the return of fridge porn

If you haven't been reading GFD from the beginning (if you're not my mom, basically), you probably don't know about fridge porn. It all started when I found this amazing photo essay, after which I showed you mine, and you showed me yours. Now, nearly two years later, bl*g reader J Quizzle is showing us his (click the photo to enlarge).

Writer/Educator/Nomad | Nashville, TN | 1-person + imaginary primordial dwarf household | Suffers from seasonal affective disorder in spring. | May 9, 2011

Don't wait two years: Go to your refrigerator right now, take a photo of what's inside, write a caption, and send it to gruelfordinner [at] gmail [dot] com to satiate all of us peeping fridge pervs. Or this peeping fridge perv, anyway.

(Speaking of pervs, around the same time I started putting up photos and calling them fridge porn, I wrote a post in which I used the word "granny"; the number of people who subsequently ended up at GFD after Googling the term "granny porn" was rather alarming. Who knew? I wish I didn't.)

remember when i used to post recipes on this bl*g?

What I needed to do today:

1. Write
2. Proofread
3. Copyedit


What I did:

1. Stared out the window
2. Took a bath
3. Cleaned my computer keyboard


Lest you think I'm a total slacker, that last task took nearly three hours.

procrastination: it ain't just a river in egypt

A sure sign I have loads of work to do: two bl*g posts in one day.


The yellow one tastes like Pledge. I just ate an orange one that tasted exactly like mayonnaise, but a different orange one burned my throat. The red ones are a little bitter and root-y. And the red ones aren't red in the middle, they're orange.

These carrots may be pretty but they're not particularly good.

I'm gonna be proofreading all. weekend. long.

i've found my muse

I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I have not been spending my days lately working on The Thing. I have not even been spending my days lately workin' for the man.

How have I been spending my days lately? Holding little photo sessions with hard boiled eggs, of course.

Why? Because I've lost my mind hard boiled eggs are very photogenic.


From Boucher Family Farm via the Burlington Farmers Market.

& sadly the yachtsman is not around to pull me up by my bootstraps

I've started making myself a little schedule each night, in the hopes this will transform me from The Least Productive Person in the World into A Go-Getter Who Goes and Gets Things Done. Before bed every night I take out my high-tech iPaper and my iPen, I use a special font to write the day of the week, and then I make a little to-do list for the following day.

This worked for about three days, before the magic of the little schedules wore off. For example, today I did get up, I did walk the dog, and I did eat breakfast, at which point things stopped going according to plan. I did not do yoga, I wrote for about twenty minutes before I was distracted by a passing cloud, and I am not currently editing. Although the locksmith did come, which I'm going to consider my own accomplishment since it was on my goddamn schedule. I will also go to Amy & James's house, because it's a birthday party and there will be pie.

But I. Need. Serious. Help. Preferably in the form of a personal assistant.

the yachtsman recommends

awkwardfamilyphotos.com

i may not be working, but i'm not drinking, either

What I should be doing? Proofreading. What I am doing? Holding a little photo shoot with the Yachtsman's sake. It may taste like shizz, but this rice wine wears a handsome little hat.

the tax man is gettin' me down

There's a link on the IRS website called "What's Hot in forms and publications." I clicked on it, and it is pretty hot.

Why is it that April 15 finds Chris and me utterly unprepared to file taxes? Every year. And you know this hot IRS website will distract me for hours -- all those steamy forms and naughty publications to download. We will once again be filing a sexy little extension.

koulouria

Unless you are lucky enough to have a Greek stepmother (or mother or giagia), you've probably never had koulouria, in which case I feel very sorry for you.


Koulouria (pronounced kuh-LOO-dee-uh) are Greek cookies that my stepmother makes every year a week or so before Easter and delivers to her family (including her brothers, who live in the South and send her the White Lily flower required for baking them). Koulouria are almost indescribable, and extremely delicious, the kind of thing you look forward to all year: somewhere between a cookie and a tea biscuit, koulouria are a little sweet, scented with orange, and sometimes topped with sesame seeds.

If she really, really loves you, my stepmother will make koulouria in the shape of your first initial and instruct you that while you may eat the others now, you must save your initial koulouria for Easter morning (although at the rate Chris and I are eating them, I'm not sure there will be any left by then).


My stepmother will also tell you that koulouria are meant to be dipped in tea or coffee, but I disagree. While a biscotti needs to be dipped in hot liquid because it's hard as a rock, koulouria have a wonderful, slightly crumbly texture and can be eaten alone, with tea, for breakfast, for lunch, while wandering around the kitchen procrastinating doing work, for dessert, before bed, after writing a bl*g post...

today's midmorning-snack replacement

It's delicious and all, but this bitch is a little high maintenance, what with the peeling and the pith removal. (I could cut it in half and eat it with a sharp-toothed spoon, but that reeks of diet to me, and I. Do. Not. Diet.) I need to be able to get up from my desk, walk to the kitchen, grab my midmorning snack, and return to my desk.

Because I'm a busy woman: I have The Thing to procrastinate writing, and hours and hours of aimless internet surfing to do EVERY DAY. Who has time to peel a grapefruit?

at long last, the burrito

That burrito was delicious, and Behind the Scenes at the Museum is good, too. A bit of a slog at first, but now I look forward to the few moments each day I have to read it (usually while doing something else, too: eating lunch, walking from my desk to the bedroom to pet the dog, feeling guilty for not working on The Thing). It's quite different from the Jackson Brodie mysteries, which I’m not ashamed to say I love -- there’s nothing wrong with stories in which someone is killed and someone else spends the entire book trying to figure out whodunit, just like there's nothing wrong with TV shows in which wealthy Upper-East-Side teenagers get drunk, have sex, and are mean to each other.

the one beautiful thing vs. The Thing

I was recently rereading The Seas, by Samantha Hunt, in the hopes that it would provoke some kind of breakthrough with The Thing I'm writing (you know, the thing I started in graduate school FIVE YEARS AGO), but instead I was inspired to further procrastinate by posting here this line from The Seas: "...that is how a small northern town in America works. It enlists one beautiful thing like the ocean or the mountains or the snow to keep people stuck and stagnant and staring out to sea forever." Uh oh.

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Images downloaded from here in 1996.