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Brewing beer

As I stood there in the heart of the Electric Ladyland Brewery (aka R__’s kitchen) and watched the wort boil over I knew it was my fault. Wasn’t it my hand that dropped the hops into the pot just a few seconds before? I turned away and turned back to see all this liquid and stuff (you know the STUFF that is in wort) end up on the stove. I have this magical ability to ruin things that have to be made in a kitchen just by being in the kitchen, and in this case I actually took part in the brewing process. Double whammy. Of course the master brewer (aka R__) and her competent assistant (aka M__) said it was because the pot was too small, and the master brewer said she needed to update the equipment (buy a kettle from the brewing place, as you can see I am a very technical person). Still part of me still believes it was my malevolent-non-cooking aura that did it. Kitchens and me don’t get along. I should stick to making catnip socks for the in-house entertainment (resident furry citizen).
So how did I become part of this marvelous brewing crew at the excellent Electric Ladyland Brewery? The master brewer invited me to join the festivities and it was fun. After being a part of it I understand why brew brewing is best done with more than one person. And after all there were only two minor mishaps, one of which I captured on video, (the master brewer forbade from posting it, you can clearly hear on the video “THE HELL YOU ARE POSTING THIS ON YOU-TUBE”, though so it is not here). The other two videos I took of the brewing process are at the end of this post.

Besides being the competent assistant, and the only other person beside the Master Brewer with brewing experience, M__ was the assigned documenter of the day. Put in simple turns, she photographed the steps as we did them. I took a few, hopefully I will get the titles right, but here goes anyway.

I believe this is as R__ was pouring in the liquid malt, this is done when the water boils, it takes a while because it is very thick and so comes out of the bottle slowly. After this a powder is put in, I don’t remember what this powder is called, but its pictured in the second video. It all comes in a kit, everything is pre-measured and labeled, the only thing we had to measure was the water, and time the cooking process. One must also have the proper equipment, and one needs a kitchen. I don’t have a kitchen, I also don’t have the desire to brew beer. I had a lot of fun helping but it’s not something that I yearn to do.

Then after the hops are added and boiled for the correct time period, the whole pot was put in the sink with ice to cool it. When got to the correct temp it is then poured into a big jug, water is added and then the white stopper goes in and the big jug gets rocked around to aerate the liquid. Then the yeast is poured in. I’m told this is how it is supposed to look like. Then it sits, I don’t know if it is still called wort, but the yeast gets eaten up and the water bubbles in the clear thing above the stopper. R__ said she would video it, so it will almost be like I’m there.

It smelled though, I turned to R__ and started to say, “It smells …” and she replied “Yes doesn’t it smell good?” I didn’t agree so I just shut my mouth. After a while I either got used to it or it got less intense, but that is another reason I will probably not open a “Princessa Brewery” in the Upper East Side.

The brew was a brown Ale with the clever name: Caribou Slobber. And I know you all want to know, did I ruin the beer? R__ doesn’t think so, we will know in two weeks. In the meantime I have “Hemingway IPA” a black coffee IPA from Electric Ladyland brewery to try. Cheers.

2013 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,100 times in 2013. If it were a cable car, it would take about 18 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

When you’re making other plans is the saying. In my experience it would be ‘death is what happens’ which is a part of life as they say. Just when I decided that I would dig deep and buy an iPad I get a phone call. Now I have to save money for a plane ticket to the west coast. I have six months I was told.

One time I said I would only get on a plane if someone died. I’m making a slight adjustment, died or is dying. I would like to get out there before he dies.

Of course this means my heart is breaking into pieces inside me and the pain is more than I can bear, but I can’t think about that now, when life happens it still goes on.

And there are 8 things you should know about Mesothelioma. They are listed on The Mesothelioma Cancer Alliance Blog.

My first job was at a place called “Tampa Rubber & Gasket”, some of the gaskets were cut from sheets of pressed asbestos. I should probably be more worried about this than I am, but I don’t think there is anything I could do about it at this point, other than just watch for symptoms and get regular screening. I keep telling Em, I’m not going to die of anything because nothing interesting happens to me. She always rolls her eyes at that.

Last Sunday was the 5th Annual Damon Runyon 5K at Yankee Stadium, a run/walk for cancer research. This is not the first 5K I have done for charity but this time I decided I would run. Mainly just for the personal satisfaction of running.

photo (3)I signed up in June and started training, that was probably a little short sighted of me since that gave me just 8 weeks to train. However I was convinced by the app I looked at that I could do it, I’m not going to say they lied, because I did have a few setbacks of my own, pain in my legs in the second week, unbearable heat for a week and I got sick. By the time the run came around I was at week six and the farthest I had run was 1.58 miles, a 5K is 3.1 miles. To say I was a little nervous when Sunday came around would be a bit of an understatement. Since I said I was going to run and had collected money to donate, I was determined to not quit. I picked up my race packet ahead of time and wrote the names of the people I was running for on the blue sign they provided for me in purple ink, then pinned it to my purple shirt, taking great care to make sure it was straight.

Standing in line waiting to go in I was rather preoccupied with thoughts that I would either trip, fall or die so I didn’t notice the people around me until a photographer said something to the woman behind me about being a Mets fan. She was wearing a Mets hat and Mets socks. She was also wearing a DR run shirt and had written all over it names, “In Honor” and “In Memory”, something I had planned on doing but never got around to. I also saw a boy in an Indians shirt and the lady behind me said she saw some in Red Sox shirts. Cancer’s not picky is what she said, I think.

20130821-130404.jpgAs I walked in I heard some people saying they were going to start off walking. That made me feel a little better, knowing that some others in the group were walking. As the race went on, most were running and walking, I felt like I fit right in. After the run was over I met up with the lady who had been behind me, who was actually a very nice Mets fan. That was when I found out I had actually done a smart thing signing up for the slowest group of runners, since that group is usually made up of slow runners and fast walkers. Score one for the rookie. The race course is inside Yankee Stadium, twice around the main level, then down to where Monument Park is, past the entrance to Mohegan Sun Sports bar around and out twice around the warning track. Runners are not allowed in the dugout, but no one stopped me from taking this picture, and see the front of the barricade there? I put my foot up there to retie my shoe. Then back inside and up the stairs to the 3rd level, down the ramp to the great hall, then to the right and back up the stair to the third level, 286 stair steps in total. Then back down to the finish line to pick up a bottle of water, a medal and a goodie bag.

After the run, when I was leaving the stadium, the woman who had been behind me asked me how I did. “I finished.” I said, she gave me a high five and we walked to the subway together. I got off at Columbus Circle and a couple carrying Damon Runyon goodie bags got off at the same time and exclaimed, “MORE STAIRS!”

There were photographers everywhere, now I have to decide which picture to buy, on the warning track? And if on the warning track, which picture on the warning track? The one of me running, sticking my tongue out at the photographer, or walking slowly looking at my phone? Maybe one of me inside on the stairs? Crossing the finish line or standing in the great hall with the Yankee logo behind my head? I might have to get all of them.

The ramen place wasn’t busy, so I plopped down and had some spicy ramen, my treat to myself for not giving up.

There were 2,559 participants, 1,321 were women, there were 79 women in my age group. Of the 2,559 I came in 1,975 and my time was 50:46. My next event? I’m thinking a 10K.

Are You Licensed to Ride the Bus?

I got this link in a comment to my “Riding the Bus” post, not only do I agree with these guidelines I could probably add a few or a hundred to them.

A A's avatarA Collection of Musings

dog_bus

In order to drive a car, you have to take lessons and pass a test. I strongly believe that transit users should also be subject to rigorous testing, because they too can be a hazard to the public. In order to enforce the system, there should be inspectors who you show your ‘Certified to Ride Public Transportation’ card to. If you get 10 de-merit points in 1 month, you will need to undergo an intensive course entitled ‘How to Behave in Public’.

I understand that this is unlikely to happen unless city leaders start using transit and see for themselves that most villages have in fact put their local idiot on a bus to the city.

In the meanwhile, based on real experiences, I’ve drafted a list of guidelines I would like to print out and hand to people who ride the bus or metro with me.

  1. If you drop…

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Yesterday I rode the bus, it is an event that happens with sufficient infrequency to be noteworthy. It would never have happened if I knew how to cook sausage in a non-stick pan. I suppose I could blame that on my mother, since she had a cast-iron skillet and taught me how to cook sausage and eggs in that instead of a non-stick pan. Or maybe I could blame it on the fact that I now eat chicken or turkey sausage and there is not as much fat draining out into the pan. The fact remains that I ruined my pan cooking sausage in it and when I told Em I wanted to buy a cast-iron skillet she suggested going to Home Goods after the game yesterday.

20130816-023001.jpgWe took the B train from Yankee Stadium to 103rd, from there we walked to Home Goods, where I found a small cast-iron skillet, mission accomplished! I also saw these green Ramekins which I had to have. They are oven safe to 500°F (260°C) and also microwave, blowtorch and dishwasher safe, except I don’t have any of those. Really! I don’t have a blowtorch, never needed one. Em said they would not be a frivolous purchase because I would make baked eggs in them. I was thinking they would be good for single servings of baked Macaroni and cheese myself, or for heating up macaroni and cheese since I don’t have a microwave. Then we stopped at Model’s for socks, which they didn’t have. After that we went to eat Mexican food.

Em was ready to walk to Grand Central, I was ready to go home, but we were on the west side and I didn’t want to walk across the park since I always get lost walking across the park. Don’t ask and don’t judge. Also I was carrying this heavy cast-iron pan, 4 green Ramekins and 3 yellow bananas. And my knee hurt. That was when I got on the bus. If you’ve been reading this blog you may know that I hate the bus more than the train. Even when a friend tells me, “If you take the bus from church it will drop you right by your apartment.” I will still walk the two blocks to the Green Train and then walk the two blocks back to 2nd Ave. The Crosstown bus is not that bad. However once I got off the crosstown bus I walked up 2nd Avenue home. Which is how I ended up with a bottle of Aleve (that I needed) and a bottle of shampoo (that I didn’t really need but Ricky’s sucked me in).

While riding the bus I was struck by the thought that public transportation in NYC represents the diversity of the city. At one stop a man got on wearing a pale suit and straw Fedora (a different type of hat I would have said he was a southern gentleman), followed by a woman wearing a skirt and shirt (not quite pulled together businesswoman attire, looking pissed off, I wonder if the southern gentleman made a chauvinist comment to her), then a middle aged man wearing shorts and a Mets shirt (EWWW!), a teenage boy was next (he might have been with Mr. Met). There was also this ancient woman with hair down her back that looked like one big dreadlock (please don’t sit too close to me).

At least it was better than the subway ride to the stadium when I saw two women not wearing bras that should have been. One had on one of those strapless dresses that are cute if you’re not a DD cup, the other woman was wearing a white racerback tank top. My eyes, please my eyes hurt after that.

GulagIn The Gulag Archipelago (which is about the Russian prison system, and which I have decided to abandon at page #132) Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn talks about the periods of mass arrests. He refers to them as rivers, the wave of 1929 and 1930, the size of a good River Ob, and later 1944 to 1946, the size of a good Yenisei. The other day as I waited for the train, I thought about what an accurate description of people that was, because the people keep coming not caring what is in their way. If it is something big, they move around it, something small, and they just run over it, push it out of the way. Even if that thing is a person, like me.

This is what happens in the train, people come like a river, they keep coming even when there is no more room. Even when I want to shout, “There’s no more room in here! Wait for the next train!” On the subway platform when the train has been delayed they keep coming, they look down the stairs at the mass of people and think, “There’s room for one more.” Except everyone looking down is thinking the same thing, so instead of one more there is ten more, then ten more after that.

Don’t do it, just take the bus.

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Just a quick post to remember the day, it was sudden and I was here, he was there so I didn’t get to say good-bye, something that matters only to me.

Oh you fancy?

It started with the yogurt. When I was on Weight Watchers I started eating non-fat Greek yogurt, the reason being Greek yogurt is high in protein (18g in 6 ounces of plain non-fat Greek yogurt, 9g in 6 ounces of regular non-fat yogurt). This guy, (who’ll I’ll call Guy) walks back and asks what I’m eating, after telling him he says “Oh fancy yogurt.” From then on he called it “Your special fancy yogurt.” which really pissed me off. It was more the way he said it, which to me sounded like, “Oh you think you’re so special (better than everybody else) you have to have special fancy yogurt.” Like my ‘specialness went that far’. NO I think I’m fat and need to lose weight. When I tried explaining it to him, in an effort to get him to stop saying it, Guy insisted that’s not how he meant it. He meant it as a compliment.

Fast forward to this week, Guy and I go get lunch, I got chicken cutlet with mixed vegetables. The deli gave us plastic forks, which I don’t like using, so when we got back to the office I went to my cubicle and got a flatware fork. Immediately he says, “Oh you had to get your fancy fork.” I almost stabbed him with it. It’s not fancy, I’ve had plastic forks break when stuck into food, sometimes they won’t stick into food the tines bend, if I had been by myself (which is how I prefer to have my lunch) I would have told the deli people I didn’t need a fork. If I had brought my plate he would have said “You had to get your special plate” (oh wait, my plate is special, it’s heart shaped and says LOVE on it). You might be thinking why don’t I just say “No” when he asks me to get lunch with him? It’s not just that he pays for lunch, if I say “No, I brought my lunch” then for the next month he goes on about how hurt he was, how if it was him, he would have left his lunch for the next day. Reinforcing the “You think your so special, better than everybody else.” I’m not special, I’m an introvert and need my alone time.

Then there’s the favorites, my FAVORITE deli, and if I find a new place I like, your FAVORITE new place. All with that special inflection on favorite that makes me want to spit. There’s a word for what you’re doing Guy, its called “HARASSMENT”.