Someone on AskMeFi has asked whether those “deceptively delicious” recipes are a way for adult picky eaters to get more variety in their diets. The poster also mentions that they hate all vegetables in just about every form. A couple people trotted out the “Ooh, you could be a supertaster!” suggestion. Whatever. Instead I actually cheered at this comment:

“You are a food sissy. With every microwaved meal, with every bland bite, with every glob of pasteurized processed American cheese food product that you shovel down your insensate gullet, you become more of a food sissy. Stop it. Get over yourself. It doesn’t taste bad, it just tastes DIFFERENT. The only way to learn to like veggies is to EAT THEM CONSTANTLY until you like them.”

AMEN! It’s tough love, but it needed to be said. And I say that as a reformed food sissy myself. Ask my mother. The only vegetables I’d eat growing up were potatoes and sweet corn. Deciding to “get over myself” a few years ago was the best decision ever. I have no idea how people can survive (or enjoy life!) without fresh tomatoes, coriander, roast pumpkin, capsicum (peppers for the Yanks), basil, spinach, etc. You’re missing out on so much!

The Accidental
Last night I finished The Accidental by Ali Smith, which y’all recommended a few months ago. Unfortunately… I didn’t like it much. I feel like an absolute git for saying that, because it won all sorts of awards and every single review I can dig up is uniformly positive. Yet somehow it just didn’t grab me. I guess maybe it’s because I’m a sucker for big, plotty stories (whether in books or movies), and I’ve never gone in for inscrutable character or mood pieces very much. This book reminded me of an Art Film. Intellectually I can tell that the writing is excellent and I can see what people are praising about it, but I didn’t really find myself engaged on an emotional level. (I’m moving the rest of my thoughts inside, lest anyone get spoiled.)The one section I did connect with was Magnus’s first chapter (during his depressive phase). The way his thoughts kept cycling; the way he kept dwelling on the dead girl; the way he talked about the bullies. I couldn’t put the book down during this section… right up until the point he tried to hang himself, but then Amber found him and bathed him and everybody laughed. WTF? I think I actually groaned outloud when I read that. “Your son just tried to kill himself. ” Hilarious laughter. How is that realistic? Unfortunately I found Michael, Eve, and Astrid all a little bit boring. (Which is odd, because most of those reviews rave about Smith’s ability to write convincingly as a 12-year-old girl. I guess I find most 12-year-olds boring.) And Amber herself annoyed the crap out of me. I was with her up until the point she started shagging Magnus and tossing video cameras and behaving less like a person and more like a literary device. So all in all I’m not sorry I read it – Ali Smith is an excellent writer and certain passages have really stuck with me – but I wouldn’t say I found it very entertaining.

I’ve still got a few books left in my “To Read” pile. I think we’ll go with Neil Gaiman’s Anansi Boys next…

Life in Chippendale
Did I mention that we’re moving into the new house NEXT WEEKEND? It’s exciting. I told the Snook the other night that I find myself a lot more interested in Chippendale issues now that we’re buying here. Which is silly, because we’ve been here for four years already. Somehow I guess I never really felt attached to the neighborhood before. When everybody was going nuts organising meetings about the CUB site redevelopment, we kinda just shrugged our shoulders, thinking, “We don’t have any property values to worry about. And we can always just leave.” I could count on one hand the number of “neighbors” I actually knew. Now I find myself stopping to say hello to people. We haven’t even moved into our building yet, and I’ve already introduced myself to half a dozen tenants. It’s fun. I mean, we could’ve gotten a lot more “house” for the money if we’d bought out in the suburbs, but being a part of this vibrant, connected community is the whole reason I wanted to stay in the city.

On a related note: I’ve just been invited to contribute to Life in Chippendale, a neighborhood blog I think I’ve mentioned a few times before. Steven assures me that even my mundane observations of life in the city will be welcome!

Knitted, felted olives. Those are adorable.

McDonald’s Pizza. I think that’s the best Frankenstein food I’ve seen yet! And yeah, I’d probably eat it. You would too.

What I will NOT be doing tomorrow: making homemade candy corn. That’s nuts! I’d sooner make homemade Peeps (and you know how I feel about those).

Wake Up Cat. Hahahahaha… This is exactly what Dr. Amy does in the morning. Actually she’s added something new to her repertoire as well: she tries to eat my bedside lamp. I don’t understand it. The Snook has the exact same lamp on his night table, except his is black and mine is blue. She apparently only likes the blue ones. So she sits there next to my head chewing on my lamp until I get up and toss her to the floor. Stupid cat.

Apparently my Grumpy-Old-Womanness does have its limits. I was serving a real G.O.W. in the shop this morning when, apropos of nothing, she decided to share some outrage with me.

Me: Just the single skein? That’ll be $1.20, thanks.
Old Lady: I was just walking up York Street, in front of the Grace Hotel, and I passed a man and a woman walking. And he was very tall, and she was very small. And he had his hand RIGHT DOWN HER BACKSIDE! Right down there! I couldn’t believe it!
Me: (just holding my hand out for the money)
Her: So I slapped him on the wrist! I told him that his behaviour was DISGUSTING, and that he should get a room, and how would he like it if that was his daughter, and someone was FIDDLING WITH HER PRIVATE PARTS in public? Don’t you think that’s appalling?
Me: Well… I can think of worse things. I mean, I find spitting or littering in public really annoying because they directly affect me… but two people who are in love…
Her: HE WAS FIDDLING WITH HER PRIVATE PARTS.
Me: I get that, and I’d probably go home that day and say, “You wouldn’t believe what I saw this morning,” but I don’t think it’s the worst thing.
Her: Well, I’m AUSTRALIAN, and I was raised with–
Me: I’m Australian.
Her: (confused) But–
Me: I’m Australian.
Her: You sound like you’re from North America.
Me: I’m AUSTRALIAN, with an Australian passport.
Her: Okay, fine, you’re Australian. I just mean that I was raised here, and I was taught that certain behaviour is wrong.
Me: I was raised in the Bible belt, and I was taught to mind my own business.

She got me outraged all right, but not in the way she expected! I mean, I can think of lots of stuff I find more objectionable than PDA. Smokers. Public urination. Golf umbrellas. The existence of leggings with zips. Two consenting adults making out on the street is pretty low on my list of triggers.

The TV gods have finally come up with a way to get me to watch Grey’s Anatomy: They’re putting Pacey on it. DUDE, I’M THERE. (Link courtesy of Jenny.)