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On Edible Fungus, Hollow Requests...
Jan. 18th, 2007 08:25 pm...and getting back into the PhD groove (sort of).
Currently, as an easy yet (as far as she is concerned) tasty meal that can be prepared when she gets in (after telling me the roast pork was delicious on Monday, she declined to let me cook for her again - hmmm), Emma is in the habit of preparing chicken and mushroom penne with tomato and double mascarpone sauce.
This would look pretty nice to me too - if it weren't for the damn fungus.
If we find fungus growing on bread, we throw the bread away. If we find it growing on carpets, we shampoo them. If we find it growing on our plants, we utilise some kind of fungicide that doesn't interfere with whatever level of organiscism we are operating to. If we find it still in the beer, we throw it out as off. If we find it growing on us, we nuke with Daktarin or some other such impressively named medication.
Why then, if we find it growing in a pile of shit, do we brush it off and eat it?
I'll never understand it. If I served you mouldy bread, cakes or milk, chances are you'd be unimpressed. Why in the world is it any different with mushrooms - loud and proud and being all fungal within hyphaeing distance of your toes. I have one taste in food that could be construed as odd (liver - utterly delicious), but it pales in comparison to how utterly out there it is to eat what could feasibly be used as a form of warfare.
____________
Today, one of my work colleagues retired. She had been quoted, on several occasions, as saying that she didn't want any fuss.
So, when the balloons, the streamers, the banners, the nibbles, the wine and the office boss were turned out for her final couple of hours in the job, why the hell was she so happy?
Not remotely embarrassed, put out for being ignored or puzzled that everyone had done precisely what she had asked to avoid, but overtly pleased and thanking people for the effort they'd put in, indeed calling for a speech from said office boss.
It was obvious that this was what she wanted, so why did she say the exact opposite?
Fine, actually asking for a leaving do would be arrogant. I understand that. Why not just not say anything, and let people default to what they would normally do for someone leaving after eighteen years i.e. lay on precisely what they did today? No, she had to make the show of modesty and ask for nothing special. It's so ridiculously hollow. They wondered why I was sat at my computer with my nibbles and carrying on work.
____________
That feels better. Petty as sin on the grand scheme of things, but that's what LJ's for.
Keiran has a chapter, I might well be finishing another one on Saturday, and I have skeletons for the majority of the rest. There's about six corners to turn on the write-up of my PhD, but handing him this chapter felt like I was turning one of them after a long wait. It had been going in fits and starts since before Christmas, and being where I am now feels good after a few nights stressing over the sheer enormity of what I'm writing.
Realising it isn't that enormous is the first thing. It's going to be something in the order of a hundred and fifty to a hundred and eighty sides of double spaced lines. I've done something half that length on two separate occasions before, and I have no time limit. It's hardly going to kill me.
The more I hand in, the less massive it seems to be. Extrapolating to the future, the day I hand in the completed thesis, it will shrink in size to zero. I call it the TL effect.
Currently, as an easy yet (as far as she is concerned) tasty meal that can be prepared when she gets in (after telling me the roast pork was delicious on Monday, she declined to let me cook for her again - hmmm), Emma is in the habit of preparing chicken and mushroom penne with tomato and double mascarpone sauce.
This would look pretty nice to me too - if it weren't for the damn fungus.
If we find fungus growing on bread, we throw the bread away. If we find it growing on carpets, we shampoo them. If we find it growing on our plants, we utilise some kind of fungicide that doesn't interfere with whatever level of organiscism we are operating to. If we find it still in the beer, we throw it out as off. If we find it growing on us, we nuke with Daktarin or some other such impressively named medication.
Why then, if we find it growing in a pile of shit, do we brush it off and eat it?
I'll never understand it. If I served you mouldy bread, cakes or milk, chances are you'd be unimpressed. Why in the world is it any different with mushrooms - loud and proud and being all fungal within hyphaeing distance of your toes. I have one taste in food that could be construed as odd (liver - utterly delicious), but it pales in comparison to how utterly out there it is to eat what could feasibly be used as a form of warfare.
____________
Today, one of my work colleagues retired. She had been quoted, on several occasions, as saying that she didn't want any fuss.
So, when the balloons, the streamers, the banners, the nibbles, the wine and the office boss were turned out for her final couple of hours in the job, why the hell was she so happy?
Not remotely embarrassed, put out for being ignored or puzzled that everyone had done precisely what she had asked to avoid, but overtly pleased and thanking people for the effort they'd put in, indeed calling for a speech from said office boss.
It was obvious that this was what she wanted, so why did she say the exact opposite?
Fine, actually asking for a leaving do would be arrogant. I understand that. Why not just not say anything, and let people default to what they would normally do for someone leaving after eighteen years i.e. lay on precisely what they did today? No, she had to make the show of modesty and ask for nothing special. It's so ridiculously hollow. They wondered why I was sat at my computer with my nibbles and carrying on work.
____________
That feels better. Petty as sin on the grand scheme of things, but that's what LJ's for.
Keiran has a chapter, I might well be finishing another one on Saturday, and I have skeletons for the majority of the rest. There's about six corners to turn on the write-up of my PhD, but handing him this chapter felt like I was turning one of them after a long wait. It had been going in fits and starts since before Christmas, and being where I am now feels good after a few nights stressing over the sheer enormity of what I'm writing.
Realising it isn't that enormous is the first thing. It's going to be something in the order of a hundred and fifty to a hundred and eighty sides of double spaced lines. I've done something half that length on two separate occasions before, and I have no time limit. It's hardly going to kill me.
The more I hand in, the less massive it seems to be. Extrapolating to the future, the day I hand in the completed thesis, it will shrink in size to zero. I call it the TL effect.
