Take cover(s)!

You can be that person battling the rain with a little foldable umbrella in one hand and two bags of groceries in the other, praying your backpack is still waterproof, or you can be the prepared mom-person who wears a raincoat, stuffs all the non-squishable groceries in her backpack, and then covers the backpack with a backpack rain cover.

You can be that person who’s like, “Yeah fruits can get wet, they’re in grocery bags, they’ll dry off.” Or you can be that person who transfers everything into one bag and uses the second to cover the groceries, lest the avocados and milk get drenched (but you’re actually protecting the strawberries and Pillsbury Easter cookies, let’s be real.)

What did I learn today? I’d rather be the wallflower dork with the bright backpack cover than the drowned rat with wet notes because my backpack, I discovered recently, is no longer waterproof. Particularly on the middle section where my water bottle goes. You know, because keeping water bottles dry is the ultimate goal.

I mean, it doesn’t look that embarrassing, right?

The Food Thing.

A friend of mine recently moved into an apartment for the first time, and she asked me, “How do you do the food thing?” Of course I asked, “What food thing?”

“Like, groceries and cooking and all.”

Ok. Well THAT’S a loaded question. But it’s also a very fun question (for me).

While I explained my grocery/food prep-cooking methods via text, it occurred to me the other day that perhaps others might be in the same predicament.

So here is (what I hope to be the foolproof, overly detailed) run-down on the most important part (in my opinion, which might be redundant, since it’s my blog…) of “food prep”: freezing meat for food prep.

1. If you have or have access to someone’s Costco membership, Costco is a fantastic place to buy meat. You can get your chicken thighs, chicken breasts, ground pork, ground beef and lamb shoulder (now we’re getting a little fancy) all from Costco. They also seem to always have a great selection of salmon or another kind of fish as well. Loblaws (Loblaw Great Food?) is also a great place to get meat, but it’s usually sold in smaller quantities.
2. Don’t go cheap on meat. Buy decent quality meat when you can – it’s one thing to buy discounted bread or fruits when you know you’ll finish them within a day, and maybe it’s just me but with meat I wouldn’t cut corners.
3. Buy your meat when you have time to go home and split it up into smaller portions for freezing, ie. Pick a day or days that you know you’ll have an hour or two to debone, defat (is that a word?), and freeze your goods.

So now you have your meat, it’s time to start the labelling process. (Monica! Where’s your label-maker?) I like to use those small clear plastic bags like the kind you see at Bulk Barn for small quantities of herbs, or if you’re feeling the Ziplock, then Ziplock baggies work well too (they’re just more expensive). It is easiest to write before filling the bags, which may seem like an obvious direction, but hey, I know from experience that Sharpie on a cold bag of meat doesn’t work too well! Grab a permanent marker and write out the name of the meat (more on this in the individual sections), and date.

Chicken Thighs

1. Debone and defat (I’m quite sure this isn’t a word) the chicken thighs. Deboning helps the meat cook faster, and as a student, we all know time is a priceless thing we love to waste. I tend to take the skin off as well, but if you’re grilling the chicken in the oven then leave the skin on since it’ll help keep the chicken moist.
2. Wash your chicken and dry with a paper towel.
3. You may know that you like to cook and eat chicken in slices or chunks, so cutting up the chicken now will save you time later. Be sure to add a label such as, “cut up” or “chunks” since it’s a little harder to see when the chicken is frozen.
4. You’ll find a labelling system that works for you. For chicken thighs, I use “CH thigh” (Brilliant, I know).
5. Place chicken thighs in  Ziplock or small bags; I bag the thighs in groups of 2 or 4. Consider how many people you usually cook for and label the bag accordingly.
6. Double-bag that baby! Put all the labelled bags of chicken in a larger bag. I like using the meat bags or fruit and vegetable bags from the grocery store. Frozen knots are sometimes difficult to untie (I realize this sounds obvious or seems like it’s not a concern, but try tying a tight knot, freezing it, then untying it frozen, because you wouldn’t be defrosting the entire bag of chicken and come back and tell me how it goes), so if you’re tying a knot be sure you can untie it easily. Alternatively, you could twist the bag and grab it around a milk tab. (If that made no sense, and I’m sure it didn’t, scroll down and have a glance at the picture of ground beef).

Chicken Breasts 

1. Cut off the small, thin section that dangles off the breast and looks like an uncooked chicken finger/tender/cutlet. I cut all of these off then separate the cutlets into groups of about 8-10 and freeze them separate from the breasts. But your chicken, your choice, y’all!
2. Wash and dry the chicken.
3. If you want flat or thinner breasts for sandwiches or faster cooking, then cut the chicken breast into half lengthwise.
4. Cut int0 stir-fry chunks of strips if you want. I make about two bags of cut up chicken breasts.
5. Label. “CH breast” (Genius again.) Bag.
6. Double-bag. 

 

Ground Beef

1. (Pardon my assumptions about how it is packaged). Without removing the plastic wrapping, press the meat evenly into the styrofoam packaging, so that when you divide the meat into sections or portions, it’s more evenly distributed and easier to divide. Unless you want to play the guessing game, then that’s cool too.
2. Use a knife to cut through the plastic and divide the meat into portions. I tend to divide it into 6 or 8 sections. I was able to make 9 sections for some reason in the image below. Remove and discard the plastic (duh?).
3. Label. “Gr. Beef” (I bet you didn’t see that one coming).
4. Place portions in bags.
5. Double-bag a bunch of the smaller bags.

Ground Pork

1. Press meat evenly into styrofoam (just like the beef).
2. Cut through and divide portions. When I use ground pork, I tend to make things like meatballs and use more meat, so I divide pork into 6 portions. You do you.
3. Label. I’m not going to bother including my label example, because that’s just insulting.
4. Meat –> Bag. 
5. … Yes, you guessed it. Double-bag. 

 

P.S. 

• The same process works for freezing beef, steaks, etc.
• If you don’t dry off the meat after washing it, when heated, the extra water will make spark and crackle (not the right words at all, but it’s 1am people), when the meat is heated in the pan as it heats with the oil. Hot pan and oil does not mix with water. You have been warned.
• Double-bagging helps prevent freezer burn. I don’t know how so don’t ask me why. I’m in English, remember?
• Be a smart adult. I am not responsible for any food poisoning or illness or injury  or harm or whatever associated with the suggestions and instructions in this blog post. Wash your knives and sinks and cutting boards between meats. When in doubt, wash again. Raw meat ain’t funny folks.

 

So, now you can prep and freeze meat like a pro. A student pro. Live that student life efficiently! 

“You rock. Don’t ever change.”

…So says Lizzie McGuire, a favourite Disney channel teen from the hit TV-series, “Lizzie McGuire”. To me, written as a high school yearbook message, the phrase seems to capture the idea that you are great the way you are, and celebrates the high school you – GO YOU! To me, it encapsulates the age-old adage that you don’t have to change yourself for others, and to embrace yourself in all your flaws and talents.

This quote is so memorable, it tends to pop up in a lot of places, eliciting a smile, perhaps a small chuckle, from nostalgic past-Lizzie-lovers like me. But seeing it again started the spurs and whirls of the gears in my head, and now I’m wondering if it’s okay to change. In high school, you picked the courses for the following year in grade ten, courses that would ultimately decide if you had the prerequisite courses for applying to certain post-secondary programs. In high school, it was easy to have a plan. You didn’t have to change, because you had a plan.

In university, there was a checklist: fulfill these requirements, and choose one course from this category and this category and this category. Course X must be completed by the end of your second year. You could change programs, sure, but there was still a plan. You just had to change plans.

In graduate school, the MA English program is course-based (for me). You have to complete X courses and Y mandatory courses. You have more freedom to research and pursue ideas than you had in undergrad, but again, in the end, you followed a plan.

And if you don’t pursue a Ph.D., when you can follow a four year plan and typically runs into five or six years, then what’s your plan? You could change plans – don’t apply for a doctorate program, take a year off, dig yourself out of student debt, but can you change to not having a plan? Can you change your mind? If you’re a planner, like me, then it’s terrifying to think that you might change your mind. To even acknowledge that something you have worked towards for four years is not your dream anymore. To think that all of your volunteering, and extra-curricular activities, all of your conversations centred on this end goal, and this end goal is no longer a goal – are they useless? The obvious answer would be no, since you learned skills and developed traits that are applicable to a multitude of situations.

On a resumé, you are built to change, adapt quickly, and apply your skills in different fields. Technically, you can. But you can’t deny a nagging voice in your head wondering if it’s okay to change what you want to do with your life. To be a starving artist, or to put in the hours as an unpaid intern, and work your way through the field for ten years only to find you don’t enjoy the work? To pursue the childhood dream you have worked towards with a constant questioning if maybe you should be doing something else, or put the dream on hold and try out the “other thing”?

“You rock. Don’t ever change.” She’s right. I hope you don’t change. I hope you never lose the sense of curiosity and desire to dream. I hope you never change the all the great parts of yourself – yes, they are there, even when you think they’ve gotten buried under life’s cynicism and burdens. And I hope you do change. I hope you change your mind and change your plan and change the voice inside your head that says, “Don’t change.” I hope you know it’s okay to change your mind. I hope I remember it’s okay to change my mind.

I’m falling out of love with English, and I don’t know what to do.

*inhale*

I’m falling out of love with English, and I don’t know what to do.

In class I sit there, wondering, “If I were interested enough to find something useful to contribute to the conversation, would I enjoy it more?” Something I once found intuitive, something that was a part of me whether or not I knew it until the end of first year university, is slowing shrinking into a pea-sized part of my undergraduate past, instead of looming like an omnipotent part of my soul. Dramatic, I know. But is that what graduate studies does? Potentially make you fall out of love with a subject for which you used to be head over heels? I mean, if so, wow, I’m not even pursuing a doctorate and I’m only one month into my program.

*exhale*

I’m worried.

*inhale*

Falling out of love with English has so many repercussions. I’m still an advocate for the importance of studying English, and yet studying it for one more year is making me question why I chose to do so. I asked the dreaded question I anticipate as a future teacher: “Why are we in heated debates over fictional characters? THEY DO NOT EXIST.” I cringed as soon as the thought entered my head and stayed there for the duration of my class this week. “What a traitor, I am,” I thought. How could I ask the question that every English teacher would answer: “it matters.” How could I do this to English? I typed out the words that almost broke my heart via Facebook message: “I do not love English anymore.” And as a friend of mine so eloquently (and jokingly) replied, “English loves you, even if you do not love it.”

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

Even though it was meant as a joke, the reply hit me hard. How does English still love me? How could English still love me? I committed almost every felony against my beloved subject. Albeit, I love English in a slightly different way than the stereotypical English student. I would rather go shopping for clothing than sit in a used bookstore and poetry. I would rather eat popcorn and watch “Pitch Perfect” than watch every film ever made of Jane Eyre. I don’t enjoy reading anymore, and I don’t enjoy writing anymore (I mean, it is a mentally strenuous task, so who really does enjoy essay writing in the moment, anyways?). So aside from all of that, I really did love English. I could still talk for hours on books I love, I think. But now that I try to in my head, I just cannot seem to conjure that passion I never knew I had until someone pointed it out to me.

What does it mean for English to love me? Does that mean I keep coming back to English because I know it will always be there for me? Is that what’s beautiful about books? You can revisit a story again and again, and it changes with you. All the knowledge and thoughts you have acquired between the last time you read the book, and your next time reading the book makes all of these strange connections you never knew existed when you revisit it. You develop inside jokes with the book. You love the characters a little more, or hate them a little more. Oh, there, I smiled. So I do love English still, at least a little bit. Maybe I love English like an old childhood friend. But childhood friends grow up and change too. But childhood friends don’t always stay friends. They grow apart. Is that what happened to English and I? Did we grow apart? English is supposed to be my thing. Who am I without it?

*exhale

*chest tightens*

*inhale*

Oh. There’s sadness. You know, like in “Inside Out.” Maybe we did grow apart. You know, it’s more than a childhood friend. It’s like a relationship you can feel slipping away. You thought you would grow old together. You thought you would always be in love with them. And then, all of a sudden, it stops, and makes you want to cry. And you want to stop it but you can’t and you don’t know how but you wish you could feel something, feel some kind of emotion that isn’t just nostalgia. But it’s not there.

Nothing’s there.

*exhale*

(Taking all suggestions for how to fall back in love with my English subject. Slightly urgent since I still have 10 months of the M.A. program to finish. Thanks.)

“There and back again”: Not an epic tale by a hobbit

When I went home for Thanksgiving weekend this past weekend, I was a statistic for the first time ever. You know what I mean: I was part of the group of students to whom the priest said “Welcome home!” in his opening greetings to mass, I was the person the church friends crowded to see how school was going, because they no longer had an opportunity to each week, I could even use the guilt card to see my friends at late hours of the night to provide optimal time with family during the day, and “catching up” (or as some smarty-pant friends of mine would term “ketchup”) time with friends at night. Or so I thought. I have to admit, before Thanksgiving weekend, I was optimistic about my time management, but nevertheless, there was a little bit of visiting with friends still. So anyways, you know that statistic (and by statistic I am completely just guessing that a statistic exists somewhere)? The one where hundreds of thousands of students flock to their hometowns to celebrate holidays and become the special kids to whom everyone pays their utmost attention during those short two or three days? Yes, well, I was one of them, and boy, did it feel weird at first. But I guess it’s nice to feel special. *understatement*

Going home and coming back to Queenstown was an interesting experience. You have to do all these backwards things, like pack to go home, since, as a girl in love with clothes, almost all of my wearable clothes moved with me. You have loose ends to tie up, or time-consuming computer jobs to finish at home since if you’re essentially home tech support for your parents, like me. And yet every moment you spend away from your family, whether it’s the time downloading new music, or transferring all your sunset pictures, or looking down at your phone to make plans with your friends while with your family, there is an Eeyore-sized-raincloud of guilt hanging over you. It takes a lot of time, for me at least, to realize that even if there is no such thing as too much time with parents when you’re a visiting student, they still want you to visit with your friends from elementary and high school. And they’re okay with that. 

Being home is the most comfortable thing in the world. I finally get what people mean. Being back in my apartment is also comfortable. But it’s not home. Is it cliché to say it does feel like a home away from home? That really is its function, though. But now I have this strange distinction in my head. I made a home for myself here. I got two fish that both have lasted 48 hours so far. I have plants to water. I have carpets to vacuum, and laundry to do (in a few weeks… Obviously, I came back with a freshly laundered closet, courtesy of my mother’s hard work). Does a part of me actually enjoy taking care of myself and making a home for myself? At what point is it “okay” to start to grow up and be a responsible adult, without an overwhelming sense of guilt and loss of childhood ignorance? Maybe it’s time to read Catcher in the Rye again.

Whatever it is, I officially have less than ten months to figure it out.

Finding your Big-Girl Pants: Part 1½

We’re now two weeks into classes and three weeks since Orientation started. Incase my online absence is suspiciously pointing towards two weeks of socializing and making new friends, need I remind the world of my social skills? Silly, world. Since my last post, my very optimistic sounding post, I have come face-to-face with more big-girl things. And since I like lists, here we go:

1. Leaky tap. Fill out a work order form for the apartment superintendent and hope that it gets fixed while panicking at the idea that you have just given someone permission to enter your apartment at some point, even when you are not home. *Hides laundry loonies*
2. Orange Juice. Since the local farmer’s market has been stocked with a wonderful surplus of choice in vegetables, fruit, and baked goods, I have somehow managed to avoid stepping foot in a grocery store for three weeks. The market does not, however, have orange juice. The one substance I require to function the way plants need carbon dioxide. Or humans and oxygen. You know. So I put on my big-girl pants and rode the bus to the shopping centre where I happily strolled through Loblaws, really buttoning up those big-girl pants when I had to ask for a rain check on the out-of-stock-on-sale-orange-juice. That’s what happens when you go to the grocery store after noon, people. Lesson: Wake up and get your groceries early. 
3. Laundry. I may have ironed my shirt in my last blog post, but I never actually did the whole washing machine/dryer routine. When you leave laundry for 3 weeks, and try to fit the whole dark load into one load, things do not get washed properly. I mean, of course I knew enough to separate darks and lights, and of course I did not leave a red sock in my white a-la-Rachel-Green, but I thought water in washing machines just penetrates all the clothing and soaks everything. Well, if you have three weeks of clothing, and a small washer in the laundry room of your apartment, it doesn’t. So do not try to stuff the washing machine. Also, invest in those Tide tablet things so that you don’t have to measure laundry detergent. Life gets better with those laundry tablet things.
4. Learn how to small-talk. Okay, so I’m expecting there will be another post on this at some point this year. This past week, I attended a faculty wine and cheese event, and had to endure the dreaded small talk with colleagues aka classmates, and professors aka those who assign you a grade that defines your academic progression. What did I expect? Painful, awkward, staring at the ceiling.
   What did I encounter? Slightly less painful, slightly less awkward, and I couldn’t tell you what the ceiling looked like. I received some great advice on what to wear for “business casual” before attending: “If you would TA in it, you can wear it.” Since it was a wine and cheese, and I enjoy wine but cannot tolerate alcohol well, I was that person who casually sipped and warmed my chilled white wine in my hands, which is a nice way of saying I pretended to drink it, subtly made half of my glass magically disappear, filled the half with water, and sipped my diluted now-warm chardonnay with effortless (what a lie) grace.
   What’s the point of diluting the wine? Why didn’t I just drink a non-alcoholic drink?
   There is no difference; I call it personal preference. There is absolutely no problem or judgment I expected for preferring a non-alcoholic drink. I honestly do enjoy wine, so I had no problem asking for white wine. I like the feel of wine glasses because in that superficial way, I feel more comfortable and classy with a wine glass. It all has to do with holding the wine glass itself, and just having a drink (be it alcoholic or non-alcoholic) in general so your hands have something to do, and nothing to do with what’s in the glass. If you feel confident you will be more confident. Fact. (Not proven, but you know.)
   Let’s put it this way. I once attended an alumni talk from a very successful graduate who talked about networking and socializing. Her #1 piece of advice for events? Get a drink (again, any drink, water, wine, etc.) and hold it. It makes you 90% (I made that number up) less awkward than you would be without a drink. It gives you an excuse to politely leave a conversation and “refill” or join another conversation along the way to maximize you networking. And it keeps you hydrated, since you know, socializing requires talking, which requires hydration. And I also made that last point up based on my recent experiences.

So, all that rambling basically meant: I had to take care of maintaining my apartment, I had to go to a real grocery store and do my own laundry, which takes a lot more time when you let it accumulate. I had to socialize in a professional setting and put to use the lesson I learned about professional socializing, that is, get a drink and (it doesn’t matter if it’s alcoholic or non-alcoholic), and mingle. All of which is a lot easier said than done. Which are things I am still working on. But I tried, and that’s why this post is a ½ step in the “Big-Girl Pants.” Like half a step when you’re walking. Like the running man. No, nevermind, not the running man. Just mid step.

Finding Your Big-Girl Pants: Part 1

Orientation Week.

Affectionately and unofficially known as the best week of your undergraduate experience, “O-Week” is typically synonymous with summer camp for frosh. Well grad students, I have news for you. Graduate school orientation is less faculty-team-building, and more pub nights with the few others in your program. Now, as someone who does not drink beer this tends to be a tad awkward since it becomes more obvious and is a general topic of conversation revisited when everyone orders another round of drinks except you. Anyways.

Walking around campus to the constant cheering and never-ending energy remains an exciting way to relive the O-Week experience without actually reliving it. At the same time, it also makes you feel old, despite my direct transition from undergrad to graduate school making me only one year older than the average oldest undergraduate student. And, as you might expect, with feeling old in a new city comes the old-people activities. Like laundry. And ironing. And cooking… Things that you might have learned as an 18 year old student living in residence, or as a 19 year old student living off-campus. Nevertheless, here I am in my twenties and sending snapchats of myself ironing to my friends to validate the fact that I now have my big-girl pants on.

And while my inventive set-up of a kitchen counter with a bed sheet tucked into the cupboard a-la-makeshift-ironing-board is all kinds of luxurious laundry tools, I can’t even take credit for the idea (thanks Mom!). However, I started to realize today, there were so many ways I could approach this Orientation Week:

1. Ambitiously, I wrote down all the general graduate student activities into my planner, alongside the program-specific activities, including the times and locations. I could go to all of these activities, which would result in 5 hours of sleep per night and a burnt-out Felicia by Sunday night.
2. I could ignore all of the activities, sit in my apartment, and watch Friends like it’s still the summer it feels like outside (cue 30 degree weather. Celsius, incase anyone thought that was sarcasm).
3. Sweat on my bike and rush to roughly 50% of the activities – rushing, since I still have not completely mastered time management while biking, and biking, since walking is overrated. Spend the remaining 50% of my time learning how to hand-signal at stop signs and traffic lights properly so as to avoid as much tippage as possible while on a moving bicycle with a full backpack.
4. Repeat Option #3, but also use the remaining 50% to complete big-girl activities. Cue: Mom’s voice telling me to iron that one shirt with wrinkles that I know I’ll wear soon.

Clearly, based on my anecdote about make-shift ironing boards I chose #4, but you must know that I fully considered all four of those options. Dear Reader, I washed my floors, too. Housekeeping is a skill I fully enjoy at the moment, because I can fully, one hundred percent justify that it is important to establish good housekeeping habits before getting into the depths of an MA. Right? Maybe. But hey, feeling like a big girl, singing that Pull-Ups song, “Mommy, wow! I’m a big kid now!” while dancing with the wet-wipe Swiffer is a productive use of my time. Those five readings for the first class next week can wait. Besides, when it comes time to do them, I’ll already have my big-girl pants on. (I hope.)