Really pulling for Rahm (yes, we're all on a first-name basis with him here in Chicago) to get on the ballot. In case you hadn't heard, his residency is being challenged because he rented out his house after he went to Washington to run the White House. I've been told it's "not a frivolous issue," but . . . it is, really. It's not like he tried to sell his home; he just rented it out. And since he pays Illinois taxes and has an Illinois driver's license (and votes in Illinois politics absentee), I'd say he pretty much meets the standards for residency. A person who does all those things and sublets an apartment to take a semi-permanent job in a different city would still qualify as a resident. Why is the residency requirement suddenly at a higher bar? It's like we're saying the candidate has to meet a higher standard of residency than a voter would. That doesn't make any sense.
Granted, I'm no lawyer—just a Chicago voter who wants the candidate who is by far the most qualified. To be honest, if he doesn't get on the ballot, I'd say we're pretty much screwed. No one else has the administrative experience he does (and he's proven to be an excellent administrator), and after 20+ years of Daley, the last thing I want is to turn Chicago over to some newbie. Also, this whole thing about him "not being Chicago enough" is more nonsense. In a way, I think it's great that he left for a couple of years and ran a clean administration. Because, no matter whether you agree or disagree with President Obama, he's not had the scandals we've seen from previous presidents. I think it would be great to have someone who's not quite so "inside" to be the mayor of Chicago. Might just get us out of the rabbit hole for a while.
Showing posts with label Chicago. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chicago. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Monday, August 4, 2008
Soup
Okay. So eating creamy chicken flavor Ramen noodles for breakfast does not fit in with this health thing I'm trying. But it was storming out this morning and any kind of bad or cold weather always put me in the mood for soup.
That's one thing I will miss about Chicago when I finally do move: soup. Not that soup isn't available in California. But snow? I'm guessing it's rare. And I'm thinking earthquakes aren't going to put me in the mood for soup like a winter day (or night) in Chicago, with the snow falling and the wind blowing outside, and I'm all cozy in the TV room with a good book or an old movie. And soup. It can be any kind, really, but the best is potato soup, or a creamy chicken and rice soup with celery, carrots, and onions. Gotta be homemade, though, something I've slaved over in the kitchen for an hour or two, chopping veggies and boneless chicken, using up every pot and pan we have and generally making a mess. Then the soup simmers in the pot. An hour later I've had four bowls of increasingly hotter and spicier soup, because of course I can't wait for the spices to settle. I gotta have it NOW. Because I gotta read my book or watch one of those old Italian films (preferably with Marcello Mastroianni), and with the wind whistling outside against the windows, I gotta have soup.
So you can see how throwing the contents of a can of Progresso in the microwave just isn't the same. (Yet creamy chicken Ramen noodles do nicely in a pinch - like this morning. Except I heat those on the stove, so it's like cooking. Sort of.)
I guess I'm jonesing for winter. I shouldn't be. Winter in Chicago lasts a minimum of nine months. That's why summers in Chicago are so fun. People are ready to shed the winter clothes and brave the heat in their shorts and pasty, blinding white skin. They want to listen to the street musicians downtown and go to all the street fairs. They want to hang out at the beach by Lake Michigan (yes, we have beaches). They want to go on boat rides. Soup is just not the thing in summer. Beer is the thing, preferably at a restaurant or bar that has a big patio, where you can sit and ruminate on . . . whatever. (I've yet to experience this. Seems my luck always brings me to the dark, inner caves of Irish bars in Chicago, even during summer. Oh wait - there was that one night on a rooftop garden, a going-away party for a friend who actually joined up D and me with the landlord for this apartment. But that is rare rare rare. And don't get me wrong: I love Irish bars in Chicago, especially during the winter. They are cozy, baby.)
D thinks I'm crazy for feeling this way about soup, as he attaches no importance or comfort to food. He doesn't even get cravings, the bastard.
That's one thing I will miss about Chicago when I finally do move: soup. Not that soup isn't available in California. But snow? I'm guessing it's rare. And I'm thinking earthquakes aren't going to put me in the mood for soup like a winter day (or night) in Chicago, with the snow falling and the wind blowing outside, and I'm all cozy in the TV room with a good book or an old movie. And soup. It can be any kind, really, but the best is potato soup, or a creamy chicken and rice soup with celery, carrots, and onions. Gotta be homemade, though, something I've slaved over in the kitchen for an hour or two, chopping veggies and boneless chicken, using up every pot and pan we have and generally making a mess. Then the soup simmers in the pot. An hour later I've had four bowls of increasingly hotter and spicier soup, because of course I can't wait for the spices to settle. I gotta have it NOW. Because I gotta read my book or watch one of those old Italian films (preferably with Marcello Mastroianni), and with the wind whistling outside against the windows, I gotta have soup.
So you can see how throwing the contents of a can of Progresso in the microwave just isn't the same. (Yet creamy chicken Ramen noodles do nicely in a pinch - like this morning. Except I heat those on the stove, so it's like cooking. Sort of.)
I guess I'm jonesing for winter. I shouldn't be. Winter in Chicago lasts a minimum of nine months. That's why summers in Chicago are so fun. People are ready to shed the winter clothes and brave the heat in their shorts and pasty, blinding white skin. They want to listen to the street musicians downtown and go to all the street fairs. They want to hang out at the beach by Lake Michigan (yes, we have beaches). They want to go on boat rides. Soup is just not the thing in summer. Beer is the thing, preferably at a restaurant or bar that has a big patio, where you can sit and ruminate on . . . whatever. (I've yet to experience this. Seems my luck always brings me to the dark, inner caves of Irish bars in Chicago, even during summer. Oh wait - there was that one night on a rooftop garden, a going-away party for a friend who actually joined up D and me with the landlord for this apartment. But that is rare rare rare. And don't get me wrong: I love Irish bars in Chicago, especially during the winter. They are cozy, baby.)
D thinks I'm crazy for feeling this way about soup, as he attaches no importance or comfort to food. He doesn't even get cravings, the bastard.
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