O Reuben, Where Art Thou?

It's St. Patrick's Day! I, like most folks, usually celebrate the holiday with the consumption of festive food and drink. Tonight, I will be making Reuben sandwiches. I have always wondered about the history of this culinary delight. I don't believe they are actually Irish. My sister and I were discussing this very issue yesterday, so I decided to re-post a blurb from an older blog about my thoughts on the topic.

(Originally posted on August 5, 2006 on “Amber: The Woman, The Legend, The Blog.”)

“So, I've been thinking...What nationality is a Reuben sandwich? It's got corned beef, which I think is Irish. Sauerkraut-that's got to be German. Swiss cheese-I haven't the foggiest idea where that comes from.(Just kidding.) I know Thousand Island dressing is a variation of Russian dressing, but based on the name, it really could have come from almost anywhere. And rye bread I just don't know about. It's a Jewish bread, but I'm pretty sure it didn't come from the Holy Land. Maybe it comes from New York, I don't know. I don't know what kind of name "Reuben" is. I think it is Hebrew. By the way, is a Reuben sandwich kosher? It's got beef and cheese, so I guess not. Either way, I must say the Reuben is one very eclectic and diverse little sandwich. And it is oh so delicious...”

I will also be making chocolate stout cupcakes with Irish cream/cream cheese frosting and Irish coffee. Mmmm.

A Picnic in the Park

It was a lovely day, almost Spring, and the sun was shining after the last night's rain. I decided to get out and enjoy the day after spending a hefty portion of the week cooped up inside my office. I threw a novel, pencil and paper, my camera, and a peanut butter sandwich into a bag and headed to the park. I envisioned myself having a Thoreau -esque experience, basking in the inspiration of nature, writing and reading on the banks of the park's streams.

I arrived feeling optimistic. The air was brisk. I turned my face toward the sunshine and the pleasant breeze, taking it all in before I set out on a trail to enjoy a nice walk and find the perfect spot for my creative paradise. As I rounded the bend of the trail, I saw that the aforementioned rains had caused the park's streams to runneth over and flood the trail. “No worries,” I thought to myself. “I'll just go around it.”

I walked off the trail, through the grass, successfully circumventing the watery path. Then, I stepped into some tall grass, and my foot sank into the cold, muddy water. My heart was not far behind it. I was up to my ankles, and I could find no dry ground to stand on. I trudged out of the swampy mess and started back to my car, feeling defeated. My shoes and socks squished beneath my feet.

As I neared the parking lot, I decided not to leave until I'd done what I'd come for and enjoyed my day off, writing in the beauty of nature. No wet shoes were going to ruin my day! I sat at a picnic table to have my sandwich and compose the masterpiece I'd intended.

In the shady covering of the pavilion, the wind whipped around my soggy feet. The pages of my notebook flapped wildly. As I sat, cramming peanut butter sandwich into my mouth and trying to enjoy my solitude, two men stepped under the pavilion with their dogs and tried to strike up some conversation. I smiled and nodded, but didn't say much in effort to politely hint that I would prefer to focus on my writing than to engage in friendly chit chat. They mosied on out, and I again took pencil to paper.

I soon became distracted again by a lady with white earphones who had arrived at the park around the same time I had. She kept be-bopping past me in her walking garb. Her feet looked smugly dry. The sun shone on her bouncy brown hair. I watched her through squinted eyes, hunched over in the shadows, shivering, and doing my best to keep the moisture inside my nose.

“I drove all the way out here; I'm going to enjoy nature, dagnabbit!” I stepped away from my seat at the table and into the sunshine in search of comforting warmth. The wind continued to mock me and blew my belongings off the table. I chased them down, muttering and cursing the day and my stupid love of stupid nature. I left the park, cold and grumpy, and the only thing I was inspired to write was this crummy blog.

Waxing Melancholy

“Everybody thinks their way of living is the best.”

I said this to my friend years ago, and while the statement is not 100% grammatically correct, I think it rings true. My friend still quotes me on this phrase, but often, it is to indirectly express his disapproval at my decisions.

I have come to realize that not every decision in life is of the utmost importance.

You may be reading this and thinking, “Amber, this is quite an atypical blog for you.” You wouldn't be wrong. Lately, I've been getting back in touch with my more pensive side, thinking about life, purpose, meaning...you know, tortured poet kind of stuff.

So, back to the issue of importance. What is important? And is it really that important to categorize whether things are important, and if so, to what degree? Maybe sometimes. Could I be a little more vague? Perhaps.

What I do know is that things that seemed important to me one year ago no longer seem so crucial. And who knows? Maybe one year from now, they will again. I think, like all things in nature, people are cyclical. Of course, my central values remain static, but the rest of my ideas are more fluid and kind of ebb and flow around the midpoint. Will I regret some decisions later on? Of course, at least somewhat. Life comes with regrets. But, are they really that important? In the grand scheme of things, most likely not. I don't want to live a life of regret for the things I've done, but it seems just as likely that I may regret the things I did not do. I don't want to be ruled by this fear.

Why did I put this entry on the Internet for all to see instead of in my journal where my pseudo philosophical babblings usually go? I'm not sure, but I have a feeling I might regret it. But right now, I don't care.

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If you read this whole entry waiting for something witty, sorry. No refunds.