A wise friend of mine once predicted that I will probably die at the hand of my own cooking. Sadly, she is probably right but I’ve recently had some motives to change that. At least this one time.
While staying with my mother for a few weeks during her health scare, a special frand sent me an email about the wonders of kombu / dasima that were relevant to my mother’s condition. I immediately shared all of this information with her and of course, all-knowing Korean mom that she is, it turns out she cooks with it on the regular. Perhaps though, she was unaware of dasima’s abilities to combat hypertension because she began incorporating it into every one of her meals. Determined to make a dish with it so that I could potentially cook it myself next time, I carefully learned the recipe for dasima noodle soup by watching my mom make this seemingly simple meal.
Yo mannn, cooking is hard as shit. All that chopping, timing shit perfectly, portions, buying the right shit, and not to mention the dangerous fires coming from the gas range. It ain’t no joke. When I was ready for the challenge, I offered to cook the dish for my mom and of course she laughed in my face and refused. She was all, “Awwwww, but no.”
-_______- Damn Mom, why you gotta be like that.
So I decided I would pay back my special frand the favor for telling me about dasima by cooking the dish for him. I managed, and somehow it was daaaamn good. Also, we did not die.
GPOYW: Red Moose Lodge Edition
Last weekend I went on my annual ski+cabin trip to Deep Creek Lake, Md. We stayed at a smaller, different cabin this year called the Red Moose Lodge. Like most trips, I arrived without a boo but while running through the cabin for the first time I found a tall, dark and chubby stuffed moose with open arms. His name is Frank and we were in love this past weekend.
I miss him dearly.
Black Cab Sessions: “Bad Girls” - Solange w/ Dev Hynes
And still I try to throw you into my own hurricane
It’s like you spot me trying from a thousand miles away
I looked down on your soul, deep down I know that we’re the same
It’s stupid thinking that you would want to come play my game
Tell me what’s wrong
Now I can’t tell you what’s wrong
I can’t tell you what’s wrong
I can’t tell you what’s wrong
I love this, and I love you.
There were a few cool moments that went down in my neighborhood tonight.
I was on the way down to the corner liquor store (lol drunk) when I ran into a neighbor of mine on our stoop. She congratulated me on winning that silly little design contest and now she wants to come by my place to check it out. Apparently she heard about my win from another neighbor friend of mine, which ew, people are gossiping about me. I explained to her that my place isn’t all that fabulous and that I staged the photo so it looked prettiful and junk. She also wondered why I didn’t blast everyone on Facebook to vote for me and I explained that I wasn’t sure that I needed/wanted to, but also that I wasn’t particularly proud and blah blah blah #humblespeech. Anyway, that felt kinda good.
I hustled up a half block to my liquor store and arrived with five minutes left to spare, like I usually do. Sadly/awesomely, I’m a regular and the guys there are always happy to hook me up. I got my bottle of wine and checked out and the one dude said, “Yeah, I think you quit the smoking, yeah?”. My face lit up. He was totally calling me out for quitting and was happy that it had been quite some time since I asked for a pack of Camel Mentol Silvers (omg gross). “Haha, you noticed! Yeah, it’s been four months, two weeks and a day to be exact,” I said with a huge grin on my face. He smiled and said, “Yeah man, keep it going! We noticed and we’re proud of you!” So basically, I just got words of encouragement from the employees at my local liquor store and I’m not exactly sure what to make of it. All I know is that it felt pretty damn good.
So my management company held this really pathetic and tacky contest where you submit a photo of your place… and I won.
Societal norms often dictate the products people use even if they don’t need them
Several years ago ago, scientists discovered that a gene called ABCC11 determined whether people produced wet or dry earwax. Interestingly, people who produce the “dry” version of earwax also lack a chemical in their armpits that bacteria feed on to cause underarm odor.
“This key gene is basically the single determinant of whether you do produce underarm odor or not,” Day said.
While only 2 percent of Europeans lack the genes for smelly armpits, most East Asians and almost all Koreans lack this gene, Day told LiveScience.
No one knows exactly why gene prevalence varies so much between populations, but its absence in East Asia suggests that being stinky was evolutionarily selected against there over the last several thousand years, he said.
It’s true. The one and only time I think I smelled of B.O. was in high school during my awkward campaign through puberty. Otherwise, my ass is fresh.
VICTORIA AZARENKA, THE #BRBCHEATER.
Just because you can’t manage your nerves while squandering FIVE opportunities to seal the deal, you cannot fake injuries for TEN minutes to gather yourself. All the while, you’re playing mind games with your opponent, the up-and-coming Sloane Stephens, who managed to gain momentum and was up to serve.
And I love how you couldn’t keep your story straight in the post-match interviews. What was it, Vika? Were you choking your game, or could you literally not breathe? Was it your back that was bothering you, or was it the fact that you actually have no spine?
You’re a liar. You’re a cheat. You’re a fake. What you did was ugly, and God don’t like ugly. May Li Na hit you square in the mouth with a ball so you need a real medical time-out.
FOUND while staying with my mother: Microcassette Recorder, circa 1997.
While my friends and I didn’t necessarily have an actual ‘Burn Book’ in high school (Mean Girls was waaay before our time), we did have a ‘Burn Tape Recorder’. We would sit around late at night and record ourselves talking shit about people, then play it back and laugh. #sadnerds
Now we certainly weren’t those people. You know, actual real-life Mean Girls (we were too ugly and poor), but damn- the words exchanged on this tape are a testament to how high schoolers are just mean as shit. Even uncool loser scrubs like us were chopping bitches down and setting them on fire like it was high school deforestation.