Value of steam or other form of heat energy (30USC1004)

After my last encounter with Asian food, I had put off making potstickers, even though they are one of my favorite ethnic appetizers (sorry, but good 'ol American wings, mozzarella sticks, and potato skins are up there, too). As it turned out, the only hard part about making them was tracking down the wrappers. I ended up stopping by an Asian market, with fingers crossed, on my way to the airport because I didn't see any in the grocery stores I usually go to. With some luck, and some help from the friendly cashier, I found some hiding in a freezer.

In other ways, I let myself be less than traditional. For the meat, I used ground pork and shrimp (top left), but when it came to vegetables, I used regular celery instead of Chinese celery, along with the water chestnuts (top right). In terms of spices (below left), our cilantro plant died during my time out of town, so I substituted coriander (dried cilantro). I didn't want to buy raw ginger, because the last time I did, more than 90% of it went wasted, so I put in a teaspoon of Chinese five spice instead; even though my version didn't include ginger, I thought it would add a similar flavor. I also didn't want to waste the yolk leftover from the egg white, so I put that in reserve for later while I whipped up the filling (bottom right).

I mixed the yolk with some water to create a wash for sealing the wrappers (left). The construction of the dumplings was a lot easier because the wrappers weren't nearly as delicate as the spring-roll wrappers. But, still worried about them staying together, I actually held back on the filling at first, leaving me with 30 pockets instead of the 24 outlined in the recipe (right).

Even after sitting for a couple of hours, the dumplings didn't show any signs of coming apart, even when I started frying them in the skillet (top left and right). I had always assumed that potstickers were completely cooked through frying, but actually, the real heat comes from steaming them with broth (below left). As their name suggests, the pockets stick to the pot, but even removing them didn't cause them to split. In fact, the only time they ripped was when I was a little too quick with the tongs as I transferred them to a paper towel to let the grease drain (below right). 

The dipping sauce was quick and indeed spicy, although possibly more so because of the substitutions I made: sriracha for chili-garlic sauce, white wine vinegar for rice vinegar, and Thai sweet chili sauce for hot chili oil (left). In the end, I was happy with the result because it was thicker than most sauces I have eaten with potstickers (right), so you could get more of the flavor when you dipped.

I dug out the chopsticks so we could at least be authentic in the way we ate the appetizers. But I'm already thinking about how to use the leftover wrappers in un-authentic ways. Potato-skin potstickers, anyone?

Final rule with standards on improved head injury protection (49USC30101)

As an English teacher, I have seen many of my students struggle with the literary element of irony. In part, this is because society has manipulated the word for different situations than it was originally intended (a process that some would describe as "ironic"). I can actually accept the idea of calling some piece of art, like a song or a painting, ironic if it presents something so overly serious in order to mock it. That type of performance sarcasm is similar to verbal irony.

But I draw the line at uninformed people referring to incidents in their life as ironic when they are really just the result of bad luck or, worse, stupidity. A person might say that it's ironic to run into an ex on a bad-hair day. Actually, this is just a coincidence. It was bad luck that you happened to see your ex when you weren't looking your best. And quite frankly, it's the fault of your own lack of self-pride if you didn't try to put on a hat, whether you were going to see your ex or not.

So let me use my most recent typical Sunday, when I bumped my head, to illustrate the true meaning of irony. And there is your first example, of verbal irony, the difference between "what the character says and what she suggests or intends." I said my Sunday was typical, but actually, I spent six hours in an emergency room, where I had my first CT scan. And I said I bumped my head, but really I bashed it on the asphalt so hard that when I regained consciousness -- if I ever lost it -- I didn't know where or who I was. I could remember that I had been biking only because my bicycle was on the ground beside me and my helmet was still on my head (completely not by coincidence). But I had no idea where I had biked from or where I was biking to; not even the signs from the nearby interstate provided me with any recognition of my location.

I did realize, though, that I probably should get myself checked out, which meant I needed to find a doctor, which would mean locating my car. At first, I was planning on just biking around in the hopes of finding it, so I focused on fixing my bike. When I fell, the brakes got out of whack, seizing up my front wheel. Luckily (not ironically), the brakes, my bell, and a reflector were the only damaged parts, so I was able to re-align my wheel and ride. Perhaps because of this small moment of mental focus, I realized I was on a bike trail, and if I just followed it in the opposite direction (I could tell which way I was going from what side of the road I was on), I would end up back at my car eventually.

For a couple months now, nearly every Sunday, TJ and I have gone somewhere into the States, so he can run and I can bike where there's more open ground. Some weekends, that took us to some of the border hinterlands. Because TJ was out of town and I would be riding alone, on this Sunday, I chose to ride on a more well-marked and -traveled route, the Bayshore Bikeway. I thought that this established route would be safer than some of the narrow berms and slippery scree I had negotiated on past Sundays. This choice could be considered cosmic irony, which is the difference between "what a character aspires to and what universal forces provide." I had tried to select a route that I thought would be smooth pedaling, but in doing so, the fates put an uneven railroad track in my path.

Seeing the naval ships and ocean as I rode along jogged my memory, and I realized not only where I was but also where my car was. According to my watch, I had only been biking for about 15 minutes, so it didn't take long to get back. I also realized that I was in a pretty suburban area, so there was probably a hospital close enough that I could risk driving. So, when I managed to get back to the car, I tried to find a wireless signal; with no luck, I drove a couple of blocks to McDonald's, whose golden arches I could see from the trail parking lot. The free wi-fi there helped me see that a hospital was only about six blocks away, so I soldiered on to the emergency room.

When I got to the hospital parking lot, I was struck with situational irony, the difference between "what happens and what the character reasonably expected." My insurance card, which I carry in my pocket when I ride in case of a bad spill like this, was nowhere to be found. It either fell out when I fell, or I dropped it when I pulled out my iPod to find a hospital. Either way, this is ironic because my own attempts to safeguard my health with my insurance card, what I had expected, were thwarted by my own actions relating to said card.

Even though I didn't really want to, I called TJ to get our insurance information. When he didn't answer, I called a Foreign Service friend whom I figured had the same plan. She was able to give me everything except my member ID. So I called TJ back and left what I must admit was a very vague message, something along the lines of: Fell off bike, hit head, at ER, need member ID, bye. Indeed, he did call me back with the details I needed, but by then, I was already in the heart of the hospital, where there's no cellphone reception.

This predicament created a comic irony, a situational irony in which "the reader views the circumstances as fair in some way and therefore finds it humorous," that has been replicated in many a sitcom: A character gets his or her comeuppance based on his or her own flaw. My flaw, which of course I do not consider a flaw, is that I don't like to be a burden (This is why I hate making phone calls; surely, the person on the other end is annoyed by my contact). In my attempts to be as unburdensome as possible, I was taught a lesson about accepting other people's support. My message to TJ in search of a simple 10-digit number led to an international incident involving multiple phone calls, the final one of which was from the Tijuana consulate to a small ER near San Diego. Indeed, for one day, I became an American Citizen Services case; my own desire for independence landed me the last place I would want to end up: the weekend duty notes.

This is especially funny because my lack of experience with ERs didn't help me see that the hospital wouldn't need my insurance information until much later, after I recovered, and that the nurses would help me call my husband to get it, as is appropriate in an "emergency." The comedy is also compounded by the presence of dramatic irony, the difference between "what the character thinks to be true and what the reader knows to be true." I thought that my level-headed husband would get a hold of my Foreign Service friend because I thought I told him that she was coming to meet me at the hospital (I finally wised up that I should not drive, especially after the Vicodin). I also thought that my friend, dutifully waiting in the reception area, knew that I was waiting for tests, which could take a couple of hours. Instead, this friend only knew that everyone had been calling one another left and right to find out where I was, a small detail I probably should've left in my message to TJ, while I was just obliviously overhearing the head nurse's stories about her daughter, who is in jail.

Eventually, after my friend spoke up and asked about my whereabouts, she was led to my gurney, where she described -- to my great embarrassment, even greater than giving myself a concussion while riding a bike, without a car anywhere in a 100-feet radius -- what had been going on. With my test results analyzed (no bleeding in the brain, no fracture in my hand) and the sitcom denouement complete, my friend uneventfully drove me home. And to her, my husband, and everyone else who interrupted their weekend to care about my noggin, I say: You are the greatest, no verbal irony intended.

The relationship of man and the California desert (43USC1781)

This is what you do when you have a three-day weekend and you don't care about the Super Bowl: You talk your husband into going to see wildflowers in the desert. We considered booking a spot at Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, but when all but handicapped spots were available, we opted for Agua Caliente County Park.

You don't keep track of kick-off time, but at about the same moment, you jump off into these: three crystal-clear pools, two of which are fed by natural hot springs. The jets in the hottest one were so relaxing and the view from the greenhouse was so peaceful that we could even ignore the white-haired retiree walking in circles, repeating the word "whirlpool" over and over until someone would acknowledge him so he could stop to chat.

 

 

You don't enjoy the extensive appetizer spread of a Super Bowl party, particularly the chicken wings, so you satiate yourself with a barbecue of delicious steaks over a campfire instead. We did not, however, go without the refreshments (a fitting Samuel Adams Alpine Spring Lager) of the aforementioned party, which is obligatory at any campfire or barbecue anyway.

 

You don't sweat skipping the Madonna halftime show because there are equal spectacles to behold while hiking the Mountain Palm Springs Loop Trail. More unexpected than a wardrobe malfunction was the lovely oasis of palms in the middle of the desert, where we discovered our own bowl, the Torote Bowl. Sage and I sat on the sidelines while TJ went for the extra point by scrambling up the rocks of the Torote trail, named after the Spanish word for elephant trees.

 

 

You don't witness the Giants' win, but you learn about some harder-driving patriots at Vallecito Stage Station, where hundreds of hopeful Americans stopped on their cross-country journey to California, where they planned to pan for gold (way better than the silver of the Vince Lombardi Trophy).

You don't get to coo over the Puppy Bowl (especially since it incorporated pigs and birds this year), so you spy plenty of diverse wildlife in the desert instead. From our campsite alone, we saw (clockwise from top left): desert cottontails, Gambel's quails, bighorn sheep, and bobcats (I swear that the little speck of white directly up from the middle of the rock in the bushes is the light underside fur of its cropped tail).   

You don't miss the banal broadcasters, especially when you have color canine Sage on the rock instead of in the booth. Surely, he was as insightful as Boomer in providing commentary about potential dangers to the team (TJ assisted with play-by-play, especially since the last time Sage was so intent on the area beyond the campsite he got porcupined in the face). Who knows what was out there, especially considering we saw this spaceship along the road the next day.

 

You don't worry about the commercials, especially since everyone will be talking about them on Facebook the next day anyhow, and besides, you come for the advertised wonders of the desert, the wildflowers. In all honesty, the flora was definitely not in full bloom, but there were spots of colors to be found amid the dust if you took the time to look.

 

 

You don't guiltlessly spend all day sitting on the couch staring at a television screen, but you indulgently take in the pastel sunsets over the canyons each night. Indeed, the moon was the only satellite service we needed for one of our favorite American pastimes.