Tabouli

Earlier this week, I made tabouli. It tastes like home, that is, deliciousness. I tried to photograph it, but the light in my kitchen is too dim. And I didn't want to be that weird roommate who lights her food and photographs it before eating it.

My street is still unplowed! It is apparently too minor to deserve attention from a streetplow, or perhaps its confounding one-way direction changes are too difficult. The sidewalk is also unplowed, so each tiny portion is as clean as the residents of the adjacent house deign to shovel it.
This provides for an amusingly uneven walk up and down the street. Thus did I trek through the snow to get groceries. I was suckered in to buying this tea, for its excellent package design. I love green.

Headed home later this week. Delightful. I don't have any exams, but I am waiting for my students to take their exam so that I can grade it.


In that spirit, this post's theme song is "This is not over yet," from Parade.

The most wonderful time

Snow! It started on Friday and hasn't stopped since. Fabulous.

Yesterday I ran out of certain groceries (butter, yogurt, cheese, any vegetable except onions, my favorite tea), but this morning I made a brief foray onto campus that convinced me I could go another day without trekking to a grocery store.

I chose to walk in the streets, braving the one-foot-deep snowdrifts there (rather than the two- to three-foot-deep ones on the sidewalks). Arriving on campus covered in snow up to my knees, and with a decent powdering of snow on my hat, shoulders, hair, and gloves, I was a new abominable snowman, much smaller and more hobbit-like. And cheerful. The librarian who checked out my books seemed quite astonished that I should be so exhilarated at the prospect of windburn, frostbite, and wet miserableness. The priest thanked us for making it to church. The people at the gym seemed incredulous that anyone would show up.

(On windburn: I am seriously considering wearing my ski goggles whenever I leave the house. I get wicked windburn on any exposed skin, and even with a hat and scarf, there is a horizontal line of pink windburn across my face. Every day for the past three weeks. My housemates and co-grad students have assured me that this will mark me as a lunatic to passers-by. But a less windburned lunatic.)

Apparently Toronto's snow plow drivers don't work early on Sunday mornings. Or Sunday afternoons. Or Sunday evenings, to judge by the street in front of my house. I tried to take a picture of it, but my aging digital camera just rendered it as all white. Instead, I offer you a picture of my front porch. I like how the snow accumulates on surfaces, exaggerating their height and visual interest.

The expedition to campus resulted in disillusionment (along with very wet jeans and cold hands). My hike to obtain groceries was thus delayed for a day. Today I ate a cheese-less tofu/onion omelette. I would not recommend it. (Omelettes need cheese, like everything does -- to paraphrase the Matrix line.)

Despite this culinary inconvenience, I like snow. Perhaps when I next move, it will be further north still. There doesn't seem to be much north of here in Canada, but I could move to Iceland. Or something. Suggestions are welcome.


This post's featured word: gallimaufry, "a confused jumble or medley of things." Reminds me of Gallifrey.