On "Dumb" Quotes and the Necessity of Code-Switching

This may be a mind-numbingly boring discussion about fonts, menu's on MS Word, and such. You have been warned...

I got a new laptop recently and installed my good, old 2003 version of Office which I've assumed--for maybe the last 10 years--I like better than newer versions. I've been using the computer at my office a lot which has the pre-365 office or our Mac, which has 2011, and I've never gotten used to the Calibri, 11pt font and all the other jazz that has changed. Or thought I hadn't anyway. Turns out, I've grown really used to a lot of the changes in Office over the years. Although I definitely like opening a document and not having to change font style or size or the spacing between paragraphs, there are definitely some things getting on my nerves.

The one that really prompted this post is its use of "dumb" quotes. You can see them there. The straight kind. I know some people prefer them and they work better in a lot of internet situations, but that doesn't keep them from being annoying to me or make me think of some copy and pasted--and thus probably plagiarized--piece of writing. I've gotten a lot of them over the years, and its become a tag for plagiarism or, at the very least, bad student writing. So, it's annoying to have that kind of conditioned response to my own writing... cause my own writing rocks. Give me my beautifully curly "smart" quotes back!

The next thing is why on earth did they have the ability to change border width under "Page Setup" in the "File" menu!? What's it doing all the way over there? Makes perfect sense to put it under the "Format" menu, but no, all you can do there is give your borders lines of varying styles and widths. Clicking on the "more" box under the paragraph menu is way easier and intuitive.

The review tab in the recent versions of Word? Love 'em. Just click on the tab and turn the track changes settings on or off. Click to insert a comment, delete a comment, delete all comments. All these are very easy in more recent versions of Word. You can never go back again.

Ok, so what? Why does this matter or what am I saying? It kind of reminds me of an experience on my mission where I went back to my first area--where I'd assumed for the year since I'd been there that I was a better missionary then, a way better missionary--but getting there I shocked a member out of her slippers I'd changed so much, and it seemed for the better. Way better. I was so off on my views about the past.

But maybe hating Word 2003 is not quite that significant. Maybe I'm just seeing that Microsoft has really made some improvements over the years. Sure, they've made some missteps--one last dig at Stever Balmer before he goes, right?--but really, I think the interface has really improved in A LOT of ways. Bravo men and women of Redmond, WA.

But maybe it's something else, still. Maybe it's something about code-switching and all the codes we have in this digital world. Do you use Windows or Mac? A lot of people will just go with one or the other because of the slight differences that require you to remember a different set of protocols or "moves" when doing one or the other. My desktop is a Mac, like I said, but most of my other computing is done on PC's, so I'm often missing the command button when I try hot keys on the Mac. Or I have a couple different kinds of mouses that I use which causes mix-ups here and there. Touch screen interfaces verses non-touch screen, the tap=click on most mac trackpads that will often not work on pc touch pads. Or the different ways you scroll on touch pads. And then there are the andriod vs. iOS vs. linux.. DOS... or with the mild web design I do, there are codes for html, CSS, Java, Flash, and they're all a bit different and require the brain to think in slightly different ways. At some point, it's a lot to take in. It gets easier to just stick with what you know and not bother with the other company's stuff which is probably the point.

So, just some thoughts on all the codes and patterns that my brain is asked to think in in this digital world, and which, for the most part, it does really well. One summer when I was traveling through Europe, I had to learn slightly different patterns for each country's keyboards. I don't remember all the slight differences, but I know the German keyboard had the "z" in an odd place. And I'd make a couple mistakes, but then my brain adapted, patched in the new code, and away I went. The human brain seems well-suited to codes and code-switching, and why not? They're all just different languages basically.

Oh, the mad proliferation of codes, though.

Game of Vikings, Game of Wood

We made some sets of Kubb. One for my sister and one for the Steele cabin. Also known as viking chess, its a game where you throw wooden dowels and knock over wooden blocks. Its a fine, fine lawn game introduced to us by some fine, fine folks out East. We thought we'd introduce it out West and gain fame and notoriety that way. So we started with some blocks we had cut.

We sanded them down.

Sand, sand...

Sand 'em down good.

Real good.

And then painted them. Here is our second set in progress. Sadly, somehow, we didn't get a shot of the final product with the awesome design Heather made for it. The blue and orange were very striking with astylized leaf design we put on it.

Here's the first set I tried my hand on. For my Moose-loving sister.


Kubb in action. Game of warriors and seafarers.

Too fast to see sometimes...



The sound of the dowell knocking the kubb is so satisfying.

Definitely a game where you don't want to get behind.

A Much Better Blog

Check out one of my other blogs.

Bread

She kept saying "bread is forgiving," as she mixed the ingredients with her hands. Calling for more flour. Getting her husband to heat the honey/molasses mixture. She was blind, but she still made bread every week, and was teaching us her special recipe. Trying her recipe on my own, I hoped it was true.

I had to change some things. We were almost out of white flour, so it was going to be mainly wheat instead of mainly white. I was halving it too, and realized only once I'd finished the dough that we'd stopped taking notes once the dough was done, so I didn't know how long to cook it or at what temperature. I hadn't really expected to get past the "add flour until it's just right" part of the recipe though, so what's a couple botches more or less?

Not that I'm horrible at bread, but it seems so hit and miss. Such a mystery. Like when to use a comma. I remember deciding to make some Challa bread as a teenager and it went gangbusters. But I had a friend with some whipped butter on hand to garnish the top which really helped. I tried again a couple years ago thinking it'd go perfect with some lemon curd I was attempting, but the yeast didn't rise. The recipe said to put the yeast in warm water, but my definition of "warm" didn't match the yeast's. It was a dismal. I have since learned that "warm" means as hot as it'll come out of most taps.

So it was with a mixture of apprehension in past attempts, new knowledge of my old foe, and faith in my mentor's attitude about bread that I approached this new recipe.

It was wonderful. It turns out that tasting delicious buttered and be-jam-ed bread that I made myself is one of life's really sweet moments. Couldn't get over it all night.

And it wasn't a fluke. My second batch was just as good. Or better?!

Love vs. Hate

A week ago we got 20 lbs of Fresh, New Jersey blueberries. They're coming out our ears, and they're awesome. We've been putting them on and everything we can think of. This morning we're low on cereal--cause blueberries are awesome on cereal--and I was thinking of what else I might make for a fancier breakfast that could include blueberries... blueberry oatmeal!?!

Now, I hate oatmeal. I really hate it. No matter how many times I've tried it, it is always the foulest mess of pottage. Other than partially rotted soybeans covered in raw eggs, mustard, and soy sauce, I don't know if there's anything I'd rather eat less. My childhood was largely spent trying to avoid choking down my mother's oatmeal. Gagging on it when I had to. Trying to disguise the taste with heavily jammed toast and silently crying when the toast ran out before the oatmeal. (Nothing against Mom. She loved the stuff and was just trying to feed 10 kids.) But I hated it. And if I avoided it at breakfast, fine, but then that's lunch. Not having it for lunch? Well, by the time dinner came, it was a cold, gelatinous chunk of gag that I was going to eat if I was going to eat anything. I never tried to see if my parents would hold to their guns across multiple days, but those nights alone in the clean kitchen eating the last bowl were bitter indeed. Sigh. Anyway, in spite of my mother's many many attempts, I never got used to it. Hate it still.

But I LOVE blueberries! Big, juicy, plump, full of antioxidant blueberries are awesome in shakes, on cereal, in pies, in jam, in cakes, in muffins, in waffles--in tons of stuff I love, the blueberries make it better. I remember driving home from Yellowstone one year through Idaho and stopping at every--EVERY--road-side huckleberry stand we saw. I never got sick of it.

This is the first time I have ever been excited to make oatmeal. I looked up a recipe online, ignored the orange zest it called for and got to work throwing salt, cinnamon, honey into the oatmeal. I was extremely self-satisfied with myself for this awesome idea and kept wondering why my mom had never thought of doing something this delightful with oatmeal. Maybe because it was zucchinis and apricots coming out our ears instead of blueberries in which case I'm extremely grateful she didn't come up with throwing in whatever surplus plant we had on hand. But I was feeling like a champ. This was gonna turn everything around. The oatmeal was nice and creamy. The blueberries and broken a bit and everything was turning a nice blue. This was going to be the exact opposite of every oatmeal I'd ever had. Redemption by blueberry.

I took a bite. It... tasted like oatmeal. I added some brown sugar, made sure I got a blueberry in there. The blueberry was great. A burst of warm, sweet flavor. Took another bite. Missed a blueberry. Meh. It's kind of a draw. Though maybe a win for blueberry since I am finishing the bowl. I'm not hating this oatmeal. I just don't love it. Which is a huge improvement from hate.

It's certainly not the bluebegeddon I was hoping for, but making oatmeal palatable is no small feat. And I'm willing to try this again with some recipe modification or perhaps a new recipe.

Also to try: Blueberry Grits, Zucchini Grits (grits are to me as oatmeal is to my mom).

Fireflies

We got back from Utah recently. It was great to be there, and I was really missing the mountains, family, friends, and how close everything is when we were driving to collect 20 lbs of blueberries and there were fireflies EVERYWHERE. Really. Every field we passed had swarms of fireflies. It was awesome. One point for PA.

My attempt to capture the magic... can you see them?

The fields of bioluminescent magic made me wonder whether fireflies--or lightning bugs as I keep calling them in my head--are as fascinating and grotesque as glow worms. They're no more abominable than you're average bug, but evolution and development have created an ironic tragedy for them.

Today I'm at the library and checking out some old National Geographics and happened upon a picture of a jar full of fireflies with a short bit about how the firefly is in decline. All over the world they think populations are falling although they're only starting to keep a tally. They think loss of habitat and light polution are the main culprits. I think of a lone firefly looking for that elusive love and losing him or her amid the distant flashing of headlights, business signs, and bright parking lots.

With firefly populations in decline, China is of course working on a replacement.

Not sure how PA's population of fireflies is compared to the past, but it's lovely to see.

Here's a video which I couldn't tell if it was catching them. But it did a bit. Gives you some idea.

Macbeth

Three witches tell the warrior Thane
That King Macbeth cannot be slain
He kills the King;
His fortunes swing.
Birnam Wood to Dunsinane.

Limerick Shakes Part 1

It's been a good long time, and I've been wanting to blog but wondering what about until I got this itch to do all of Shakespeare's plays in Limerick form. Was going to tweet them, but they're just a tad longer than tweets allow. So we'll try them here.

Hamlet

There once was a rotting in Denmark
Which turned the Prince's mood dark.
The ghost told Ham
of his Uncle's scam,
Meanwhile Poland annexes Denmark.

Ok, so I used Denmark twice, but they both rhyme with Dark.

Racing Goats

"It started out 30 years ago as a joke." That's what the announcer kept saying about the Falmouth Goat Races. Some brothers raced their goats and then found out the neighborhood was teeming with goats and here's where it is 30 years later.



And here.







Pretty awesome.

New Zealand Part 1b: Coromandel Penninsula

Our first full free day in New Zealand--after a couple days helping our wwoof host start an enormous vegetable patch--we turned our rental car up the winding, fern-lined mountain roads to the Coromandel peninsula. As with most New Zealand roads it seems, the way was lush, beautiful, and skirted tranquil, idyllic bays. Even in winter.



We made it to Hahei (meaning the breath of Hei) and phoned a sea kayaking place and scheduled an afternoon tour, then headed out for some hiking to Cathedral Cove, a pink sand beach dominated by a large white arch diving into the deep green sea. It was lovely, but we didn't dally too long as we had to rush on back to make the same basic trip by kayak.


Which was awesome. It was only us on the tour. Our guide was great. He told us about Hei, who founded Hahei, and who became chieftain of the land because of his nose. See, there was an island in the bay which looked--if you were told to see it--like a nose. Seen from below. Kind of. A battered nose for sure, but forcing people to realize the island really looked like his nose could have become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

But for the Maori, if a geographical feature looked like someone's body part, then they could claim the gods had made it for them. In fact, everything you can see from the top of that anthropomorphic bit of land is yours too. Kind of a nice alternative to the homestead act.

We paddled between island, over shoals, through arches and finally back to Cathedral Cove where we went exploring some caves for a bit while our guide made us some nice hot chocolate.

Trying to lay claim to some land.

And then we headed back through a bay full of sting rays in time to get back in the car and leg it to Hot Water Beach. Now this place was awesome. So awesome. At low tide, you can rent a trowel and head out to this strip of beach between some cliffs and the ocean and dig out a natural hot spring. Even walking along the beach if you force your feet down much, you can reach the sometimes scalding water.


We hiked out in the darkening shade even as the sky stayed light blue until we got there. Not that it quite got dark before the colors intensified into a deep blue green. We chatted with a couple from Manchester who let us borrow their trowel while digging out our pool while waves crashed behind us and the lights all went out. Lying on our backs, a cloud of stars and the night wind came out: chilling and gorgeous.

So. Great.

New Zealand Part 2: Becoming Maori

Before our adventures in the glow worm caverns, Heather and I took a tour of New Zealand's geothermal hot spot, Rotorua. Imagine, though, Yellowstone as occupying 5 or 6 parks all with separate entrance fees except for the smoking ground around the lake and in a couple parks, and a city close enough that you keep the taste of sulfur the whole time you're there. There we enjoyed not only some of the geothermal oddities, but some Maori culture as well.

Steamy geothermal pools

The Maori have found an interesting compromise between tradition and cashing in on modern tourism. Traditionally--because members of other tribes were usually hostile and after either your food, your women, or your naughty dog--no one could enter the marae, or village green, except members of the tribe. Rather than letting that tradition fall by the wayside, they just induct visitors into the tribe, so that they can tour the Marae and village meeting house.

Making it look easy

Still struggling and this was my best shot

We were able to tag along with one of the many school groups coming through Ohinemutu that day.

What I'm used to at churches

What I'm less used to in a church

And it was a lucky thing too because the village itself was really neat. Nearly deserted when we first got there, we were able to wander the Marae, graveyard, Christian church, and various smoking marshes. Walking into the Christian church, I was amazed that even it was covered with intricately carved grotesqueries. It surprised me because I'd assumed all the vicious-looking faces adorning every Maori building were demons or some such thing--although, if I'm being fair, Europe's cathedrals abound in grotesque demons and silly faces (gargoyles being one example which are little demons as far as I know) then the Maori style seems far more appropriate for decorating churches because the grotesque faces aren't demons, they're ancestors. And the faces are threatening because their leaders were men, and sometimes women, of war who tattooed their faces like that to intimidate enemies and keep their people safe. Anyway, it was interesting to learn how natural these really fierce faces ended up being.

Part of becoming Maori

We learned that when a school group came and we got to tag along with them inside the meeting house and see the large portraits of their chiefs going back hundreds of years. We also heard a delightful story of how they came to be in the area that started with one chief's dog digging up some Kumara (New Zealand yams) in another chief's veggie patch, that chief getting angry and then eating the dog and a Hatfield vs the McCoys-type feud ensued which resulted in the dead dog's chief bringing his tribe to the island in lake Rotorua. They stayed there until they realized they could cook and heat their homes without fire if they moved to the shores of the lake and took advantage of the geothermal activity. And they're still there today.

This guy was great. He did a thing at the beginning of the show where he showed how visitors from other tribes would come and pick up either a Wahaika (a wooden axe kind of thing) or a leaf to let the village know they were after peace or war.

That evening we went to a cultural center and had a hangi dinner--our shuttle driver to the car rental had suggested that if we try any food it be hangi--and show with some haka and poi poi and some fun singing and guitar. They also answered our questions like, is it true that Maori warriors would stop a battle if they were winning too easily, kill some of their own warriors to even the odds and then get back to the bloody business? Answer: "Pfff! That's crazy. No way. This village up the mountain from us, they came and just wiped us out. They have NO problem with that. None."


PS, the hangi was so so. I've heard they're incredible, and since they bury the food for hours and hours with blazing hot stones or lumps of iron to cook them, they're pretty dramatic, but I can't say the food's a reason to visit New Zealand. But there are plenty of others.

Haka style jump!

New Zealand Part 3: Glow Worms (Parts 2 and 1 Coming Soon)

I have no idea how many travel guides we ended up with in New Zealand. There was the Moon Guide we bought before going, the little green kiwi guide we picked up in the airport, the “arrival” magazine we also found in the airport, the map with the main tourist attractions highlighted, the AA accommodations book (that was a thick one), and who knows how many others we found and picked up at the airport, car rental agency, hostels, and actual destinations. Most were never opened after our first day in New Zealand, but they all highlighted some main high points for our South Pacific adventure, and all of them advised seeing the glow worms through some mediated semi to extremely expensive tour group.

We finally made it to Waitomo caves towards the end of our trip. Although I was thinking of it mainly as a must do, I was excited to see in person the strange green constellations glowing in the cave’s dark sky. Looking at the glossy adds of amazed tourists in boats or tubes, I thought it’d be an experience like no other. And that’s exactly what it was, but not at all in the way I expected.

Practice makes pretty.

We hadn’t booked ahead hoping for some kind of winter deal, I suppose and that’s what we found. Rap, Raft n’ Rock gave the best deal and even included a tour guide who gave us some fun impressions of various American stereotypes. He did a mean valley girl. And after jumping into wet suits, donning some head-lamp helmets, and practicing abseiling down into the caves we went.

There was an initial disappointment. Yeah, there were these little green dots glowing in the dark above me, but it seemed just like the adds. Just like them. As in, as good as being there. This sensation was kind of puzzling at first, but I think part of it was that getting up close to something you’ve only seen in pictures usually reveals a wealth of new sensory information and more nuanced impressions. But at first it was, “huh, there they are then.” Exactly as they’d looked in the magazines only now I was standing in a rushing, eel-filled river and it was really dark.

Kill joy, I know. Traveling with me’s a pain.

So, there I was in a fit of underwhelm when we got a close up look at and explanation of fate’s cruel capacity as exhibited in its unstinting persecution of the little glow worm. The disgustingly fascinating facts are these.

• Glow worms aren’t worms but maggots.
• Their glow lures flies into small, sticky strings which they then hoist up to suck out their insides.
• They have no anus.
• Their undischarged fecal matter fuels their glow.
• They pupate into a fly with no mouth ergo they must mate before starving to death usually within a day or two.

Glow worms far away.

A bit closer: the hanging strings that come out of its mouth to catch flies.

Up close, can you see the little maggot here? Translucent with the glow
on the left and its unexpelled waste towards the right.

Vile, fascinating things. No anus, then no mouth? I feel these bugs need an entire evolutionary apology to explain how nature could miscarry such an abominable creature. The wizard behind the curtain of these lovely-seeming worms is a grotesque monster.

The bioluminescent constellations above us.

My experience with glow worms was also the exact opposite of how I came to understand Maori art which seemed grotesque at first but was actually really lovely. Stay tuned for more on that in this reverse chronological tour of New Zealand.

End of part 3 of 3... or perhaps more. It really was an awesome trip.

Senor Pinata

Heather and I made this Pinata for Diana's birthday. I asked Diana what her birthday wishes were--meaning in my mind breakfast and dinner foods--and she told me she wanted a fitted baseball cap (I forget the size), roller skates (ditto), and one other thing. Anyway, I'm sounding like a jerk who doesn't care, but I remembered at the time but ignored them to bring her, in almost her own words, 'the best present ever.' A direct quote would be more like this:

Me: Be honest. Is this the best present you have ever received?
Diana: Y--
Me: In your life?
Diana: Proba--
Me: Including the inestimably precious gift of life our sweet mother gave you?
Diana: Hmmm... yes.

Look how happy!

Before the bestowal of the gift, I was imagining all the ritual suicides that would ensue from the Pinata's sheer beauty, from the utter shock of seeing something so perfect and heavenly in this mortal realm.

Part of me realized I might have been setting myself up for disappointment. But another part of me had such faith in the glory that was the pinata, I knew it would absolutely blow their minds back to the stone age. It'd be like the opening scene in 2001 space odyssey if you replaced the monkeys with my family and the black intelligence-bestowing effigy with the pinata.

Anyway, here's what happened:


I was so happy when her petting the Pinata didn't make the fuzzy crepe paper come off.

So, I was probably the most excited. This video captures only the tiniest slice of the ecstasies I felt about the pinata which--let's remember--completely ignored the birthday wishes Diana had given me. But I guess the lesson there is that you don't always know what you want more than anything else in the world. And the lesson in me being such a freak about how awesome it was is that it is more blessed to give than to receive. And the lesson I hope to be learning from the tons of requests for our new and unimprovable Pinata kits is that sometimes doing something awesome can make you millions... millions and millions of dollars... with which you can do more awesome things... not as in something that is more awesome, but as in more things that are awesome... in their own uniquely awesome way.

Oh, and Annie would never have believed that we'd made it ourselves without some pictures to prove it, so here's one for any skeptics out there:

There, that's enough! You've seen enough of our secrets...

Little Pinata doing what he/she/it was made to do.