Podcast: Creative Cooking With Kids

My first attempt at a podcast and posting it on iTunes.

Creative Cooking With Kids

Got a young picky eater at home? Make mealtime less stressful and more fun with creative recipes you and your child can make together. In this episode, we offer a quick, delicious recipe for Snake Pizza.

The Technology of Dating

So I’ve come to the realization that even though I’ve been out of the dating game for 10+ years, the comical highs and lows of dating have remained the same.

There’s just more technology involved.

Nowadays, two adults who may be “interested” have countless forms of communication available to get to know each other – e-mail, instant messaging, cell phones, text messaging, MySpace, Facebook, Match.com, Second Life, etc.

We didn’t have all these things the last time I dated. I’m a 30-something divorced single mother. When I met my now ex-husband in 1994, AOL email had just emerged on the scene, hardly anyone had a cell phone and text messaging was a sociologist’s dream.

Technology certainly hasn’t cured the ambiguity of dating. It has simply led to more kinds of exchanges to misinterpret. Awkward first dates and telephone calls are augmented with heavily-edited emails and carefully-timed text messages.

All this communication is rife with nuances to overanalyze, usually in the company of gal pals and several glasses of wine.

“What do you think he really meant when his text said ‘C U l8r?’ “

It all seems so ridiculous.

As an accomplished, independent woman in her 30s, am I supposed to be using new technology to meet and be courted by eligible suitors? What are my other options? Blind dates? Hanging out in restaurant bars at happy hour to seduce buff construction workers or suited business execs with furtive glances?

Like Bridget Jones says, “I am very busy and important.” Who has time for this? What’s my motivation here?

To answer that question, I came up with a list of five highly un-technological female motivators for dating.

One. The desire to get married. Fueled by fairy tales and Disney marketing, a happily-ever-after romance is every girl’s dream. (Uh, done that. Seven difficult years of marriage followed by an unpleasant divorce. Disney sucks.)

Two. Biological clock. Most women inherently want to nurture something. The lure of pregnancy, cute babies and motherhood is strong. Tick tock. (I’ve already got a wonderful daughter. Best thing I got from my marriage/divorce.)

Three. Security. Money. Comfort. A house with nice furniture and a nice car in the driveway. Marry a man with money, have a baby and maybe you don’t even have to work!
(Whatever. My mother always warned me to never be wholly dependent on anyone, even your man. I’ve got a good job, my own money, my own house, furniture, car and a Blackberry.)

So that leads me to motivators four and five: Companionship and sex.

The prospect of meaningful companionship is a worthwhile incentive to date again in this brave new interactive world. Fortunately, I’m already blessed with a great daughter, wonderful friends and a loving family. But there’s no harm in a woman actively increasing her social network if the new company is good.

As for sex, well, the female libido can be quite the motivator. Especially when, as a 30-something woman, you hit that supposed “sexual peak” and all you have to help you out is technology – that “personal massager” from Brookstone your best friend bought you for your birthday comes to mind.

So I’ve decided to jump back on the dating train. Older, wiser, my unfulfilled expectations in check, I’m ready to embrace all that social technology has to offer. Armed with my laptop, my five email addresses and my cell phone, I’m convinced I’ll be better prepared this time when the pile of dating debris starts forming.

Recently, I asked out my dentist with a finely-crafted email.

He said yes by instant message.

We’re texting now.

Ridiculous.

The Technology of Dating by Marie K. Shanahan is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. Based on a work at mariekshan.wordpress.com.

Read.

A public service announcement I produced for my Media Imaging and Sound Design class. (Music provided by www.freeplaymusic.com).

Mixed Races, Mixed Messages

Another column I wrote for The Hartford Courant 10 years ago. It’s me, at age 25, coming to terms with my place and my race in America.

What Happens When You’re Asked To Choose Between Two Cultures

By MARIE K. SHANAHAN; Courant Staff Writer
Friday, March 28, 1997 | Column: Excerpts

My older brother sometimes likes to refer to the children in our family as “bananas.”

No, not because we’re crazy. He says it to poke fun of our heritage.

Our mom is from the Philippines; dad is a native Vermonter. So like a banana, he says we’re yellow on the outside and white on the inside.

My whole life I’ve been asked the same question by curious people who see my straight black hair and seemingly Asian eyes and then are puzzled by my Irish last name.

“What are you?”

Sure, there are words to describe me and the many other children who are products of interracial marriages: mestizos, mulattos, hybrids, half-breeds — oh, and my personal favorite, mutts.

As we racially mixed children move into adulthood, we’re faced with the unique difficulty of trying to succeed in a country that categorizes human beings like paint swatches.

But what happens when you’re not a TRUE color? When you’re not black or white or yellow or red but some strange shade in between?

For example, on surveys with an ethnicity question, which box do we check? Other? Where are we counted? Who are we supposed to be?

These questions never became more real to me than three years ago during an interview for a minority job-training program.

An eager, anxious 21-year-old, I was up against 28 other “minority” applicants competing for just a few job spots.

My interview seemed to be going smoothly until one interviewer asked:

“From what I gather from you, Marie, you seem to lean more toward being Filipino than you do toward your other culture. Why is that?”

The question floored me. What did that have to do with my talent as a writer or my intelligence or my ability to be a good journalist?

I never thought I leaned toward either side of my heritage. I didn’t know how to respond, but I was nervous. So I just answered the question as asked, by telling the interviewer about my mother.

My mother first came to this country in 1968 to attend a training program for medical technologists. She was 22 and didn’t know a soul, but she left her poor homeland in search of something better. She met her future husband – the man who would become my father – on the plane on the way over. He was coming back from the Vietnam War.

I told the interviewer that it was my mother who taught me about pride and the importance of hard work, education and family. For years, she worked, saved and fought to bring the rest of her family to America. She showed me by example how to never lose faith in my abilities or my constancy of heart.

By this point in the interview, I had become extremely upset. I felt as if the interviewer had forced me to make a choice between my mother and father to prove I was enough of a minority to qualify for the job.

It was as if I had to divorce myself from the blue-collar, big-hearted and, yes, white man who put a roof over my head, put me through college and worried about me so much, it gave him ulcers.

I began to think this interviewer wanted me to admit I lean more toward being Filipino because that would make me a minority, and such a distinction would entitle me to all kinds of perks not ordinarily available to white people.

Why didn’t he just ask, “How dare you apply for a minority program when you are not a TRUE minority – when you can just make yourself one when it suits you?”

Well, you know what I would say to that interviewer today?

Keep your job!

I’ve never asked for preferential treatment because of my two cultures. I’ve never received any, either.

I’ve never gotten angry about the fact that there isn’t a space on a survey marked specifically for me. I was taught to make do with what there is.

I always thought – naive as it may be – that it would be my talent, intelligence and sparkling personality to get me ahead, not my straight black hair or the paler shade of yellow that colors my skin.

As a matter of fact, I never took advantage of the circumstance that I could be counted as a minority until I applied for that job three years ago. I even felt guilty that many of my fellow journalism students at the University of Connecticut did not have the same opportunity. But in no way was I trying to maliciously beat some other “pure-blooded” minority from the opportunity.

Being half-and-half is what I am. Nothing is going to change that.

I don’t believe any of us half-zies (or anyone else, for that matter) should consider our ethnic variety a hindrance. It should be viewed as an advantage.

Our life experience is rich with the knowledge of two different cultures, making us more insightful and open-minded.

In the end, I didn’t get that job. I never found out why. One of my interviewers mentioned that I already had too much experience for a training program.

But I cannot help myself from wondering if it was something else.

Maybe I am bananas.

This column is content copyrighted by The Hartford Courant and may not be republished or distributed.

Awakening

I found a bunch of my old clips buried deep in my closet recently. Some were columns I wrote for The Hartford Courant 10 years ago.

It is illuminating for me to read and remember how I perceived myself and the world a decade ago. Much has changed.

The Value Of Taking A Stand

By MARIE K. SHANAHAN, Courant Staff Writer
Monday, November 10, 1997 | Column: Excerpts

In the quarter century I’ve been on this earth, I’ve never protested anything — except for the parental curfew imposed on me as a teenager.

My older colleagues are often shocked to learn that I’ve never felt compelled to organize a protest, meet with others in church basements, construct makeshift signs or march along street corners.

Growing up in suburban America in the ’80s and ’90s managed to leave me without any kind of mind-boggling, earthshaking event to ignite my passions.

Like many members of my generation, I did not have to fight against an oppressive government. I had no Vietnam War. The civil rights and women’s movements of decades past had already improved my life.

I could afford to be self-centered. I didn’t know any better.

But a week ago, as I worked my way through some 5,000 demonstrators at Harvard University, I realized good fortune has also managed to leave me and many of my contemporaries apathetic. Dispassionate. Blind. Taking our carefree lives for granted.

The Courant had sent me to Cambridge, Mass., to cover the Nov. 1 demonstrations connected to the visit of Chinese President Jiang Zemin. And what I saw that day as I wandered through throngs of people amazed me.

Behind the barricades on one side of the street, pro-China demonstrators hollered, “One China! One China!” and sang the Chinese national anthem. The other side, filled with advocates for human rights, Tibetan freedom and Taiwanese independence, cried back, “Free Tibet! Free Taiwan! Jiang Zemin, Go Home!”

For many baby boomers of the ’60s, the scene would have been deja vu. For me, it was a sight that never seemed real until now, taking it all in with my own eyes and ears.

Everywhere, people were carrying signs, wearing bands around their heads and waving flags. They packed together on sidewalks, street corners and the lawn of a small church. They were chanting and singing, climbing street poles and shouting slogans.

I was impressed by people like Tashi Rabgey, a 27-year-old exiled Tibetan who helped organize the Harvard protest. Every Sunday, she meets with other Tibetans in a church basement to preserve their culture and figure out new strategies to free their homeland from Communist Chinese rule.

There was Robert Gao, a twentysomething from China who attends Yale, who came to offer his support to his president. Waving the red Chinese flag, Gao hoisted himself above the crowd and led the pro-China demonstrators in chants.

Two teenage Tibetans, Kayzom Ngodup and Tenzin Nysang, yelled so much on that morning their voices grew hoarse.

“We have grown up knowing this kind of protest,” Kayzom told me. “It makes us feel stronger. It gives us hope.”

Maybe because I grew up in Connecticut with a comfortable life, I never thought I had anything to fight for. It’s also been easy for me to hide behind my profession — journalists are paid to be observers who can remain objective and never take a stand.

But that day, I also found young Americans with absolutely no personal connection to the issues, who were protesting anyway.

Mark Hilliard, a Cambridge resident dressed in a Revolutionary War uniform and three-cornered hat, tended to stick out. He walked around with a sign that read, “Massachusetts Still Hates Tyrants.”

Hilliard didn’t have to be there, but for some reason he had the compassion to stand up for strangers in a place thousands of miles away, simply because he thought it was the right thing to do.

I’m missing out on something by not joining the fight.

Not the fight at Harvard in particular, but any fight – whether it be marching to end hunger in Hartford, writing letters to protect the environment or protesting to stop repression in foreign lands.

Because we have the freedom here to do something, shouldn’t we?

If not but for the most basic reason of all – because it gives the not-so-lucky people, like those Tibetan teenagers, what they need to persevere:

Hope.

This column is content is copyrighted by The Hartford Courant and may not be republished or distributed.

Purpose

“You do not have to make money. You do have to make a difference.

You do not have to be successful. You do have to be valuable.

You do not have to seek private gain, but it is hoped that you will serve the common good.

It may be harder, more painful to serve the common good, but people are a lot more alive in pain than they are in complacency.”

- Rev. William Sloane Coffin, Jr. (1924 – 2006)

More places…

Other places I’ve visited recently…

Museum of Science, Boston. The Tesla coils in the Theater of Electricity are still way cool.

The Stockyard Food & Spirits – Located in Brighton, Mass., this local steakhouse/haunt worth visiting for the consistently good food and the decor. Check out Al Capone’s bar and the other unusual collectibles and antiques on display.

The Elbow Room, West Hartford Center – Beautiful weather + rooftop patio + friends + really good wine.

Restaurant Bricco, West Hartford Center. We took up residence in the bar at the front of the restaurant. Floor-to-ceiling windows, so you can see and be seen from the street. Order one of the tasty artisan pizzas.

Springfield Museums – Four different museums, a sculpture garden celebrating Dr. Seuss and lots of projects for kids.

Tapas, West Hartford – Super fresh Mediterranean food. Get the hummus platter.

The Traveling Vineyard Wine Tasting Party – Like a Tupperware party at a friends house, except with wine. We tasted 7 different wines and then finished off the night with champagne. Yum.

Yes, I have a life outside of work….

Places I’ve visited recently:

The Spa at Norwich Inn - Took a day off for a much-needed spa day with the girls. Massage. Facial. Sauna. Sunshine. The experience left me so relaxed, I floated through the rest of the day. If only that vibe could last longer (and cost less…)

Max’s Tavern, Springfield – Seriously packed on a Friday night (with lots of men, too!) This may be because the restaurant/bar is located at the Basketball Hall of Fame. Dinner was good – the colossal shrimp especially, as well as the martinis.

Mediza, West Hartford – Mediterranean food. Warm, cozy atmosphere. Good flatbreads.

The Red Onion Restaurant, South Windsor – No frills, family-style Italian. Decent pizza. Seemed to be popular with the over 65 crowd on an early Wednesday evening.

Ted’s Montana Grill at Evergreen Walk, South Windsor – I don’t care if this restaurant/bar pads the pocket of media mogul Ted Turner. The house margaritas are worth every penny.

Build-A-Bear Workshop at Buckland Hills, Manchester – Birthday party for one of my daughter’s classmates. We stuffed a Hello Kitty!

Cyr Arena, Springfield – Ice skating with the family on Sunday afternoons in March.

And speaking of ice skating, I also saw “Blades of Glory” on opening night. Will Ferrell is friggin’ hilarious.

Flashback to Fahrvergnugen

It never fails. The weekend I pick to visit my cousin in Vermont is, of course, the first weekend this winter when it actually snows in New England. Never mind that it’s mid-January and nary a flake has fallen.

Now, I’m not afraid of driving in the snow. I’m not really afraid of driving fast through anything. I’m one of those people who drives offensively, not defensively. But I’d been putting off servicing my VW Passat, because, darn it, I’m broke. The holidays just ended and I have credit card bills to pay. But bald tires, snow and the Green Mountains of Vermont just don’t mix.

As I started my 3-hour journey back to Connecticut on Martin Luther King Day, I quickly realized that there was no way I wasn’t gonna make it. My front tires were spinning, unable to grip the road, as 18-wheelers barrelled up Route 4 behind me from West Rutland to Route 7 in Rutland. Other drivers were clearly annoyed by my lack of speed and my Connecticut license plate. My speedometer read 70, but I couldn’t have been going more than 30 miles an hour.

Scary, to say the least. If my car was this bad on what was essentially a “big hill,” there was no way I could make it over the eight other mountain passes to get back home.

I had to do something. My daughter was in the back seat watching a DVD, oblivious to the situation. Luckily, I’ve been back and forth visiting Rutland since I was a kid, and I remembered there was a VW dealership nearby. If I could just generate enough inertia to get over the top of Rt. 4 and then retain enough control to make it to the bottom in one piece…

I’d like to personally thank the Fahrvergnugen folks at Kinney Motors in Rutland for taking me in and helping me out. They even kept my daughter happily occupied for 2 1/2 hours in the waiting area. We made it home safe and sound.

It snowed again this morning in Connecticut and my new tires are gripping the road like velcro.

(I still want to move to Hawaii.)

The Gift of Friendship

It’s a new year. It’s a good time for me to take a moment and recognize my dearest friends – people who have saved me, more than once, from despair. Their friendship ranks among my life’s greatest gifts: Jennifer Rancourt, Nicole Taney, Helen Ubinas, Theresa McGee, Maureen Shanahan, Don Chareunsy, Emily Schur, Michelle Harper, Jeanne Leblanc, Jim Welch, Chrissy Taylor, Sandra Bragg, and most importantly, my mom & my dad.

On A Beach

It snowed this morning. Not very much, but the gates of winter have opened and there’s no turning back. My parents will be escaping from the cold soon. They’ll be spending five months in the Philippines, on the beach, starting shortly after Christmas. I wish I could go, but alas, I must work and go to school here in the winter wonderland of New England.

Here’s a short Windows Media Video slide show of where my parents will be spending their days. I started playing with Windows Movie Maker on Friday, so its pretty amateurish. Hopefully, my next project will show some improvement.

Anvils on my head

I get headaches. Not that often, but when I do, they tend to be raging, nasty headaches that sometimes last from morning ’til night. They first started the year I graduated from college and began my career as a professional journalist.

Now, while I do suspect that my job occassionally contributes to my headaches, most of the time I think my migraines are brought on by the weather. Specifically, the barometric pressure.

Today, it feels like there is a 10-ton anvil pushing down on the left side of my face. I can’t really see straight because of the pulsing/pounding pains near my left eye. For some reason, Motrin doesn’t seem to be helping today either. It sucks.

I guess I’m not alone. Weather.com actually has a Aches and Pains Forecast.