Soup to Nuts

You just don't see many articles on the preparation and consumption of mountain oysters. Apparently, folks used to peel and eat them like figs, fresh from the campfire. The history is quite interesting:

The tradition in Nevada is strongly associated with the Basque sheepherders who came to Nevada in significant numbers in the late 19th century. The yellowed pages of many a family cookbook include recipes for “bildoch pesta,” lamb fest or lamb party, with the ingredients — much to the consternation of outsiders — sometimes obtained with the teeth.

“It’s a Basque comfort food,” said Lisa Aguirre, 54, a descendant from Reno who was standing in the parking lot of the Bucket of Blood Saloon, waiting for the oyster tasting to begin. “Everybody is going to tell you they taste like chicken,” Ms. Aguirre added. “That’s a lie.”

The reality is fairly repulsive:


Although, I do wonder... If you're going to eat meat, can you really be fussy about what comes from where? Dead animal is dead animal. Right?

Image and excerpt from www.nytimes.com

I'm a baller.

First off, I loathe group activities - team sports, book clubs, committees, exercise classes, standing in line, riding in a car with someone I don't like, having more than one voice in my head, etc. Being part of a group makes me feel nervous and obligated. I'm bound to dislike someone or something that's said, and then I will be unhappy and unable to leave. Secondly, I am terrified of having things thrown at me. I blame this on my brother and his penchant for launching projectiles at my head in order to showcase my terrible reflexes. For someone who's fairly coordinated in other arenas, my catching-things reflexes are laughably slow. Perhaps I shouldn't spend the first three seconds of response time contemplating how best to hide, but whatever. I'm good at other things.

Yesterday, I played a game of basketball. That's right, I participated in a team sport that involved catching things, AND I did this in front of an audience. It actually wasn't terrible. I didn't really interact with others; I just pretended that they were little, mobile basketball hoops with agendas. I caught the ball, I bounced it up and down, I threw it at the big hoop. It didn't go in, but it didn't airball, either. All in all, pretty solid, I thought. But today... At least fifteen people have stopped me to comment on my performance. "You were the best!" "You were hilarious!" "SO funny!" "OMG, I was dying!"

Maybe it's to do with this spunky little kick that happens when I throw. Maybe my cuteness was overpowering. Maybe you shouldn't skip down a basketball court. Maybe losing track of the ball while you're dribbling just isn't done. Maybe it was my sleeveless Orange Crush t-shirt that n.o.c. bought off a homeless guy in San Francisco. Maybe it was my argyle knee socks. It's hard to say.

Nonetheless, I think I've been sufficiently adventurous for 2009. If you need me, I'll be alone, surrounded by soft, stationary objects.