Favorable Flavorful Food

As we converse the dirty jerks on the slogan team for Lay’s potato chips scoff at me. Why you may wonder? Because similar to their catch phrase I find it difficult to “eat” or rather choose just one fond memory I have with food. And to be quite honest I can’t eat just one of those devilish potato chips either. But potato chips are gum wadded disgracefully under a shoe in comparison to my favorite foods.  

At a young age I already possessed a keen understanding of the fantastic functionality of food; how you could crave, even lust after just a taste of fried squash, a nibble of chocolate pie, or a hefty helping of mashed potatoes. Lucky enough for me I was born into a family heaping full of culinary artists. My mother mastered the spatula serving up delectable deliciousness at every meal, but her staple is salsa. Seriously. This is salsa like you’ve never dreamed, prepared in a way you can’t fathom, with a taste that causes you to shout “Fantastico!” Just thinking about the fresh tomatoes, onions, peppers married in a union of awesomeness makes my mouth water. And that fried squash I mentioned? Mmmmm. It’s the perfect combination of flour  and squash, which creates a delicate balance of flavor and crunch. Her fried okra is the same way—none of those precooked frozen okra balls like you get at “steak houses,” this stuff is real okra lightly breaded and browned to a crisp. Yum. And all of these foods are wonderful, but upon reflection I’ve found one provision standing out among the crowd—Malt-O-Meal.

It never fails sickness or health Malt-O-Meal comforts me. It all undoubtedly derives from my first rememberable Malt-O-Meal experience on a cold morning at my grandma’s house. The first thing you should know is that when you look up amazing in the dictionary my grandma’s picture is there. Secondly, you should appreciate how everything about her was golden, glorious, sublime. She didn’t just make food; she crafted it with instinct and her culinary senses, if you will. And I loved it all. Hence, I was sitting in a straight backed chair at an uncouthly early hour in a small but gently cozy house, which was situated on the moderately populated outskirts of Seminole, Oklahoma, watching the butter slowly melt as I churned my hot breakfast cereal. Sadly, after eating I caught the bus for school, but this memory always stuck with me because it signifies a love my grandma shared with me in everything—not just her cooking, which was wonderful (my mother had to get it somewhere). Here it is 2011 and a piping bowl of Malt-O-Meal could mend a broken heart, ease a cluttered conscious, and ultimately put me at peace. 

Typical Lyrical Trash

There’s nothing I enjoy more than typical lyrical trash. It’s almost like an addiction. Well spun lyrics wrapped around melodies magically and majestically beautiful take me places far from the context of everyday life and mend my measly mishaps. “Hey. Don’t write yourself off yet, it’s only in your head you feel left out and looked down on” (1). Did anyone ever boost your confidence better than this empowering song by Jimmy Eat World? Psht. Not likely. I distinctly remember time after time the way these very lyrics told me that “everything will be just fine, everything will be alright,” and I believed, and ultimately everything was (1). 

Everyone has those songs, so powerful and true, that simply hearing the beginning chords or singing the words in your head transforms your mood instantly. And those beats and notes, rhythms and chords all become a memory of a place or time. I hear the opening drums to Incubus’ Wish You Were Here, and I’m in sixth grade again right after my sister got her license driving around in the pleasant heat of summer with the windows down and a soft peppermint in my mouth. It’s magic. Nothing can change my mood like music. Nothing can soothe me more than a song. Nothing can I relate to like well put refrain. And when it comes to music—I love it all.

Music can answer any question. What should you do on a hot summer afternoon? “Put the sprinkler on the lawn and run through with [your] gym shorts on” (2). What movie should I rent or book should I read? “ ‘The King and I’ and ‘Catcher in the Rye’ ” (3). What should you look for in a man? He should be “single and free—experience preferred but will accept a young trainee” (4). How much do I love you? “A bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck” (5). And the list goes on.

No matter what the situation or where you are music can unite you to someone else, somewhere else, no matter what the time period is. Be it oldies, indie, or rap—each genre speaks to an audience and holds vital importance to their identity. I would easily agree that more could be learned about me from my music collection than anything else about me. I chose those songs because I relate to them, they have messages I support, and they inspire me. There may be 87 gazillion songs out there, and some of them probably sound like typical lyrical trash to you, but to someone they’re a story, consolation at the end of a long day, a memory, or an anthem of a dying age. 

1: The Middle by Jimmy Eat World

2: Pinch Me by Barenaked Ladies

3: We Didn't Start the Fire by Billy Joel

4: Want Ads by The Honey Cone

5: A Bushel and a Peck by Doris Day

Let's Talk

“Personal essayists converse with the reader because they are already having dialogues and disputes with themselves” (XXIV). I’m afraid if I could’ve worded it better I would’ve, but as an “essayist”—and I laugh at the thought of calling myself such—I am a talker, which is paradoxical in itself. 

Let’s be frank, though. I don’t always write this way it’s just my default setting. In my natural habitat I examine my thoughts, refine them, define them, and piece them together. It’s all a scientific process and a lot of times writing down helps me understand where I’m going and where I’ve been. See, I’m still discovering myself. I guess I’m a little behind the curve in that area…maybe that’s why I write in questions? And am never really sure what I’m saying? I’ll declare it’s to engage you, but who are we kidding? The conversational style would bother me more, but I think it’s better to insight a feeling of partiality in the reader; this way they feel as if they have a say even if your words are clearly black and white. It’s all so intriguingly ironic. I could really say I exhibit several of the characteristics of the various personal essayists. For example, I don’t mind sharing semi-private details to aid in the discovery of a grander universal truth, I can definitely discuss my flaws openly (even though I didn’t choose to in my last post—this is because the pancakes were too monumental to overlook), cheek and irony are definitely devices I enjoy, and I really feel that it’s fun to meander from point/place to place. Writing is like thought, sometimes you arrive at the best destinations by taking a longer, more scenic route! Still, I exhibit the conversationalist the most, I would say. I actively include you don’t I? We’re talking/discussing. Yeah. We worked it out together.

Making Banana Pancakes

I had the sincerest intention to write about one of the topics listed, but I thought to myself “ write about something important to you—a discovery of great magnitude.” So, I’m going to write about the magnificently wonderful discovery of banana pancakes.

You’re thinking to yourself, “Megan, are banana pancakes a legitimate discovery? Haven’t people before you made banana pancakes? Are they not the object of a quite soothing melody by Jack Johnson?” To these and other queries I would reply, “Indeed. But the point is: banana pancakes are not of this world.”

On January 13, 2011, a Thursday, we celebrated girls’ night at our humble abode, and as the oldest of a lovely group of girls I was quite readily chosen as the chef of our delightful dinner. I am not really a chef. I am not even of cook standards. I am just one of those trial and error hob-nob people, who explore the kitchen like an uncharted arena of discovery. And the kitchen did not disappoint on this bitterly cold evening—it supplied me with the greatest treasure unearthed in recent years. There I was; I mixed the flour, eggs, oil, milk, and vanilla into a bowl and began the pancake process. Now, you should know I have previously experimented with pancakes and chocolate chips—a divine treat—but that was as far as the alchemy that is cooking had taken me. It was by utter chance that I actually had bananas at this point in time, and I saw them out of the corner of my eye and my interest was piqued. I sliced the banana and gently laid it into the batter already bubbling in the skillet. In minutes the masterpiece was finished and I hesitantly cut a piece to eat. BOOM! An explosion on my taste buds. My pancake life is forever altered.

Lidenskap

Lively diction. Lovely music. My delightful dog, Zoey. Taking sunny naps all snuggled up. Swinging close to lofty branches. Definitely not taking photos of meself, yuck. To some unknown extent writing. I used to enjoy reading, but school stole it from me. Attempting artistic endeavors. Kindred to many things in my life, I cannot simply have one passion. I crave more than one fixation. But not in a druggie way, just in the normal way of someone who is just a smidgen more random than the doctor prescribed. I’m all over the place! I’m whimsical. Wandering. Eccentric. I don’t know. I’m just not the one to put on airs. I am bizarre, but that’s who I am! I wish I could say, “Mr. Professor Benton, sir, my passion is English or writing, my one true love is the enthusiasm contained in writing one frank yet enthralling sentence!!” But it’s not. But it could be. I don’t know. I can barely write a facebook status without consulting thesaurus.com; I just love words. I love exploring words and dusting off forgotten synonyms to those overused cliché words--you know them. I love how you look on the thesaurus.com website and at the top it has some little quibble about “Here’s a way to say different in six syllables instead of three.” Wow! That's more than I bargained for or negotiated, whichever. 

But I get a little tired of English classes. Tired being forced to back up my opinion with someone else’s supposed concrete detail. Tired of their way of not teaching me anything useful. Tired of still questioning that English is the “right” major for me. I don’t know, I guess I expected confirmation that English was my “calling,” but so far all I have is an excited frenzy at the beginning of the semester and  an indifferent fatigue halfway through. In that way school is not cool. But I digress. I like riding bikes. Ahhhh. There’s nothing quite like the wind in your hair, the blazing sting of fresh air on your face, the feeling of your pulse as you peddle. That’s good stuff; it’s almost Hostess. Bah. It’s all just fluff-n-stuff. 

My naked self, the one who sings in the shower—yeah, that one—tells me “Pfft, you’re not athletic.” Dang. My self’s right. I do quite enjoy science, though. Every English major wants to make some joke about how they’re an English major because they’re not good at anything else (how insulting! they create rude stereotypes), but I am or I’m at least mediocre at everything else, even mathematics. (take that thesaurus.com) And I don’t even consider myself a 5 star writer. I’m just a cynically observant word-lover. It was fate that I became an English-teacher-certification major. I just do what they tell me and by “they” I mean various friends and people who are along the same genetic line I am who all insisted this was what I should do, as if they know all the answers to their life's quandaries. They predestined me to this pish-posh radioactive "subjective" major. It’s just not healthy. Oh hey and there’s thesaurus.com, “Healthy is a great word, but try out this longer and more expressive option.” Jerks. I don't mean to carry on, if I was so aggravated and plagued by my major choice (it's almost punny) I would change it. I'm just still seeking the affirmation Savage Garden sings about.

Wide Open Sails

Occasionally I hate change; mostly I hate change, yet adventure completely enthralls me. I can remember the days preceding my freshman year of high school—those were the days. I was scared and anxious, happy yet freaked out. Knowing I would be at the bottom of the tier was nerve-racking, but being in high school, feeling like an adult, reaching independence (or so I thought) was so empowering! Oh man, and graduating with the fresh perspective of college impending on the horizon, such a feeling cannot be paralleled. Well, maybe I don’t hate change, can I stay on the fence for a second? I love to entertain possibility and all it entails, but I fear the consequences of change. When it comes to spontaneity, I’m all for it. I really want to travel. New cultures and new places fascinate me, but socially I’m what you might call a hermit. I get better as time goes by but I’m really just adventurous in the stories I read and the dreams I concoct. My sails are wide open but I’m tied to the dock.