Edible Compilations

Art or Artist?

Food is nourishment and entertainment. And art. In summation, food can be so yummy and there are times (too many) that I can't get enough of it. As with eating, I won't stop with that sentence when writing and thinking about it. Moderation has no place in my hedonistic world; I've always had this ability (talent? problem?) to pack it away, having a bottom-less pit of a stomach with the sense of "being satisfied" limited to seeing the plate-bag-box empty. Sometimes a little bit is enough, but I tend to take in more volume than what is necessary. Since there has never been an aim to be skinny like most of my family, or follow any sort of societal approval system, this food preoccupation hasn't been too much of an issue so far, for me. I may eat a lot, but I eat well (and sometimes not so well, especially if there are cookies around.MmMmMmmmmm). My health is good and I enjoy physical activity; and the gym is actually fun for me- when I go.

Happy to have a very open minded palate, it is fun to try new entrees. Going out to eat is a rare thing as much as I would like to be able to do so. Since going out on my own business-wise, money is tight, and so most masticating takes place at home where I can use my creativity to stretch ingredients and meals. That is, when I'm not eating in bachelorette style, ie; poking through a relatively empty fridge in search of quick and cheap sustenance, where a sniff test on a questionable container of milk usually leads to eating bowls of cereal for days on end with an occasional bowl of condensed soup to switch things up. I love when my friends feed me. I feign emaciation, but they don't buy it. However, I am usually granted access to cupboards and leftovers.

Then there are the days of the week when my boyfriend and I are together. It is during this time that I feel an increase in adventure and desire to consume something less stale cereal-like and more in the interesting, tasty, wholesome and/or fresh food continuum. Sometimes he initiates pulling something together, sometimes we work on a meal creation together, but regularly I am buying ingredients, eager to embark on a "creative-pseudo science-anti recipe- palate pleasing (hopefully) endeavor of the nourishing concoction variety" at least that is what I call it. Some people call it cooking, go figure.

In recent weeks, the kitchen has been filled with scents from meals I made such as that of a nice green curry chicken with jasmine rice, veggi-ground turkey chili, various soups, lasagna, hummus, and a plethora of things that I couldn't begin to describe, yet somehow the end result was really good. Some plating replete with a complicated mixture of spices and other ingredients while other meals created with the most simple (and cheap) cupboard findings. I am too rebellious to follow a recipe but I have a knack for tastily throwing things together. My boyfriend is amused and appreciative of this. He knows that whatever I make, it will be an original, "Carey creation", even if it was made before, it is never made quite the same again.

Like my art, and most anything else that I do, when I involve myself in something, I get really into it. An art teacher once described me as a 'physical' painter. I have to say the same would apply to my cooking pursuits. My whole body is involved. I exaggerate my movements, dance a little, sing, whistle and produce other vocalizations. Various ingredients, pots, containers and utensils are strewn all around the kitchen. Food pieces on the floor, in my hair, on the walls, even smooshed into my cats fur and between their fuzzy toes. The process is messy but satisfying. I rarely approach cooking or baking with any level of organization. I look at the cook pot/pan as an empty canvas and create from there. An original masterpiece (piece of pizza, chicken, casserole..ha)!

As much as my bf enjoys my masterpieces, there was one time that he alluded to not loving what I made as much as I did. I often make pancakes. This is actually something that I will make for myself when cereal and soup just won't do. It is cheap, easy, quick and super satisfying. I often like to add blueberries, peaches or any other fruit (fresh, frozen or even canned) that I have on hand. As usual, I don't follow directions or pay much attention to keeping the batter consistent from batch to batch. After making pancakes for us a couple of times, my boyfriend claimed that they were more like a plate of bricks than pancakes. Not complaining, just observing their heavy, chewy, possibly multi-purpose nature. Further, he described the shape as being amoeba like. All of this amused me more than offended me. I liked the idea of calling them "amoeba-cakes", as I love to come up with new terms, labels, definitions for everything (look for the official "Carey to English Dictionary" coming soon!)(or not.). The term also appealed to my nerdy side. Well, with this new found amusement and more than a hint of snark, I proceeded to ask if he would prefer the more traditional socially acceptable pancake, further referred to from this point forward as, "The Conformist-Cake". So then with snark in full effect, I proceeded to follow (almost) the directions to make the batter, then spooned out perfect (almost) drops of batter onto the grill then counted out the same number of blueberries to be allocated to each "conformist-cake" in the same (almost) layout. I took extra care in watching them cook, making sure that each were perfect (almost) golden buttery brown and fluffy before plating them with a side of warmed syrup, perfectly (almost) cooked turkey bacon and juice. As much as I could, I integrated the term, "conformist-cake" and other snark based comments, before, during and after making them. Sure they were made with love, but topped with a heavy dollop* of snark.


They were the best little circles I ever made.

Damn it.

So now, much to my chagrin, (ok, not that much) I make conformist-cakes. The extra few minutes of care really make for visually, texturally and tasty meal.

The last ones I made were this past weekend. "Oh, you're making conformist-cakes? yum!" yes, hun. "I'm sure they will be delicious" yes. yes, they will..

Half of the batch were made plain/regular style while the other half of the batter was left to my diabolical modifications. Or that I made into an apple flavor. Unplanned, as I stood waiting for the perfect little fluffy circles to cook, I spied a jar of apple sauce in the fridge and proceeded to wonder what would happen if I added some to the batter. Oh and how about that cinnamon in the cupboard. I could add just a little bit of that...


Happy Monday, everyone!




*(btw, I hate the word dollop) Any words that you hate? or absolutely love?

First Course: Allow Me to Introduce, PreciseDisarray

A recent and silly little doodle/sketch using cheap quality colored pencils on white semi gloss paper.
Is this a formal introduction or a haphazard mash of words scraped off my cerebellum, like a much needed sloughing? I suppose the former and the latter are one in the same, for all intended purposes. Now where do we begin? Ah yes, give me your hand, please. No, it's ok, really. I'm really friendly and want to shake your hand, say hello and welcome you to my world. Maybe give you a hug, too? Oh no, don't let go; we have more to cover and more to see. So now, let me guide you into this peculiar realm, and allow me to warmly welcome you to, PreciseDisarray. That's me! *grin*

There is so much to talk about and show you, but you know what? We are going to go slowly, take our time, get to know each other and have fun. I want to tell you everything, but how about just a little bit at a time? At least for now. So, lets start with the obvious, ok? Thanks for coming with me, may this be a great adventure (or not 'bang my head against the wall' boring), ok? alright, here we go... Oh goodness I like to write. Not surprisingly, a love of books (Infatuation? Crush? Literary Fetish?) and getting lost in my thoughts (my brain? my happy place!) are great things too. But back to this writing thing. I used to write stories as a teeny tiny kid. Yeh, looking back on them, they are quaint, silly, kind of embarrassing, but definitely creative and most importantly, all mine (mine!!). I had quite the fondness to illustrate them as well (I loved to draw cats, despite my inability to keep to any proportions and they were always in my story, sometimes the lead character. what? I was six.). Maybe at that time, it was the drawing I liked best, as I spent most of my free time from a small tyke to an early adult coloring, sketching, doodling, drawing and a little bit of painting. I think my artistic talent peaked at about 19 or so. Or maybe it was 9. I blew it trying again at 29. I don't know exactly when I lost it, but it seemed that I got worse with instruction rather than better (Hmmm, although you dont know it yet, kind reader, I'm noticing a theme to my life as I write these words. Interesting- and more on that later.) (and yeh, my writing is full of digression and parenthesis after parenthesis of after thought nuggets) (spell check be dammed and all you grammar Nazi's!).

Anyway, college art classes were fun and in some ways satisfying, but they lacked the critical element of, "me". According to class expectations, I did what I had to with varying degree of capability (some work was even hung up in an art show, while some, most (ok, pretty much all) work plunged deep into the trash), but it was the glorious freedom to authentically express that I really yearned for. A child with a crayon had a whole wide world open to them- to draw and creatively explore in any way that they felt in the moment. They worry not of what their peers or adults have to say. It is with pure sublime enjoyment that they run their crayon across the blank white paper (or living room wall, I imagine) (I never did that.) (Right, mom? right??). Ah, that wonderful creative abandon, a world of no distinct rules, a safe yet uncharted place to explore and create. And so as my artistic pursuits dwindled away, I hoped that one day, I would again find that primitive place, and allow myself to pick up a crayon (whether it be conte or crayola) and render again a world once forgotten. I've got ideas but I need my Muse (yeh, ok, the English rock band and even Sharon Stone can help too. I just need something to kick in the art juices. art slushies. art lattes. art whatevs) And when I do? You know I will keep on drawing my tiny faced giant eared purple kitty cats with disproportionate glee.

And so I was saying that like to write. After the cute books written and illustrated by yours truly, I moved onto complete sentences within the boundaries of a wide ruled spiral bound notebook. I would jot down my youngling observations ("Mom's new boyfriend has a hairy chest- ew!") to ("I love Snowball and David forever"( my first cat and my first crush. One I drew with big ears, the other just had them- but you were still cute, David- sorry I tormented you, but it was true love.). Sentences graduated into paragraphs and those turned to full pages. I never called what I wrote in, a "diary". I tried it once, but it felt like too much pressure. I had the notion in my mind that people who wrote in diaries wrote every night before bed and stuck to lame topics such as crushes, bad dates, school angst and parental quandaries (not me! well, those weren't my only topics). I wanted to go deeper or at least probe issues beyond the aforementioned, and write when I felt like as little or as much as I liked. At the start of sixth grade, I adopted the term "journal", as our English class incorporated a daily five minute journal writing exercise. Unlike my artistic interests, I found that I enjoyed writing under any circumstance. Whether it was on my own or for an assignment. Whether is was restricted in length and topic or wide open. As long as I was writing, and sharing my thoughts or a culmination of research based on others thoughts, I was happy. This is likely the only way I managed my way through high school. And college. Ok, and grad school. And meeting my S.O., and keeping my sanity..and, ok, you get the idea- writing is important to me.) My only angst was the typewriter (F*%$#ng piece of sh!t how I loathed you). Please (please please please) let me use a pen, pencil, crayon or eyeliner to write (sharpie marker would work too). Under no circumstance did I want to get my thought(s) out with the use of a typewriter. Oh, I tried to learn, but I wasn't mastering the "correct form" quickly enough to satisfy my needs or that of my typing class teacher (I remember he was stinky, but not where my fingers go). Honestly, I gave up quickly and paid-begged-bartered belonging to- my friends to type my assignments or allowed (begged, cried to) mom to help me out; now she? Could type. Later, the computer keyboard and it's backspace key became my writings best friend (and the recipient of my papers. because, my friends? rarely took the bait to do my typing for me, ha). I still don't know how to type as per the taught ways back in the day (and today?), but I can wave my fingers (one in particular) (oh wait, I'm talking about typing here, I mean, all but my stumpy pinkies, they are just for show) all over the board with few mistakes (still love that backspace/delete key!) and without looking. My point? I found my own way to successfully type out anything from a simple sentence to a Masters thesis (yeh, I'm overly formally educated) without needing to have my fingers in their "correct place". I think there is a term for it. My style was termed, 'pecking', but my skills have elevated to a whole new level. Shall we say, 'Master Pecking'? I'm masterpecking. I like to masterpeck. I masterpeck every day, often by myself but sometimes with others. I even masterpeck in public. I use almost all my fingers to masterpeck. (See, PreciseDisarray is a fun place to go!) Again, my point? I figured out to do things my way and I do it pretty dang well. (Again another theme popping up as I write all this- oooh revelations in the making, peeps!).

Well, as a kid in the single digits through the teens years and into my twenties, I wrote primarily with a pen and paper through 2005. Although I began an electronic journal (LiveJournal, anyone?) in early 2001, I wrote in it infrequently and certainly much differently than in the complete privacy of my written journal pages. It was just so... weeeeird to, ya know, write stuff that other people would see, ya know? I was still, um, masterpecking in privacy, hehe. Well, writing with a pen was still just more, 'my thing'. More specifically, when I was 14, I was given a set of lined writing books with impressionist artist work decorating the covers (me lovey the Monet). I longed to make good use of these books, and so I switched from spiral notebooks to these books, thinking that forever more I would keep with this style of book to write in. I dreamed of having all of my journals one day lining a shelf in my personal library (I had no self importance whatsoever!). For several years I kept to that desire. Then I found it fun and nerdly exciting to scour stores for my next writing journal. Which one would call out to me, begging to host my deepest thoughts and observations? Which wanted to accumulate my rants and worries? Which one did I want to look at and feel (feel up) on a regular basis? Which would become my new best friend, as my books were intensely important to me. If I had nothing else, a piece of paper and a pen would pacify me and my beloved chosen journal book would comfort me in any moment it was needed. Some of my books were like the original ones- usually with some sort of design or artwork on them. Some books were small, thin, spiral bound and ornate while others were huge, plain and existed in the "perfect binding" technique. Through the years, it was exciting to see the collection of completed books grow (my thoughts? I have them. In a box, not, "on a shelf in my library". oh heck no! Plus I would need a library).

Not until late 2005 did I start writing regularly online and over time, much less to not at all in a paper and pen journal. I guess it doesn't matter anymore where or how I write, as long as I'm doing it. One day, I will either transcribe all of my written journals (oh, thats a lot of masterpecking!) or print out all of my electronic/online journals (or both, hmmm). And so it is with this journal, this brand new journal. This waxing awesome journey (journal=journey, get it?) that I will be sharing my thoughts, exploring ideas and giving a place for my busy brain to sort it all out; a cerebral sloughing, if you will. I got a lot going on and I need a place to sort it.

So, my kind readers, you can expect a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Anything is possible. I simply hope to bring my voice out and connect with many of you through my writing. Nothing will start out intentional, as I know that my writing can and will wander, but likely it well go somewhere-just hang it there, and stay on the ride until it comes to a complete stop. We're going to go just wherever my thoughts take me that day.

It is, I am, PreciseDisarray. See you next time? Oh there is so much more.. give me that hand again, *shakes*- "it was nice meeting you".