serinde

0. Have a bunch of de-fatted ground almonds left over from making orgeat during a hurricane. Wonder what to do with them. Ah hah! Crusted fish.

1. Fall into a fugue state at Gourmet Garage. Wake up with .36 lb of hake fillet. What's a hake? Well, the Monterey Bay Aquarium says it's a "good choice", so fine.

2. Combine ~1/4c. of the almonds with ~1 Tbsp of leftover flour-salt-pepper-thyme mix from an earlier breaded thing.

3. Crack an egg into the bowl. Realize the whole thing is not needed to gum up this fillet, and that the white could go into a Ramos Fizz later. Extract the yolk, beat with a little milk.

4. Dip the hake into the egg, then into the almond/flour mix. Stare in astonishment as the entire thing gloms onto the fish side. Whip up another batch for the skin side.

5. Press the hake skin-side down into the new almond mix. Stare in astonishment as none of it sticks. FINE.

6. Put the hake nut-side down into a heated skillet that has some olive oil in on eh, medium heat or so.

7. Pour a glass of a remarkably acidic viognier.

8. Start writing this post. Five minutes in, OH HEAVENS MAH NUTS ARE BURNIN'. Flip the fish.

9. After a few moments, realize the fillet is probably cooked through anyways. Yep. Extract to plate.

10. Wow, that's really good! Spinach Cat likes the cat yums, too.

Today's lesson is that doing a search for reviews of Bluetooth headsets / handsfree kits has a worse S:N ratio than, I don't know, "Obama birth certificate".

So, lazyweb: I took your advice regarding the headphones to get, and am deliriously in love with my MC3s. What say you for going cordless? Is the Ety-BLU2 equally magic?

As most of the Gentle Readers are aware, I have been happy in my apartment for the past two years. I was wibbling a little bit when renewal time came around this year (which I must needs sign in January, for a cycle date of April 1), but that was because I could use just a little more space to get my sewing on and reunite the last of my stuff that sweh is storing for me, not because I wasn't content. But because I was still happy, and because I knew that the winter/spring was going to be direfully busy & I would be in no shape to hunt a new place, I re-upped.

Immediately, of course, my DSL and phone line started having continual issues, my drains started blocking up, and a bunch of annoying people moved into the building, which also compelled the live-in super (who can be ... tricky to deal with, but who thinks I'm dandy and was always happy to sign for my packages) to retire because she was sick of dealing with their shit.

The telecomms have been fixed. The drains have been fixed (New Super managed that, and seems nice enough, though he's a bit of a dip). However, the crazy Russians on the fifth floor still have their periodic shrieking, door-slamming 1am fights into the airshaft, the drunken twat on the fourth floor still slams all the buzzers at the wee hours 'cause she always forgets her keys[1]...and then there's Downstairs Guy.

I met Downstairs Guy in passing when he moved in, and he seemed like an okay guy; bit awkward. Local gossip via ex-super says he's a divorcee who is Getting Himself Together and all--well, I can surely relate. However, we find that his method of Getting Himself Together seems to revolve around a relationship with Mary Jane, if'n you knows what I means. This is none of my business and I would neither know nor care, except that he leaves his back door, some eight inches below my window, standing open when he lights up, and the smoke comes right up into my window, permeating all the way back to the bedroom. Apparently he does not like his apartment to smell of ganja. WELL NEITHER DO I.

Anyone who cracks wise about "lol contact high lol" will get nad-punches, because I cannot stand the smell of pot smoke; I never could, and if there is enough of it I get sick to my stomach. Nor am I going to close my windows, because a) I live for fresh air, and b) I don't have aircon so the instant we stop being 55 and rainy the place will be deadly if I do. After a certain amount of agonizing and whining on Facebook, as one does, I penned a polite note in which I mentioned that I had no objection to his pastime but I really disliked having the smoke in my apartment, so if he could close his door when smoking up I'd really appreciate it; and this I slipped under his door one fine morning.

Mirabile dictu, it actually seemed to work for a time, but in the last two weeks he's started up more than ever. One evening, fortified by cocktails, I actually yelled out the window "PLEASE TURN YOUR WEED DOWN", but I have no idea if he even heard it... New York custom permits of some several responses to this situation. Passive-aggressive, sarcastic notes posted publicly in the stairwell is a respected art form. There is always shot-rolling, i.e. making horrendous noises on my floor/his ceiling at hours of day or night for equivalent annoyance. One could whine to the super and/or the landlord. There is the nuclear option--hollering copper--but I have moral objections to that (and it's not like they'll put it at the top of their to-do list anyways). Or creative, specific solutions such as reaching down through the fire escape slats with my broomstick and closing his door forcibly when the smoke rises.

Or, hey, I guess I could go knock on his door and try talking to him. I have all kinds of resistance to this idea, as I am still deep down a self-effacing, non-confrontational, good Midwestern child. (Not to mention, if he decides to get stroppy, he will know for sure who His Enemy is.) Tonight, however, I actually got to the point of getting dressed again in preparation of so doing, but by the time I did he finished his doob and the smell was gone so I didn't really have anything to propel me.

I have no idea what I'm going to do if this doesn't work, though. Can one break one's lease because of smoky neighbors?

[1] This is much more amusing in Breakfast at Tiffany's than it is in real life, I do assure you.

Unlike many of my icons, I have no particular Sekrit Meaning here. I just love Hellboy's first encounter with pancakes.

I haven't really posted about work since starting the new job a year ago. (Then again, I haven't posted much about anything, so it's not that I've been deliberately exclusionary.) But it is needful to set up some background before getting to the actual meat of this post.

( Lo: Background. )

( Primal conflict: man vs. self. )

( What do you do when you don't know what to do? )

( Takeaway: )

Things that suck mightily include: finding out that facets of yourself which you depended on implicitly, which you thought were as solid as the rock of time, have in fact been silently undermined by enemy sappers over the past N years while you were off fighting on other fronts; and when you go to build on them again, all sorts of alarming creaky noises start up and the foundation is swaying back and forth and you're left going "seriously what the fucking fuck? and also, this is not me."

Repair crews are onsite, but clearly the rebuilding is gonna take awhile.

(I have been variably moody and moopy about this, but little jets of anger are starting to spark that I let it happen to myself.)

Department Assistant: "Hi, I'm calling from the XXXX department. We need to order a computer for our lab, and it has to be an HP, how do we do that?"
Your humble correspondent: "Is there a particular reason it has to be an HP? Is there some kind of peripheral or card it has to have? Because the desktop machines are pretty much created equal, and we should be able to get you a much better deal through Dell."
DA: "I don't know but they said it has to be HP because it needs to run this thing...what is it... L - I - N - U - X ?"
YHC: "...Why don't you email me the spec and we'll figure out what you need to order."

(Quoth elibalin, "Maybe that's why my printer keeps jamming. I'm using Windows ink.")

The challenge: to find something to stuff in a pita, using only the contents of the somewhat-bare cupboards, as we do not choose to stock up on supplies when we will not be eating at home for a week. So what goes in a pita? Protein, because we need it; and what flavors that are somewhat middle eastern, or at least pass a squint test?

1. Heat some toasted sesame oil in the skillet.
2. Add mustard seeds. Heat up until they start popping around, at which point hastily put a lid on top.
3. While that's going, scatter some sea salt on the cutting board. Take two big garlic cloves, slice in half, extract and discard the sprouty bits. Crush the cloves into the salt with your knife blade. Throw in the skillet.
4. Take ye a cup or so of the cooked, chopped-up chicken left over from Twelfth Night, of which you have a gallon Ziploc in the fridge. Dump it into the pan and break it up.
5. Slice a bit of red onion and throw it on in.
6. You are, of course, stirring around now and again during all these steps.
7. When the chicken is a bit warmed up, liberally add cumin, a bit of paprika, and some dried mint that's way past its best but still has a bit of aroma. Thrash until everything's uniformly coated.
8. Put in some pomegranate molasses--probably about a tablespoon, all told, maybe a touch more. Again with the thrashing and the coating and what-not.
9. Let it cook together until the chicken is heated through. Add salt to taste. Serve it forth with your pita and glob some yogurt on top if that's your kink.

Eminently successful! I probably ate too much.

Posting this link so I don't space it again: Which it's a Dinner for the Glorious First of June.

I tend to view flexible spending accounts as rather like gym memberships: they are viable based on the indolence of the 85% of consumers who pay a lot in advance and then never take real advantage. If you're one of the remaining 15%, and put in the effort, they're sure worth it, but for everyone else the vendor is snickering up its sleeve at you.

Since my glasses start at $500, however, I thought it might be Relevant to my Interests, so I joined when my benefits kicked in on July 1. I didn't think about it until December hit, at which point I was all "oh er better get on that". Fine, no worries. Step 1: find out how much I have accumulated, so I know how many pairs I can buy. Looking through the Folder o' Paperwork, I see that we are through Cigna (even though our health insurance is Oxford; don't ask me, I just work here), so onward to the Cigna web site for online account whee.

The web site wots not of me. A chill runs down my spine.

I phone them yesterday. After navigating the voicemail and waiting in a queue for 20 minutes, I get a recorded message saying "Our facility is temporarily closed right now, please call back later." WELL THAT'S REASSURING

Today, I phone. I am phoning the number listed on the form one uses to get reimbursed for FSA expenses, so I presume it is the right number. I navigate through voicemail, wait in a queue for 15 minutes, get a human. She's never heard of me, and transfers to another who "specializes in FSAs". She's never heard of me, and transfers me to another who "knows more about FSAs". She's never heard of me or of Barnard College.

I phone the Benefits Coordinator in HR. I confirm that we are with Cigna for this service, and I'm enrolled in it.

Your humble correspondent: "But they say they have no record--"
She cuts me off: "You phoned the wrong number."
YHC: "It's the number on--"
She cuts me off: "You phoned the wrong number. You called the medical insurance line, not the FSA line."
YHC: "But the person I talked to--"
She cuts me off: "The number you need to dial is 1-800-XXX-YYYY"
YHC, thoroughly irritated: "THAT IS THE NUMBER I CALLED."
Her: "...Oh. Well. You're definitely enrolled and so you shouldn't have a problem."
YHC: "..."
Her: "..."
YHC: "...So, how do I get Cigna to acknowledge that?"
Her: "I'll call our representative."
YHC: "OK, you'll touch base with me then just so I know what's going on?"
Her: "YES."
YHC: "Great, thanks, bye." *click* @($*!##@!

All I wanted was a pair of glasses. Just one Goddamn pair of glasses.