or two of notes and then if I need to see the book or article again, I check it out of the library, again. I deal with finite quantities of data at a time, chapter by chapter and so apart from the huge stack of library books I may have circulating around on the floor, my research space remains small. Lifetime of sharing bedroom and/or office space teaches you to minimize. The DB, on the other hand, has no problem collecting EVERYTHING he may ever need in perpetuity, because he's always had lots of space.
Now, you may be thinking, why, since you've moved and all, don't you just pack it all up and put it away in storage.
Because, dear reader, while the research may not be so useful for me or him, it is useful to the rest of mankind. Also known as those other archaeology student friends of mine.
I have become the one stop shop for research. Need to know something fast? Ask the AG, if she doesn't know it off hand, she can look up the right reference. Got a large topic and don't know where to start? Ask the AG and she'll put you on the right track and possibly even set you up with a preliminary bibliography. And get this: she can even do it for archaeological subjects she knows NOTHING about!
I am... the Archaeogoddess!
The result is that you have potential research piling up metaphysically, current research piling up on your desk, and previous research piling up on your bookshelves.
I have research coming out of my ears. And most of it, tragically is not my own.
No, I'm not stealing other people's research, I am talking about the Danish Boy's research.
If we were to measure book shelf space and use that to judge quantity of research the numbers would go:
9 feet of research space for the archaeogoddess
16 for the Danish Boy - and that's only archaeological research, there's about another 2 feet of philosophy, 1 foot for journalism, and 2 feet that I'll be generous and say we share since they are encyclopedias (of ancient Egypt and the Near East, which I am not currently working on, but hey).
The most frustrating thing of all, at least to me, is that he's not even doing archaeology any more!! That's valuable space that is being taken up with large binders labeled "Akkadian" and "MB tombs: method and theory". Some of these binders are thicker than the binder I have for one chapter of my dissertation. (Space taken up by all dissertation chapter research: 1.5 feet.)
This is because we have very different ways of doing research. I tend to read something, take a page or two of notes and then if I need to see the book or article again, I check it out of the library, again. I deal with finite quantities of data at a time, chapter by chapter and so apart from the huge stack of library books I may have circulating around on the floor, my research space remains small. Lifetime of sharing bedroom and/or office space teaches you to minimize. The DB, on the other hand, has no problem collecting EVERYTHING he may ever need in perpetuity, because he's always had lots of space.
Now, you may be thinking, why, since you've moved and all, don't you just pack it all up and put it away in storage.
Because, dear reader, while the research may not be so useful for me or him, it is useful to the rest of mankind. Also known as those other archaeology student friends of mine.
I have become the one stop shop for research. Need to know something fast? Ask the AG, if she doesn't know it off hand, she can look up the right reference. Got a large topic and don't know where to start? Ask the AG and she'll put you on the right track and possibly even set you up with a preliminary bibliography. And get this: she can even do it for archaeological subjects she knows NOTHING about!
I am... the Archaeogoddess!
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