Showing posts with label Work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Work. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Syndicated!
This afternoon I got an email from my editor at the Mother Nature Network, informing me that Forbes.com had chosen one of my articles to put on their website! If that isn't the best news I heard all week, I just don't know what is! Check me out here. Special thanks to my childcare provider for helping me stop freaking out about the organization of my story!!!
Thursday, January 14, 2010
New Publication!
Check out page 110 of this month's Fit Pregnancy. I wrote about belly button bling for pregnant ladies! I am unabashedly proud of writing articles that people can snag at the grocery store, even if they are fewer than 200 words. For now!!
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Research
I'm researching an article on Vanishing PA Foods for PA Pursuits magazine. One of my vanishing foods is something called Schniz und Knepp, which I have apparently eaten loads of times. I called my grandma for some research on this. Here is what happened:
Nanny: (loudly. Louder than you can imagine) Helllooooooooooooo?
Katy: (loud, right back at her) Hi! It's KATY! (some banter about how I'm doing this article and can she tell me about the food a little bit)
N: Well why the hell are you writing about it if you don't know nothing about it?
K: It was an assignment.
N: Oh. Well, you know, I use half sweet and half sour apples in mine. And I use apple juice instead of water. That's how I make it.
(She starts to tell me her recipe, how she pours the juice and dried apples (DRIED! NOT FRESH!) into the pan, sticks the ham on top, and bakes it until the ham is done.)
N: Then you drop in your biscuits. Like your raw batter. You must put the lid on! If you take the lid off, your biscuits will drop. That lid must be on. Because you know your juices are bubbling. From the apples.
(some of the recipe steps come at me a bit out of order...like the fact that you are supposed to whip up biscuit batter while the ham bakes)
K: Now, my mom says you make pig stomach when you make this. Is this true?
N: I used to! I did it like Aunt Fanny. She would chop up the potatoes, like, and stuff it with spare ribs. Now most people use sausage. But not Aunt Fanny. I made it like her. Then you bake it in juices. Aunt Fanny always poured her juices off and then fried it so it was all brown on the outside. She kept turning it. You know.
K: That sounds gross.
N: No, it's good! Pig stomach is real good. I used to make it with the Schniz und knepp. Now I just do that alone without the pig stomach.
(We talk for awhile more and I finally ask if she knows where I can get such a thing at a restaurant)
N: Well yes, as a matter of fact I do!
(In the background, Nanny's husband, Leonard, starts screaming alternately at the Price is Right showcase showdown and at Nanny)
Leonard: Yer over, idiot! Risser's! Risser's!
N: Risser's diner. Now where is that? Ernie Risser is his name and he is a big man. Oh, he is a big man
L: It's five miles down 322. This asshole just bid $30,000 for a boat and a TV.
N: It's not on 322! It's on 422! What's the matter with you?
L: It's in Myerstown
N: It's more Womelsdorf, like. They serve all those foods there. Pig stomach, too.
Equipped with the information I needed, I let her get back to Drew Carey while I called up Ernie Risser, big man and restaurant owner. I learned that for only $10.95, one can purchase Schniz und Knepp with soup, salad, and a soft ice cream cone. Sounds like a good deal to me!
Gosh, I love my job.
Nanny: (loudly. Louder than you can imagine) Helllooooooooooooo?
Katy: (loud, right back at her) Hi! It's KATY! (some banter about how I'm doing this article and can she tell me about the food a little bit)
N: Well why the hell are you writing about it if you don't know nothing about it?
K: It was an assignment.
N: Oh. Well, you know, I use half sweet and half sour apples in mine. And I use apple juice instead of water. That's how I make it.
(She starts to tell me her recipe, how she pours the juice and dried apples (DRIED! NOT FRESH!) into the pan, sticks the ham on top, and bakes it until the ham is done.)
N: Then you drop in your biscuits. Like your raw batter. You must put the lid on! If you take the lid off, your biscuits will drop. That lid must be on. Because you know your juices are bubbling. From the apples.
(some of the recipe steps come at me a bit out of order...like the fact that you are supposed to whip up biscuit batter while the ham bakes)
K: Now, my mom says you make pig stomach when you make this. Is this true?
N: I used to! I did it like Aunt Fanny. She would chop up the potatoes, like, and stuff it with spare ribs. Now most people use sausage. But not Aunt Fanny. I made it like her. Then you bake it in juices. Aunt Fanny always poured her juices off and then fried it so it was all brown on the outside. She kept turning it. You know.
K: That sounds gross.
N: No, it's good! Pig stomach is real good. I used to make it with the Schniz und knepp. Now I just do that alone without the pig stomach.
(We talk for awhile more and I finally ask if she knows where I can get such a thing at a restaurant)
N: Well yes, as a matter of fact I do!
(In the background, Nanny's husband, Leonard, starts screaming alternately at the Price is Right showcase showdown and at Nanny)
Leonard: Yer over, idiot! Risser's! Risser's!
N: Risser's diner. Now where is that? Ernie Risser is his name and he is a big man. Oh, he is a big man
L: It's five miles down 322. This asshole just bid $30,000 for a boat and a TV.
N: It's not on 322! It's on 422! What's the matter with you?
L: It's in Myerstown
N: It's more Womelsdorf, like. They serve all those foods there. Pig stomach, too.
Equipped with the information I needed, I let her get back to Drew Carey while I called up Ernie Risser, big man and restaurant owner. I learned that for only $10.95, one can purchase Schniz und Knepp with soup, salad, and a soft ice cream cone. Sounds like a good deal to me!
Gosh, I love my job.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Weirdest Business Lunch Ever
I show up at a store to meet the owner, about whom I'm writing a story for the corporate newsletter. He is old and wild looking, with crazy hair and visible smudges on his glasses. He's dressed fantastically in pin stripes, a blue shirt, and a cool black sweater. But he's carrying a Macy's bag instead of a briefcase.
"Hey, Betty! Sweetheart, meet a multimillionaire. 3 million dollars. All of it liquid." He puts his arm around me and guides me toward a man in a straw hat with bad breath and a piece of hay dangling from his lips. The owner, who I shall call Bert, turns to me and asks whether I would like some fried fish for lunch.
"No thank you," I say, explaining that I don't like to eat and interview. He disregards me and heaps fried cod onto a tray, covers it with fried shrimp and then squirts a half gallon of tartar sauce onto everything. We walk by the soup stand and he insists I eat clam chowder.
"Go get me three Pepsis." I look up, stunned. He is staggering around under the massive tray, now containing two salads and some fruit. I get the drinks and meet him in line. "I'm going upstairs. Just sign my credit card slip for me." I scribble Bert's name on the sheet and follow him.
We chat about fish and travel. He's just been abroad. I tell him a story about the Iditarod. I meet several of his brothers, sit back while two of them have a fight, and try not to laugh. Bert struggles to open his plastic salad container, mangles it with his hands and eventually gives up. He smashes it open with his fist and tomatoes fly all over the place. He drops tartar sauce on his lap and looks down, disgruntled. I see him look around and then dip his napkin in one of the Pepsis and use that to mop up his spill.
We talk about the products I'm writing about for awhile. Very interesting stuff. Tales of economic ruin and rebuilding, globalization, capitalism. Bert struggles to open the fruit salad and I take it from him and gently lift where it says "Lift here." Bert is amazed. Another brother comes and sits with us. He says, "Bert, when did you decide to cut your hair? I'm so glad you did because you looked like a hobo."
Bert pulls open a trade magazine and asks me if the Irish owner of a fish plant looks like his brother. The brother opens a map of Ireland to a picture of a lemur and asks me if it looks like Bert. I just laugh until Bert asks me, of all his brothers, who is the most eccentric.
"Well, Bert, I have to say you." He laughs and walks up to a fish display. He grabs a bag of the product we discussed and hands it to me, walking out the door laughing still.
Later, as I'm pulling out of the parking lot, the drive belt starts screeching terribly in the Nissan. Bert is walking across the street. He shoves his hands over his ears in pain and looks around for the source. When he sees me, he points and shakes his head as I squeal off into the rain.
"Hey, Betty! Sweetheart, meet a multimillionaire. 3 million dollars. All of it liquid." He puts his arm around me and guides me toward a man in a straw hat with bad breath and a piece of hay dangling from his lips. The owner, who I shall call Bert, turns to me and asks whether I would like some fried fish for lunch.
"No thank you," I say, explaining that I don't like to eat and interview. He disregards me and heaps fried cod onto a tray, covers it with fried shrimp and then squirts a half gallon of tartar sauce onto everything. We walk by the soup stand and he insists I eat clam chowder.
"Go get me three Pepsis." I look up, stunned. He is staggering around under the massive tray, now containing two salads and some fruit. I get the drinks and meet him in line. "I'm going upstairs. Just sign my credit card slip for me." I scribble Bert's name on the sheet and follow him.
We chat about fish and travel. He's just been abroad. I tell him a story about the Iditarod. I meet several of his brothers, sit back while two of them have a fight, and try not to laugh. Bert struggles to open his plastic salad container, mangles it with his hands and eventually gives up. He smashes it open with his fist and tomatoes fly all over the place. He drops tartar sauce on his lap and looks down, disgruntled. I see him look around and then dip his napkin in one of the Pepsis and use that to mop up his spill.
We talk about the products I'm writing about for awhile. Very interesting stuff. Tales of economic ruin and rebuilding, globalization, capitalism. Bert struggles to open the fruit salad and I take it from him and gently lift where it says "Lift here." Bert is amazed. Another brother comes and sits with us. He says, "Bert, when did you decide to cut your hair? I'm so glad you did because you looked like a hobo."
Bert pulls open a trade magazine and asks me if the Irish owner of a fish plant looks like his brother. The brother opens a map of Ireland to a picture of a lemur and asks me if it looks like Bert. I just laugh until Bert asks me, of all his brothers, who is the most eccentric.
"Well, Bert, I have to say you." He laughs and walks up to a fish display. He grabs a bag of the product we discussed and hands it to me, walking out the door laughing still.
Later, as I'm pulling out of the parking lot, the drive belt starts screeching terribly in the Nissan. Bert is walking across the street. He shoves his hands over his ears in pain and looks around for the source. When he sees me, he points and shakes his head as I squeal off into the rain.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Unveiling
It's time for me to unveil a fabulous wedding gift. My brother-in-law has built me a website. My very own, to display my very important and grown up writing projects. This is a great time for me to unveil this gift, because I just had an exciting thing happen.
I was rambling on and on about my one true love (rugby) to a magazine editor last January. I left there kicking myself, because I always talk about rugby too much. But I shouldn't have worried! I got a great assignment and there is now a 4-page, center spread article about the Pittsburgh Angels in the inaugural issue of Pittsburgh Professional Magazine. (Be patient, it's a big file!)
My last great unveiling comes in the form of another link. My mom sent me this very interesting story, which covers two topics I find very fascinating: Title IX and sports journalists. The story gave me much food for thought today, and heightened my reserve to be the best sports journalist in the entire world, covering women's sports at their finest from now until I die. Move over, Steve Rushkin. Katy is taking charge.
I was rambling on and on about my one true love (rugby) to a magazine editor last January. I left there kicking myself, because I always talk about rugby too much. But I shouldn't have worried! I got a great assignment and there is now a 4-page, center spread article about the Pittsburgh Angels in the inaugural issue of Pittsburgh Professional Magazine. (Be patient, it's a big file!)
My last great unveiling comes in the form of another link. My mom sent me this very interesting story, which covers two topics I find very fascinating: Title IX and sports journalists. The story gave me much food for thought today, and heightened my reserve to be the best sports journalist in the entire world, covering women's sports at their finest from now until I die. Move over, Steve Rushkin. Katy is taking charge.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
I Lurk in Lobbies
My Mac battery, for those who haven't heard me brag about this, lasts up to five hours if I dim the back light on my fabulous machine and don't watch videos. This means I have five glorious hours of lurking available to me if I can find an open WiFi signal.
As I was driving to the "office" (grocery store...) today, it occurred to me that when I was in Canada for the World Cup I had great success in lobbies of hotels and fancy buildings. I decided to try that vein. I had two unsuccessful bouts at golf courses before I found yet another grocery store with open WiFi.
I wasn't having much luck from my parking space tucked between SUVs. My brother-elect told me I should try another cubicle in the office building, but I decided to brave the inside of the shop. Equipped with my debit card (in case someone demanded I buy something) and my lovely laptop, I unearthed this mecca:
Look at the artwork! And plush armchairs! And the fireplace! I'm sitting on an armchair with my shoes off in lotus pose, pretending I'm in my own home as I watch children spill lettuce on the floor in the produce section just beyond the love seat.
I love technology.
As I was driving to the "office" (grocery store...) today, it occurred to me that when I was in Canada for the World Cup I had great success in lobbies of hotels and fancy buildings. I decided to try that vein. I had two unsuccessful bouts at golf courses before I found yet another grocery store with open WiFi.
I wasn't having much luck from my parking space tucked between SUVs. My brother-elect told me I should try another cubicle in the office building, but I decided to brave the inside of the shop. Equipped with my debit card (in case someone demanded I buy something) and my lovely laptop, I unearthed this mecca:
Look at the artwork! And plush armchairs! And the fireplace! I'm sitting on an armchair with my shoes off in lotus pose, pretending I'm in my own home as I watch children spill lettuce on the floor in the produce section just beyond the love seat.
I love technology.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Confessions
I'm an internet addict. I am writing this from a slouched position in the driver's seat of my Mazda. I have the seat rolled all the way back to allow space between my legs and the steering wheel and I am sitting parked in front of someone's house somewhere in Limerick, PA. I might even be lost.
I'm supposed to be stretched out at the pool at the farm, getting ready for the wedding and working on my manuscript. That was the big plan. Peace, quiet, countryside, no internet. The pages were going to pour forth from my fingers. But I just can't deal with a lack of internet!
I started driving around in a rainstorm yesterday, seeking open WiFi. I found some at the grocery store. I'm not sure why they offer this great service. The store doesn't even have a seating area. I'm not going to complain, though. It's like I have a cozy little air conditioned office with a nice leather seat.
I'm even fielding calls on my cell phone.
I'm not entirely sure what I'll do once the sun is low enough that it's shining in my eyes. I suppose I'll have to head back home.
Right now, I'm busy loading all the web pages I can, opening each page of NYTimes.com individually so that when I get back to the farm house I'll still be able to pretend I'm in contact with the world.
I've been sitting here in the car for 3 hours now...
I'm supposed to be stretched out at the pool at the farm, getting ready for the wedding and working on my manuscript. That was the big plan. Peace, quiet, countryside, no internet. The pages were going to pour forth from my fingers. But I just can't deal with a lack of internet!
I started driving around in a rainstorm yesterday, seeking open WiFi. I found some at the grocery store. I'm not sure why they offer this great service. The store doesn't even have a seating area. I'm not going to complain, though. It's like I have a cozy little air conditioned office with a nice leather seat.
I'm even fielding calls on my cell phone.
I'm not entirely sure what I'll do once the sun is low enough that it's shining in my eyes. I suppose I'll have to head back home.
Right now, I'm busy loading all the web pages I can, opening each page of NYTimes.com individually so that when I get back to the farm house I'll still be able to pretend I'm in contact with the world.
I've been sitting here in the car for 3 hours now...
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Why Am I Here?
I was on the phone with my boss the other night because she's awesome and I love talking to her. She's retiring when I graduate (not because of that, but coincidentally) and offered me her job. I paused for a moment, caught my breath, and told her no thank you.
This is a lot to think about. On one hand, I came here to write. This is the mid-point of a mountain I decided to climb when I quit my publishing job in corporate hell to work for a rugby magazine on the Upper West Side. In the moment where my bitch-ass project manager refused to help me with a task, telling me it should be "old hat" by now and I discovered my co-workers were talking smack about me on the internet I had this wave of clarity: this is not the life I want.
And so I started doing things I wanted, even if they weren't safe or lucrative. I wore rugby shorts to work every day. I took off for three weeks to drive across the country. I picked up Corky and we moved to Pittsburgh for graduate school so I could write. I want to write. I want to immerse myself in others' lives and spend my days learning interesting things like this or this. It's what I want from the world.
On the other hand, I love tutoring those students. The only jobs I've held for over a year were my four years' tutoring at Penn State and my now three years tutoring here. The only bosses I've had who weren't mad hatters in a bad way were writing center directors. The people I turn to for advice in life are my current and first boss. Also, this job is a university job, with university benefits and a lovely salary. When I close my eyes, I can imagine myself with gray hair sitting behind a desk in the writing center giving high five to a student who just earned a great grade and that image makes me smile. But will it be enough to make up for the lifetime of adventure I might lose?
I think writing centers will always be around for me somewhere. I am going to be a starving artist.
This is a lot to think about. On one hand, I came here to write. This is the mid-point of a mountain I decided to climb when I quit my publishing job in corporate hell to work for a rugby magazine on the Upper West Side. In the moment where my bitch-ass project manager refused to help me with a task, telling me it should be "old hat" by now and I discovered my co-workers were talking smack about me on the internet I had this wave of clarity: this is not the life I want.
And so I started doing things I wanted, even if they weren't safe or lucrative. I wore rugby shorts to work every day. I took off for three weeks to drive across the country. I picked up Corky and we moved to Pittsburgh for graduate school so I could write. I want to write. I want to immerse myself in others' lives and spend my days learning interesting things like this or this. It's what I want from the world.
On the other hand, I love tutoring those students. The only jobs I've held for over a year were my four years' tutoring at Penn State and my now three years tutoring here. The only bosses I've had who weren't mad hatters in a bad way were writing center directors. The people I turn to for advice in life are my current and first boss. Also, this job is a university job, with university benefits and a lovely salary. When I close my eyes, I can imagine myself with gray hair sitting behind a desk in the writing center giving high five to a student who just earned a great grade and that image makes me smile. But will it be enough to make up for the lifetime of adventure I might lose?
I think writing centers will always be around for me somewhere. I am going to be a starving artist.
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