Gluttony
After an ill-fated attempt at making peach hand-pies for a dinner party, only to have the tasteless, labor-intensive little lumps mocked openly as "hair pies" (another thing entirely, I soon learned) I made nectarine brown butter buckle cake this weekend and it was divine. DIVINE, I tell you. Because I am incapable of following instructions, I used more fruit than called for, added plums to the mix for color, and at the last minute added a little glug of almond extract to the batter. People, the almond flavah sent it over the edge into a place that made it unsafe for people with no willpower. I am deeply disgusted to report that Fauxhawk and I ate the ENTIRE THING while watching Mad Men. Foul.
Excuse me while I lapse into self-congratulation here for a moment, but did I mention the incredibly delicious bourbon chicken liver pâté I made recently? That we spread on little toasts with cornichon? That would go really well with fig jam? Or the milk braised chicken with lemon and sage that I served with lemon risotto for a grand total of 75,000 calories? Hell's yeah.
While all of this can be counted as part of Fauxhawk's sanctioned post-smoking binge-fest, such behavior is NOT ALLOWED FOR PEOPLE WHO NO LONGER FIT INTO ANY OF THEIR CLOTHES. Seriously, I blame it on the knives. The best part of getting married? Deluxe cooking tools.
I've spent my entire adult life cooking with a cast iron skillet, a dutch oven, two sauce pans and a set of knives as sharp as a bag of wet mice. I was happy, the way you're happy eating cabbage every day of your life while chained to a radiator. I had a vague idea that cooking gear existed, but lived in a beautiful place where unicorns go to die. Then I got married and people started giving me knives. Insane, expensive, beautiful knives that could split the hair of a winsome wallaby. I now have a fucking meat cleaver, people! I'm cleaving shit left, right and center! I slice! I dice! I shear poultry! it's amazing. Now all I want to do is cook and eat and bake and eat and assemble and eat, and as I report this I am now fatter than a Republican in a tub full of poor people. I shudder to think what will happen when I finally get up the nerve to open my new pots and pans. They will have to coat me in Crisco to get me out the door.
Sloth
Somehow my enthusiasm for cooking has not extended to keeping an orderly apartment. When you live in 550 square feet with another person and two Fucking Cats, a magazine thrown casually across the coffee table gives the apartment the air of a Newark crack den. Though Fauxhawk and I are not particularly tidy by nature, we managed to relegate the disorder to the bedroom, proclaiming the living room a Zone of Serenity. As we got busier, shit got out of hand. Piles of wedding related crap, correspondence, pictures, tax documents, magazines, and assorted items of little and great import teetered precariously on various surfaces.
I finally called my mommy. "I've lost the Zone! The Zone is gone!" I wailed into the phone. "I need your help." (If you're thirty-four, it's probably not cool to call your mommy to help you clean your shit up, but I promised to make lunch with my new knives.) Together, we took care of business. It was ruthless and incredibly therapeutic. Why didn't I do this sooner?
Answer: Because I am lazy and can't be bothered to deal with the harsh realities of adult life.
Envy
Pride
Categorically refuse to go to gym because:
- Current pair of track pants has massive hole in crotch
- Working out is undignified unless you are Mohammed Ali or whatever
- Unspoken competition of treadmill jockeys and their level 200/incline 400 runs
- Unnecessary mirror time
- Postage stamp sized towels reveal more of left ass cheek than is necessary
- Prefer to spend time contemplating international women's movement and other high minded pursuits
Greed
I dare you to read Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide and not feel like a spoiled, over-fed (see above), whining (see entire archives of WPM), useless piece of flesh. I dare you to read it and not feel incredibly moved, awe-struck, and motivated to get involved in improving the lives of women across the globe. Though a lot of the issues the book outlines aren't particularly new to me, the profiles of the women featured inspire action. The shocking thing is how high impact even small contributions can be, especially in the developing world, where women's lives and livelihoods can be utterly transformed for the equivalent of a month's worth of double tall lattes. I got interested in micro-lending (which is by no means a panacea) and made a modest loan to a collective of Malian women farmers. Here's a picture of them (above) - aren't they beautiful? Dude, that's what they wear when they're farming. I'm so excited to hear about their progress. I'll let you know how the process goes, in case anyone out there is interested in experimenting with micro loans. Anyway, all of this is to say that the book is wonderful as an inpiration for change. I find that very little moves me to action these days, so when something does, it's worth sharing. Check out the website, which is really handy in breaking down organizations by issue. Has anyone out there sponsored a child or adult? What was your experience like?
Lust
Shortly after transforming into Mother Theresa, I spotted this doctor's bag
and these shoes
on Topsy Design. I want them. I want them both.
Am I a bad person? Even though I am a pretend doctor and need a proper bag to go with my pretend medical practice? That cures women of vaginal fistulas in Ethiopia?
Wrath
So incapable of drowning out the douchebag at the neighboring table last night that I spent our entire anniversary dinner:
- Muttering "douche" a tad too loudly
- Thanking the sweet baby Jesus that I never have to go on another first date with a doucher EVER AGAIN (second benefit of being married - after sharp knives)
- With my mouth literally agape at the outrageous and audacious douchebaggery
- Incapable of carrying on a conversation with my husband for fear it would interfere with my ability to bear witness to the douchiness
Photo credits from top to bottom: Smitten Kitchen, Everybody Likes Sandwiches, Flickr, Fine Little Day, Kiva, Topsy Design.
