Alice Yi-Li Yeh's Blog, page 5

Bundt Why?

For Christmas, my best friend's initial inclination was to send me the Swarovski crystal-studded item on the right. After a lengthy discussion about a woman's need for sparkly underwear and the possible implications of sending such a gift, the idea was quickly vetoed in favor of something a bit more practical and much less risque. (Part of the argument was that the bra in question sounds significantly more decadent than it looks. I love Swarovski crystals, but on this bra, they look this side of tacky.)

In the end, the smart woman opted for something useful. When the package arrived, I initially thought that it was one of the many Christmas gifts that I had ordered from Amazon in the ongoing effort to avoid holiday crowds. I opened it to discover the familiar Williams Sonoma wrapping paper and signature green bow. I eagerly lifted the box from its cardboard covering and peeled back the wrapper to discover a beautiful, nonstick, aluminum Nordic Ware bundt pan. It was immediately put into good use, as evidenced below.



While not as perfect as the cake on the packaging, my first bundt cake is nevertheless a source of pride, if only because it didn't wind up stuck to the pan. It was also a learning experience: when the instructions advise you to spread the batter higher on the sides than in the center, a thirty-degree incline is insufficient. Next time, I shall aim closer to sixty or seventy degrees.

Happy holidays, everyone. May your culinary endeavors be equally enjoyable and much more successful than my own. Enjoy!

Candlelit Creativity

For reasons unknown, we lost power in the house last night. No rain, no snow, nor gale-force winds upon which to blame the unfortunate affair. Perhaps the root of the matter was that brief moment in the afternoon when I stared at the multitude of candles in my room and wondered when I would ever get around to lighting them. I must have jinxed us all.
As a result of the loss of light, my sister, the cellist, was forced to requisition two of my fruity-smelling jars of wax to add to her own, all for the sake of continuing to practice. We briefly discussed the romanticism of it all, going back to days when musicians were forced to practice by candlelight. Not that either of us were alive at a time when electric lights did not exist, but the idea of it was still heartwarming, if only because all of us knew that this was not a permanent situation. It is nice to visit the past. but dwelling in it leaves a bad taste in one's mouth, or strain on the eyes, as it were.

In contrast to her electricity-free endeavors, I spent the duration of the black-out camped out at my desk, with my laptop running on a full battery and the light of the screen illuminating the darkness of my bedroom. In a house without power, I focused instead on the generator called the mind, allowing words and ideas to drive a storyline forward. The result was the rewriting of the first three chapters of Michael (working title), a piece of young adult fiction over which I have slaved for the better part of a semester only to find that I absolutely hated the introduction. There is an art to young adult fiction, wherein one must limit verbosity without oversimplifying the text. It is also a trial to one who tends to "overwrite." And so, in the company of my laptop and a backdrop of faint cello music, I deleted thousands of words and experiences to start anew. Let us hope that I have struck somewhere closer to balance this time around.

Editor Wanted

I came across this advertisement while skimming through Facebook today and couldn't help but laugh. If you're going to use an automatic ad-generator, you should program it to recognize the difference between a woman and a man.

This is something that seems to be rampant of late. I was looking at a Disney construction play set the other day, and on the back of the box, they referred to a chute as a "shoot." I've heard of photo shoots and shooting at targets, but I've never seen the word in reference to tubing. It's surprising that such a large company would allow that sort of mistake on its packaging.

Similarly, there have been multiple signs referring to "complementary [product name]." The restroom in the airplane where I'm sitting humbly requests that passengers use their towels to "wipe sink" as a courtesy to the next person in line. Then there's the song "Cooler Than Me," which always sets my teeth on edge in spite of its catchy tune. Perhaps life would be easier if I simply gave up caring about these things, but it is worrisome that this lackadaisical approach to the English language persists. This does get into the argument about the constant evolution of languages, a sensitive issue which I will gingerly sidestep for now as I attempt to climb down from my soapbox. Ranting and raving will not create change, but voting against educational budget cuts might. I hope.

Wendy's Woes

The picture on the left is taken at the food court of the local mall. My first thought upon seeing these signs was, "How apropos." From the advert for "natural cut fries" to the sign declaring, "Sorry, but we can not accept any bills larger than $50.00," the whole thing is so very Long Island. Also present, but not depicted, is a piece of paper next to the registers stating that Wendy's cannot take $100 bills. It speaks to a certain degree of affluence for shoppers to have Benjies as the smallest bills in their wallets. The oddest thing is that I never noticed these things growing up – it was just a matter of course, much like spending $300 on a prom dress that I only wore twice but can thankfully still fit into.

When we speak of being spoiled, how much of it is due to self-absorption and how much can be attributed to a lack of awareness? After doing the "poor college / graduate student" thing, money and frugality take on an entirely different meaning, but it took that sort of experience for me to learn how to budget. I watch television programs such as My Super Sweet Sixteen and cringe at the sheer amount of waste being generated in celebration of what should be a minor version of a young woman's entrance into adulthood. As I see bratty behavior and a sense of entitlement being rewarded, I question the sort of lesson that these girls are learning through this rite of passage. On some level, it's depressing. The reinforcement of profligacy is problematic and might explain a great deal. in terms of people outspending themselves. Perhaps one really needs to be forced into the position of scrimping and saving to truly appreciate all that we have.

Catty Chatting

What do neon leggings, jean shorts, brown boots, and a magenta sweater have in common? They comprised one singularly hideous outfit worn by a teenager out at Macy*s on Black Friday.

While such a fashion faux pas certainly deserves a good snigger, at the same time, I did notice the vitriol laced into the verbose description that I gave my sister several minutes later, involving several eighties references and mentions of exercise videos gone wrong. The acrid quality of my phrasing did cause me later to wonder. It came naturally, which is a disturbing thought when I strive not to be mean. Is this something innate to women, where we can tear apart one another's wardrobes without any real attempt to be witty? Is it the result of watching an entire season of Glee in one weekend and thus imbibing much of Sue Sylvester's whetstone-sharpened verbal barbs? Is that possible?

Perhaps more disturbing than the words exiting my mouth were the marvel with which I treated some of the more creative twists of the tongue. It brings to mind something that I read on a fan fiction forum once: using one's robust vocabulary for forces of evil. That was indeed the case, and I can't help but feel ashamed of the readiness with which such behavior announced its obnoxious presence. Amusement is one thing; ripping into another person is another entirely. The latter is an ugly trait, and one which indicates a need to further fix the soul. The sentiments themselves are the problem at hand, while their expression are the outward signs of the sickness. Looks like it's time for some treatment.

Dining Solo

As my father's daughter, I've inherited his great love for that fabulous meal known as "brunch". Thus I woke up on Sunday morning and, in a sudden fit of spontaneity, decided to haul my half-asleep buttocks to Afternoon Delight, one of my favorite restaurants in Ann Arbor.

Now this place usually requires a minimum of a thirty minute wait. One of the benefits of being both early and alone, however, is that one can be seated closer to the twenty minute mark. (When you're hungry, those six hundred seconds make a very big difference!) In the picture, you can see what remained of a seafood omelette and a blueberry muffin. Quite yummy, in fact, though a far cry from the French toast that I had originally craved, the same hunger that dragged me out from my house on a chilly morning.

While sitting at a booth for two, with no one else to converse with, I watched other diners instead. One middle-aged couple particularly stood out: they looked absolutely miserable, so much so that I wondered how anyone could appear so dreary. What was the back story? A botched attempt at making breakfast at home? Perhaps a misbehaving pet that pooed in their shoes? In any case, they morose ambiance was downright depressing, and I turned back to the menu and my coffee with alacrity.

When eating with others, I could usually finish an entire dish over the span of an hour or more. In this case, I ate perhaps half of what I ordered and was full within fifteen to twenty minutes of sitting down. In the end, I went home particularly let down, as if my brunch experience didn't quite live up to the nostalgic feelings that it typically evokes. Perhaps there is something to be said about staying home, or perhaps being less of a hermit. It makes me wonder how much of it is my fault and how much of it can be attributed to friends moving out of town. The fact that I used to watch movies alone in New York hints that the former just might be closer to the mark.

Privacy Please

During a scholarship dinner tonight, the topic of internet security came up, specifically incrimination from the things that one posts online.

It's true that people are losing jobs and job prospects through something as innocuous as an image of them holding a wine glass. What that forces me to consider is the content one posts on a blog. Technically, by typing these things out, one is making errant thoughts available to the perusal of the public. While I have posted nothing of which I would be ashamed or embarrassed, I am still mildly concerned because you never know what will offend the sensibilities of another. Now, you can't go through life pleasing everyone, but it would be terribly nice to stay on potential employers' good books. Call me crazy, but it really does seem like a good idea.

That calls into question, then, the reliability of internet personas. We end up projecting this image of ourselves,  a cleverly orchestrated mix of all of our better attributes and none of the foibles that make us human, and I daresay accessible as a human being. Is it safe to voice anger, frustration, disappointment, sadness, or inner turmoil? Would that make one come off as vicious, immature, or unstable? It could certainly be interpreted as such, even when the person in question is as compassionate, reasonable, and sane as you or I — well, not necessarily sane, but certainly within the realm of socially acceptable, idiosyncratic personality ticks.

What irks me is the unspoken expectation that one is supposed to be "perfect" all the time in this sort of forum. By "perfect," I mean "happy." Perhaps one is allowed to be unhappy once in a while, so long as it is expressed in terms couched in hope and positivity. Entities should not be commented upon, though situations certainly may as they are transient and less likely to cause another to take personal offense. The truth of the matter is that I don't have the energy to sustain that sort of optimistic outlook all the time, and I do believe that I have a right to my very human emotions. They just need to stay locked up in my physical journal and out of this electronic one.

I do question the ethics of using Google to look up "dirt" on prospective employees. It's a punitive practice, designed to unearth embarrassments that may have no real bearing on one's ability to do the job, and do it well. Still, I don't see it ceasing any time soon, and so the rest of the world and I bind ourselves to online hypocrisy and hope that our names never come up in a search engine associated with anything less than that which is pristine and prudish. Excuse me while I go bury my head in the sand.

Going Green

I came home today with an inexplicable craving for cupcakes. After flipping through multiple cookbooks, however, I started to feel like my teeth were rotting just from looking at all of the frosting, and my bottom protested against all of the fat in whole milk, butter milk, and plain old butter. Still, there was an urge to bake.

The compromise came in the form of a recipe for spinach and pesto muffins, courtesy of The Williams-Sonoma Baking Book Cookbook . Okay, so there's plenty of cheese in there, but there's also lots of green, leafy vegetables, and a fair chunk of the fat content comes from a mixture of canola and extra virgin olive oil. At least, that's how I'm justifying it.

Of course, trusting my sleep deprived mind to memorize anything unrelated to pharmacy was terrible naïve. I ended up overshooting the pesto ingredients . . . fourfold. Thus I now have an old kimchi jar and a ramekin's worth of homemade sauce sitting in my fridge, along with a sandwich bag of parsley that I'm hard-pressed to use up. I'm foreseeing a great deal of pasta in my immediate future . . . 

Less Heart

Some days, working in healthcare feels like one big, convoluted mess. Beyond the misunderstandings, the power struggle, poor communication, and the bottom line, there's also a dichotomous way of thinking that such a position enforces. We're told to care, but for the sake of your own sanity, you shouldn't care too much.

On some level, I'm fine with that sort of arrangement. The proclivities that pushed me into what is essentially an altruistic field of work are the same ones that allow me to treat patients like people, sentient beings with free will. Natural introversion and a great love for comfortable silence and solitude make it easy to keep them at arm's length, maintaining a small but distinct distance. Occasionally, however, this DMZ is crossed.

Over the past few months, I've seen cancer patients at all stages of disease. I've seen sepsis, amputations, and delirium. As terrible as it may sound, I was fine with that. Well, perhaps "fine" isn't the right word. I was able to accept that this is what happens sometimes. That's life. Yet the moment that managed to penetrate through this manufactured jadedness was watching some family members trying to support a patient as he relearned to walk. Their enthusiasm and their affected positivity was striking, and I couldn't help but watch from underneath my eyelashes. There was something innately beautiful about that moment, some deep, lovely aspect of humanity displayed for everyone and no one to see. All the same, however, it  made me want to cry. The amount of genuine, selfless love that they showed makes Hollywood's attempted portrayals pale in comparison. I'm grateful to have been there, even as a bystander, and at the same time, I'm humbled and challenged to be able to care for others with such openness, to handle death and disease without needing to split my heart in half, the most vital parts kept safely tucked away. Who knew that a five minute encounter could have such a lasting impact? Not I, said the cat.

Heart Less

Some days, working in healthcare feels like one big, convoluted mess. Beyond the misunderstandings, the power struggle, poor communication, and the bottom line, there's also a dichotomous way of thinking that such a position enforces. We're told to care, but for the sake of your own sanity, you shouldn't care too much.

On some level, I'm fine with that sort of arrangement. The proclivities that pushed me into what is essentially an altruistic field of work are the same ones that allow me to treat patients like people, sentient beings with free will. Natural introversion and a great love for comfortable silence and solitude make it easy to keep them at arm's length, maintaining a small but distinct distance. Occasionally, however, this DMZ is crossed.

Over the past few months, I've seen cancer patients at all stages of disease. I've seen sepsis, amputations, and delirium. As terrible as it may sound, I was fine with that. Well, perhaps "fine" isn't the right word. I was able to accept that this is what happens sometimes. That's life. Yet the moment that managed to penetrate through this manufactured jadedness was watching some family members trying to support a patient as he relearned to walk. Their enthusiasm and their affected positivity was striking, and I couldn't help but watch from underneath my eyelashes. There was something innately beautiful about that moment, some deep, lovely aspect of humanity displayed for everyone and no one to see. All the same, however, it  made me want to cry. The amount of genuine, selfless love that they showed makes Hollywood's attempted portrayals pale in comparison. I'm grateful to have been there, even as a bystander, and at the same time, I'm humbled and challenged to be able to care for others with such openness, to handle death and disease without needing to split my heart in half, the most vital parts kept safely tucked away. Who knew that a five minute encounter could have such a lasting impact? Not I, said the cat.