The Most Stupid Blog Entry Regarding Cooking Ever

Cooking is something that I once swore I would forever hate. However, it has become almost a hobby of mine now.

I don't know if that means I actually like cooking or if I like avoiding schoolwork. Maybe both. I'm not certain. But they main point is that I have become a pro at cooking for one. It'd be nice to cook for more than one, since every recipe ever calls for enough ingredients to feed an army. However, I'm not exactly in the situation to cook for more than just myself, so therefore I cook for one!

I mean, I have been loving cooking me some chicken breast with olive oil, casseroles, pastas, and desserts. It's been a regular cooking festival in this apartment this semester. There is just one thing I cannot seem to master: cooking without getting stuff everywhere!

The above picture is supposed to be me, in my kitchen, after making spaghetti.

However, I am a clean person, and the mess drives me nuts, so I clean my counters and wash the dishes right away after making and consuming my supper. And that brings me to another point. How on earth can so many pots, pans, dishes, and utensils be used when making one meal? It just doesn't seem fair! 

The above picture is of a meal, and then the 20 million dishes in my sink after cooking that one meal.

It is kind of a pain in the butt to cook a good meal. However, I have learned that it is worth it. This is the first time I have had my own kitchen, so it has been a blessing. When I was getting my undergrad degree, I lived in a dorm thingy for 4 years and did not have a kitchen. So now that I have one, I love it. It is time consuming learning to really cook for real, and I might make some really atrocious meals, but I'm just glad to now be able to make those atrocious meals! 

Ultimately, cooking is good. Yeah, yeah, yeah, we all know it. But I do wish that I could just eat ice cream for every meal. It requires much less dish washing.

Look Yo Age

Appearances play a fairly substantial role in life. I think that everyone can agree with that. Personal presentation can make or break a career. I might not have a career yet, but that's what graduate school is for, correct? And I do try to look like I am a professional (try is probably the key word in that sentence). However, I can't seem to convince some folks that I really am my age.

I'm 22 years old. Now, I know that is no by no means ancient (except that I'm basically an old maid by Southern standards). However, I do get caught off guard by the number of people who seem genuinely surprised that I am how old I am! 

A year or so ago, I had to go to the bank and open a new account. (The following conversation is an approximate summary of the actual conversation).The lady at the desk scrutinized me and asked, "Are you at least 18? How old are you?"

"I'm 21."

"Are you sure?"

"Well... yep."

"Show me your ID."

"Okiedokie."

*Examines ID, returns it to me, and doesn't acknowledge my honesty*

Now, on this particular day, I was probably wearing very casual clothes, minimal makeup, and had my unbrushed hair in a ponytail. I know that sounds really cute; it's unbelievable how single I am. But anyway, the point is that I was not fixed up and therefore perhaps looked younger. You know, because younguns don't wear makeup or something. I don't know; just go with it.

However, just the other day, I had a child ask me how old I was. It may or may not be relevant that I was all fixed up on this occasion, because I had clinicals. We were talking about something or another, and she just abruptly asked me about my age. The conversation went something sorta like this: *Interrupts natural flow of conversation* "Um, how old are you?"

"I'm 22."

"Oh... okay."

"How old do you think I am?" *Hopes that she doesn't say anything older than my true age*

"I guess like 19-ish."

"Well... nope."

"Okay."

It was a really great conversation, and I know you're glad I shared it with you.

Now don't get me wrong; I know that 19 years old and 22 years old are not separated by a large number of years. I'm pretty horrible at math, but I can calculate the difference between them (probably). And I definitely prefer to be perceived as young rather than old. Hopefully people will continue to perceive my appearance as young as I age. 

I guess I'm just curious. What do people perceive my age to be, and why do they perceive it to be what it is?

Maps are great if you can read them

It's not any fun getting lost. I've discovered this many times since moving to Tuscaloosa. Now, I've always been aware that I have a less than stellar sense of direction. Just so you know, if we are taking a road trip  do not appoint me as the navigator. But these past two weeks have been ridiculous. It is almost as though the universe has plotted against me regarding my need to arrive at a place and my inability to do so.

It all began when I needed to go to a very small town in Alabama for a wedding. Vernon is a little place, not too far from Tuscaloosa, but far enough that I got desperately lost and drove nearly to Columbus, Mississippi. My mother and I were trying to get to a wedding rehearsal. We were supposed to arrive by 6:00, but let's just say that at 6:15 I noticed a sign designating that we were a mere 17 miles from Columbus. Also, the roads in Mississippi were terrible. 

Mississippi: making Alabama look a little bit better in the eyes of the rest of the nation. 

Just kidding, Mississippi. Y'all are alright. 

Anyway, that was just my first lost adventure (and granted, the most severe) since moving to Tuscaloosa. Some of the others have occurred on campus at the university. I might have had an excuse the first time I walked with some girls in my program from the building in which my classes are held to the student center. We didn't know the most direct route (or really any route; we just knew the general direction). The distance between the two buildings is pretty great considering that they are on the same campus. I mean, it probably shouldn't have taken us like two hours to get there, but we did stop by a museum-y thing for a while. So perhaps we are excused.

However, then we walked a second time, and got lost again. It didn't take quite as long to arrive this second trip, but we also didn't go to any museum-y things.

And then we did it a third time! We've gotten turned around 3/3 trips we have taken from our building to the student center. This last trip, we estimated that we walked for an hour and half. That's just walking time; it does not include any time we spent in the bookstore or at our pit stop in the rec center on the way back to our building.

None of this includes the multitude of times I have just driven in the wrong direction on the correct street, or in the correct direction down the wrong street. It's just not cool. 

I'm thinking I need to hire a guide to lead me around. Anybody interested in the job?

On a completely different note, this blog has had over 1,000 views (not including my own)! I mean, that's not too shabby for a college girl who writes sporadically and without purpose.

To Granddaddy

My favorite song right now is the hymn "In the Garden". I have the Brad Paisley version of it, and I can listen to it over and over again. But what is important is not that it is my favorite song, but why this is my favorite song. This song helped me so much after my Granddaddy passed away. I encourage you to look it up and listen to it while you read this, especially if you're unfamiliar with the lyrics to the song.

My love for this song is not upbeat, but it is uplifting. It doesn't make me exactly happy, but it does give me joy. I often cry when singing this song; it is bittersweet. In fact, it taught me what the "bittersweet" really means. For whatever reason, this song was used by the Lord to give me comfort.

My Granddaddy loved being outside. His home and his land were extremely important to him. His huge yard in SmallTown, AL was his Garden of Eden, in a sense. I heard "In the Garden" shortly after Granddaddy's funeral, and a very distinct mental image blossomed.

I imagine my Granddaddy, as he was when I was a little girl. He is not sick, frail, and weak like he was before    dying. No, rather he is healthy and independent. He is back in his hometown, the place he loved. The place I love because of my grandparents. And he is sitting in his backyard, near some flowers. And that is where my Lord comes to meet him. I can't see the face of God; since I can't imagine that detail, He is more or less just Light. But He comes to my Granddaddy, in the garden, the backyard. He walks around my Granddaddy's yard with my Granddaddy, and He tells my Granddaddy that he is His own. And the joy they share as they tarry there... Well, my imagination only goes so far. I can't comprehend, due to the fact that I am alive.

That is how I imagine my Granddaddy meeting God, the very second he left his body. The very second the hospital ceased containing him. The very second that medicine, doctors, and machines no longer had any power over him. Of course, no one can absolutely know if anyone else is saved. You can only be sure of yourself. But from the way my Granddaddy tried to live his life and the way he openly claimed Jesus as his King, I am confident he is genuinely a Christian and his soul is in Heaven. This hymn allowed me to connect the passing of my Granddaddy's soul from Earth to God's Kingdom.

As I sit here writing this, I have never died. That is obvious. I do not know what it is like to meet God after death. I do not know what my Granddaddy experienced with death.The above scenario is my imagination, a symbolic creation to represent my belief in God and how He gathers His children to Heaven after their death. However, I do believe that God used it, or even perhaps gave it to me, to comfort me. I know that my Granddaddy came to the garden alone, but God met him there. I miss my Granddaddy; I love him so much. And that, mixed with the absolute, pure, complete joy that my Granddaddy felt when he met God in the garden, leaves me joyously sad, if you know what I mean.

Waiting is Sometimes Necessary

So it has been a while since I've had anything to say on here. Quite a lot in my life has changed. I have grown accustomed to thinking that the things that have occurred and the things that I have realized have all impacted me negatively. And today I have realized that is just backwards thinking.

Perhaps the catalyst of my sad semester was the death of my Granddaddy. I really love my Granddaddy; always have and always will. He was always my encourager; he thought I could do anything I wanted to and do it perfectly. As I sit here writing this, so many memories are running through my head.

I remember him being so proud of me at my high school graduation that he cried. He always told me how he looked forward to my college graduation. He made it to the beginning of my senior year of college; I wish he could be here for the end. And I remember when my mother and I would sit in the living room and watch those silly wedding shows on the girly channels, and he would see what we were watching and tell me how he couldn't wait to see me walk down the aisle as a bride. He obviously didn't live long enough to see that, since I am currently as single as possible. I would give anything to have him there on that future day. I really love my Granddaddy.

Perhaps the most striking memory I have, and the one I cling to more than anything right now, is the memory of his last words  to me. I came home one Friday near the beginning of this semester. That night, Granddaddy became very ill, and my Mama decided to take him to the hospital. He didn't realize at first that I had even come home; he didn't see me until I helped him into the car. I had to pick his feet up off the ground and put them into the car, because he was too weak to be able to pick them up and put them in himself. As sick as he was, he smiled when he saw me.

He said, "Well Carolyn, how is school going?"

"It's pretty tough right now," I replied.

"But you're tougher," he said. Adding in, "goodbye," and, "I love you," it was our last conversation ever.

The next time I was able to come home from school to see him was the next weekend. I visited him in the hospital, but he was not really able to talk. He tried, but I couldn't really understand what he was saying. He knew I was there, though. But that visit is not what I really choose to think about. I prefer to remember those words, "But you're tougher."

After Granddaddy died, I did not handle it very well. I really felt the loss; it was a huge hole. It still is. But particularly soon after his passing, for some reason I began to question my past decisions and their implications. I have tried to stay a Godly woman, although I fail to always do right, just like every other sinner on this planet. And when I was questioning my past decisions, I thought that perhaps I had not done right according to God's plan. (Now let me just say that I do not know God's plan. I do not know if I did right or not. But I do know now that God can work with it; after all, He is God.)

But then, I turned to God in a new prayer. My prayer for a while was, "Lord, either give this to me or take away my hurt from not being able to have it. It doesn't matter which one; I just want to be happy."

I feel like that's a fairly common prayer for people to pray. It's easy to say those things when you regret decisions made in the past and desire a happier future. But it's a fallacy. It's pretty elementary, actually. I remember it being in Sunday School lessons from when I was a child. God's three answers to prayers are: yes, no, or wait. And I was reminded of that today, while I was in the student section at the Iron Bowl.

I can't exactly figure out what at the Iron Bowl reminded me of God's promises, or why I felt compelled to put it on the internet for folks to read. But either way, here it is. God told me today that He has a future for me. He just ain't telling me what it is yet. It may or may not be what I have wanted, or currently want. And He told me not to even worry about that anymore, because He's got something for me; I just have to be able to wait. I can still worry about decisions I made, but I have got to be prudent in my sadness. I am here where I am and I can't change that.

Waiting is sometimes necessary. I have to wait right now to find out where to go next, what to do, and how I can be the best woman I can be. So what I need to do is look forward to my future; my meaningful future.

And that, my friends, makes me happy.

Who broke Carolyn Kate's arm??? Oh, Carolyn Kate did.

When I was four years of age, I was a very active child. I loved to run; I loved to play. And no attire could prevent me from running or playing, even Sunday church clothes and an impending nap time. So, as I was running to my room after arriving home from church, I didn't think anything about it. I probably should have, though.

Multiple factors played into the breaking of the arm scenario which is about to unfold. First, I had removed my shoes. Second, I was wearing stockings, which provide little to no grip between my foot and the floor. Third, we don't have a carpeted house; the floor of my family's home is mostly tile, with some linoleum around our bedrooms. Finally, I was running. Those factors, when added together, can potentially be hazardous. And of course, I slipped in the hallway outside of my bedroom,  landed smack on the ground, with my arm twisted and somehow underneath me.

Well, of course I did not handle that situation well. I have worked in a nursery and I have ample babysitting experience. I'm not much more aware of how children are capable of making bad situations much worse. Now, since I was only four, there are gaps in my memory from the time of the fall to my arrival at the hospital. I remember my parents trying to figure out what happened to their screaming child. I remember getting an ice cream treat, which I thought was grand. And I remember waiting in the emergency room.

Now, allow me at this point in time to explain that I was a pretty happy child. I was precious, of course. And like a lot of children, I would be happy and play even while injured. I don't get it now; if I broke my arm today I would whine and milk it for all it's worth. But apparently I was playing in the car on the way to the emergency room. This led to my mother scolding me, and trying to figure out if I really was hurt or if I was putting on an act. It was difficult to tell, because my arm did not have an obvious break in it and there was no blood, or gore, or other telling signs of a ghastly wound. But I was also very sensitive to scoldings, and I reacted very strongly to them. I hate to get in trouble. And as a child, I hated it even worse. And since I was a fairly good child (oh, how different than my little sister, ha ha ha), I did not require frequent punishment and therefore handled normal, very mild punishment as though it were the end of the world. This fussing in the car was no different.

So we arrived at the hospital, and after waiting what felt like a thousand years in the emergency room, it's finally my turn to be examined. As they're asking me routine questions, I say, at some point, that my mother was angry at me. Little did I know the consequences of those words. Remember, good child = rare punishment. Rare punishment = inability to cope with normal consequences. Scolding at play = consequences. Inability to cope with scolding and questions from nurses = trouble for mommy.

And to top it all off, my arm had been fractured near my elbow joint in such a way that if it had been maliciously twisted by a person, the same results could have been achieved as were achieved by the simple slipping and falling upon my arm.

Let me just say right now that my mother has never injured me in her life. I rarely had to be spanked, and even the few spankings I did receive were very mild. I guess the doctors did not know that, though. And so they began to question her.

 "Mrs. Carolyn's Mom, did you twist Carolyn Kate's arm?" Well, this did not go over well, and my mom vehemently denied everything.

"If you twisted her arm, just tell us."

"I did not twist her arm!"

I am sure that I am glad that I did not witness that glorious scene. Anyway, in the end, my mother was cleared of the offense. They were able to figure out the real story from what I said, that I had broken my arm by slipping and falling, and my mommy continued to be able to not-hurt me. And, I got a hot pink cast out of the deal. I'm sure I looked adorable with it (of course), and I was able to use it as a paper weight in preschool (which I thought was fabulous, because no one else had a paper weight for their coloring sheets).

The Worst Day of My Life

In August of 2009, I had the worst day of my life. I don't remember the specific date, but that is only probably because it was so terrible and dramatic. Allow me to preface this story with a little background knowledge about why this day was so absolutely awful.

My family has generally only kept one pet at a time. This allows us to shower all of our love and adoration onto one lucky creature, and therefore allow it to live the most privileged life an outside pet can live. Girl, a black labrador retriever, was my first pet. She "ran away" to live with someone else when I was a little girl. When I was 7 years old, we were given a little gray tabby kitten, Tiger. Tiger was a mild mannered guy, very sweet with me and my sister. He was smart; he knew he had to be sweet to us because we fed him lots of food. He was not so sweet with the vets. He's the only cat I've ever heard of who had to get muzzled to go to the vet. He grew into a really, really, really fat cat. He weighed somewhere between 15 and 20 pounds, and he was predictably very lazy.

So on this August day, back in 2009, my family was spending one of the last weeks of summer together. We planned on taking a day trip to go out of town, but that morning we noticed that Tiger was breathing extremely heavily and very quickly. My mother measured his respiration rate, and it turned out to be like a million breaths per minute. Using our brilliant deductive skills, we figured out that something was wrong. But what? We had to take him to the vet. Mom gave me the task of getting some of our older towels to put in the cat carrier while she was outside making sure it was clean. This is when things started to get really, really dramatic.

I head to go outside to the carport, where my mother was waiting. As I shut the back door, I heard "RUN, CAROLYN! RUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNN!" I heard this awful, shrill, squeaky scream.

Little Sister, who was already outside, and I started running. Little Sister was holding our dying pet in her arms, and he was being bounced up and down while we gallop halfway up the driveway. I turned around, to figure out what I'm running from.

It's a bat. A BAT. In the middle of the day. And it had been trying to crawl into our home while I had opened the door to come outside. When I shut the door, I had closed it upon the bat's leg. That was when things started to happen in slow motion.

The screaming bat managed to wriggle itself free from the door. It started flying around in frantic circles and zigzags. I initially assumed it was only doing so because it was hurt. I'm sure getting its leg closed in a door did not feel very good. However, the bat saw me, or heard me, or smelled me, or something else equally scary, because it then started to fly at me. I began to run, because the bat was still flying very manically and was not actually zooming straight at my head at that particular moment. It was chasing me, though, and it chased me and Little Sister (still clinging to our freaked out, half-dead cat) all the way up our driveway, up the front sidewalk, and to the front porch.

Little Sister and I got inside the house, and shut the door. The bat kept flying around our house for half an hour or so, and even banged up against our windows.

Inside, we were all freaking out. Tiger was on the floor on his side, eyes wide and mouth open, gasping to avoid suffocation. Little Sister and I are practically in shock. Here's about what he looked like:

My mother was talking about all of us probably having rabies. The conversation went something like this: "blah blah blah Dead Cat blah blah Bat blah blah Rabies blah blah blah Was Anyone Bitten or Pooped On? blah blah blah Vet blah blah blah Can You Believe We Were Just Chased by a Bat???"

After around half an hour, we made our way outside again. We had to get Tiger to the vet, because unfortunately the jostling he received during our retreat was terrible for him. We packed him up and rushed him to the vet. He couldn't even meow by the time we got him there, and his nose was no longer pink. Essentially, we walked in, showed him to the vet, and suddenly the clinic from a small town veterinary clinic to  an emergency surgery pet-saving wonderland. They were all like, "We need to get him into surgery, asap!" So they whisked him away. We got reports that went something like this, "We are having to slice open his belly; this is bad and he might die at any moment," and "He just died and we performed miracle kitty cat CPR on him and brought him back to life."

It was very dramatic.

Thankfully, Tiger did not die that day. He held on for a few weeks longer. If he had died that day, I think it would have been too much. I mean, really? I don't know if you can understand the fear of being chased by a potentially rabid, definitely angry, injured, manic bat in the middle of the day. I'm surprised I did not wet myself. That bat was bent on revenge. But then to have your only pet almost go to Kitty Cat Heaven on the same day? Dreadful.