My Cousin Sylvia's best friend's husband Bob's pacemaker.

I had such an entertaining ride home yesterday. It was, however, proof that one's mood definitely plays a part in whether or not something so annoying is entertaining.  Had my day gone differently, I may have had a different take on the situation. I actually had kind of a grumpy day. Nothing was really bad about yesterday, it just wasn't the best day ever.

I got to Embarcadero Station yesterday afternoon at my usual time. The station was a little bit more crowded than usual. I was a bit annoyed that they were running 3 J-trains in a row, then a few 2-car Ns, then 1 single car L, followed by a few more Ns. I didn't touch the single-car L. Too much. I waited for the next 2-car L.

A 2-car L came about 5 minutes later. I admit I was a bit of a jerk-face as I threw elbows with the best of 'em to get a seat. There was no way I was going to stand from EMB to all the way past Sunset Blvd; I had some very important crocheting to do.

The train was shoulder-to-shoulder with people. This kid gets on. He was Asian and looked somewhere between 15 and 20 years old. He looked pretty normal; jeans, long sleeve button-up shirt, back pack, ear buds. To look at him there was nothing remarkable or of note about him. I wouldn't have even noticed him except for what happened next.

This kid starts dancing at the music, like "raising the roof" style and starts rapping. He's not any good. He's just singing along to his music. What struck me as funny was how into it he was, how much dancing he was doing (and his dancing was about as good as his rapping) and how crowded the train was. Everyone kept trying to get away from him because he seemed really put out every time he hit someone with one of his dancing arms. Then, just as soon as he started, he stopped, pulled out a super old ipod, turned the dial a bit, put the ipod back in his pocket and started the whole routine over again. He was as into it as he was awful, except he seemed to think he was really really talented. He did this from EMB to West Portal. People around him were staring, some pointing, most of them suppressing their laughter.

At West Portal he either gets off the train or moves to the back. In any case, I don't see or hear from him the rest of the ride.

As soon as we exit the station I hear this woman on her phone.
"Hi it's Janet. . . . Do you know my cousin Sylvia's best friend's husband Bob? ... Sure you do. (then she goes on to explain how the person on the other end of the phone should know Bob) ... Well, you know he's had a pacemaker for the last 10 years. . . Oh you didn't? Well, he did, and get this. He never needed it."
She goes on to explain that he went to the doctor for a check up, the doctor noticed his pacemaker wasn't doing its job, then after a series of tests they realized that he never needed one in the first place.
Then Janet tells the person on the other end of the line that we are going to go into a tunnel (which is a big fat lie because there are no tunnels once the L leaves West Portal) and the call was going to cut off. She hangs up.

A few seconds later --
"Hi it's Janet. . . . Do you know my cousin Sylvia's best friend's husband Bob? ... Sure you do."
She goes on to explain the pacemaker story, adding more detail than the last time she told the story. Complaining about the price of Coumadin and about how doctors only want your money, they'll do anything for a buck,etc. Then she tells the person on the line that her stop is the next stop and she has to hang up.

A few seconds later --

"Hi it's Janet. . . . Do you know my cousin Sylvia's best friend's husband Bob? ... Sure you do."
Again she tells the pacemaker story adding even more detail and embellishment than before, still complaining about those crooked doctors who are just out to get you because all they want is your money and none of them care about making people well.

At this point people are starting to turn around to see who is gossiping about Sylvia's best friend's husband Bob's medical problems.

There are two men sitting in front of me. One of them is bent over, his head is in his hands and he's shaking with silent laughter. The man sitting next to him keeps turning around and giving the lady "shut-up, lady" looks. He picks up his man-bag with a big Harrumph! and moves to another seat, out of earshot, I'm guessing.

I'm sitting right in front of her. I'm dying to know what this woman looks like. Instead of turning around I start craning my neck trying to find her in some reflection. No dice. I have to turn around. I do. She looks about 60, and sort of like Witch Hazel from Looney Toons except more modern. Her curly hair is dyed black and she has 2" super gray roots. She's wearing some well-loved 10-hole docs, weather beaten leather jacket and self-cropped and hemmed jeans; all with a "I slept in this last night" look.

Janet tells the woman her stop is coming up and she has to go. At this point I start, very audibly I might add, laughing uncontrollably, hoping, just hoping she'd call someone else and retell the story, with full orchestration and five part harmony and stuff like that, but alas, this time she's telling the truth. She hangs up. Gets off the train.

I watch her after she gets off the train. She walks over to an apartment building, leans against the garage, pulls out her phone and dials again . . . "Hi it's Janet. . . . Do you know my cousin Sylvia's best friend's husband Bob? ... Sure you do."

From West Portal Station to 35th avenue we heard about Janet's cousin Sylvia's best friend's husband Bob and his pacemaker.

I get off the train a few stops later feeling refreshed. From Bad Dancing and Rapping to Comedic Gossip, my day was washed away with a giggle.

My Rainbow Necklace

I moved to San Francisco almost 20 years ago.

A few months into my new life I was walking through Noe Valley (still thinking that Noe rhymed with Toe). I came upon a shop window showcasing a nice chain with rainbow colored rings. I thought it was pretty. I was just about to buy one of the pretty necklaces when reality hit. Yup, I should spend the money on real food because I was really sick of eating top ramen or buying triscuits and pairing it with the block of cheese my room mate stuck down his pants at Cala. I didn't buy the necklace, but made plans to go back and get it as soon as I had a little bit more disposable income.

I was telling someone about the purchase I was going to make. I don't remember who it was; probably one of my room mates. S/he told me what the rainbow necklace stood for. I got all freaked out and thought to myself that it was probably a good idea I didn't buy it. I wouldn't want anyone to think I was gay or anything.

Flash forward almost 20 years.

This last weekend was Pride. I've gone bar hopping in the castro a few times during Pride but more often than not I tend to avoid any area in San Francisco that's east of Twin Peaks in favor of watching the parade on TV. Sometimes I leave the City all together. I really hate crowds. Large groups of people really get on my nerves and make me all grouchy; tons of people, all of them in my way, not walking fast enough.  Gay Pride, Christmas Shopping, Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, whatever. Crowds bug me.

Someone at work was telling me this morning about how he took his wife, his daughter and his daughter's friend to watch the parade. He commented on how many naked people there were. My attitude was "meh, you've seen one naked parade participant, you've seen 'em all"

Wow, how far I've come in 20 years.

I was this 20 year old kid, fresh from the LBC, learning how to live on her own in the big city, afraid to wear anything with a rainbow on it for fear someone would think I'm something I'm not. Now I'm closer to 40 than I am 39. I know who I am and not really concerned with what strangers think (funny, because I get all worked up about what people I know think about me, but that's another post for another time). I know how to pronouce Noe Valley. I even know how to pronounce Gough St. I still don't have much money so I should probably pay the electric bill or put clothes on my kids' backs before I go out and buy a rainbow ring necklace, but if I still wanted one because I thought it was pretty, I would buy it.

Watch carefully. I'm about to ignite the last half of the last cigar in Moscow.

It arrived yesterday in the mail; my July fastpass.

This is the last paper fastpass I will purchase.

I've bought a paper fastpass almost every month for the last almost 20 years I've lived in San Francisco.

No more complaining and laughing about the funny unseasonal colors they are printed on.

In August I will start using my translink card.

This time next year the Muni Fastpass will be a nameless number on a list that was afterwards mislaid.

Sort of sad, really.

OK, I'll stop plagiarizing Dr. Zhivago now. 






Your attitude is noticed, you know. Oh, yes, it's been noticed.

Dream Fragments while The Boy dreams about cake.

While I was getting a really bad night's sleep last night between the cat meowling (meow + howl), my son being a bed-hog and asking about his cake (I guess he had a bad dream about his grandma, cousin and sister stealing his cake), and having twisted up blankets so my coverage wasn't quite how I like it, I had some weird dream fragments.

First -
I was getting ready for my wedding. I was having 2 weddings. The first one was the real wedding. It was going to take place while everyone was setting up for the second wedding. I had the first wedding, so I was married. I got married to this guy who was in my class in grade school (initials M.A.) I don't know why this guy was in my dream. I haven't seen him since I ran into him in the hallways of Cypress College in SoCal more than 20 years ago. I don't think I've thought of him since. Not that I didn't think he was an OK guy, because he was. I just didn't stay in contact with him. Anyhow, I went back to my little bridal suite to get ready for my wedding. M.A. didn't come with me because it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding. On my way back to my little suite I noticed that the signs I wanted displayed at the wedding weren't proofed and the grammar was all wrong and they were all out of order. I decided not to let it ruin my wedding.

Then
I was at my Kumu's house, but it wasn't his house. I don't know, may be it was. I've never been in his house. I know which one it is when I drive by it on my way to Hula, but I don't know what it looks like on the inside. Anyhow, he opened up the back door and a giant gray seal came in. Kumu said "looks like the dog wants in." The seal came in and decided to hang out in the bathroom. This was really awkward because I had to pee, so Kumu said there's only one way to make the dog leave and he picked up a little chainsaw, handed it to this woman that I used to work with at Whole Foods Market. She started the chainsaw. It freaked out the seal and he scooted out of there pronto.

My baby boy's dream.

Last night / this morning I heard my littly boy cry.

Now usually when I hear him cry I wait it out a few minutes to see how serious he his as sometimes he squawks loud enough to wake me up and then he goes right back to sleep.

Last night I let him cry for a few minutes but then got up when I realized his cry was a little bit different than his normal "come get me, I want to sleep in your bed" cry.

When he was all snuggly between Hubby and me he started asking me questions. "where's grandma?" "where's (sister)?" "where's (cousin)?" and the most important question "Where's the cake?"

I had to reassure him that his grandma and his cousin were at their houses sleeping, his sister was snug in her bed in the next room and most importantly, his cake was wrapped in plastic in the fridge.

...and lots of wavy hair like Liberace!

Super Andrea to the Rescue!!!

Hubby says I have an over-developed sense of social justice. I think he may be onto something but I would modify that a bit by saying I have an over-inflated sense of social justice. This keen sense doesn't make me more inclined to work in a soup kitchen or send care packages to soldiers in Iraq, however. That's not to say I haven't done those things or won't do those things, it just means that they aren't the first things that come to mind when I think about how to make the world a better place.

In my screwed up head, the concept of social justice manifests itself differently. I never, ever take cuts in line. I always look behind me when I enter a store and hold the door open for the person behind me. I always stand on the right on an escalator if I'm not walking. I say 'please,' 'thank you,' and 'excuse me' because it's never out of fashion to have good manners. I take my turn at a 4-way stop according to the law. I tip well. I give up my seat on the bus to people who need it. Now I don't do these things because I really want to. I do these things, for the most part, because it's the right thing to do.

On the surface these things may seem like pretty nice habits I've developed. By themselves, they probably are nice habits. But this is me we're talking about. I turn into a really mean and horrible vigilante when I see other people not following the same rules I follow. I've developed the tendency to call people on their rudeness in really screwed up ways. For example, just the other day I was on Muni coming home from work. I was on the inside seat of a very crowded train. A twenty-something girl is sitting next to me. A man gets on the train. He has a cane and a very pronounced limp. He stands by our seat. I look up at him and ask him if he wants my seat. He says no so I stay put, but not without making eye contact with the girl next to me and saying "good job for offering up your seat." Then I proceeded to gather my bag and pretend to stand up every few stops so she thinks I'm getting off the train and moves to the side, thinking that's what she gets for not giving up her seat. She finally got annoyed and changed seats.

I'm not like this all the time. There is a certain time during each month when I turn into big fat mean social vigilante. I'm like the City's disgruntled hall-monitor handing out citations and administering passive-aggressive punishments. I try not to do this as I realize I'm being totally nut-burgers, but sometimes it just pops out.

Bear with me. This lunacy rears its head only one week a month.

Oh we spend our days like bright and shiny new dimes

Yesterday afternoon Hubby and I had a pretty involved conversation about Eight is Enough.

Here's this dad, Tom Bradford, who is a widower. He writes a column for the newspaper in Sacramento. I liken his column to the one John Carroll writes for the SF Chronicle.

He has 8 kids, 7 of whom still live at home, 4 of whom are adults. He puts one through medical school and then supports the rest because they either made unreliable career choices or they are too young to make their way into the world.

How much money does the dad make? It can't be enough? Even after Tommy breaks his leg and the dad marries Tommy's tutor? I mean that does bring some money into the house, but it can't be much? And what about when they bring in Ralph Macchio, the "cousin oliver" to "Eight is Enough"? He's a growing boy and he needs food and new tennis shoes, too.

This conversation lead into the dream I had about the oldest Bradford son, David. Take a look.

Goodbye Muni FastPass. I'll miss you and your funny colors.

I'm not at all pleased with Muni's decision to eliminate paper fastpasses in favor of the translink card. However, if I have to do it, I may as well rip that bandaid off quickly and get it over with. Today at lunch I walked down to the Ferry Plaza and got myself a free Translink Card. I registered it and promptly received the following email:

RE: Reference Number A101xxxxxx Dear ANDREA (LASTNAME), This email is to confirm your recent request to update your TransLink® smart card. The actionyou requested will be applied to your TransLink smart card within the next 72 hours.Should you have any additional questions, please feel free to call the TransLink Customer Service Center at 1-877-878-8883 and refer to the reference number provided. Thank you for using TransLink. TransLink Customer Service Center 1-877-878-8883 custserv@translink.org

Last week when I found out about the change, and then again this morning when I was talking to the company that facilitates my FSA / Commuter Benefits I totally had an Agent Akit moment. I was trying to find out how the FSA folks were going to handle this new practice. First they said they had no idea this was happening, then they said that I would have to skip my FSA/Commuter Benefit for a month for the Translink to kick in or I'd have to pay double, getting reimbursed for only half.

So my Agent Akit persona got on the train to Shelbyville and went all Grandpa Simpson on the FSA company's ass. The clerk on the phone was yelling at me. I started telling them it was their responsibility to figure this stuff out before people like me started calling and asking questions . . . . . .I think I freaked out a few co-workers. None of them will look me in the eye today.

After a few deep breaths and some iced tea I saw that on the Translink website one can purchase a translink card without having to pay more than the $5 fee. And then I remembered that I can get a free card. I walked to the Ferry Building, got a free translink card. Came back to the office. Registered it on the Translink site, went onto the FSA site and ordered my muni / translink pass for August, as the deadline for July has already occured.

I'm better now.

P.S. I am not a crackpot.

Matt Forderer - you can paint stuff for me any day.

I saw this picture a week or so ago and haven't been able to stop staring at it. I even made it the picture on the desktop of my computer at work. I'm just fascinated by it. I think to myself where in my  house would be a great spot for this picture. I think it would complement my yellow and orange kitchen very nicely.

Hey Derya, what's with the roux?

I made another recipe from Ayla E. Algar's book Classical Turkish Cooking: Traditional Turkish Food for the American Kitchen.
This recipe comes from page 37; Creamy Red Lentil Soup.

To make this you cook some onions in butter (I used canola oil) in a thick bottomed pot, add lentils and stock and cook until tender.
The recipe says to push the cooked lentils through a sieve, throw away the solids and keep what you push through the sieve. I had a problem with this for two reasons - 1) I'm poor. Thowing away lentils that one can't smash down small enough is wasting food that can fill my belly and 2) I really really hate cleaning strainers. The food gets caught in the holes and I have to take a wire brush to remove everything, sometimes having to take a toothpick and poke holes through the dried up food. I try to avoid using strainers, in favor of using the collander or the hand mixer.
I ended up using the hand mixer and getting the lentils as small as possible, pushed the lentils through the sieve and then tossed the sieve. I hated that sieve, anyways.
OK, so after that you make a roux and put it in the soup. Then you take some milk, beat a few egg yolks in it and then add that mixture to the soup.

While the soup is cooking, the cookbook says to take some bread cubes and fry them in butter to use as garnish. I had a 2 day old loaf of Grace Pugliese. I cut it into cubes, tossed it with a bit of olive oil and stuck in the oven.

The soup plated up nicely. The toasted bread on top was a good complement to the meal. The soup wasn't really super freakin' fantastic, but it was good. Nobody had seconds, but everyone finished their firsts. The Girl chose to use the bread cubes as chips and the soup as salsa to eat her soup. The Boy didn't really eat any, but sometimes he isn't into dinner. Sometimes he totally chows on dinner, but that night he wasn't really interested.

I told Derya I made the soup. She said that was her favorite thing in the book. When I told her I didn't understand why the roux was necessary, what with the egg ... and she stopped me and said "Egg?, my mom never used egg."

Just like the Chicken Pudding, the Creamy Red Lentil Soup wasn't yucky, it just wasn't remarkable.

I think on Sunday I will try to make Manti, it's sort of like ravioli made with ground lamb.

Thanks Noah's

If you remember, last week or so I wrote about Noah's Bagels and their customer service shortcomings that I experienced one morning. If you don't, you can read about it here.

Yesterday afternoon I got an email from the district manager of Noah's in San Francisco. In it she apologized for the bad customer service I received and asked for my address so she can send me a gift certificate.

Thank you Noah's for your followthrough.

I look forward to receiving this gift certificate. I plan to purchase a pumpernickle bagel toasted with cream cheese, tomato and onion, and a medium Midtown coffee.

Is 6th grade the new 7th grade?

Last Friday was The Girl's last day of 5th grade. She tells me she's going into Junior High next Fall. When did 6th grade become Junior High?  Did it become so when 9th grade became High School?

See, where I come from, my Junior High started at 7th grade, went through 9th grade, then I started High School in the 10th grade. The High School I went to did have a 9th grade but not very many people availed themselves of it. If The Girl wants to refer to 6th grade as Junior High, I guess she can go ahead, but I'm not willing to let her grow up that quickly. To me, she's still in Primary School.

One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Ten!
What about Nine?
Seven Eight Nine.

Chicken Pudding - ACoLab #2

My friend Anika posted Theme #2 on her ACoLab blog.
Inspiration: Your bedside table

This one is a little more broad. Is there a book that inspires a song? Is there a photograph to inspire you to create something? A cookbook with a recipe you tried that held an interesting story to write about? I'll stop hinting at ideas and await your creation. Happy creating!

Here's my entry -

You Turkey! Oh wait, um . . . . I mean “You Chicken”!


One day Hubby brought home a cookbook. Not sure where it came from, how he got it or why he decided that this particular cookbook would be a good addition to our home, but upon one of our bookcases in the kitchen did this new cookbook take its place. Yes, we do indeed have 2 bookshelves in our kitchen filled with cookbooks and books about food.

The book was (and still is) called Classical Turkish Cooking: Traditional Turkish Food for the American Kitchen by Ayla E. Algar.

When we first got the cookbook I leafed through it. The recipes sounded delicious. One recipe caught my eye; Tavuk Göğüsü. It was a dessert made with chicken breast. In all honestly, I think it caught my eye because it sounded kind of gross. The rest of the recipes, however, sounded yummy. I decided that if the rest of the recipes were good, then this one, however weird sounding it was to my American tastes, it was probably good; either that or it was one of those things that one has to grow up with to enjoy like Marmite, Natto or Lutefisk.

The cookbook sat on my shelf for a few years, forgotten.

Flash forward to modern day.

I work with a woman from Turkey. Her name is Derya. Derya is very quiet. She doesn’t initiate conversation very often, but when someone else starts the conversation, she’s very friendly and has a good sense of humor. We often get lunch together. Sometimes we sit and eat it together, but a lot of the time we go back to our individual desks and eat while we work.

I brought Ms. Algar’s cookbook to work with me and asked her to pick out some recipes that I should make. She came back to me a week later with a list. On that list was Tavuk Göğüsü with a little smiley face next to it.

I made this recipe last Monday night. I don’t think it turned out as good as it could have and I get the feeling that some old woman in Turkey that’s been making this dessert her whole life could probably make it really yummy and beautiful looking.

The dessert called for -
The breast of a freshly slaughtered 3lb chicken – I used some frozen chicken tenders I bought at Trader Joe’s.
Milk – I used Horizon Organic Vitamin D milk
Rice Flour – I used Uncle Bob’s Red Mill Organic Brown Rice Flour
Sugar – I used C&H Sugar that had a vanilla bean inside of it for the last 6 months.

There are a few more steps involved than this, but basically you boil the milk and sugar, make a slurry out of some milk and the flour, combine, boil and then add the chicken and stir until thick.

From this point one can spoon into pretty dishes and serve.

The author also suggested putting the pudding in a heavy bottom sheet pan and put over a burner to gently burn the bottom. I tried this method. It made the house smell like burnt marshmallows and chicken. After cooling, I should have been able to cut the pudding into strips and then make sort of a jelly-roll shape out of it. That part didn’t work out too well. I guess I didn’t cook the pudding enough to thicken as much as it should. Also, the bottom didn’t get crusty enough. The whole dessert just looked like a giant mass of pudding skin.

We all took a bite out of it on Sunday night. Hubby and The Boy had some yesterday as a snack. The Boy liked it - he's 2 and it was sticky and sweet, of course he liked it. The Girl and I didn’t care for it very much.

I told Derya about my adventure in making it. She told me I did something wrong and that I shouldn’t have been able to detect the chicken in the pudding.

My question is why add the chicken? If it wasn’t supposed to add any flavor, what purpose did it serve? It’s not like chicken breast has any fat, connective tissue or collagen to speak of that would have helped with the thickening process. It didn’t seem to have a purpose other than maybe adding some protein, but if it’s a dessert, why would it need protein? One would assume the protein was contained in the main part of the meal. Why would it be in the dessert?
Anyhow, the process of making this dessert, my interaction with Derya, my fondness for blogging, my joy of cooking and feeding my family and my desire to enjoy foods in all its forms has inspired me to make the rest of the recipes Derya suggested. I’ll possibly write about those ones as well.

Noah's Bagels - We don't just like 'em stupid, we like 'em rude, too.

This morning I had to go to an off-site meeting in Napa.

On the way there I stopped at the Noah's Bagels by my house.
I stopped there for three reasons --
1- I forgot to make coffee last night so wasn't able to just press play before I hopped in the shower so I could have a hot cuppa joe ready for me after my shower
2 - I didn't have any cash on had so I couldn't stop at The Sea Biscuit Cafe
3 - Noah's coffee is generally pretty good and I've often made trips there for just coffee

A little background - The Noah's Bagels by my house has never been known to have the smartest employees. They've never been particularly quick-witted, but they've never ever been rude. There was one older lady that was a little terse, but she was fair, efficient and not stupid so she was OK. I don't think she's there anymore. Most of the time my order was slightly wrong but there was never, ever anything wrong with the coffee. It seems like they are now hiring both rude and stupid people, who don't know anything about coffee.

This morning I went into my local Noah's. I was the only one in there.

Lady: "good morning ma'am"
Me: "Hi, can I have a large cup of coffee and a pumpernickel bagel toasted with cream cheese, tomato and onion?"
Lady: "sure, large coffee and pumpernickel bagel w/ 2 veg"
Then she walks over to an order machine - something that she puts the order into so it'll show up on a screen not 2 feet behind her. She looks at me.
Lady: "so you have what kind of bagel?"
Me: "pumpernickel"
Lady "what did you have on it?
Me "toasted w/ cream cheese, tomato and onion"
Lady: "ok, anything else"
Me: "yes, a large coffee"
Then she walks 2 feet to her right and re-enters the order into the cash register. I pay. A few seconds pass.
Me: "can I have my coffee cup?"
Lady: "what size was that?"

I go to pour myself some Midtown coffee. It's translucent. I decide to try the Soho. It's translucent. I go back to the register and tell the lady the coffee is wrong. She asks the lady making my bagel to go check out the coffee. The lady making my bagel gets a cup, fills the cup half way, looks at it, shows it to me and says "what's wrong with it?" I look at her and say "it's translucent". She looks at me with a puzzled look. I tell her I'm not supposed to be able to see through the coffee to the bottom of the cup. The lady at the register asks her if there is anything wrong with the coffee. She answers with "I don't know. I don't drink coffee."
Then, with a very loud "harrumph" she takes the coffee pot from its cradle and brings it to the back and tells someone to start a new pot. He starts it a few minutes later.
A few minutes after that, the first lady comes up to me and tells me she can fill my coffee. I tell her it's not done brewing yet. She said that there's enough to fill my cup. I tell her that while that may be so, what she'll be giving me is a super-duper strong cup of coffee and then the rest of her customers who got coffee would get a sub-standard weak cup of coffee. I tell her I'm OK to wait so all of us could have the coffee experience the higher-powers at Noah's would like for us to have. Her response was "but there's enough to fill your cup." I gave up trying to explain this to her and just decided to drink the super strong coffee and let the rest of her customers suffer by offering them compromised coffee.

After I got my coffee I tried to explain it to her again. She grabbed a pen, started doodling scribbles on a napkin, looked up at me and said "thanks ma'am, have a nice day".

I won't be going back for a while. The retention rate of this particular Noah's seems pretty low, however. I'll start going back in a few months when the next crop of short-term employees show up.