Hey, Lynn. That bamboo steamer you gave me? I finally used it.

I am officially immersed in that time-honored American tradition, Summer Vacation. Nearly the entire reason (plus that whole issue of wanting to make a difference in the sea of stupidity that is our public education system) that I decided to be a teacher was summer vacation. "I'll write," I told myself.

Weirdly enough, I have been writing. I have a novel project, and perpetual poetry projects. I'm a bit more confident in my abilities since nearly hitting pay dirt in the Lynda Hull Memorial Poetry Prize. I'm trying to squeeze out about a page in the novel a day, and am currently researching police procedures for homicide investigations. I feel studious. It's absorbing work.

I have also been cleaning. And cooking. Today, I cooked two meals. Granted, the first one came out of a box, but the second I made all by myself. While I was visiting my parents for Christmas break, my father showed me a recipe for salmon cooked in a bamboo steamer that he'd found in a grocery ad.

"I have a bamboo steamer," I said, congratulating myself. Of course, I hadn't used it. The recipe called for leeks, and other vegetables, but, as is typical, I could remember only the leeks.

Six months later, I finally managed to steam salmon. After copious research, I discovered the length of time for the salmon that I had. I bought a leek. I also bought asparagus, broccoli, and carrots, but opted for just the asparagus, since I swear that I have a full pound of it, and only myself and Radar to feed it to. (Radar, unfortunately, is not known to eat asparagus, which, yes, I have tried to feed to him.)

I decided to put some lemon juice and salt in the water for the steaming, since I'd read a recipe that put ginger and anise in the water for flavor. Because my mother always includes a starch with dinner, I defrosted some basmati rice (I freeze everything sooner or later), and heated up some Light Smart Balance and dill in the microwave, intended for the fish, but inevitably mixed into the rice.

About twelve minutes later, there was dinner. The fish wasn't fishy, and the asparagus wasn't bitter, and I have enough leftovers to last six months until I steam something again. I was happy, at least until I realized that I'd managed to mildly burn the edge of the steamer. No, I don't know how I did it.

Welcome to a summer of boring updates on writing and domesticity. You've been warned.