When To Use Aluminium Foil, Parchment Paper, Wax Paper And Freezer Paper

Posted on 29/12/2023 by Boris Clair

Whether you’re new to cooking or you’ve been doing it for decades, it’s entirely possible you have no idea what you’re doing in certain areas. One particular topic that home cooks struggle with is understanding the differences between parchment paper, wax paper, aluminium foil and freezer paper, and when to use which one.

And trust us, mixing them up could legitimately ruin your recipe in some cases.

What’s the difference, and which materials are interchangeable? We talked to the experts to clear up any confusion you might have. Read on for the inside scoop on exactly when to use parchment paper, aluminium foil, wax paper and freezer paper — and exactly when you shouldn’t.

Parchment Paper

Thanks to its versatility, parchment paper is the shining star of the kitchen. It’s an odourless paper made from cotton fibre and pure chemical wood pulps that’s been coated with silicone. In addition to being nonstick, it’s heat- and moisture-resistant.

Parchment can be used for many kitchen tasks, but it’s best known for acting as a liner for baking sheets and pans, helping to promote even cooking and food not sticking. And according to Laura Ritterman, the cook behind the food blog Recipe Fairy, it also makes cleanup a whole lot easier. Think: being able to slide roasted veggies, cookies, fish and more right off the baking sheet with no mess.

“You can also line parchment paper on your kitchen counter to aid in cleanup,” said Christina Musgrave, a professional recipe developer. Because it’s nonstick and moisture-repellent, you can do all of your chopping, mixing, kneading and rolling on top of a layer of parchment, then toss it when you’re done, saving you the trouble of scrubbing down your countertops later.

Despite being super-versatile, parchment paper can only be used up to a certain temperature. “You can normally use parchment paper up to around 420 degrees Fahrenheit,” Musgrave said. “Heating it over that temperature can risk it catching on fire.” For safety purposes, always know the heat limit of the brand of parchment paper you’re using while cooking.

As for what to use as a substitute if you find yourself out of parchment paper, that depends on what you’re planning to use it for.

“Foil can be used to help prevent food from sticking, so long as it’s well-greased,” Ritterman said. (Or, if you’re specifically using a nonstick foil.) “It’s not as good as parchment paper, but can be used in a pinch if you don’t have any.” For easier cleanup, wax paper is a good choice for covering countertops.

Aluminium Foil

Runner-up in the versatility department is aluminium foil, which is made of over 98% aluminum ― the balance of which consists mainly of iron and silicon for added strength and puncture resistance. During the final rolling, two layers of foil are passed through the mill at the same time. The side that comes into contact with the polished steel rollers becomes shiny, the other side dull.

This is why, despite popular belief, it doesn’t matter which side of the foil contacts your food. (The only exception to this is nonstick foil, which does have a dull side that’s nonstick ― perfect for cooking foods that are cheesy or sticky.)

Where aluminum foil really shines (pun totally intended) is with high-heat cooking, like grilling and broiling. Any recipes that require cooking foods at a higher temperature than your parchment paper can hack, that’s where foil comes in.

Another handy skill? “Aluminium foil helps with even cooking or baking in the oven, mitigating the burning of food before it has finished cooking,” Ritterman said. “This is great for things like casseroles, roasts or pies.”

Say you don’t want your turkey or casserole to over-brown ― make a foil tent by placing a sheet of foil over your roasting pan or casserole dish, leaving a 1-inch gap between the top of your food and the foil tent for heat circulation, then crimp the foil onto the long sides of the pan so it stays put.

To keep your pie crust from burning while the centre bakes, foil to the rescue: Take a 12-inch foil square and fold it into quarters. Cut out the centre and round off the edges so you’re left with a ring that’s two inches wide. Unfold the ring and place it over your pie, removing it for the final 20 minutes of baking time.

“Because foil easily holds its shape, you can also wrap foods (meat, potatoes) to prevent them from losing moisture as they cook, as well as make foil packs of food to pop in the oven or on the grill,” Kyrie Luke, recipe developer and blogger at Healthfully Rooted Home, told HuffPost. (It’s an especially effective strategy for more delicate foods, like veggies and fish.)

But you should never use aluminium foil in the microwave. “Since aluminium foil is metal, it can heat so quickly that it can cause a spark and catch on fire,” Musgrave warned.

The best replacement for foil is parchment paper — specifically, for oven cooking and making food packs. For high-heat cooking, however, aluminium foil is difficult to replace, with the closest options being grilling papers and oven and barbecue bags.

If you’re not sure whether to go with aluminum foil or parchment paper, just remember: Grill or broil, go with foil.

Wax Paper

Wax paper is tissue paper that’s triple-waxed with a food-safe paraffin coating. It’s best known for covering countertops ― you can measure dry ingredients, such as flour, over wax paper and avoid a messy countertop during baking and cooking.

“It’s similar to parchment paper in that it can be used to keep food from sticking to surfaces, such as allowing chocolate-covered strawberries to harden or delicate artwork for cakes and pastries,” Ritterman said. It can even line pans for non-baked items, such as fudge or no-bake desserts to make cleanup easier.

Unlike parchment, wax paper shouldn’t be used in cooking situations that require heat. “Never use wax paper in the oven, microwave, grill or anything that conducts heat,” Luke said. “The wax will melt and it may cause a fire.”

The only exception to this rule is that wax paper can be used for lining cake pans for baking cakes. Because the cake batter completely covers the wax paper and absorbs much of the heat, the wax paper won’t smoke or melt.

The easiest way to remember whether to go with parchment or wax paper is to picture a burning candle as a reminder that wax melts. “The last thing you want is waxy food ― or a kitchen fire,” Luke said.

Freezer Paper

Freezer paper is a thicker paper that’s used for, you guessed it, freezing food. “It’s best known for wrapping meats and seafood for freezing to seal in juices and protect them from freezer burn,” Musgrave said.

One side of the paper is coated with either wax or plastic and provides a barrier to air and moisture that helps prolong the freshness, flavor and nutrition of your food while frozen, helping it last in your freezer for up to one year. Because the other side of the paper isn’t coated, it can be used to mark down the contents and pack date of the wrapped food.

Since freezer paper has a wax or plastic coating, it shouldn’t be heated ― otherwise, the wax or plastic will melt and ruin your food.

In a pinch, you can use heavy duty aluminium foil as freezer wrap, but because it can be torn and punctured easily, it’s best to use an overwrap, too.

“Wax paper can also replace freezer paper if you plan on eating the stored food in a short period of time,” Ritterman said. It’s not moisture-vapour resistant the way freezer paper is, though, so for longer storage times, freezer paper all the way.

I Idolised My High School Teacher. Then I Dated Him.

Posted on 23/12/2023 by Boris Clair

At 15, I was his standout student and his kids’ occasional babysitter, unabashed in my adoration.

I looked forward to his classes with a thrill that could make me feel sick. I studied harder for his tests than I would ever study again. When he and his wife were out on dates, I would sit at his desk after their kids were asleep, beneath bookshelves full of thick spines, spillover stacks surrounding his computer, some volumes splayed open to pages littered with underlines, and think, Someday I’ll find someone like this.

I was in my late 20s and living in Brooklyn, nearly 3,000 miles across the country, when he left the desk and the house and the wife and stored all of his books in a shed outside a tiny rental cabin at the top of a cliff.

He came to New York and we got coffee and talked about God and I called him Mister. Then we exchanged writing, piles of it, and overnight knew more about each other than almost anyone.

From a distance we discussed meeting up again someday, this time for a beer.

“It’s difficult, isn’t it, to keep an imagination in check?” I asked at the end of a long email.

“A little imagination ain’t so bad,” he assured me with a winking face emoji, but any innuendo was subtle and carefully crafted ― and besides, I was never coming home.

Then the pandemic hit.

“How are you doing? Are things OK?” he texted one day in March.

“I actually came home,” I responded. And that was that.

Early on we agreed to keep it casual. We decided it was likely only for the lockdown, while the world fell apart and we were lonely. We asked “Why not?” and disregarded every answer.

We walked the woods, then the beach, then ― fancying ourselves quite quarantined in a place barely touched by the virus ― we went inside. From opposite couches, we passed a hundred hours just talking about everything: history and philosophy and the protests and Taylor Swift, later and later into the evenings, drinking my dad’s good wine from pint glasses.

When he asked if he could kiss me one night in July, sitting on the floor with our legs already touching, it felt only the tiniest bit taboo. The 20 years between us didn’t matter. He spent his life with high schoolers, and was more up to speed than I was on the trends and lingo of Gen Z. I felt desperate to reaffirm my autonomy and adulthood after moving into my parents’ guest room, and I liked confiding in a man with history, the years gathered at the edges of his eyes.

It seemed every woman my age was about to have a baby. I was behind, and now dating was against the rules and dangerous. But driving home from his house in the middle of the night, I felt interesting and boundless; I felt bad for all the women with the babies.

In August, we listened to Taylor Swift’s new album on repeat. I can see us twisted in bedsheets, August sipped away like a bottle of wine. We spent hours in bed. We took his boat out and jumped from the side. We sat close on a bench, watching constellations climb. But if what you want is a pop song, you can turn anything into a summery montage and fall in love with the lyrics. Mostly, we stayed inside doing nothing.

What started as a month-long lockdown swelled into a season, then two, then three. Our temporary tryst became less and less temporary. Trump was the president, then not the president. School was remote, then not remote. We were depressed, then not depressed, then depressed again.

At some point I bought a house, and on New Year’s Eve we lay on the floor on a mattress still covered in plastic, construction dust and power tools in disarray, fireworks popping, and it felt OK.

Looking back, it wasn’t that the student/teacher dynamic had truly dissolved; it had just gone dormant, as so many things did during the pandemic.

But it didn’t matter that I owned a house and he rented, or that my kitchen had actual wine glasses in it, or that I had dating history and he didn’t, or that I’d lived in cities around the world while he’d stayed in our small town. The badges of adulthood that confirmed we were equal weren’t enough.

As our community began to reopen, something was shifting between us. He was suddenly reiterating that he didn’t feel guilty about what we were doing, which of course meant he felt guilty about what we were doing. He was suddenly firming up boundaries. He was suddenly treating me like a child.

And more and more, I started to feel like a child. I stopped caring about whether he wanted to sleep with me. All I wanted was for him to be proud of me like he was at the beginning, from opposite couches, with no expectation. Or before that, even: when he was still Mister and we were meeting up in my city; when I was telling him about my work and he was beaming; when I was nothing but his precocious student who’d happened to grow up, and all we shared was admiration.

“There are few joys greater than witnessing a student surpass the teacher,” he’d written to me then. Now I was sitting with my legs over his, but I was flailing.

At the end of April, I stayed up straight through multiple nights reading the accounts of Blake Bailey’s gradual, insidious grooming of his young students, my throat clenched like a fist. It bothered me, even though there was no comparison to be made. The man I spent occasional evenings with had never, in my experience or to my knowledge, caused a student to feel uncomfortable.

Still, if there existed, in our community, a cult of the charismatic male teacher, he was its idol. And it did exist; I’d been a member for half my life.

The week after the news broke, I sat up in bed, arms around my knees. I couldn’t get it out of my head. We had done such a seamless job believing that our history didn’t matter, but what if we were wrong?

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, smoothing my hair. I was thinking about the comments I’d read from countless teachers about how students they met as children remained children in their minds, regardless of age ― about the indestructibility of the student/teacher dynamic. When I tried to talk to him about it, he laughed it off, then left early.

We never touched those dynamics in the bedroom. There was no shame or scandal between us, not ever, not even close, until there was. The secrecy that had been inevitable in a lockdown had come to feel illicit after it was over, and I was becoming increasingly aware of my nakedness, embarrassed. What had been irrelevant in private was not irrelevant in public.

Soon after, he invited me to a local vineyard for wine and music, and I was hopeful that it was a turning point. After so much isolation, we could finally prove that the thing we said wasn’t a secret wasn’t a secret.

The next day, my phone pinged with a follow-up text:

“OK, this is hilarious!” he started. The invite, he explained, hadn’t been for me. It was meant for someone else. “I am such a doofus,” he said.

“Fuck you,” I said.

I could have said anything else, something measured and mature, but I didn’t. It was the way it was a joke that broke me. A part of me wanted to be stabbing and juvenile because that’s how he’d made me feel, that’s what I was trying to throw back at him: Fine, you want to condescend, you want to treat me like a child? Watch how childish I can be.

I should have known that the post-pandemic public wouldn’t see us together ― that had been, after all, our expiration date from the beginning, back when the lockdown was fleeting and my life was elsewhere. But I didn’t anticipate how I’d come to rely on him, how bad it would feel to be denied by him, following the return of an external gaze.

I wanted him to be proud of me and instead he was ashamed. Both betrayed what was running molten beneath our feet, which was that, despite a year of intimacy, as soon as time was unsuspended and public life resumed, he was still my teacher; I was still his student.

And then he asked me to return his books ― not over coffee, not to his house, not in a neutral parking lot where we could hand off belongings and hug each other goodbye, but to the front office at the high school, a building I hadn’t been back to in over a decade.

He’d promoted me and now he was demoting me again, summoning me to the place where it started, where he still strolled the halls with a halo of admirers, and I was long forgotten.

Olivia Rodrigo’s debut album had just come out, and I decided to listen through it, as he and I had done with Taylor’s album the summer before. It was raining. When I got to the turnoff to my house, I kept driving. When I got to the high school, I slowed down but couldn’t bring myself to stop. Red lights, stop signs, I still see your face in the white cars, front yards… I’d gotten my driver’s license while I was in his class. I could still pick out the row where I used to park, near the track that lit up into a football field on Friday nights in the fall.

Can’t drive past the places we used to go to, ’cause I still fuckin’ love you, babe. I didn’t love him, which in a way was more disappointing than if I had. I’d loved him my whole life. Now there was a human where my hero had been.

Once upon a time, I was a child who adored a teacher for the way he challenged me. This past year, I was an adult grateful for the conversation and companionship of the same man. Now, wherever my life ambles next, I don’t need to take him with me.

Risk Of Penile Fractures Goes… Up At Christmas, Doctors Warn

Posted on 21/12/2023 by Boris Clair

People are being warned not to rock too hard around the Christmas tree this festive season, as doctors have shared that they often see a significant increase in penile injuries during this time of year – namely fractures.

Yes, really – a new study on this has just been published in the December edition of the British Journal of Urology International.

It’s not overly common, but if a penis is violently twisted or bent when erect (usually as a result of certain sex positions), the blood vessels can burst and can result in something known as a penile fracture.

Doctors at Ludwig Maximilian University in Munich, Germany, say that injury is “often heralded by an audible crack followed by severe pain” and should be treated as a medical emergency.

According to the medical experts, those suffering from the injury will also experience a rapid loss of erection (somewhat unsurprisingly), swelling and bruising.

The team at the German university investigated whether the incidence of penile fractures increased during Christmas using German hospital data for 3,421 people (!) who sustained such injuries between 2005 and 2021.

And sure enough, they discovered that the rate of penile fractures increased during the festive period, adding: “If every day was like Christmas, 43% more penile fractures would have occurred in Germany from 2005 onwards.”

The study also found penile fractures “occur most likely during sex in unconventional scenarios” – mainly when sex is being had in an “unusual location” or as part of an affair.

And it’s not just Christmas either – their findings also uncovered the fact that the risk of penile fracture increased during weekends and over the summer.

“Based on our analyses, penile fractures occur in periods when couples are enjoying moments of relaxation such as Christmas, weekends, and summer,” they wrote.

“Even though we cannot, of course, recommend against having sex during these periods, our findings ring the alarm bell (and not the jingle bells).”

Well… Merry Christmas everyone?

Anxious At Christmas? Your Love Language Can Help You Cope

Posted on 20/12/2023 by Boris Clair

Andy Williams famously sung the words “it’s the most wonderful time of the year” but for a staggering 1 in 3 Brits, it’s a time for mental health “nosedives” according to Mental Health UK.

For many of us, it’s less a time of celebration and more to do with gritting our teeth and getting through it. There can be plenty of reasons for this including broken families, the pressure of expectation, and if you already have mental health problems, the overriding themes of joy can just make you feel more alienated than ever.

However, according to Emily Carr from CreateGiftLove, we can make the most of this season by identifying our love languages and using them to cope.

How love languages can help you cope with Christmas

If you appreciate words of affirmation, use them on yourself

Words of affirmation is a common love language and it basically means you tend to feel most loved and appreciated when people verbalise that to you. However, Carr urges that if this is you, you don’t need to wait for others to express their love.

She said: “Positive self-talk goes a long way. Create an affirmation and say it to yourself several times a day. Have it written on an object such as a keyring so that every time you see it, you’re reminded of that affirmation.”

She continued to say this is something that can actually ease anxiety. “Getting into the habit of using affirmations with breathwork can work to lower cortisol (the stress hormone) and ease anxiety,” she adds.

If you appreciate quality time, reframe how that seems to you during festivities

Quality time at Christmas doesn’t always feel like it’s worthwhile, even to those that recognise it as their love language.

Carr urges people to remember that quality time can be whatever you need it to be. If you’re not looking to get drunk at your pal’s Christmas party, maybe arrange a quiet evening with them in your home.

If you are all about acts of service, now is the time for familial Christmas elves

No, seriously. If you feel valued and loved from acts of service, ask your loved ones to help with your Christmas to-do list.

Whether that’s picking up gifts, helping you wrap them or even mundane house cleaning ahead of hosting guests. Your loved ones want to help you, and you value the help, it’s a win-win!

Receiving gifts doesn’t have to be costly

While you may feel most loved when you receive gifts, you’ll know that for you, it’s not about the price tag but instead the thought that went into a gift. It’s the same for your loved ones, too.

Don’t fall into debt trying to keep up with materialistic trends and instead get them something personal to them such as framed photographs.

If you love physical touch, prioritise that over the endless group chats

Festive season also means planning season and if you’re feeling overwhelmed by the endless threads planning parties, get togethers, and the day itself, mute them. Plan a certain time of day to reply and otherwise give yourself the mental headspace.

Instead, make plans for a cuddly date with your partner or even meet a friend for coffee and a Christmas hug.

If nothing else, remember it’ll be over soon enough and you just need to get through it by being kind and patient to yourself.

Help and support:

Mind, open Monday to Friday, 9am-6pm on 0300 123 3393.
Samaritans offers a listening service which is open 24 hours a day, on 116 123 (UK and ROI – this number is FREE to call and will not appear on your phone bill).
CALM (the Campaign Against Living Miserably) offer a helpline open 5pm-midnight, 365 days a year, on 0800 58 58 58, and a webchat service.
The Mix is a free support service for people under 25. Call 0808 808 4994 or email help@themix.org.uk
Rethink Mental Illness offers practical help through its advice line which can be reached on 0808 801 0525 (Monday to Friday 10am-4pm). More info can be found on rethink.org.

6 Unexpected Signs Your Pub Pint Glass Is Actually Filthy

Posted on 19/12/2023 by Boris Clair

’Tis the seasons for good food, great company, and yes, a trip to the pub. But as John Cutts, a glass expert at MeandMyGlass.co.uk, says, “it’s easy to get carried away with the celebrations without realising the pint glass you’re drinking from hasn’t been cleaned properly.”

Signs of dirt and oil aren’t always immediately visible when you get a glass, Cutts shared. Instead, telltale bubble and foam patterns might be a better way to give the grime away.

In fact, “A filthy beer glass can be easily identified if bubbles start to cling to the side and if the foam leaves an unusual pattern after taking a sip,” Cutts says.

So, we thought we’d share some of his tips:

1) Bubbles might cling to the side of your glass

This can be a sign of soap residue or grime, Cutts says. The bubbles cling onto the residue on the inside of the glass, causing them to gather on the side of your pint.

2) Look at the foam pattern on the glass

This is known as the “lacing test,” Cutts shared. “Once the glass has been filled and you’ve taken your first sip, take note of the pattern that forms. The lacing that the head will form should be even around the side and create rings as you continue to drink. Any unusual patterns indicate a dirty glass,” he shared.

3) A flattened head that goes away quickly

Nobody likes an overly foamy head ― but “if the head instantly flattens after being poured, it’s a sign that you’ve received a dirty glass,” Cutts says.

4) Check for particles at the bottom of your glass

Okay, it sounds obvious, but Cutts says that if you’re not sure about the state of your glass, checking the bottom of the pint for residue could be illuminating.

“Before taking a sip, lift the glass so you have a full view of any particles floating at the bottom,” he advises.

5) A discoloured rim

Discolouration around the rim of your glass could mean it’s still for some oil lingering on it, Cutts warns (delicious). “Visible marks like fingermarks and lipstick stains are also signs to be wary of,” he warns.

6) It’s all in the taste

Lastly, the final test is how your drink tastes. “If any of the obvious signs aren’t showing, the final and most prominent way to test a dirty glass is the taste of the beer itself. Make sure to have a small first sip to begin with so you’re not washing down a dirty pint,” Cutts warns.

Ah, the joys of socialising…

We Are Therapists – Here’s How To Stop Seeking Approval From Others

Posted on 16/12/2023 by Boris Clair

According to Psychology Today, 85% of people worldwide report having low levels of self-esteem.

Self-esteem relates to how we think and feel about ourselves and how much value we believe we have as individuals, according to NHS Inform. This means that if your self-esteem is low, you’re more likely to focus on your setbacks than your successes. Additionally, people with low self-esteem often ignore their own achievements and positive things about themselves and tend to be needlessly self-critical.

When we’re experiencing these confidence dips, it’s likely that we’ll look for validation of who we are in other people — a behaviour known as ‘seeking external validation’, according to Psych Central.

If this all sounds familiar to you, advice from licensed therapists Nick Tangeman and Dr. Jim from podcast ‘Pod Therapy’ might be exactly what you need.

How to overcome low self-esteem

Back in April this year, the therapists took to social media platform Reddit saying, “We are Therapists hosting a R-Rated podcast called “Pod Therapy”, Ask Us Anything for Mental Health Awareness Month!”

One user, So1337, asked”, “It took me a long time to realise that I was constantly seeking my esteem and sense of self-worth from others. What are some things I can do to 1) look inward for my own worth and 2) stop seeking validation so much?”

The therapists responded to the commenter saying, “First, it’s not inherently bad to get a sense of ourselves from the perspectives of others. Humans are social animals, we value community and its normal for us to want to please others and desire their approval.

“However, as you’ve realised, this often becomes toxic to us. Maybe the people we look to for approval will never give it, can’t give it, or have a myopic view of reality and we shouldn’t trust their judgement of us in the first place. Maybe people around us see our conspicuous flaws and fail to be curious or interested in who we really are. Or maybe we are just surrounded by assholes.”

The therapists then recommended taking the following steps:

Reflect on who you are as a person

The therapists unsurprisingly recommended looking inwards as the first step saying, “Get a list of personality description words from the internet. Look through that list and circle as many positive qualities about yourself as you can find which you relate to. Then reflect on each of the words you circled, recalling memories and experiences you’ve had which you feel exemplify that word.

“Make it a ritual in your life to review your day, your week, your month and your year through the lens of what your personal goals for yourself were, where you’ve grown as a person, and what you are proud of.”

They said this is important because, “part of how we let go of the voices of others is to consciously hear our own voice, so we have to make this a practice in your life.”

Be direct about your needs

The therapists pointed out that when we’re looking for external validation, we’re often doing so passively and laying expectations without actually indicating what we need. They said, “While it’s natural to seek validation from others, we often do so in a passive way that is unsatisfying. We are *hoping* somebody will thank us, compliment us or affirm us.

“We post online that we are sad or feeling down to fish for some positive feedback (which isn’t wrong to do). But a better way is to approach a few quality people in your life from time to time and tell them that you need a reminder of what they like about you, or admire in you, and ask if that is something they can take a moment to give you.

″I like being direct and honest about what we need from others because it gives them an opportunity to think about it and get closer to providing what we need.”

I Was On A Hookup Site Hunting For Revenge Sex. Instead, I Ended Up Donating A Kidney.

Posted on 16/12/2023 by Boris Clair

The last thing I expected to be doing a couple of weeks before a romantic getaway with my boyfriend was staring slack-jawed at his smiling face among a sea of dick pics and X-rated action shots in a seedy hookup site’s search results. Yet there he was on Adult Friend Finder with a hokey username below a clear picture of his face. For a smart man, he was a massive idiot.

The breakup was swift. He told me he was only on the site for porn and declared: “Either you believe me or you don’t.” Considering that his bio on the site started with ”I’m primarily looking for sex,” I didn’t believe him. Then he broke up with me.

Soon after, I was left alone with the Adult Friend Finder account I created to discover my ex’s. So, I did what any angry hot-blooded single woman would do. I started checking out profiles.

In no time, I was awash in a sea of lewd photos — limp dicks, hard dicks, spread-eagled men inexplicably displaying their assholes. Instantly, I had messages pouring in ― most of them so ridiculous they didn’t even deserve a reply. More than once, I asked myself what in the hell I was doing, but I didn’t delete my profile.

Eventually, after being disappointed and disturbed by the quality of gentleman callers, I decided to edit my profile and lay it out like I was on any regular dating site. I talked about enjoying music and the theatre, being a voracious reader of modern literature, and my desire to find someone intelligent and engaging. To prove I was totally over the semiliterate penis parade, I made the first line of my introduction: “Who’s got brains to go with their balls?”

This earned me some more refined suitors whose opening lines only hinted at the intent of the site instead of outright telling me all the gruesome and misspelled things they were going to do to me. What their messages lacked in overt vulgarity, they made up for with arrogance. Without fail, their lead foot was a profession they were sure would fill me with uncontrollable sapiosexual desire.

One example was the guy who bragged, ”Aerospace Engineer here. Big symphony lover. I read the New York Times every morning. Brains enough to go with my well-formed other parts.”

Of them all, my favourite self-promotion was, ”If critical thinking is your aphrodisiac, then I must be chocolate, oysters, and green M&Ms all rolled into one.”

I wasn’t nearly as impressed as they all hoped I would be. On the other hand, Mr. Engineer’s profile picture displayed some impressive muscles. My thirst for revenge on my ex (and thirst in general) led me to reserve a hotel room and agree to meet with him a couple of weeks later.

But right after I arranged my rendezvous, a surprising message landed in my inbox. A guy wrote me an email filled with questions. About me. After a little “I can’t even begin to say how gorgeous you are” and “Your beauty pales compared to your intellect” were some shockers like, ”What’s your favourite genre?” and “Who’s your favourite author?”

This new contender was a high school Latin teacher and the first guy to genuinely have manners without rambling on about how wonderful he was with three paragraphs’ worth of academic and career credentials.

“I’m Paul,” he ended his message, “and it’s a pleasure to meet you, I hope.”

We exchanged our email addresses. After a little correspondence, Paul won Mr. Engineer’s hotel room date.

In lieu of a cellphone exchange, the first nudes of our relationship were Roman statues at an art gallery. We wandered through the exhibits with Paul acting as both date and guide, entertaining me with the stories behind the mythological characters in the works on display.

Paul lacked all the bragging and preening of the other men who sent me messages. Rather, he was refreshingly normal: average build, a little on the short side, graying hair. His standout feature was a voice made for radio, deep and pleasant.

After our museum trip, we had dinner, then drinks, then we headed up to my hotel room. All told, a rather successful first date.

***

Not long into seeing each other, Paul mentioned that he was sick. An inherited condition had shut down his kidneys years before, and his body was currently working with one donated by his father.

His attitude was amazingly accepting about the whole thing. “I’m going to be bummed when this kidney runs out of steam,” he admitted. “I’m not looking forward to being on dialysis. But I’ve lived with this all my life, and it’s just another one of those things.”

I couldn’t believe someone could call end-stage renal disease “just another one of those things.”

“You have to get through it and get on with it,” he shrugged, “because otherwise what’s the point?”

In addition to being impressively resilient, Paul was interesting and respectful — a rare find among the creeps who had contacted me — and a catch by any other standards, as well. But I just didn’t have the energy after the whole blowup with my ex. I backpedaled our relationship to friend status, and over time, we mostly fell out of touch.

The author giving her mom the thumbs up after her surgery in October 2015.

Months passed. I eventually opted out of relationship attempts altogether and was spending lots of quality time with my cats. One day, an email showed up.

“Most of you know that my transplanted kidney has been declining for a while,” Paul wrote. “My doctors think that, within a year or so, I’ll need another transplant or dialysis. I’d like to avoid dialysis, though. It can lead to complications, and even when it goes well, I understand it’s kind of miserable. Also, living donor kidneys are more successful than cadaver organs. And so, my doctors have asked me to try to find a donor. ‘Bring us a warm body!’ was their specific instruction.”

It wasn’t a lack of desire to help that prevented me from responding ― it was the Army. I was enlisted at the time and doubted the military would be keen on the idea of a soldier getting an organ removed, even for a worthy cause. I reluctantly archived the email and crossed my fingers that someone else would come along who happened to be willing, able and Type O.

Around a year after our first date, we met to catch up and see a play. Though there were plenty of parts worth laughing at, the performance was pretty gloomy. As the main characters spiralled toward their inevitable ends, one grimly mused, “Dying is not romantic.” I looked over at Paul and saw that his eyes were bright with tears.

His dialysis had begun. He was paler, weaker, slower, and more miserable overall. He was “getting through it and getting on with it,” but it was taking a toll on him.

My friend was dying. It was not romantic.

***

I got home from the play and sent an email to Paul’s transplant coordinator. “I’m hesitant to jump in the potential donor pool because I’m in the military,” I wrote. “I’m not certain I could actually get approval to donate.” I begged her to keep it a secret from Paul, not wanting to get his hopes up.

Everything after that was a flurry of tests and paperwork. Physical, CT scan, EKG, chest X-ray. Psychiatrists from the civilian and military worlds both interviewed me to make sure I wasn’t too unstable to make my own decisions. Every time I turned in one document, I needed a signature on another.

Throughout the whole process, statistics constantly ran through my mind. The average wait time for a cadaver kidney is five years, and Paul had just been put on the national waiting list when he began dialysis. At any given time, the list has nearly 100,000 people on it.

My secret from Paul didn’t stay under wraps for quite as long as I wanted. Before I got a thumbs-up from the military, another of his friends who was going through testing heard from the transplant team that there was a strong contender waiting for the Army’s permission. She spilled the beans.

When he found out, Paul told me he immediately felt what he could only describe as pure joy. He was elated and relieved, but most importantly, “for the first time in months, hopeful.” I tried to feel confident that everything would work out, but was terrified of disappointing him if I ultimately couldn’t donate.

It took four nail-biting months of waiting. After getting medically cleared and pushing paperwork all the way to the Office of the Surgeon General in Washington, my request was finally approved.

When Paul and I met again in the hospital after the surgery, I was flooded with a relief there aren’t words for. I’ve been told I should be proud of myself. I’m not. I’m grateful. I gave a good man more time. He’s so much healthier now and off dialysis. My kidney is serving him well. With luck, it’ll hold out for many years to come.

The author preparing to leave the hospital. “The man who wheeled me to the car asked, ‘Is it your first?’ assuming I had given birth. I responded that it was my first, and hopefully only, kidney donation." — The author preparing to leave the hospital. “The man who wheeled me to the car asked, ‘Is it your first?’ assuming I had given birth. I responded that it was my first, and hopefully only, kidney donation.”

I often get asked why I was willing to donate to someone I hadn’t known for very long, even though any health complications could’ve jeopardised my Army career. Most people who would shell out an organ for someone are doing it for a family member. Many say they couldn’t do it, no matter what.

But here’s the thing: Paul was dying. It would’ve been a long, slow road of suffering while he waited for a cadaver kidney that probably wouldn’t have been as functional as my living one. People don’t need two kidneys to live a normal life. I wasn’t that likely to experience negative side effects and it turned out that I didn’t. Those who make it through the donor selection process are already healthy, so the surgery doesn’t usually affect them much. And I can’t stress this enough: Paul was dying. I wanted to save the life of my dying friend.

Realistically, Paul probably did me a service, too. Revenge-screwing some muscle from a hookup site wasn’t the safest life choice I could make. Paul was proof that there were still decent men in the world, but any other online rando might not have been one of them.

Since the surgery, we’ve remained friends. Though we don’t see each other very often, we talk online almost daily. A while back he married another Latin teacher, whom I’m sure he also wooed with Roman nudes.

If you’re considering becoming a living organ donor — and I strongly recommend you do — you can get more information here.

Liz Armstrong is finally wrapping up her undergraduate studies after spending eleven years in the Army and a handful more bobbing aimlessly through life. A student at the University of Maryland, College Park, she is pursuing degrees in English and Chinese, though how she will apply them remains a mystery. She lives with her wife and three cats.

The Funniest Tweets From Women This Week (Dec. 9-15)

Posted on 15/12/2023 by Boris Clair

Newsletter sign-up

HuffPost UK Life Newsletter

Sign up and we’ll email you a daily dose of lifestyle stories, covering sex, relationships, health, wellness, money, and green living.

By entering your email and clicking Sign Up, you’re agreeing to let us send you customized marketing messages about us and our advertising partners. You are also agreeing to our Terms of Service and Privacy Policy.

We’re Obsessed With The ‘Dating Wrapped’ Trend On TikTok, But Is It Healthy?

Posted on 13/12/2023 by Boris Clair

Have you heard of PowerPoint parties? There are lots of variations from kids proposing Christmas presents to their parents to friends dunking on each other using PowerPoint formats.

Now, though, singles on TikTok are inviting us to their own PowerPoint parties with the ‘dating wrapped’ trend. In this, singles give us a breakdown of their year in dating. The people they met, the experiences they had and where they are now, all broken down into digestible slides for our entertainment.

This is the year that Tinder was described as being “for the plot” so it’s not surprising that this approach to storytelling has taken off on the social media app but is it healthy?

Should we be joining trends like ‘dating wrapped’?

Of course, this is a very fun trend and we can’t get enough of learning about people’s dating lives via aesthetically-pleasing slides, but is it actually healthy to do this so publicly? And what does it tell potential future partners about us?

HuffPost UK spoke to Emma Hathorn, in-house dating expert at luxury dating site Seeking.com about the trend and to find out whether it’s something we should be joining in with.

She believes that it’s not inherently harmful but we should still proceed with caution. She said, “while ‘Dating Wrapped’ offers a playful and engaging way to share our romantic experiences, there’s a subtle risk involved.”

“Sharing specifics like the number of times you’ve been ghosted might make a potential partner second guess you, wondering if there’s a pattern or if there’s more to the story. It could unintentionally raise questions about your approach to dating or inadvertently create doubts about your experiences.”

Really, this makes sense. After all, how many of us have had a pre-date snoop at the social media presence of potential partners or even asked our friends to? If you saw a potential partner spilling all on TikTok, would it raise alarm bells for you about dating them?

With this in mind, Hathorn added, “while it’s tempting to spill all the numbers, consider leaving some room for mystery and focusing on the fun, exciting parts of your dating journey instead.”

She added, “remember — while dating is about the fun, it is also about how you utilise your time and attention. Connecting with new partners isn’t always about the past, but about what you’ve learnt from that past and how you move forward, uplifting both yourself and them”.

Maybe keep the deep dives for your private PowerPoint Parties and group chats.

Here’s Why You Should NEVER Roast Potatoes In Olive Oil

Posted on 12/12/2023 by Boris Clair

I hate to sound arrogant, but I was pretty sure I’d landed on the perfect roast potato recipe until about an hour ago.

The steps seemed so simple. Par-boil the spuds (I love roosters) for about ten minutes; put a shameful amount of olive oil in a tray to warm in a hot oven; chuff and season the spuds with semolina and herbs, and then roast. Right?

Wrong, it seems. Because while every other step might be legit (like, Mary Berry-approved legit), I’m making a serious mistake with my oil.

Beef tallow isn’t just a delicious, decadent addition to spuds, it turns out ― olive oil is among the worst oils you can roast your potatoes in, apparently. Specifically, extra-virgin olive oil.

What? Why?

It’s all to do with something called a smoke point.

The smoke point of extra-virgin olive oil is around 165-190°C, which pales in comparison to duck fat’s 190°C and rice bran oil’s 260°C.

Light or refined olive oil has a more impressive smoke point of 260°C, but it’s not as good as safflower oil’s 265°C.

In fact, Serious Eats puts extra-virgin olive oil right at the bottom of its smoke point chart ― meaning it’s better used as a dressing or dip than a cooking aid.

That’s because once you heat oil past its smoke point, its fats start to break down, releasing free radicals and a substance called acrolein.

Acrolein is responsible for that burned, acrid, bitter flavour we’re all trying to avoid ― so while flash-frying a quick meal in shallow levels of oil might be OK, leaving your veggies to essentially stew in split fats for an hour or more probably isn’t.

And given that most roast potato recipes call for a 200°C-ish (or 180°C fan) roasting temp for potatoes, it doesn’t seem likely that your 65-190°C-smoke-point extra-virgin olive oil will cut it.

I mean, even if you can stand the taste, a smoky oven is nobody’s idea of fun, right?

What should I use instead?

Duck fat, which has a smoke point of 190°C, could be suitable (and delicious) if you’re cooking on the slightly lower fan-assisted heat.

But good ol’ sunflower and vegetable oil, which can withstand temps of around 225°C, might be a cheaper (and perfectly tasty) option.

Avoid coconut oil and butter, which both have low smoke points of around 175°C. ― and if you’re craving that extra-rich taste, beef tallow has a high smoke point of 205°C.

Refined or light olive oil has a high smoke point of 260°C, so this should be fine to use too ― it’s just the extra-virgin type you need to worry about.

Ah, the joys of cooking…

WellnessMaster

Get The Latest News on Holistic Wellness

Tag Archives: Life