Colored Collisions

NOVEMBER 10, 2012: Went paintballing for the first time.

That will be a memorable day. Sure it wasn't as thrilling as I had hyped it up to be, and it didn't exactly match up with the images of "Matrix-style" dodges and sniper-type marksmanship that I had conjured up, but it was good fun nonetheless. My friends and I all got a healthy dosage of pain and exhilaration with a few bloody skin breakages and nasty welts. There was the sense of accomplishment and joy from hitting someone dead on their chest, the excitement from going "Rambo," dramatically sliding behind cover and madly taking on a group of armed gunners, and the disorientation of being on the receiving end of a clean shot to the face.
 Bullets were flying everywhere and as soon as I would feel safely sheltered, a gooey explosion of neon green would splatter across my mask, penetrating the air holes and coating my face with the dyed sucrose (a not-so-tasty experience). All in all it was a wonderful day of inflicting and receiving suffering to dear friends and strangers alike. With each game came fantastical tales of glorious battle and boasts of spectacular feats.

"Let boys be boys," they'd say, but there were none more vicious than the giggling girls blasting away with menacing laughter, and sending a steady stream of pain to anyone in their way. They matched the ferocity of many of the guys there, uninhibited by any form of mercy or sympathy. I will forever be scarred by the pain of two of the sweetest, kindest church-girls I've ever known unleash a fury of pellets onto my exposed back. Never will I forget.

Amish Friendless Bread

 Just yesterday a friend of mine handed me a piece of "Amish Friendship Bread" along with a "starter pack" and instructions. It was delicious and perfectly moist, and given the fact that she was no baker per se, I was a bit surprised. With the starter in the hand, I skated back home and went to bed. It had been a long and calorific Thanksgiving day, and I was just as stuffed and dead as the turkey within my bulging tummy.

Typical of a Thanksgiving week, I feasted voraciously the subsequent days as well. But this time I contributed beautifully baked, cinnamon-sugar crusted pieces of culinary art to the potlucks. Absolutely scrumptious. Being the curious critter I was, I asked my dearest buddy Google some questions regarding the bread, to which he replied, "Amish Friendship Bread is a type of bread or cake made from a sourdough starter that is often shared in a manner similar to a chain letter." So those starters are basically yeast cultures that each person cultivates throughout a 10 day period to give to others to do the same. Problem was, I now had several starter packs that were to be handed out to friends and family, but the actual need to bake is a big turn-off for a lot of people it seems.  Not having anyone who was interested, the bags just sat in the kitchen for the next 2 days until one night BOOM! BOOM! Two of the bags had expanded past their capacity and exploded, waking my mother and I up in a bit of a fright. Tired and having given up I just threw them into the freezer to bake some time in the future.

And that there is my sad story of baking Amish Friendless Bread.

Numbing Nostalgia

Every cold season that comes by brings back toasty memories of my dearly missed footy pajamas. Those were the good old days. Each night I would adorn a brightly colored and peculiarly decorated coat of armor that was impenetrable by the ruthless ravagings of the chilled night air. With my frigid foe vanquished I slept soundly, illuminated by my radiant glow-in-the-dark patches and kept safe and sound by my mighty stegosaurus, triceratops, and pterodactyl guardians. That was my life and I was the king. Nothing could touch me nor dared to. All were intimidated by the fiery war colors of my glorious unitard.



Unfortunately, those days are gone and now the joys of footies are reserved for my two younger siblings Benny and Minnie. How I would watch them in bitter envy as they contentedly snuggled up in their fuzzy, little PJ's with nonchalant grins plastered on their faces as they lazed about watching that day's episode of  "Spongebob." All the while I screamed inside for the comforting sanctuary housed within. They laughed at the cold that cowered from their presence, while I pathetically begged for mercy from it, longing for the return of days long past. Days in which I had taken that wooly night-time attire for granted. NAY! It was more than that. It was solid warmth manifested in utterly soft fabric through sorts of sorcery that I dare not try to understand. Made from silky threads harvested from exotic cotton plants of lands far off and crafted with utmost precision by the hands of some master seamstress. But reminiscing about it is all I have now, without risking household humiliation of course. Perhaps one day, I will be blessed once again with the joys of its sweet and reassuring embrace.

Cuckoo for cocoa

Look at this beaut of a beverage container. Never have I had a higher opinion of a "ready-made"food product let alone its container. I mean, just look at it. Starbucks' design team really outdid itself in this product's packaging and presentation. I met eyes with her from across the aisle, and oh how we fell so deeply in love. Now they say its not solely about the outside appearance but rather the inside that counts. She's not missing anything there either. A perfect blend of rich chocolatey goodness with just the right ratio of "darkness." A nice breath of fresh air from a sugar-blasted milk chocolate world. That bitter tinge fused with her subtle sweetness and full creaminess, creates an intricate savor. Complexly fabricated into an easily distinguishable Hot Cocoa that puts Nestlé's little cocoa powder packets to utter shame. One with genuine flavor, void of that nasty aftertaste one tends to encounter with any other "insta-cocoa." I can say with confidence that this is the superb hot cocoa commodity available on the market within its affordable price range ($28.99 USD).

This drink has become a part of my daily routine. A swig here and there while I do homework keeps the juices flowing. It turns out I'm not the only one incline to her allure, however, as I came home to find a doppelgänger acquainting herself with my very own. My dad had purchased it while perusing at Costco on the very same grounds I had. He was captivated by the wondrously presented cylindrical container: sleek, shiny, classy (yet retaining simplicity), and just perfect. I myself am an avid believer in "beauty in simplicity" outside the realm minimalism though. It goes to show the equal importance of aesthetics in conjunction to quality. Had she never caught my eyes, I never would have experienced what she had in store for me.