For someone who likes to be pregnant as little as possible, I pay pitifully little attention to the schedule of the magical Not Pregnant Fiesta each month. I don’t understand how that becomes a non-issue in my head. I know when it’s happening, I’m happy when it’s done, but if it isn’t one of those two conditions, I have no idea when the next one will be. You’d think with the pain and misery associated with said estrogen miasma that it would be pretty memorable. Because sometimes it’s like a reenactment of Hiroshoma in my gut, I swear. But no. Sometimes, the best guess I have is if I look back in the archives of this diary to see when was the last time I was bitching about it.
So I wonder why I was so filled with the ennui last week? Hmmm?
Gah. Girls are dumb. Or at least, this girl is.
I had lots of grand plans for the weekend, but the onwee made them all somewhat meaningless. My biggest grand plan involved the creation of cr’me puffs. Many many creme puffs, because if you’re going to go through the hassle of making creme puffs, you might as well make a lot of them and share the wealth. I even went to the store and gathered supplies including two dozen eggs and a half-gallon of heavy whipping cream. (Not to mention eight liters of 100% grape/cranberry juice of a particular brand that I adore because sometimes when I go to the grocery store, I get into this weird squirrel mentality) But when to actually make the cream puffs? You know, the recliner was looking pretty nice and also it was raining almost constantly and I’m pretty sure that humidity wreaks havoc on the choux, I’m almost certain. And also, I had to watch a Colin Firth movie, with Colin wearing historical things, which I adore, as it increases the likelihood of seeing some bare Firth (although I was denied the bare Firth this time. Damn you Vermeer! Damn you for being morally good! Why couldn’t you be like licentious Monet, hmmm? And show me your nipple! )
I wasn’t entirely nonproductive, however. I did make a trek out to the non-squicky butcher and scored carnivorous provisions for the next month, including a chuck roast that I marinated in chipolte and garlic and will use for burrito filling later this week. Very spicy burritos, apparently, because I got a bit heavy-handed with the chipolte (man, it totally sneaks up on you and the rips the top of your skull off). I also did some (fucking) laundry so that I wouldn’t have to go to work naked this week. Which is always a plus.
I have noticed, however, at the non-squicky butcher, that my propensity for vegetarianism is creeping in stealthily into my brain. When I was doing the vegetarian thing last time, it wasn’t that I was making a political statement or anything, but rather that the idea of meat grossed me out. First I could no longer deal with ground beef, then pork, then any kind of beef, then all chicken. And by the time I was starting to get iffy about fish, I just started declaring that I was a vegetarian because it was easier than explaining to people that I thought what they were trying to serve me looked disgusting. And in general, I was happier that way, until I was able to look at raw meat without gagging and started craving a tenderloin again. But things are getting iffy again. I’ve had at least three incidences of bacon gross-outs in the last month. About half the time, I cannot deal with the thought of eating ground beef, and while Esteban was in Vegas, I threw out a package that was in the refrigerator rather than cook it and deal with it myself. In fact, while Esteban was gone, I became compulsive about Boca’s fake chicken patties. I went through two boxes as well as 8 whole wheat buns and an entire bag of spring greens (because spring greens and some Fat Free Miracle Whip? It is the yum!). But then, I eyed up some Quorn patties, which an advertisement in Vegetarian Times (which contains a million recipes that I never make, but I enjoy nonetheless if not for only the reason that I commune for a minute with my hippy childhood) assured me that Quorn tasted better than real chicken patties, but with no squick factor! Even though they cost about a dollar more for four than the Boca patties and also I have no idea how to pronounce the name (but in my head, it sounds like some kind of crop pesticide), I tried them. I was pretty skeptical, especially when I opened the box and found four weird little breaded biscuits just hanging out in the box, without an extra plastic protective device (a patty condom?) as the Bocas have. Also, they looked darker, smaller, a little bit more angry. So, more expensive, smaller, and packaged unattractively. These patties seemed to have something to prove. They had chips on their shoulder and were ready to pick a fight with anyone. Because I was skeptical and didn’t want to wait for a Boca to heat up if the Quorn sucked, I put both in my toaster oven and the performed my very own Not!Chicken taste test.
Call me Quorn Girl.
Quorn rocks. The breading is flavorful and has a hint of pepper that lingers on the palate. And the fake chicken part is good. In fact, it’s almost too much like meat in that I keep worrying that I’m going to bite into some errant piece of cartilage (one of my constant fears when eating any chicken nuggety type thing) except beans have no cartilage, so it’s all good, baby! What walks down stairs alone or in pairs and makes a cluck cluck sound? Not Quorn, because it doesn’t have feet! It’s Quorn!
Ok, I know I’m way excited about this, but if you had a monthly flutter tummy and the only healthy option you had were toasted cheese sandwiches and bowls of cereal, you’d be happy about fake chicken too.
Now off to go make creme puffs.
