In Which There Are Pictures of Bloody Meat Chunks (and sort of a recipe)

So, have you ever been playing a game on your emulator during a cold rainy day off and thinking, "wow, time really flies when I'm on here -- hey, and it's a cold and rainy day off! This is the perfect combination of factors for me to cook that tough cut of lamb in the fridge!"

But then you realize there needs to be a good meaty broth if you're going to make braised lamb, and there's no good way to just rip off a hunk of hind shank and make a proper stock with it. You have a wide variety of beef chunks and whole and partial chickens in the freezer (being, you feel you must clarify, someone who recently purchased a lot of meat during a sale, rather than some sort of chiefly carnivorous werewolf-person), but you'd rather not dilute the (expensive) lamb flavor.

You also realize you don't have any vegetables to go with it (due to having used them up recently, rather than due to being a chiefly carnivorous werewolf-person), so while you're on your way to figure out the broth situation you decide to grab a can of artichokes because laziness.

And when you get to the store they actually have (cleverly hidden beneath a pile of lamb chops) exactly what you need for once, which is the cheapest lamb in the universe or at least in your state, and also coincidentally the perfect thing to make stock/stew with:

So you get to work with your sauteeing and your browning and you're wondering whether you even need to bother making stock separately, and also how the heck all of this is going to fit along with the lamb shank...

...which is after all quite sizable once unwrapped.

 

So you chop off the fat blobs where possible, and you chop of the ribby bits and decide they can be spared for stock while the rest browns:

And you go through the first part of the cooking process half-asleep because it's kind of late now to be cooking what with all the impromptu shopping trips in the rain and all, and because all of the stewed things start out the same way, brown the meat first and then soften the onions in the fat....

 along with any other crunchy things that can't just boil (a bunch of chopped fennel in this case), then add the major spices (just rosemary today) and then add the liquid and use it to dissolve the crispy burny meaty bits and then put the meat back in on top and add any wispy fresh stuff (like the fennel tops) and make sure the liquid's about halfway up or so and cover it with the lid.

And you also forget about the artichokes you went out in the rain to get until you're partway through the next step (which in the case of braised lamb is a little different and wakes you -- instead of just leaving it on the stovetop forever you have to put it in a medium oven for an hour or two, periodically pausing your game to pull the pan out with two oven mitts, half-throwing said pan onto the stovetop in a heat-fearing panic, opening it to stir, and then shoving it back into the hateful dragon's den that is your oven).

Then you return to your beloved stovetop to boil up the remaining stock and make the world's easiest grain-based side dish, couscous. 

And finally you add salt and pepper and forget to take a picture of the final product because you're ravenous and have been gnawing on the pathetic jumble of bones from the stock-pot while waiting for everything else to cook.

Not that you're a chiefly carnivorous werewolf-person or anything, it's just been a long time since lunch.

You've had days like that, right? 

Right?

Okay, well at least tell me whether I lost you at emulator or neck bones.

(also, it's really awesome when you've finished a slightly epic endeavor like this and then realize you have a fresh apricot in the fridge to eat afterward. Reheated, it's also good with a plop of plain/honey-flavored yogurt next to the couscous to cool any hot spots in the stew.)

In which the Midwest is an elemental minefield

Fire, ice, water, electricity, the sun -- pretty much the only thing that is particularly safe and reliable out here is the earth itself, which fortunately lacks the restlessness found in the more coastal chunks of continent.

It's been hot lately, record-breaking sort of hot, which at least rules out ice and water as assailants for the time being. Since our seasons often progress along the lines of Ice, Flood, Drought, and Mixture, or get stuck on one or two of the four for a year or so, this isn't  wildly surprising, just inconvenient. Which is good, since we don't have anything to talk about with strangers if the weather isn't bad.

In general, Drought isn't as tricky a season as Flood, since it usually subsides soon enough with nothing more than the occasional advisory and burn ban to remind us that this a particularly summer-y summer. It doesn't generally go all-out like in the truly dry places where your lawns are rocks and cactus, because at heart the whole cycle is eventually gearing toward its preferred status, Flood. Businesses in low-lying areas build on hills, build walls, or don't build at all. This is particularly true of my previous residence, where we would watch water creep into the parking lot and hope it didn't make it in this year. In 1993, 1996, 2008 and 2010 anyone too close to the ground was mercilessly weeded out of the area by rising waters. Childhood favorites like the pizza place, golf course, movie theater and bowling alley, all just a short walk from my old building, gave up the ghost one by one as they were washed out or simply realized that the water would not stop coming, not for long.

So in short, I'm used to sad spring stories from the lowlands about this, that and the other place literally going under. But I was surprised to see a familiar address, an old neighboring building, in the news now, with no water in sight. The apartments I sloshed past through the rivers of mud and God-knows-what-else in '96 had gone up in flames, none injured but little time to save anything else, a fire at 6AM in a building likely made with water in mind but ill-equipped for fire. I felt a faint twinge of irony at reports that the fire started in a boat....

Anyway, I know it's not Colorado's blaze or Japan's deluge, but it's home. It's hard to get over the fact that I used to live near hear, used to sneak shortcuts between buildings and windbreaks.



Walking around the charred walls I can see what's around the corner in my mind, a parking lot and a hill in the corner, steep but climbable, even without the steps, a place I found a dead frog once. All the chipmunks, far more than I see up north where I live now ... they're still there, cautious but curious and hopeful as ever for handouts. Friends of mine have lived here, some in this very building.

The thoughts of those for whom the memories are not of last decade or last year but of last week, those who have without exaggeration just lost the roof over their heads, I cannot imagine ... but I hope all have at least found a place to stay in the heat.

On a more upbeat note, my people (known as the Geeks) have a song we play for moral support on such occasions; please excuse if it is not to your taste, but we offer it in earnest. The words (while somewhat appropriate upon reflection for one whose land has burned and who suddenly has an unobstructed, if unwelcome, view of the sky) are known, so the music alone will suffice:

In Which I Pretend to Review the Movie "Chance" But Mostly Babble While Listening to Mumford & Sons

{This is the babbly part}

So, I just now got around to watching the movie Chance.

You'd think I'd have done this quite a bit sooner, as it's directed, written and produced by Amber Benson and also includes James Marsters in the cast.

Thing is, aside from a couple minutes of YouTube clip I stumbled on months ago during one of my idle "how many clips of Marsters' giggle fits can we find?" marathons, there's not a whole lot about this movie readily available for those who aren't looking for it already.

It's not at the library, which is where I generally find my more-obscure movies, and even Amazon's over-eager "suggest everything with three words in common" recommendation engine never mentioned it to me. Sure, if you click on "CreateSpace" in the "Directed By" field to see their other works, you get a selection that from the titles appears evenly split between pornography and children's educational programming ... but still. Not relevant to the matter at hand, which is: At the very least, Tara and Spike are in this! I bought all seven seasons from you, Amazon, don't you pay any attention?

Anyhow.

I was doing a mini marathon of Joss Whedon's music in honor of his birthday in June, and I saw in his Soundtrack credits (along with The Lion King II, which I already had on my list) a song from a movie called "Chance."

"Why, wait," thought I, "isn't that the name of the one James Marsters was having a giggle fit in?"

I determined that it was, and that there were exactly two places I could find to purchase it. Being the cheapskate that I am (and having no idea whether I'd really like it), I decided to forgive Amazon's betrayal/failure in this department and purchase the digital version for $9.99 (which was really zero dollars since I still have a gift balance left from returning my textbooks).

The reason I didn't actually watch it for two more weeks was that I managed to scrape up just enough self-control to finish watching series 2 of Being Human and Sherlock (which I did get from the library and had to return soon) before starting in on this.

{I actually start talking about the movie here, with screencaps}

In which other blogs exist, with other Emilys who are also artists, but the fabric of time is safe

What a nifty little button.
Anyhow, this represents my first real ~*interview*~, which makes me feel all fancy even though I specifically asked if I could do it. Being interviewed by an artist named Emily was rather interesting, though somewhat intimidating -- am I a failed clone? Did our meeting initiate an age-old prophecy that all had hoped was a myth? Evil twin? Good twin? Vampire doppelganger? Regular doppelganger? Bad Wolf? Do I need to cut back on the sci-fi/fantasy for a few weeks?

Ah, well. In other news, here's a wild bird obtaining minerals from a cliff face.
Actually, it's a house sparrow eating a brick wall. They kept coming back to this little worn-out spot. I suppose it looks tasty enough? It's a lovely shade of orange, at least.

In which I learn that Zappos.com hires professional stalkers

Okay, I get that Zappos is a "fun" store. They're going for a laid-back, we're-you're-buddies vibe. That's cool. I can handle that. Plus, I like the new shoes I got. They're nice shoes.
But here's the question: Just how far can you encourage folks go with customer service before it becomes customer stalking?
My previous post was very long, so you probably didn't read it all the way through. That's okay. I didn't proofread it all the way through either.
But the title is pretty much all you need to read. I tried to exchange shoes. Much, much, much talking was required in order to accomplish this.
So that's the end of it, I think. I made it. I beat the level. I got my shoes. New scenario.
Then I check my mail a few days later.

Zappos.com, says the envelope. Printed, official. Follow-up, I think, them being Powered By Service and all. Thanks for ordering. Sorry you didn't like that first pair of shoes. Glad you found others. Please buy more now. You have store credit. Remember your store credit? You don't have to buy shoes. We have socks and knives and golf clubs.
Something like that, I figured.
Odd, I thought, that Zappos.com hand-writes the recipient's address. That seems sort of time-consuming. Also, they should have scribbled a little first to get the ink flowing.

Then I open it up. THEN I OPEN IT UP.

Is that marker? Is that three colors of marker?!
But it's the doggy stamp, the smiley sticker, and that little foam flower dealio that really give me pause.

 I cannot picture this workplace. Are there big jars of assorted craft supplies sitting next to each desk for this sort of thing? Then I'm picturing everyone working at something resembling the Youth desk at my library, stampers and stickers and toys and temporary tattoos hidden away in every drawer, next to the first-aid kit and behind the file folders. Or did he go home and raid his kids' stash of supplies?
And really, it wouldn't take a privacy nut, not even a privacy enthusiast, to be a little concerned that they are getting handwritten mail to their homes from the customer-service guy. Specifically. Personally. HE KNOWS WHERE I LIVE.
On second thought, maybe this means he knows where I blog as well.
Brian with a giant B, my apologies if you discover this in your efforts to further provide exceptional customer service, and feel offended and/or homicidal. You were psyched about flesh-eating insects, remember. It's fair for me to think of this as mildly weird.

So what say you, gentle reader? Would you be put off or pleased by this exercise in Extreme Customer Service? If I actually *buy* something on my own initiative from this place, will I get balloons? What should I use that store credit for, anyhow? Do they really sell kitchen knives?

In which I have (and subsequently transcribe) a marathon phone conversation in order to return shoes

You know how sometimes you say "It's a long story" when it's not, but you really just don't feel like telling the story at all?

Sometimes that backfires.

The way it backfired is actually, and somewhat ironically, a rather long story (or at least an incredibly long conversation), which includes my name more times than virtually any conversation I have had in the past, including several I've had that involved at least one other person named Emily.

It seemed straightforward enough ... a bit strange, as situations go, but straightforward.

I inexplicably received some shoes the other day, two pair, one per box, sitting obediently on my doorstep when I returned from work. 

I was quite certain I had not ordered any shoes -- volume 1 of Digger, yes, and season 7 of Buffy that I'd been doing without so long, but nothing remotely resembling shoes. Some asking around finally revealed that they were from an aunt who heard from my mother that I had been looking for shoes and had, as this particular aunt is wont to do, simply ordered up a couple pairs and had them shipped off to me.

The one pair was lovely, the other a bit clomp-y and not quite the proper fit. So, as is fairly often the case and even the expectation with random surprise deliveries such as this from that particular aunt, I decided to go to the website from which the order was made and find an equivalent and more-fitting pair for a swap.

Unlike a simple return, an exchange required calling up Zappos directly. So, a call was placed. A straightforward call. An, "I got these shoes and would like these shoes instead, please, thankyouverymuch bye" sort of call.

The customer-service guy answered with that peppy-puppy sort of tone that, on my less-friendly days, makes me go "uh-oh" and feel a sudden desire run off and hide in an abandoned basement for safety's sake, much like a werewolf on the eve of the full moon who's just been asked to take care of a friend's kitten for the weekend ... or ... um ... I was going somewhere with this.

Here's a fancy bunny to break the upcoming monotony:

Anyhow, you could tell right off it was going to be one of those companies that makes their employees chat up the customers in an effort to seem friendly and welcoming and give us good reviews and tell your friends about us please. Though in this case, store policy only served to enhance the naturally-occurring chattiness.

Me: I'm not sure I pressed the right number, it said "returns" -- I'm calling about a gift exchange?

CS Rep: Uh, um, yeah, I can help you with that, ah, what's your name?

Me: .... Ummmm, Emily; I'm gonna tell you what the situation is here first and then I'll give you whatever the information is you need, okay?

CS Rep: Ah, okay, sure!

Me: [explains situation]

CS Rep: Okay, Emily, so, is this something you want to keep on the down-low from the person who sent it?

Me: ... Um, no, she's fine with me returning stuff.

CS Rep: Okay, just wanted to make sure it's not like, "My mom bought me these and I hate them" or something [knowing, conspiratorial laughter] --

Me: Yeah; no, that's not the case.

CS Rep: Okay! Well Emily, do you have an account with Zappos?

Me: No, no I don't.

CS Rep: Okay, so I'm gonna start by setting up an account for you.

Me: [started searching for the "Register" button shortly after his previous question] Uh, I can start an account on my own if you like.

CS Rep: Ummm ... [recovers] uh, okay, you can if you want, it's up to you!

Me: Okay, 'cuz it looks pretty simple.

CS Rep: Yes! It's very simple!

Me: Yeah alright, I've made a *lot* of accounts, lemme see, name, email, password ... doesn't really matter, I won't probably be using this again [dang, I need to stop narrating aloud to myself].

CS Rep: Aw, you won't be using it again? That makes me sad.

Me: Um ... well I guess you have to use it to order, don't you. I was more thinking I'm not gonna be returning anything again.

CS Rep: Yes, you'll use it to order [goes into pre-made "things you'll use your account for" spiel as I finish actually making account]

Me: 'Kay, I'm all set.

CS Rep: Okay, Emily, so what's the email you just used for that account?

Me: Well ... I'm gonna say it and then spell it, 'cuz it's weird. [says, spells]

CS Rep: Hm, okay!

Me: Long story.

After much more speaking and fairly little progress, including such themes as Which Shoes Do You Want? ("Aw, not the leopard print?") and What Happens to the $12 Difference Between These and the Other Pair? ("I, uh, I've never had someone exchange something where it cost less, let me look that up"), and Other/Cheaper Things I Can Buy Here ("clothing, golf clubs, kitchen knives ..."), we returned to that old favorite, Your Email Address ("So, Emily, I've emailed the shipping label ... now what's the story about your email address?").

Remember what I said about long stories?

Me: Well, um, it's just a species name actually --

CS Rep: Yeah, I figured something like that!

Me: [in my speediest "telling impatient new library patrons where all the computers and service desks are" voice] It's a bug, dermestid beetles; they're flesh-eating bugs, but ... basically, they're hide beetles, so. Yeah, like I said, long story why I chose it though.

CS Rep: See the reason I ask is, I'm really interested in forensic stuff, like CSI stuff and that kind of thing. So what's the long story?

Me: [good luck with the job options, buddy]. Ah. Interesting. Well. [so much for getting rid of him with the flesh-eating-bugs part]. Have you heard of the TV show Bones.

CS Rep: [closest anyone has come to delivering an audible eye-roll] Of course.

Me: [back to "the-info-desk-is-in-the-middle-over-there-they-can-help-you-find-items" rhythm] Ah, okay. Well, I always liked the character Zack; so of course he's got his flesh-eating bugs, and that's the kind they were. And they all had names, and he wouldn't let anyone kill them, because they had names, and I thought that was cute. So. There you go.

CS Rep: Okay, I get that! Cool.

Me: [SO AM I GETTING MY NEW SHOES OR WHAT] So. *HREM*

CS Rep: Okay, so that address wasn't the one they were shipped from, that's going to you, right? [starts reading back address]

Me: Seven. Not two, seven. Right?

CS Rep: Oh, right! Yeah, I must have been reading the ZIP code.

Me: ... [there are no 2's in my ZIP code] Ah. Yes?

CS Rep: And that's -- how do you pronounce that -- AH-mayz? Ah-MEHZ?

Me: ... Ames. It's Ames. [this package is never going to find me, is it?]

CS Rep: Oh, okay!

Me: YEP.

CS Rep: Well, you have a good evening!

Me: You too. BYE!

But on the bright side, I got my shoes the next day, and they fit precisely as they ought -- even the surly werewolf artist-librarian Lizard Lass can find no fault. Plus, the buckles jingle when I walk. Yes, this is definitely a plus.

Okay, I admit, the umbrella isn't mine. I don't really go for the polka-dot motif. But I couldn't resist....

If you read this far without falling asleep or giving up entirely, you deserve a cookie! So go bake yourself some. I'll take care of the leftovers if you have any. :)

In which my unhealthy squirrel obsession pays off

...well, a little at least.

As does my propensity for eavesdropping on tech-related questions that do not currently apply to me, with the generally-accurate assumption that at some point I will manage to break something in a similar way and have no idea how to fix it on my own.

So, backstory: On Tuesdays I have to loiter a while on campus near the lake. The lake is home to two swans, some ducks, many geese, and various squirrels, raccoons (which is apparently a typographical error, since there is no such thing as more than one raccoon? Ah, spellcheck), chipmunks, and such small deer.

Large and small alike, they are all fed on bread by idle hikers and eager children, and so have become quite (at times unnervingly) tame. I walked up on this group yesterday and only three of them even noticed me -- the female mallard second from the right isn't turning her head to look at me, she is tucking her head under her wing and falling asleep.

Anyhow, all I have to do is sit down and it's as if I'm not there at all. So the squirrels promptly started being adorable because they obviously knew I couldn't find my camera. One was drinking from the lake, one was playing with bark chips. Finally I managed to get my camera out, on, and focused in time to take a brief video of Adorable Teenage Squirrel #3 fighting with a scary stick. It was one of the cutest things I've personally witnessed and recorded a squirrel doing, and I was eager to get back home and share it. I still had time to kill before that, though, so I went through and started deleting subpar images from my camera in case something else interesting happened that required even more video space.

One of them was so blurry, I didn't know why I hadn't deleted it immediately. I clicked the trash can icon, and the "Yes" button, and then ... I clicked back a couple pictures to where my video should have been, and it was GONE.

Noooooooo.

My camera is not very good at making it clear which preview images are images and which are video stills, and I apparently misjudged which images came before and after the video I wanted, because I had deleted it. Just like that. IT WAS BLURRY BECAUSE IT WAS A SQUIRREL MID-CUTE-ATTACK. After fretting about this (and the lack of an "undo" button) for a good thirty seconds I realized that (unlike similar disasters I'd had in the past with less-sophisticated media-recording devices) the image had been stored on a memory card, and the thing about memory cards was that deleted things weren't necessarily Gone Forever. 

I rushed home (being ridiculously careful to remind myself not to take anymore pictures with the camera in the interim, just in case), jumped to the first forum post I could find asking about recovering deleted images, and LO AND BEHOLD, there were options. 

I hooked up the Lumix, downloaded PhotoRec, and with a few keystrokes I had recovered my beloved squirrel (along with ten or fifteen less-beloved squirrels that had been deleted in the same run).

As the sort of person who's had more than one "NOOOO, I TAPED OVER MY FAVORITE SONG/TV SHOW/RANDOM SOUND CLIP AND NOW IT'S GONE FOREVER AND THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS FINDING IT ON THE INTERNET" moment, I have to say I don't entirely mind the "nothing you delete is ever really gone" element of today's technology.