One of our new freshman residents asked me yesterday where I got a rather dramatic scrape on my elbow. Not wanting to admit that it was the result of extreme stupidity, I told her, “things got a little rough at ninja club this week.”
And she believed me.
It was awesome.
Last night, I escorted five lovely young communist boys around the house as they knocked on doors and tried to convert our residents to their cause.
Well, kinda.
You see, down the street is Stephenson Scholarship Hall, whose residents love to characterize their hall as the bastard stepchild of scholarship housing (although they have removed this claim from their website for some reason…). And while they always seem frustrated with other halls’ skeptic view of Stephenson’s priorities, they do have the most interesting ideas for their parties.
This time around, they’re throwing a Communist Bloc Party, with Tetris, vodka, and other fun things. Last time it was the Neanderthal Ball (”drink ’til she’s cute!”).
None of this improves their image, of course, but I find it endearing.
In celebration of Pi Day (3.14…3/14…March 14), a friend and I baked a couple apple pies. Because, you know, we are nerds like that.
And then we shared them with the rest of the house, and they were quickly gobbled up.
So it seems that baking an apple pie from scratch is not too hard. Good to know.
Did I ever mention that somehow I got pressured into being the menu planner for my scholarship hall’s annual International Dinner? Because I did. And I actually thought it sounded fun at the time.
Today, with a short twenty days left before the dinner (and food has to be ordered a couple weeks in advance), it occurs to me that I’d better get my ass in gear.
So I am planning. And I am crossing my fingers. And I am carefully scaling up the recipies from “serves 4-6″ to “serves 130,” carefully converting teaspoons to tablespoons to cups, wondering what’s Greek about Greek yogurt, and asking if my cooks will understand what I mean if my recipe says, “add a shit-ton of ginger.”
The kitchen head suggests I should actually guess a measurement rather than letting inexperienced cooks guess for me. Now it occurs to me that I am a person who, while fully capable of doing so, refuses to closely follow a recipe (improvisation is what makes my food good!), so perhaps I’m not the best person to write a recipe, given that “a lot” and “a shit-ton” and “one of those little cans, but maybe a little more” are not actual units of measurement.
One of the things you have to tolerate about living in my hall here at KU is the kitchen smells. Wherever you are in the house, you’ll smell dinner long before dinner time.
Tonight: BBQ chicken.
Dinner served: 5:45 PM
Dinner smelled: 4:30 PM
Earlier today the house was drenched in the smell of potatoes. Somehow I think that was better than cheap barbeque sauce.
I look forward to my return to Wichita tomorrow, which brings a return to buildings with semi-modern ventilation (the parents’ house may be 15-20 yeards older than Sellards, but at least it’s got central air) and less-than-overpowering food smells.
I mean, I love the food smells, but after a while they mess with your head.
After some consideration, my roommates have decided that I’m the least responsible of the four of us.
At first I objected. But it’s true.
My excuse is that my roommates are exceptionally responsible for college students.
I’ve been thinking that
it would be way awesome if
Al Gore was my dad
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