Sunday, November 7, 2010

I'm Cindy and I'm a Winter Squashaholic

I am powerless to stop winter squash from leaping off the grocery store display into my grocery cart or from the farmer's market table into my shopping bag. I am weakest in the presence of acorn squash.

I must take the squash home, close the blinds, and lock the door. I cut the cute cucurbits up, place them in a casserole, and cook them briefly in the microwave with the lid on. Then I am driven to remove the lid and pop the casserole into the oven until the smell drives me to retrieve the delectable flesh with shaking hands. I try to remember to use oven mitts.

Completely overcome, I surrender and put butter and salt on the squash's delicious goodness and consume it. At night, I distribute the squash rind evidence among the three dumpsters at my apartment complex.

I am confident that my previously unknown metabolic condition, which produces uncontrollable cravings for tender orange flesh, will be discovered soon. I will not have to hide any longer and I can become the spokesperson for the WSA (Winter Squashaholics Anonymous). Between winter squash seasons I will travel extensively and urge others to seek treatment for the condition.
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A recent post on Sarah Lenz's Prose and Potatoes blog forced me to recognize my previously unknown metabolic condition.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Rushing to be Good Citizens

If your true personality comes out when you drive, then I'm in big trouble: I never should have had the gumption to graduate from high school. The only drivers who approach me in mellowness are on the island of Kaua'i.

Island drivers wave you into an endless line of cars crawling toward Lihue on a Friday afternoon. Waiting for the next hick-up forward, they roll down their windows to watch the surfers catching end-of-the-work-week waves. Island drivers thank you with a thumb and pinkie shaka salute when you wave them into line.

Yes, the traffic is heavy and slow; no, we won't get to Kapa'a in time; but the sun is turning the ocean to gold and the guy noseriding the longboard is slicing through the waves like a ship's figurehead. We might as well enjoy the view.

The other evening I uncharacteristically joined the thundering herd of vehicles leaving downtown Boise and wearing their tires to latex dust. Cruising down Front Street I cringed and caved as an SUV loomed on my front fender. I shuddered as a pickup appeared in my back seat at a stoplight. I avoided a Corolla wandering across lane markers while its driver laughed on a cell phone.

A white Suburban stitched a path from one lane to another and back, oblivious to the series of compression waves it created as drivers slowed to avoid it in each lane. The Suburban's brake lights flared angrily when it was caught in another driver's wave. We reached the 184 connector and the race was on. I chose life in the slow lane as a tan Chevy attempted a new land speed record to Meridian.

I looked at the clock on my dash: it was 7:23 pm on Election Day. I had voted that morning but the other drivers clearly had not: they must be rushing to the polls before they close. They must take their civic duty seriously and enjoy casting their ballots as much as I do.