it's so like the thing I'm not referencing more than now

On the middle finger of my right hand is the end of a blister.  Sometime tomorrow it's likely to become the shiny spot of new skin that was fairly recently under the blister.

I've made hollandaise sauce before, but I haven't made it often, and when I did before I just stood and beat while someone else told me what I was supposed to be doing.  It just never happened to become my job, and because I likely heard often enough how hard it was to make I never bothered to try.

But finally I've made it once or twice, and I've realized that it really isn't that hard, and I've now gone on the internets and googled and read about it here and there.  I've checked Escoffier, and when I have time on my day off this week I'll check Julia and James.

It is time consuming, and I suppose if you don't know how to lift your bowl off the heat once in a while, or if you can't tell when something becomes a different color and consistency, well, sure it's scaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrry!

BOO!

No really, it's tiresome at it's worst.  I didn't even notice the blister till after work.  I forgot that I needed to head home sooner than later and sat down at the bar for a quick gin and tonic.  I didn't know I was sitting down for a gin and tonic till I sat down and was reminded that we run decent liquor specials for brunch, so I opted in.

I did soon go home, but that isn't really a story other than the part about going home.  I needed to and was reminded via a text, so I then did. 

It was while I was enjoying the gin and tonic that I saw the blister and was stuck on it for a moment.  I had to think how I'd gotten it.  I knew it wasn't a burn.  It was big enough to remember if it had been a burn.  And as I thought I remembered the hollandaise and the whisk.  While beating the yolks find that I switch back and forth between gripping the handle fully with my hand and holding it more like writing with a pencil.  It's what the hand does I suppose.  The holding it like a pencil part gave me a blister on the second finger of my right hand.

Actually, this isn't really much of a story either.

Finally, to end this not really much of a story on a whole other but still hollandaise related note.  Nearly anything is better dipped in hollandaise.  Roasted potatoes are of course lovely.  The fatty end of a strip of bacon is marvelous.  Perhaps the most decadent of all and surely one of the most delightful is the simple potato chip.  But these are only ideas.  There's a world of food waiting to be dipped into hollandaise, for hollandaise is the new ranch . . . up to a point.

p.s.  ranch is still awesome

p.p.s ranch and hollandaise are probably equally awesome

p.p.p.s maybe I should make up my own super awesome ranch recipe

p.p.p.p.s. damn, now I want some wings

circles, always damn circles

How do you go about doing everything differently?  How do you look deep into yourself and accept finally that you are more often than not the reason you are not making any progress anywhere at all?

How do you decide what is an excuse and what is a reasonable concern?

How do you stop being that scared and confused little boy that you've always been in spite of all the shit you talked then and still talk now?

Sometimes I feel like I'm missing something.  Maybe it's a clue as to how to move to the next part, or maybe it's a part I need to figure out how to fix or replace.

I want to do all of the above, but it feels like every time I step outside I get hit by something, so I've begun to go outside a lot less, and being a nervous recluse doesn't seem to help me do much of anything.

There's more, something about bursting out, being reborn as a phoenix or something, but I just stared into space and nearly dozed off a moment ago, and I really do need to get to bed.  I've got a world of making sense of my world to do.

a story

We were in the gym waiting for the school building to open, and in walked one of my "friends."  He was closer in age to my next younger brother, and if any of us were friends it was them.  We were within the years considered middle school probably.

The typical schooling segments always throw me off as we only had elementary and high school, the first downstairs in the school building and the latter upstairs in the school building.  In elementary you stayed in the same classroom throughout the day with the one teacher while highschool was the normal lockers and walking to classes.  Both elementary and high school did share the same paddling room, though the high school teachers shared a different paddle than the elementary.  Kindergarten was in the basement of the church building, and the paddling room there was in a room that was unused during the day.  The principal and coaches had the option of paddling in their respective offices.

Anyway, this kid walked in, and he was wearing some new jeans that were probably quite fashionable, and on the flap over the fly, in very bold white on the denim background was a word.  I have to assume it was the brand for these fresh and/or fly new jeans, but it struck me as odd that they chose to make this statement and that this particular kid chose and was allowed by his parents to make this statement.

And my too slow to think before I speak self asked what was written on his penis.  Even now I still can't think what I did that was so wrong.  Apparently it was just awful.  I think he cried.  I had to apologize and probably had detention for multiple days.