Here's a taste of what I was working on this week (it was busy):
First a story about the Maryland delegation's reaction a little speech called the State of the Union
Then I got the call to fill in for the old alma mater's newspaper to cover KU basketball player Thomas Robinson's heartbreaking tale The photos really tell the story. Great job by the AP guy.
Then the weekly wrestling update, this time about an undefeated kid with a fearsome name
Then I finished up the week by asking people at an apartment complex how they felt about not being told that a fugitive characterized as "armed and extremely dangerous" was spotted near their homes.
All in all, a pretty satisfying week.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
Staying true to my roots
I've been living out here on the East Coast for about half a year now, but I'm still Midwestern to the core. How do I know? Simple: I still make eye contact with people on the street in downtown DC. In fact, I still sometimes say "Hi," no matter how many times they've reminded me that's just not done here by walking coolly by without so much as a nod.
People are serious here. They're in a hurry, they're on the phone, they don't want to be bothered, I get that. But it makes the city feel kind of lonely, when you're surrounded by hundreds of thousands of people and none of them want to acknowledge your existence. Yes, I still wear some of the same clothes I wore in high school, but I don't think they're tattered enough yet that people are mistaking me for a hobo trying to hit them up for money. And it's not as if I'm marveling at the tall buildings with a big, hick grin like Mary Tyler Moore ready to throw my hat in the air.
On the Metro (DC's version of the subway), on the other hand, I'm not invisible. Far from it. There's perhaps no greater blow to the male ego than when a young lady gets on the train, looks at the open seat next to you, looks at you, and then remains standing near the doorway. What she's saying is, "I could sit in your general vicinity, but I'd really rather stand... in five-inch heels... on an unsteady surface... while carrying this 20-pound purse. That's how much I want to avoid you."
Fortunately, though, at the end of the day I get to go home to my little Salvadoran sanctuary in the suburbs, where people still smile at each other and say "Hi" (or gently correct me when I say "Buenas dias" at a time of day that calls for "Buenas tardes").
There's definitely good things about living out here. The different cultures, for one. Also, I've lost about 15-20 pounds in the past six months, perhaps because I no longer consume cheese and red meat at every meal. But all in all, I miss the Midwest.
People are serious here. They're in a hurry, they're on the phone, they don't want to be bothered, I get that. But it makes the city feel kind of lonely, when you're surrounded by hundreds of thousands of people and none of them want to acknowledge your existence. Yes, I still wear some of the same clothes I wore in high school, but I don't think they're tattered enough yet that people are mistaking me for a hobo trying to hit them up for money. And it's not as if I'm marveling at the tall buildings with a big, hick grin like Mary Tyler Moore ready to throw my hat in the air.
On the Metro (DC's version of the subway), on the other hand, I'm not invisible. Far from it. There's perhaps no greater blow to the male ego than when a young lady gets on the train, looks at the open seat next to you, looks at you, and then remains standing near the doorway. What she's saying is, "I could sit in your general vicinity, but I'd really rather stand... in five-inch heels... on an unsteady surface... while carrying this 20-pound purse. That's how much I want to avoid you."
Fortunately, though, at the end of the day I get to go home to my little Salvadoran sanctuary in the suburbs, where people still smile at each other and say "Hi" (or gently correct me when I say "Buenas dias" at a time of day that calls for "Buenas tardes").
There's definitely good things about living out here. The different cultures, for one. Also, I've lost about 15-20 pounds in the past six months, perhaps because I no longer consume cheese and red meat at every meal. But all in all, I miss the Midwest.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
My fruity adventures
I love fruit. I am totally head-over-heels, crazy in love with fruit and I don't care who knows it. As we speak (or more accurately, as I type this) my mouth is watering at the thought of peeling a clementine orange and then piercing the membranes of those thin little wedges with my teeth and letting the sweet, sweet juice trickle down my throat. Ahhhhhh.
This is not new for me. I've loved fruit for awhile. During the four months I was in the hospital I probably ordered the "fresh fruit plate" at least once a day. There are many great things about KU Med, but the cafeteria food was not one of them. The meat was consistently dry and the vegetables consistently soggy (if they could even out the moisture distribution there, they might have something). But the fruit, yes, I could always count on the fruit.
When I went to Brazil one of the greatest thrills (aside from the occasional ridiculously attractive woman in a ridiculously small bathing suit) was sampling the local fruit juices. Refreshing water sipped straight from a cold coconut... the cherry-sweet kick of guarana-infused soda... the silky-smooth sherbet of a tall, thick glass of acai pulp.
So yes, I've been a fruit fan for awhile. But over the past few years I'd gotten into a fruit rut. Cost and labor concerns had me stuck on just plain old apples. They're cheap, they stay ripe for a long time, they require no preparation and they're pretty darn delicious, all things considered (even the varieties that don't have "delicious" in the name -- I think those varieties probably just had better publicists and marketing crews when the names were handed out).
Two things broke me out of my rut: clementine oranges and the Langley Park Aldi.
You see, I had given up on regular oranges because peeling them with just one full finger (my right thumb) proved to be such a pain. I could do it (I can do most things, if I set my mind to it, which I guess proves Dr. Emmett Brown correct), but it was time-consuming and messy and I usually ended up cursing at the orange like a crazy person before I had half the peel off. So one day I threw up my arms and shouted, "Screw it! No more oranges."
Then I rediscovered my darling clementines. And the first time I bought one the peel slid off easily in about three long strands. And I threw up my arms and shouted "Yes! Citrus is back in the game."
(Full disclosure: I did not actually throw up my arms or shout either of those phrases. But it's a more vivid image than me quietly and introspectively making these decisions).
Then I found the Aldi in Langley Park and my fruit horizons were broadened again. Aldi has put premium fruits in a price range where even student journalists (a combination of possibly the world's two poorest groups) can afford them. First there was the pulse-pounding mango sale. I intended to make a delicious mango salsa, but found I didn't have all the necessary ingredients when I got home. I intended to wait until I acquired those ingredients, but after one day of looking at that mango on top of my fridge, calling to me with its devilish promise of soft, sweet fruit heaven, I couldn't help myself. I devoured that entire mango in one sitting and then sat back on my futon watching old Leslie Nielsen movies while my hands and mouth turned sticky. I can hardly imagine a better way to spend an evening (which might be yet another reason I'm still single... or perhaps the perfect thing to include in a personal ad).
Aldi followed up the mango sale with an adrenaline-packed pomegranate sale. Pomegranates for $1.50 each??? I could hardly believe my eyes.
(Full disclosure: I have no idea if that's actually a good price on whole pomegranates. I just assumed it was because that Pom Wonderful juice seems to go for about $5 an ounce).
Now, opening a pomegranate and extracting the seeds is no easy task (especially when your kitchen knives come from the local dollar store) and I think I ruined a T-shirt in the process (at the time I kept telling myself, "Oh no problem, these dark red juice stains will wash right out," but now I think I was just being a huge liar). But eventually I had a bowl full of little flavor jewels that I enjoyed while sitting back on my futon and watching a DVD of 2012 (a movie that is only bearable if accompanied by delicious fruit -- seriously, it's terrible).
Now I'm just waiting for Aldi to have a sale on starfruit and/or dragonfruit. Then my life will be complete. What can I say, I love fruit. True story.
This is not new for me. I've loved fruit for awhile. During the four months I was in the hospital I probably ordered the "fresh fruit plate" at least once a day. There are many great things about KU Med, but the cafeteria food was not one of them. The meat was consistently dry and the vegetables consistently soggy (if they could even out the moisture distribution there, they might have something). But the fruit, yes, I could always count on the fruit.
When I went to Brazil one of the greatest thrills (aside from the occasional ridiculously attractive woman in a ridiculously small bathing suit) was sampling the local fruit juices. Refreshing water sipped straight from a cold coconut... the cherry-sweet kick of guarana-infused soda... the silky-smooth sherbet of a tall, thick glass of acai pulp.
So yes, I've been a fruit fan for awhile. But over the past few years I'd gotten into a fruit rut. Cost and labor concerns had me stuck on just plain old apples. They're cheap, they stay ripe for a long time, they require no preparation and they're pretty darn delicious, all things considered (even the varieties that don't have "delicious" in the name -- I think those varieties probably just had better publicists and marketing crews when the names were handed out).
Two things broke me out of my rut: clementine oranges and the Langley Park Aldi.
You see, I had given up on regular oranges because peeling them with just one full finger (my right thumb) proved to be such a pain. I could do it (I can do most things, if I set my mind to it, which I guess proves Dr. Emmett Brown correct), but it was time-consuming and messy and I usually ended up cursing at the orange like a crazy person before I had half the peel off. So one day I threw up my arms and shouted, "Screw it! No more oranges."
Then I rediscovered my darling clementines. And the first time I bought one the peel slid off easily in about three long strands. And I threw up my arms and shouted "Yes! Citrus is back in the game."
(Full disclosure: I did not actually throw up my arms or shout either of those phrases. But it's a more vivid image than me quietly and introspectively making these decisions).
Then I found the Aldi in Langley Park and my fruit horizons were broadened again. Aldi has put premium fruits in a price range where even student journalists (a combination of possibly the world's two poorest groups) can afford them. First there was the pulse-pounding mango sale. I intended to make a delicious mango salsa, but found I didn't have all the necessary ingredients when I got home. I intended to wait until I acquired those ingredients, but after one day of looking at that mango on top of my fridge, calling to me with its devilish promise of soft, sweet fruit heaven, I couldn't help myself. I devoured that entire mango in one sitting and then sat back on my futon watching old Leslie Nielsen movies while my hands and mouth turned sticky. I can hardly imagine a better way to spend an evening (which might be yet another reason I'm still single... or perhaps the perfect thing to include in a personal ad).
Aldi followed up the mango sale with an adrenaline-packed pomegranate sale. Pomegranates for $1.50 each??? I could hardly believe my eyes.
(Full disclosure: I have no idea if that's actually a good price on whole pomegranates. I just assumed it was because that Pom Wonderful juice seems to go for about $5 an ounce).
Now, opening a pomegranate and extracting the seeds is no easy task (especially when your kitchen knives come from the local dollar store) and I think I ruined a T-shirt in the process (at the time I kept telling myself, "Oh no problem, these dark red juice stains will wash right out," but now I think I was just being a huge liar). But eventually I had a bowl full of little flavor jewels that I enjoyed while sitting back on my futon and watching a DVD of 2012 (a movie that is only bearable if accompanied by delicious fruit -- seriously, it's terrible).
Now I'm just waiting for Aldi to have a sale on starfruit and/or dragonfruit. Then my life will be complete. What can I say, I love fruit. True story.
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