I think it’s time to admit that it’s pretty much a lost cause: try as I might, I think I think I’m going to have to face the fact that I just don’t like winter squash.
I mean, I try. Last year, if we remember, I tried the spaghetti squash, and it wasn’t a complete failure. It was… okay. The lasagna would have been better with more squash, and the fake-latkes would have been better with less nutmeg. Later there was butternut squash. All in all, a fairly bland exploration.
Last night, I took on the famed Cucurbita delicata (aka Sweet Potato Squash) and went with the more traditional roast-then-mash menu option. Once again, it was… okay. (Sidenote: if you pile on some caramelized onions, it’s fantastic. But on its own, a little bland.)
I have a Hubbard squash on the table, looking all seasonal and bluey-greeney, and while I am looking forward to cooking it for novelty’s sake, I’ve pretty much resigned myself to three sad truths I’ve gleaned from the three squashes I’ve encounterd:
1 – It will be a bitch to crack open
2 – It will smell most unfortunately of pumpkin. Ugh.
3 – After it’s cooked, it will taste… okay.
I think the moral of the story here is that I’m just never going to eat squash unless it’s pureed up into soup or hidden in a loaf or something. Except maybe spaghetti squash. That one was at least fun.
I am in dire need of some form of strength-training. This isn’t news by any stretch of the imagination, but the direness of said dire need? Is far greater than I had previously assumed.
How great, you ask? I can’t do 10 pushups. Yeah, you read that right. Ten. I used to be able to support my entire body’s weight on one hand! What happened? (Answer: I got slackardly and befriended the Hallowe’en candy bucket.)
So. That’s more than a little shameful, and I’ve been trying to step up some vague practice of what I call “pushups and crunches and locust, oh my” (or whatever the Serious Workout Person’s version of that is called) along with reviving my yoga. Thus far it is… being derailed anytime my schedule changes, which is every gorram day.
The truth is that I’m making the same excuses for myself that I have since we moved: I want a room to do this stuff where there is enough space, ideally a place to put a laptop for music, and a door that will close. I can’t a) try to sadly coax myself through my seventh… eighth! yes! Eighth! pushup or b) do my breathing exercises or focus properly for yoga when The Boy is wandering or likely to start wandering around the joint. I just can’t.
So that rules out anytime after work because the only times he’s not here that I am, I’m probably heading out for a sport (that makes it okay then, right?) or a KnitNight. Mornings are problematic due to scheduling.
At this point I’m just whining. If I want to, I’ll make it work. Until then, it’s just one more reason I can’t wait till we find a house…
I am in love with alpaca in an unwholesome and all-consuming way. In a sad contrast to this, however, I have declared that save for one future project, I am Knitting Out Of My Stash until at least July (unless I run out of yarn first, which is highly unlikely). For anyone who has no idea what I’m yammering about, it means I’m not going to buy any more yarn (except for one project that I’ll probably get around to in February or April) until at least July.
I know, wow. I should have warned you to sit down first, I’m sorry. I realize this is completely shrug-worthy for most people but for me the fact that I have a stash big enough to knit out of is huge. It makes me, in my own head, An Actual Knitter, Like For Reals, Yo. I don’t know when it happened, I barely know where the hell all this yarn came from (answer: LYS for the good stuff, Goodwill/Value Village for the acrylic), but faced with a move (one day, right?) and the fact that I can’t even remember what I own anymore, it seems like high time to Face The Yarn I Own, and use it. If I can’t think of anything to make for friends or myself, I’m planning on knitting generic baby stuff to give to a women’s shelter or something.
Go me. I’ll be saving the world, one ugly acrylic garment at a time.