I thought I had made the perfect biscuits. I had mixed all of the dry ingredients--flour, salt, and baking powder together--before adding the shortening and milk. And then, I blended it all, just enough, so that it held together. (You don't want to over-mix biscuit or pie dough, or it becomes tough.)
I announced that I had made the perfect biscuits. And I had, from my vantage point. (My biscuit dough was wrapped around little sausages; the dough puffed up just enough that the sausages appeared to be wearing pillow collared down coats. They were lovely. And the layers of the dough, created by the shortening, was lovely too.)
The only problem was that I rolled the dough out to the perfect thickness for my sausages in a blanket. And I used that same thickness to make my vegetarian brunch-mate ordinary biscuits, cut round with a silver one cup measuring cup. Her verdict? They couldn't be called the perfect biscuits, because they were too thin. The flakey layers, in my brunch-mate's biscuits were practically nonexistent, since there wasn't much distance between the crunchy bottom and top crusts.
Conclusion: Next time I make biscuits, I am going to roll them out to the approximate thickness that I want the final baked biscuits to be. Maybe then, I will find perfection. :-)
(I would like to try this recipe sometime. It's probably more buttery tasting than my family recipe, which I'll list below.)
_________________
Biscuits, from the Family's Favorites Recipe Book
2 cups flour
3 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup shortening
3/4 cup milk
Bake at 450 degrees.
Since my sister, who put together the family favorites, never uses a timer for baking, there is no bake for ___ minutes line. I discovered, today, that you'll likely bake them for 12 - 14 minutes, or until the biscuits are a lovely, golden brown.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Sensical nosense starts here . . .
Meal sell, riddle hello.
Set hum test.
Ewe-barrow Q hill real letter.
________________________
Writing is metallic
readings are too
tin can be dented
text already has dings
who knew?
(this is not a poem--it's more of an obvious riddle (yes, that's a contradiction))
________________________
Megapixel-lexicon-nocturne (and this is where this word-train ends)
________________________
Faint Q tour seeding!
Set hum test.
Ewe-barrow Q hill real letter.
________________________
Writing is metallic
readings are too
tin can be dented
text already has dings
who knew?
(this is not a poem--it's more of an obvious riddle (yes, that's a contradiction))
________________________
Megapixel-lexicon-nocturne (and this is where this word-train ends)
________________________
Faint Q tour seeding!
Could become . . .
When a person has a foot amputated, I've heard that the mind continues to think that the appendage is there. It's so used to what was that it keeps mistaking it as being there. Eventually, I suspect, like any loss, the mind slowly accepts that what once was is now gone. Although, I'm not sure, the mind ever heals completely.
I understand loss, a little.
What I don't understand, though, is absence (for lack of a better term): how is it that we can mourn for things we never had? Loss hurts because there was once a gain. But absence (absence that we're aware of and feel so palpably by some mysterious force) has no prerequisite, unless the missing of something one never had is inculcated in us by society, or, perhaps, there is force--call it desire, call it knowledge, call it perspective--that resides in us from a time long before we came to earth. Maybe absence is a form of loss, after all; a loss of climbing the peaks we knew we needed to climb, swimming the oceans we needed to swim, and becoming strong like we saw--if only in a vision viewed before mortality--we could become.
I understand loss, a little.
What I don't understand, though, is absence (for lack of a better term): how is it that we can mourn for things we never had? Loss hurts because there was once a gain. But absence (absence that we're aware of and feel so palpably by some mysterious force) has no prerequisite, unless the missing of something one never had is inculcated in us by society, or, perhaps, there is force--call it desire, call it knowledge, call it perspective--that resides in us from a time long before we came to earth. Maybe absence is a form of loss, after all; a loss of climbing the peaks we knew we needed to climb, swimming the oceans we needed to swim, and becoming strong like we saw--if only in a vision viewed before mortality--we could become.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sometimes . . .
. . . I want to teach my class whatever is left on the whiteboard from the class before us, even if I have no idea what the terms, diagrams, or scrawls means.
. . . I want to buy the items off a found grocery list (lost by someone else) and do something with those items.
Today . . .
. . . I found a list in the deli, and I actually picked it up. The list was on a heavy piece of rectangular paper, about 3 inches wide and 5 inches tall. It listed the following in block letters (with weird capitalization) in heavy black marker:
PARSlEY - frEsh
ICEberG - LettucE
MAJic SizinG - Light
CAlAmARi - Frozen
DOVE BARS - Choc
(Unfortunately, I can't reproduce the underlining here.)
Then on a Super-Sticky Post-it Note (the real expensive thing!) that was positioned perfectly on the paper so that it touched the bottom and side margins (by the way, this part was in cursive and in pencil):
Spray Sizing (light)
2 Large Dove Bars
IceBerg LETTuce
When I flipped the list-card over, there was a printed line drawing of an Old Spice cologne bottle. I figured this must be one of those papers you get when you're testing out scents. I sniffed the paper. It smelled like the sharpie, the marker used to write the first part of the list.
Observations: 1) the owner of this list likely bought something (something from the deli) not on his/her list; 2) Dove Bars, Iceberg Lettuce, and Spray Sizing were important enough to be written down more than once; 3) if I were to buy the items on this shopping list, I could have nicely pressed shirts, skirts, and handkerchiefs; I could give friends candy bars (I'm not too fond of plain chocolate; although Dove is pretty good) or make Texas Chocolate Chip Cookies (this looks similar to the recipe I have); I have no idea what I would do with the calamari; and lettuce and parsley are easy enough to find something to do with.
. . . I want to buy the items off a found grocery list (lost by someone else) and do something with those items.
Today . . .
. . . I found a list in the deli, and I actually picked it up. The list was on a heavy piece of rectangular paper, about 3 inches wide and 5 inches tall. It listed the following in block letters (with weird capitalization) in heavy black marker:
PARSlEY - frEsh
ICEberG - LettucE
MAJic SizinG - Light
CAlAmARi - Frozen
DOVE BARS - Choc
(Unfortunately, I can't reproduce the underlining here.)
Then on a Super-Sticky Post-it Note (the real expensive thing!) that was positioned perfectly on the paper so that it touched the bottom and side margins (by the way, this part was in cursive and in pencil):
Spray Sizing (light)
2 Large Dove Bars
IceBerg LETTuce
When I flipped the list-card over, there was a printed line drawing of an Old Spice cologne bottle. I figured this must be one of those papers you get when you're testing out scents. I sniffed the paper. It smelled like the sharpie, the marker used to write the first part of the list.
Observations: 1) the owner of this list likely bought something (something from the deli) not on his/her list; 2) Dove Bars, Iceberg Lettuce, and Spray Sizing were important enough to be written down more than once; 3) if I were to buy the items on this shopping list, I could have nicely pressed shirts, skirts, and handkerchiefs; I could give friends candy bars (I'm not too fond of plain chocolate; although Dove is pretty good) or make Texas Chocolate Chip Cookies (this looks similar to the recipe I have); I have no idea what I would do with the calamari; and lettuce and parsley are easy enough to find something to do with.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Random things . . .
1. Betty told me that to avoid near collisions when walking (I always seem to choose to walk the same direction the person about to crash into me chooses to walk), I should look at people's feet. Whichever way their feet are pointing, they will walk. I've discovered that this method works most of the time. And it's a far better method than watching faces.
2. I invented a new term--symmetrical rhyme--which takes into account both visual and sound properties (granted these are a stretch) of certain words. (Why is it that we only ever talk about the sounds words make and their meanings? Why don't we talk about the shape of the letters? The visual patterns?)
Symmetrical Rhyme: a word where the first 1/2 of the word when read front to back (e.g., cot) rhymes with the second 1/2 of the word when read back to front (e.g., not (being the reverse as ton)), as in the word COT-TON.
And while we're at it, here are some other terms:
Asymmetrical Rhyme: a word that has the same properties as symmetrical rhyme, except that one of the rhyming units is longer than the other.
Symmetrical Half Rhyme: a word that has the same properties as symmetrical (full) rhyme, only either the vowel sound or the consonant sounds rhyme (not both; otherwise, it would be full rhyme). Some examples of symmetrical half rhyme: FAT-TEN (fat and net are half rhymes with the t-sound rhyming; if you want to get technical, they're an example of consonance); MIR-ROR (mir and ror are half rhymes (consonance)); BUT-TON (but and not are half rhymes (consonance)).
And then, of course, you could have asymmetrical half rhyme.
I know that these terms would not be all that useful to poets, as we never pronounce the word COTTON as cot and not. But, I still think that the visual properties, and their resultant sounds, are important. I'm just not wise enough, however, to know how.
3. The difference between a candy orange slice (which seems rather soft) and a jelly ring (which seems firmer), is the thickness of the candy. The thicker the jelly, the softer.
4. If someone offered you five beautiful rings--all of gold bedecked in jewels--and the only catch was that you had to grow an extra finger for that fifth ring, would you do it? (They won't let you put the ring on your thumb.) There's a billboard in SL that says you'll like their stuff so much that you'll wish you had more fingers. (And I know I'm not supposed to take it literally, but I just can't imagine ever ever ever wanting more fingers, unless I had lost one in a tragic Lemony Snicket-esque accident.)
2. I invented a new term--symmetrical rhyme--which takes into account both visual and sound properties (granted these are a stretch) of certain words. (Why is it that we only ever talk about the sounds words make and their meanings? Why don't we talk about the shape of the letters? The visual patterns?)
Symmetrical Rhyme: a word where the first 1/2 of the word when read front to back (e.g., cot) rhymes with the second 1/2 of the word when read back to front (e.g., not (being the reverse as ton)), as in the word COT-TON.
And while we're at it, here are some other terms:
Asymmetrical Rhyme: a word that has the same properties as symmetrical rhyme, except that one of the rhyming units is longer than the other.
Symmetrical Half Rhyme: a word that has the same properties as symmetrical (full) rhyme, only either the vowel sound or the consonant sounds rhyme (not both; otherwise, it would be full rhyme). Some examples of symmetrical half rhyme: FAT-TEN (fat and net are half rhymes with the t-sound rhyming; if you want to get technical, they're an example of consonance); MIR-ROR (mir and ror are half rhymes (consonance)); BUT-TON (but and not are half rhymes (consonance)).
And then, of course, you could have asymmetrical half rhyme.
I know that these terms would not be all that useful to poets, as we never pronounce the word COTTON as cot and not. But, I still think that the visual properties, and their resultant sounds, are important. I'm just not wise enough, however, to know how.
3. The difference between a candy orange slice (which seems rather soft) and a jelly ring (which seems firmer), is the thickness of the candy. The thicker the jelly, the softer.
4. If someone offered you five beautiful rings--all of gold bedecked in jewels--and the only catch was that you had to grow an extra finger for that fifth ring, would you do it? (They won't let you put the ring on your thumb.) There's a billboard in SL that says you'll like their stuff so much that you'll wish you had more fingers. (And I know I'm not supposed to take it literally, but I just can't imagine ever ever ever wanting more fingers, unless I had lost one in a tragic Lemony Snicket-esque accident.)
Monday, December 1, 2008
The problem with rubrics . . .
DRAFT
This is in progress. I would appreciate your ideas/thoughts at any stage of this blog entry's life.
To become educated is to become an independent thinker and learner, a person who knows how to analyze, search out relevant information, investigate, reason, and discover.
To me, giving a student a writing rubric is like handing over the CliffsNotes to a novel. Don't bother about grappling with the raw voice in Catcher in the Rye or weighing through the imagery-laden scenes in Moby Dick; read the CliffsNotes; let Cliff guide how you perceive and understand this book.
In all fairness to Cliff, literature classrooms advance certain ways of seeing, but they also encourage discussions, original thinking, exploration, analysis, and discovery.
Moby Dick is more than what happened (see CliffsNotes' Chapter Summaries) and who key characters are (see CliffsNotes' Character Analyses) and the "symbolism of Queequeg’s coffin" (see CliffsNotes' Critical Essays: Major Symbols).
And creative writing--the personal essay, short story, or poem--is more than development, structure, voice/tone, style, and technical elements.
The problem with rubrics is that they promote the middle-class thinker. Most everyone--at least in the batch of contest entries I just "judged"--has ________________
The problem of the transition. On the rubric I used, low scores were given for essays with "inappropriate transitions" (no papers fit into this category); mid-level scores were given for essays with "insufficient transitions" (but the paper had to have "a sense of beginning, middle, and end); and high scores were given to well-organized paragraphs, "flowing progressively with smooth transitions."
Here's the problem. If I really judged that category by the letter, then every single--and I mean even the worst essay in the stack--would have earned high scores in that category. Yes, the paper that said, "First I am going to tell you this, then I am going to tell you that, and then I'll follow it up with that" and then matching transitions in the body of the essay was absolutely clear and even smooth. They were just predictable and boring. There was no art to them.
Okay, I know there's a category for that--on the rubric--is style. So the best
To really assess an adequate transition (or series of transitions) by rubric, we'd need an algorithm:
Back to the writing rubric.
Gaps.
Elementary school reflections contest
Privileges mediocrity or average-thinking / ability
. . . or as Andrew Bird says, "Can't have the cream of the crop when the cream and the crop are the same."
Transitions, in writing (in PowerPoint presentations, in films, in talks, in life), are a good thing. I won't dispute it.
This is in progress. I would appreciate your ideas/thoughts at any stage of this blog entry's life.
To become educated is to become an independent thinker and learner, a person who knows how to analyze, search out relevant information, investigate, reason, and discover.
To me, giving a student a writing rubric is like handing over the CliffsNotes to a novel. Don't bother about grappling with the raw voice in Catcher in the Rye or weighing through the imagery-laden scenes in Moby Dick; read the CliffsNotes; let Cliff guide how you perceive and understand this book.
In all fairness to Cliff, literature classrooms advance certain ways of seeing, but they also encourage discussions, original thinking, exploration, analysis, and discovery.
Moby Dick is more than what happened (see CliffsNotes' Chapter Summaries) and who key characters are (see CliffsNotes' Character Analyses) and the "symbolism of Queequeg’s coffin" (see CliffsNotes' Critical Essays: Major Symbols).
And creative writing--the personal essay, short story, or poem--is more than development, structure, voice/tone, style, and technical elements.
The problem with rubrics is that they promote the middle-class thinker. Most everyone--at least in the batch of contest entries I just "judged"--has ________________
The problem of the transition. On the rubric I used, low scores were given for essays with "inappropriate transitions" (no papers fit into this category); mid-level scores were given for essays with "insufficient transitions" (but the paper had to have "a sense of beginning, middle, and end); and high scores were given to well-organized paragraphs, "flowing progressively with smooth transitions."
Here's the problem. If I really judged that category by the letter, then every single--and I mean even the worst essay in the stack--would have earned high scores in that category. Yes, the paper that said, "First I am going to tell you this, then I am going to tell you that, and then I'll follow it up with that" and then matching transitions in the body of the essay was absolutely clear and even smooth. They were just predictable and boring. There was no art to them.
Okay, I know there's a category for that--on the rubric--is style. So the best
To really assess an adequate transition (or series of transitions) by rubric, we'd need an algorithm:
Back to the writing rubric.
Gaps.
Elementary school reflections contest
Privileges mediocrity or average-thinking / ability
. . . or as Andrew Bird says, "Can't have the cream of the crop when the cream and the crop are the same."
Transitions, in writing (in PowerPoint presentations, in films, in talks, in life), are a good thing. I won't dispute it.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Pain can occlude . . .
Yesterday I ordered a small gelato, half hazelnut and half some sort of chocolate (donatella). I noted to my sister that the hazelnut didn't have any flavor, to which she responded that that was because the chocolate had overpowered it.
I thought about this later on in the day. Why had I ordered two flavors? Wouldn't one flavor always overpower the other? Was it possible to get two strong flavors that didn't mute or diminish each other? Sure I could have cleansed my palette in between eating one flavor and the other, but that wasn't the point: the point was to enjoy two flavors simultaneously.
The same principle holds true in other areas: the pain of a cut finger gets wiped out by the pain of a migraine. Sure, that first, smaller pain still exists, but it becomes imperceptible when the greater pain washes through our system.
This principle of one thing overpowering and/or occluding another also occurs beyond the boundaries of sameness. In other words, pain isn't always occluding other pain. One gelato flavor isn't always overpowering another flavor. Sometimes, physical pain stops our ability to feel, spiritually. Sometimes, the swelling in our body occludes the entry of enlightenment. And sometimes the resultant frustration further occludes the connection we so desperately seek and need.
Maybe faith is the power that helps us remember (or trust that we once felt and will again feel) the connections that are temporarily made imperceptible by pain.
I thought about this later on in the day. Why had I ordered two flavors? Wouldn't one flavor always overpower the other? Was it possible to get two strong flavors that didn't mute or diminish each other? Sure I could have cleansed my palette in between eating one flavor and the other, but that wasn't the point: the point was to enjoy two flavors simultaneously.
The same principle holds true in other areas: the pain of a cut finger gets wiped out by the pain of a migraine. Sure, that first, smaller pain still exists, but it becomes imperceptible when the greater pain washes through our system.
This principle of one thing overpowering and/or occluding another also occurs beyond the boundaries of sameness. In other words, pain isn't always occluding other pain. One gelato flavor isn't always overpowering another flavor. Sometimes, physical pain stops our ability to feel, spiritually. Sometimes, the swelling in our body occludes the entry of enlightenment. And sometimes the resultant frustration further occludes the connection we so desperately seek and need.
Maybe faith is the power that helps us remember (or trust that we once felt and will again feel) the connections that are temporarily made imperceptible by pain.
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