Signs and/or warning labels are rarely created without a need. For instance, McDonald’s coffee has a “caution this hot coffee is fucking hot” label (I may have a paraphrased that) because someone…okay a lot of people didn’t understand that hot coffee might actually be hot.* An infamous Swedish chainsaw had a warning label that stated, “do not attempt to stop the chain with hands or genitals,” leading the public to realize that someone had, likely unsuccessfully attempted to stop the chain with – you guessed it – their dangly bits.
So today, in the spirit of foolishness (and morons), I bring you 10 signs that we, as a society are doomed. These are the signs that are apparently necessary in our world.
Unlike other, person-friendly washers….
Let’s remind ourselves that these warning labels are in place because people have tried to do these things…
BUT WHICH END IS THE RIGHT END????
Dangerous letter openers are dangerous.
Resist the urge to amputate your body parts.
But it looks so comfy!
We know he looks like a cuddle muffin, but he’s got a bad back.
It would be difficult to NOT follow these directions. If you’re in the pool and can’t swim, you’re probably drowning, not swimming. Technicalities.
A lot like number 8, this would be hard not to follow. And you’re probably drowning if you’re attempting to not follow the direction here.
DAMNIT! That’s my favorite place to light up.
*Technically that warning label is in place because they heat their coffee to scalding levels and have been sued an ungodly amount of times because people accidentally spill their coffee on their laps and cause irreparable damage to their person. By simply including that warning, they’re allowed to say “well we told you it was hot! You should have been careful….I’m lovin’ it!”
I hate decisions. Like hate them. Hate thinking about them, hate making them, hate second-guessing them once they’re made. I hate them. (Did you get that?)
When it comes to making decisions, I tend to fall into one of two extremes: I either obsess for days, making lists of pros and cons and weighing all possible outcomes OR I just say “fuck it” and choose whatever I feel like at the time with no more rationality than the flipping of a coin. And here’s the thing: things work out, or they don’t, at about the same rate regardless of which method I use. I just feel worse if it ends up not working because my “calculations” were wrong, rather than just a simple mistake. It’s no fun feeling like a fool because of your own “wrong” doing.
And I’m also starting to think that in the grand scheme of things maybe these decisions I stress over (everything from where to go for coffee to what direction to give the next ten years of my life) really aren’t as important as I think they are at the time. Sure, maybe if I would have made different decisions I could have stayed in the city I love after college; I could be fulfilling my lifelong career goals of becoming an Alvin Ailey dancer or a Renfe train conductor, or I could be drinking a London Fog right now instead of a cappuccino, but so what? Is it really going to affect where I am 50 years from now? Or how happy I’ll be? Maybe they’re all just different paths to get us to the same place – the place we’re fated to be.
I’m not sure I’m advocating for this kind of thinking, the free-spirit-it’ll-all-work-out attitude (in reality, currently manifesting itself as apathy) but nor do I suggest obsessing over every little decision. Like everything else, it’s about balance. That elusive thing we all are striving for in so many aspects of our lives – decision making included. And feeling a little foolish never hurt anyone.
Riffing on the theme of fools, I’d like to talk about the fool in hindsight. It often does not pay off to be a negative Nancy, especially when you’re talking about future Nobel Peace prize winners. If only to prevent yourself from getting some hellacious egg on your face in about 10 years, I’d recommend the most repeated, but seldom followed, rule of “if you’ve got nothing good to say, shut the hell up, Jeff” or whatever it is.
So, whenever someone tells you you’ll never achieve your dream or, worse yet, that you’ll never amount to anything, just remember…
“ ‘It doesn’t matter what he does, he will never amount to anything.’
Albert Einstein’s teacher to his father, 1895. “
“Gurdon quoted a school report as saying: ‘I believe Gurdon has ideas about becoming a scientist; on his present showing this is quite ridiculous; if he can’t learn simple biological facts, he would have no chance of doing the work of a specialist, and it would be a sheer waste of time, both on his part and of those who would have to teach him.’ …[previously in the article] Sir John Gurdon, 79, of Cambridge University, shares the [Nobel] prize in physiology or medicine…[for] the groundbreaking work [that] has given scientists fresh insights into how cells and organisms develop, and may pave the way for radical advances in medicine that allow damaged or diseased tissues to be regenerated in the lab, or even inside patients’ bodies.”
If science isn’t your thing, David Byrne, the brilliant new-age rocker and lead singer of the Talking Heads, was kicked out of his middle school choir because “ ‘he couldn’t sing.’ ” And he was often considered to be possibly autistic because of his strange affect and his withdrawn personality. But I cannot stop watching “Stop Making Sense” because he and the rest of the Heads are amazing live.
Watching him dance in his huge suit is hypnotic.
Alan Rickman, British badass actor known to most for his role as Snape in the HP flicks and the bad guy in Die Hard (known to me as the sardonic Alexander in Galaxy Quest), got his first film role at 42 (which was Die Hard, compete with that). Before then, only a few stage roles of note on his record and a few small, low-level TV gigs. Hell, he didn’t even start studying or thinking about acting in any professional capacity until he was almost 30.
If you’re sitting there, complaining – justifiably indignant – that this outcome would only happen for a man (because, while men are viewed as getting better as they age, women seem to be lined up and shot after the age of 35), I have two words for you: Kathryn Joosten. After giving up her promising job as a nurse in her youth to focus on being a mom and wife and whatnot, her deadbeat alcoholic husband divorced her. While trying to support her kids, and juggling three jobs, she auditioned frequently and was often met with rejection. But, after landing a small role as a sassy older woman on Urkel, she started scoring TV parts all over the damn place. One of her latest gigs, the one on that little show Desperate Housewives, garnered her two Emmys (the first one awarded when Joosten was 56).
Fashion designer and businesswoman Stella McCartney was told she would “fail” by a senior fashion boss just before setting up her own label. In fact, this unnamed boss went on to say “There has never in history of fashion been a British fashion house with a woman’s name on the label that has ever been truly global.” There’s always a first, silly.
So, next time someone gets harsh and tries to tell you it’s foolish to try and achieve your dream because it’s too late or it’s too hard or it’s never been done before, tell them to shove it. They might be the fool in time.
Have a great day, people.
Image Source: Awesome 1960s Batgirl
Google lets us smell our way through the interwebs, Twitter lets us have “y” for free (!!), and YouTube has found the winner and you’re all going to lose your videos. And you can find all this information on USA Today. Or you can Google it by spelling the word “fool” correctly, and not incorrectly “fuuls” like I did (sadly, that’s not a joke).
Thanks to Google Nose for the image!
Recently, while enjoying a drunken conversation, I was asked the question, “if you had to watch one TV show over and over again, which one would it be and why?” Without blinking, I responded, “Friends. Because Friends feels like home to me.”
I grew up watching Friends; I began watching the show at the ripe age of 5 with the pilot’s premiere in 1994. The characters’ voices filled my home as a child for a solid 10 years. And then they continued after that with constant reruns and rewatchings of the various seasons. Friends, to me (and likely my generation), is a great deal intertwined into my roots.
And so, in celebration of my roots, I thought I’d share with you a couple of choice favorite lines from my favorite show.
Ross: Oh. *Oh*. Thank God, most women don’t even feel them.
Rachel: Okay, no uterus, no opinion.
Ross: Chandler entered a Vanilla Ice look-alike contest and *won*!
Chandler: Ross came fourth and cried!
Rachel: Can you take care of Emma just for today?
Ross: Sure, just lend me your breasts and we’ll be on our way.
Joey: I hate Pottery barn too! They kicked me out of there just because I sat on a bed.
Chandler: You took off your pants and cimbed under the sheets!
[in Barbados, Rachel runs into Monica and Chandler’s room in the morning and opens the curtains, it has been raining a lot]
Monica: The sun is out!
Chandler: [squinting in pain] Hey, remember when I had corneas?
Reporter: I like that. what’s your name?
[pointing tape recorder at Pheobe]
Phoebe: Pheobe. That’s, P, as in Phoebe, H, as in heobe, O as in oebe, E, as in ebe, B, as in bebe, and E as in… Ello there mate.
Ross: My dad wanted to know if you wanted to play racquetball with us.
Monica: Wow. That’s great. Dad must really like you, he doesn’t ask just anyone to play.
Ross: Yeah and he didn’t really ask for you, he asked for Chancy, I assumed he meant you.
Chandler: Well, did-did you correct him?
Ross: No, I-I thought it would be more fun this way.
[Mona doesn’t know that Rachel is living with Ross]
Mona: Listen, Rachel, I appreciate your situation but this is Valentine’s Day. So, if you don’t mind, would you please just go back home?
[Ross enters with his gift for Mona]
Rachel: What are you talking about? I live here.
Ross: [nervously gives Mona her present] Happy Valentine’s Day.
[Mona stares angrily at Ross]
Ross: Or, something to remember me by…
Chandler: You can’t come in.
Monica: Why not?
Chandler: Because, uh, Ross is naked.
Chandler: Well, I couldn’t tell her *I* was naked. She’s allowed to see me naked.
Ross: Why does *anyone* have to be naked?
Joey: Pheebs, you wanna help?
Phoebe: Oh, I wish I could, but I really don’t want to.
Chandler: Did you do it on our invitations?
Ross: Not on the ones we sent out.
Chandler: Oh, so it was on the ones, we had framed.
Monica: I think I’d be great in a war. I’d, like, get all the medals.
Chandler: Before or after you’re executed by your own troops?
Charles Bing: Well, it’s nice to see all of you. Although we are seeing a bit too much of some. Aren’t you a little old to be wearing a dress like that?
Nora Bing: Don’t you have a little too much penis to be wearing a dress like that!
Chandler: I’m not so good with the advice… Can I interest you in a sarcastic comment?
Have a wonderful weekend! May you be surrounded by Friends!
To most people looking at my life over the past six years, it would appear as if I did not have roots. In that time, I’ve lived in six different cities (don’t even get me started on how many apartments in said cities), traveled to a bunch of countries, moved between different groups of friends, and dated a (small) handful of guys. I’ve been called a nomad, a wondering soul, a traveler… but never “settled.”
And I’m not. I’ve wanted to be and I’ve tried to be, but that gypsy soul just won’t be tied down (yet). But what people don’t always see is that I wouldn’t be able to do all this, to explore, to wander, to travel, without having strong ties and roots. My family and friends keep me grounded – knowing where I’m from and who I am gives me the strength to wander without getting lost.
Which is important, because I wander. A lot…
My Oma and Opa emigrated from Germany after WWII. They settled in San Francisco, where my Opa started his own business as a carpenter. After many years in the bay, raising a family and maintaining a successful family business, they moved to a town about an hour north of the city. My Opa always dreamed of owning his own land and having a home where he could build his own garden and have chickens. On their little acre he did just that. He built every vegetable box himself and his garden was one of his favorite places in the world. When I was little, Opa’s garden was such a magical place to visit. There were raspberries and currents to pick (my favorites!), chickens to chase and the best walnut tree to climb. It holds so many special memories for me.
My Opa passed away in October of 2011 after struggling with Parkinson’s disease and dementia for many years. He couldn’t take care of the garden once he became sick, so it fell by the wayside. One evening, when I went to visit my Oma the following February, I decided to go back to the garden just to see what it looked like. The frames of the boxes were falling apart. There were discarded pieces of wood and wire fencing strewn throughout the beds. There were weeds everywhere. It hurt my heart. It felt hard to remember what a wonderful place it used to be when I looked at something that seemed so broken. But, I also saw that the framework and foundations were still there. I decided then that I wanted to revive the garden.
I had never been incredibly interested in gardening but before long I was knee-deep in it. Friends and family helped me repair the boxes, weed the beds, bring in new dirt, turn over the soil, and plant a variety of fruits and vegetables. I would stop by the garden after work everyday to water each plant by hand, and spend hours on the weekends weeding, watering, caring for the plants, and harvesting. Somewhere along the way I decided to create a blog on tumblr called Opa’s Garden. It was a way for me to visually document the revival of the garden from seed to harvest.
It was incredibly exciting to see what the garden could be again, and it was amazing to feel what the love of the garden could do for my soul. There is something so satisfying about being able to see and enjoy the products of your hard work. I finally understood why Opa loved his garden so much. By taking pictures of everything from the beginning to the very end of the season, I found myself becoming more and more appreciative of each detail.
Now it is spring once again. I’ve been spending time weeding the beds and starting to prep them for planting in a few weeks. I will be taking pictures and posting to Opa’s Garden again this year. If you are interested, I would love to have you follow along!
All photographs are property of Stephanie Pressler. You may only use the images with permission from the photographer.
A couple weeks ago I stumbled upon Makers, a site devoted to telling the stories of powerful ladies and documenting the women’s lib movement from past to present. Stoked beyond belief, I sat down with my housemates and my boyfriend to watch the documentary version: Makers: Women Who Make America (preview here). It was a beautiful experience. We cheered and booed and I cried a little bit. At the end, I tried not to feel down for being such a complacent feminist.
When I was 16, I enrolled in an English course at the local community college. A few weeks into the class, a woman from the Feminist Majority came in to talk about feminism. She asked us to raise our hands if we identified as feminists. Only one student raised her hand, and that student was not me. I didn’t know what the word meant and I was afraid the professor might ask for the definition. I avoided eye contact with her. Over the next hour, we received a short eduction in all things feminist. At the close of the class, the Feminist Majority spokesperson asked us once again to raise our hands if we identified as feminist. We all did. I remember feeling very moved. I left the room proudly sporting the “This is what a feminist looks like” sticker she handed each of us.
The next semester I took my first Gender & Sexuality studies class and when I transferred colleges a year later I declared a minor in GenSex. I ended up dropping it, though not because the topic stopped interesting me, and, a part from acting in the Vagina Monologues my senior year, stopped taking part in organized feminist activities. I still identified as a feminist, but moving the cause forward simply meant finishing my fucking thesis so that I could graduate and, at a later date, save the world.
The point of this little story is to say that at 16, 17, and 18 I was a way cooler feminist than I am now. I attended Take Back the Night rallies, I interned for the local Women’s Shelter, I made a V-Day page on Facebook before the organization started using social media (the pages were joined last year), and I waved my feminist flag with wild and passionate motions.
When Kelly and I first started Beginners, our hope was (still is!) to provide a space for young women to share about the reality of their lives. We wanted this space to be an open one. We wanted to talk about failures, confusion, and anxiety – things that we’ve experienced since venturing out into the adult world. I hope that Beginners feels like that place to you. We want to empower young women and in doing so empower the world. That’s pretty feminist, right?
Anyhoo, check out the Makers documentary (it’s FREE and eager to be seen) over on the site. And if I haven’t piqued your interest yet, then this little fact almost certainly will push you over the edge: it’s narrated by Meryl Streep. *swoon* Yeah, I can tell you’re ready now.
Can’t sit down to watch the whole documentary this very moment? Then check out these short video clips below. I’ve included my personal faves here but you can also access all of the stories on the Makers website.
We’ve all been there. We’ve all had that one period that we threw a party for upon its arrival; we’re ladies, we’re barely making rent, and we’re in no way ready for parenthood. This, my friends, is a story about my monthly red headed aunt visitor (because God forbid, anyone just say “period”).
Recently, I fell ill with some very odd symptoms: my back was killing me, I had terrible and border-line debilitating cramps, I was nauseous and I was craving oddly specific foods – a can of cold Pepsi and a bag of Jalapeno Doritos. Oh and my period was a week late. Perfect.
Now, the birth control I’m currently using (IUD) is supposedly more effective than getting your tubes tied. Therefore, I was skeptical to go down the the preggo road at first. So, apparently wanting to learn that I had cancer, I consulted Web MD. After perusing the site for my various symptoms and narrowing down the possibilities, I reached Web MD’s SOLE conclusion: I had an IUD and was pregnant. (Yes, Web MD narrowed it down that specifically!)
As you might imagine, panic started to set in. Frantically, I began to search public forums for possible culprits based on individual symptoms (as opposed to their sum whole). It could be that I tweaked my back: had I been sitting strangely lately? It could be that I had food poisoning: had I eaten something bad lately? It could be that I had been withholding snack food from myself: had I been dieting lately? If all of these things had obvious answers, I may have created some sort of perfectly terrible storm and my body had decided to react to all these things at once.
Or I was pregnant with an IUD.
Unfortunately for me, I had not been sitting strangely lately. I hadn’t eaten anything bad lately either. And I most certainly hadn’t been dieting (you’ve all seen my food board).
I thought long and hard about what might have caused all these issues…because I needed to rule out pregnancy and taking a test was really too frightening to consider at that point. So after racking my brain, I realized that I had worn a high wasted belt when this all started; maybe that caused the back issue? I had accidentally had a little bit of mayonnaise (I never have mayo due to my intense repulsion to consuming purified fat) earlier that week. Maybe after over 10 years of non-consumption, I was reacting to that, causing stomach issues? And I had been on a veggie binge for a while at that point, so maybe I had reached the point where my body just wanted to eat garbage?
I gave it a few days, hoping that those small things would turn out to be the true epicenter of this shit-show. After a week more of period-less existence, I finally knew it was time to take a test. “If I don’t have it tomorrow,” I literally said aloud to myself like a woman losing her mind, “I’m taking a test.” And then, as if my uterus went, “Oh you’re worried? Shit. Sorry about that,” I received confirmation that I was not, in fact, pregnant.
I yelled, “YES!!!” in the ladies room and scared some poor woman with my oddly enthusiastic potty break. And with a smile on my face, I asked, “do you have a tampon?”
I remember in high school, two girls walking around play rehearsal and, after placing their pinched fingers on our kneecaps, they opened up their hands, running the nails along each person’s leg. The result was a spine-tingling, delicious shiver, like the “crack an egg on your head” game from elementary school.
“That,” they proclaimed triumphantly, “is 1/10th of an orgasm.”
For the next 7 years, that was about as close as I could get to imagining an orgasm. As a sexual late-bloomer, I didn’t get kissed until I was 17, and as best I can figure, I was too busy fixating on the lack of kissing in my life to worry too much about sex or orgasms. If there was a way to stimulate kissing (autoerotic make-outs?) I would have been all over that. But I didn’t find myself dwelling on (or attempting to) masturbate much, before or after my first boyfriend.
Of course, with the boyfriend, there was a lot of wandering of mouths and hands, and eventually “going all the way.” Seventeen years of sexual frustration exploded in a few magic months, and while things quickly soured before we could even leave the blush of new love, I am grateful that I had an equally inexperienced partner to practice with and to learn on. Surprisingly, he knew more about female anatomy than me, thanks to internet-available pornography. While my own attempts at self-exploration yielded little more than a slightly satisfying feeling, akin to a good scratch on the back, he was able to focus in his fingers for a distinctly sexual- albeit intense- experience. As nice as I found this, I was pretty sure I wasn’t orgasming. I still wasn’t totally clear on the details, but I figured I’d know when it happened.
Sadly, with him it never did. However, he wanted it desperately, seemingly more than I did, so I did fake it. A lot. Like, two or three times in the span of an hour. If I regret anything from my first relationship, it might be that I let this poor boy loose into the world believing himself to have magic fingers. When things ended, I wasn’t too concerned. Easy come, easy go, even if the coming wasn’t so easy. I don’t think it ever occurred to me that he might remain my only boyfriend for the next six years.
Instead, in college, there was a spate of boys. Most of them were strangers (though not all), many of them I met at parties. One guy crashed my party, another guy asked me to dance when he found me looking for my friends at a bar. Another guy I had never spoken to outside of our seminar, until he asked me to his room one night, and I, high off of one of my first bong hits, agreed, only realizing when I got to his door why I was there. Exchange student or guy I met on vacation, they all had one thing in common: none of them made me come, either, and I was faking it for them, too. As differently as they all began, the scenes started playing the same once we were in bed: a boy’s fingers, working feverishly, everything feeling nice ,until the arch of my foot started to seize up painfully. I would try to push through, thinking it must be like the tension in the moment before a rubber band breaks, but I couldn’t do it. I always either pulled his hands away, or let out a small yelp of pleasure (“I just came!”) to go ahead and end things.
I didn’t see any point. I already knew it wouldn’t happen. I was broken. I figured that there were just some people out there- and I just might be one of them- who couldn’t come. I figured I was wired wrong, with some trigger connecting my vagina to the arch of my foot, or a missed connection in the central nervous system. I started blurting it out to female friends after a few beers, and most of them reacted in horror. For them, it would seem orgasming- either alone or with someone- was as easy as coaxing the cork out of a champagne bottle once you’ve figured it out.
“Wait,” a friend would gasp over a pitcher of light beer or boxed wine, “Not even by yourself?” By this point, I was trying, but rather infrequently. Going at it the only way I knew how- using the same rapid strokes of my former flames and hook-ups- i not surprisingly got the same result: Tensed-up arches and tears.
Salvation came from an unexpected place. As a senior in college, I wrote and performed a monologue on faking orgasms with my first boyfriend. Hoping to keep the existence of such a piece buried, I asked that any publication of the monologue list me as the anonymous writer and performer of the piece. Nevertheless, my mother sussed it out, thanks to Facebook. She saw I was planning to attend an event. Well, what was it about? How are you involved?
“I’d rather not say,” I sputtered, but she coaxed it out of me.
“Ok. It’s a monologue. It’s about sex. You can see it if you want to, but you can never, ever, EVER say anything to dad about it.”
I agreed to send her the piece on those terms, and that was the last we ever mentioned of it, save one conversation in the car a month later.
“Are you still faking it?”
“Have you tried going really slow? It always takes me a while.”
And god bless my mother for saying one of the most nakedly personal things she could ever say, because damnit if she wasn’t right. Later that week, I tried it, really tried it, going slow. Without the over-eager porno-trained fingers of drunken strangers, or my own ersatz impersonations, I tried going very, very slowly. And, at 21, I finally had my first orgasm. While I can say it reminds me absolutely nothing of having someone scratch your knee, I will say my initial suspicion at 17 was right- when you have one, you know.
Every morning it’s the same routine. My alarm goes off at 6:30am. Flustered and cranky, I hit the glorious “just a few more minutes” snooze button…. 6:45… Snooze… 7:15… Snooze… 7:30… 7:45… 8am. Snooze. Snooze. Snooze. I blame it on the time change, the weather, the dog’s restlessness that night, or the absurdly early garbage collection.
To be totally honest, I’m just not a morning person. I could get 6 hours of sleep or 10 hours of sleep, I still won’t wake up on time. I’m a late early riser, and while today I was late because my room was just too warm last night, I will continue setting my alarm absurdly early, in hopes that one day I’ll finally get up on time.
All drawings are property of Orlie Kapitulnik and Beginners Magazine. You may only use the images with permission from the artist.
Imagine you hit the snooze button a few more times than you meant to one morning. Once your eyes finally focus on the time, you gasp “It’s 8 already! How is it 8!?” Your bus comes in 15 minutes. You toss some poptarts into the toaster and take a lightning speed shower. You hop out and towel dry your hair as you shuffle to your closet. And there you stand. “What the heck should I wear?” When you have 9 minutes to get yourself to the bus stop there is no time to play that game.
A good friend in college gave me the best tip for dressing when you are running late: wear a dress.
There are several reasons why a dress is your best bet:
1. Dresses are the easiest and fastest thing to put on. One piece. None of the “does this fit with that” shenanigans. One piece and you’re done.
2. Dresses look put together. Something about a gal in a dress makes her look like she has her shit together. (Thank goodness.)
3. Dresses work with the seasons. In spring and summer, wear your dress with a cardigan and wedges or flats. In the fall and winter, put your dress together with tights, boots, and a coat and you are good to go.
4. You’ll feel ready for anything. When you throw on wrinkled pants and a shirt that you’ve already worn twice, that “running late” feeling will be stuck with you all day. You’ll feel frumpy, which will probably affect your mood. When you put on something that you know looks good, you will feel good too. So, if your boss calls a last minute meeting or your cute coworker flashes a smile your way, you can be sure to feel confident in your dress look. (And no one will know you thew it on in 2 minutes!)
Featured image via The Sartorialist
So I was looking back at my previous posts, and I realized that they were, well… a little ambitious. Granted, I was on winter break, sitting around at home trying to find something to fill the time. Now that I’m back at school and work, I barely have time to shower, let alone spend three hours making a butternut squash galette (although if you have the time, it’s seriously worth it). So here’s a recipe for a quick and easy weeknight meal – Israeli couscous with tuna, chard, and kalamata olives. Don’t be skeptical, I promise it’s delicious. Only takes about a half an hour to make, and you only dirty one pan! If you’ve never had Israeli couscous before, you’re in for a treat, because it’s freaking delicious. None of this whole grain nonsense, they’re like little mini noodle balls. Ya… I know. Yum.
Israeli Couscous with Tuna, Chard, and Olives
Makes 1 serving if you’re hungry, 2 if you’re eating light
Prep Time: 10 min
Total Time: 20 min
2/3 cup of Israeli couscous (at Trader Joe’s in purple box, or you can buy it in bulk)
2/3 cup of water
1 can of tuna in oil
1 cup of chard
1/4 cup of kalamata olives
Drizzle olive oil into a frying pan and pour in couscous. Stir to coat the couscous in oil over medium heat until couscous is browned, about 2 minutes. Add water, reduce heat slightly, and cover. The couscous will steam for about 5-7 minutes, until soft and water has disappeared.
While the couscous is cooking you can prepare the other ingredients. I grow my own chard, which doesn’t get very big, so I was able to just throw the little leaves right into the pan without chopping them up. If you get chard at the store, however, it will usually have big beautiful leaves. Chop them into strips, they’ll shrink a little bit once they’re steamed.
Once the couscous is cooked, add the tuna, olives, and chard, and stir gently for about 2 to 3 minutes. Scoop into a serving dish, sprinkle parmesan on top, and you’re good to go!