If procrastination were a competitive sport, I’d be an Olympic gold medalist. After spending the past hour toiling away at the following while my homework lies undone on the kitchen table, I’ll let it nag at me silently while I share with you my latest concoction.

One of my favorite forms of procrastination is cooking and/or baking. And I’ve been on a kick lately of buying whole, organic foods rather than boxes of mac and cheese and lean pockets. So with dwindling supplies and no apparent, appetizing quick finds for dinner, I made my way to the back of my refrigerator to unearth an acorn squash that I purchased last week. It upsets me to spend money on food just to let time and oxygen consume it. So I set out to create the most delicious squash-based dish I could conceive. The result is disappearing zealously by the spoonful as I type (or between sentences if you will.)

Bear in mind, I have schizophrenic taste buds that have the tasted the most unlikely combinations. In addition, I have no idea what the hell I’m doing when I cook. Does watching the food network count as professional training?

So here it is! My recipe for Blue Cheese Squash Soup.

Ingredients:

• 1 squash (I used acorn, but whatever)
• 1/2 large sweet onion (like media-white)
• 3 Chai teabags (one to drink while cooking)
• 1 can chicken stock
• olive oil
• 1/2 stick of butter
• 1 cup milk or cream (I used skim)
• 2 T. flour
• 1 lemon
• 2 oz. Blue Cheese
• Salt
• Pepper
• Cayenne Pepper (optional)
• Turmeric (optional)
• Cinnamon
• Really whatever spices/herbs you have

1. Preheat oven to 400F. Cut acorn in half long, remove (and save!) seeds. Boil water and brew 2 chai teabags in 1 cup water. Place squash halves face down in casserole pan. Add concentrated chai and enough water to fill 1/4-1/2 inch of the pan. Bake for 20 minutes, or until squash is semi-soft. You can also flip the squash after 10 minutes and fill the bowl-shaped halves with some of the chai tea.

2. While squash is baking, chop onion and cook over medium heat in large saucepan with olive oil. Don’t fry the onions, but cook slowly until they soften.

3. Cube the squash and add to saucepan. Do I need to tell you to remove the skin? If so, insert head in oven. The squash may still be tough. Add 1/2 stick of butter, chicken stock andchai tea to the onion/squash mixture.

4. Boil for 10-15 minutes until stock is reduced 3/4 and squash is super tender. Stir often to squash the squash. (ha! ugh)

5. Remove soup from heat. Mix 2T. flour with 1c. hot water until flour is dissolved. Stir into soup. This should thicken the soup.

6. Squeeze 1 medium lemon into soup. Add a little spice. I recommend cinnamon, pepper, a bit of salt and whatever else you desire.

7. Add 1c. milk/cream to soup stirring constantly to prevent scalding.

8. Add blue cheese to mix. It’s your call. I’m addicted to the stuff, but if you’ve got blue cheese haters, save it for a garnish.

9. Blend the mixer in a food processor or your roommate’s blender until smooth.

10. Garnish with pepper, maybe some dill and baked squash seeds (that I forgot to tell you about. While the soup’s cooking, rinse the seeds from the squash innards, bake in a pan with some oil and salt until lightly brown. I did them at 400F for 10-15 minutes)

11. Enjoy! Leave the mess for your roommates, blog, browse Facebook and then start your homework…unless something good is on TV.

Lately, I’ve been working on a seemingly simple life lesson. That tired, old phrase, “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” you’ve heard it right? Probably from your mother or a friend that has set you up on a hopeless blind date. It’s a great mantra, and I’m desperately trying to avoid the flashy, trendy facade of a book cover that catches my eye from time to time.

Saturday night, my roommates and I drove to Chicago to watch our friends’ band play. Rachel, my roommate, has a confusing, long-distance pre-relationship with the guitarist, (the real determinant for our trip) but Abby and I braced ourselves for a night of possibilities, partying with those oh-so-hip young Chicagoans. I even put on makeup to the chronic criticisms of my roommate, Ben, claiming that guys prefer girls who don’t wear makeup – another matter that merits a separate discussion.

At the show, at an apartment turned venue sitting under the rattling El tracks, Abby and I pointed out a few candidates for the evening, including the tight-jeaned, bearded, square-rimmed glasses and vintage t-shirt-wearing bassist of the opening band. Hip and attractive, he hosted the after party that we attended (after some ex-girlfriend drama between Rachel and her beau.)

Walking into the modern, high-ceiling loft apartment in downtown Chicago, I got a little excited when I saw the street bikes propped against the wall and the black and white photography produced on the living-room black screen that hung on the wall, spilling out onto the floor, like a tablecloth filled with unusual props and lighting equipment. How cool are Chicago kids?! Feeling optimistic and overly hip, I joined in the debauchery with shot after shot of whiskey. And as I fell down that familiar rabbit hole of good feelings and released inhibitions, the scenery all fell away, exposing this trendy Wonderland for its reality of a disgusting, decorated fraternity.

It began with the wrestling. Yes. Wrestling. The drunken band mates stripped to their boxers and fought each other on the living room floor to the cheers and grunts of their encouraging counterparts. We have pictures and videos that can easily be mistaken for another aggressive activity. The night only became more twilight zone-esque, including lighting each other on fire, high fiving over porn, Box Car Racer, indoor firework pranks, ear piercing with thumbtacks and considerable damage to the apartment. Rachel was long gone, and Abby and I became inconspicuous observers, studying (laughing at) this colony of primitive beings. The only boy there that seemed to notice a female presence was too ridiculous for words, winking, flexing and very suavely calling us “ladies.” To put it simply, it was the weirdest fucking night of my life.

Though haunting, it was a good lesson in book covers. All of the elements were in line: hip, smart-dressing musicians, downtown Chicago apartments, alcohol and youthful spirit; where did it go wrong? It was like I opened the book and all of the pages were blank, or at least bore resemblance to the tale of a frat party. Could it be that, once these boys are stripped to the core, the bike messenger and the bro are one in the same? I’m starting to think so. I’m not making a general, feministic men-bashing statement, but rather that, although we evolve during college – a period of enlightenment and supposed self-awareness, our genuine personalities remain constant whether they’re cool or not.

My old roommate, Bridget, is the poster child of hip. She dresses right. She bikes. She “cares” about the environment. She hangs out with fellow hip people and plays scrabble. And you should see her DVD and music collection! She understands college culture and is completely aware. And yet, she’s one of the most awful, disgusting people I’ve ever encountered. She’s self-absorbed, spoiled and ridiculously hypocritical . Her spoiled personality has tainted all of her relationships and yet, she can’t figure it out. It’s sad. She’s like a hollow shell of fashion and innovative pop culture.

Living in Chile, I had the “fortune” of being blonde and white. I could attract men that I couldn’t dream of in the states, and I did. This new-found ego trip got me into loads of trouble, and I finally swore not to judge anymore Chilean men based on whether or not I considered them attractive. The day after I took my oath, a classmate approached me about our group project. This Chilean was not attractive. Alvaro had long, 80’s metal hair and usually dressed in black. He didn’t hang out with the rest of the rugby players in class (those that I wanted to be associated with) but, honoring my promise, I forced down the disappointment of being paired with such an outcast. On the first class field trip, not knowing any other classmates yet, I clumsily asked to sit next to Alvaro. We talked casually, and I realized later that it was the first conversation that I had had with a Chilean without the hopeful finish line being my bedroom. Through class projects and assignments, Alvaro and I began to talk more and more, and then eventually sat next to each other in class and started to hang out outside of class. Our friendship was unlikely and odd, but sincere, and I cherish it. When I leftValdivia , it was Alvaro, not the buff rugby players that I partied with, that stood on the train platform waving goodbye with tears in his eyes.

I find it depressing that, at 21 years old, I’m still battling the seduction of vanity. I have awesome friends, some that dress well and listen to Daft Punk, and some that think Girl Talk is a pre-teen board game. One thing remains constant. They are all awesome people. I don’t follow Pitchfork and I still haven’t heard the new Radiohead album, but I do know how to brush away the character flaws and appreciate the sincerity and unique qualities of each of my friends. The rest – getting wrapped up in the hip culture, or the mental slip of being attracted to someone’s image or list of favorite movies on their Facebook profile – is a work in progress.

Two days after Easter, and I’m 5 minutes to midnight on the “Death by Sugar” clock. Or, maybe I’m on orangish-magenta alert. The point is that I’ve eaten so many chocolates and sweets this week (and every week prior) that I have to dignify it with a blog about the best Chilean sweets.

There’s a very plump lady that sits outside of the university library every day selling irresistible home-made chocolaty treats for about 20 cents each. I call this woman “La Brujita” – the little witch. And although her excessive figure should heed a warning, we American girls have a terrible time getting past her, with pockets full of change and some ready excuse to justify the sugar rush. Among the selection of chocolate-covered almond bars, fruit-filled truffles and bon bons, you’ll find the mack daddy – a 5-layered alfajor.

The alfajor (Arabic for al-hasu, meaning “stuffed” or “filled”) is a sandwich-style cookie or biscuit filled with fruit or dulce de leche, and covered with chocolate. It’s sold all over South America, and is especially common in Argentina and Chile. While I’ve sampled similar treats in the states, usually made with caramel sandwiched between two Ritz crackers, dipped in chocolate, the secret ingredient in the South American alfajor is love.

Ok, not love. It’s the dulce de leche.

Dulce de leche, or manjar (man-har) as it’s called in Chile, is a sweetened, condensed milk product. I don’t really know how it’s made (although I’ll soon learn about it in my dairy products technology class) but it’s deliciously addictive. It’s similar to caramel and replaces peanut butter here as favorite baking additive, bread spread and spoon-licked treat. McDonalds even sells a Manjar sundae. When we first arrived in Chile, I resented dulce de leche for replacing my beloved peanut butter, and I refused to eat it. But it’s definitely grown on me since, especially in the alfajores.

(Side story: I’m reading about how to prepare dulce de leche, and apparently it’s common in Spain to cook sweetened condensed milk for a few hours. Once, my sister needed to make it for Spanish class, so my mother – following directions – put the unopened can of sweetened condensed milk in a pan of boiling water and left to go running. An hour or so later, she returned to a kitchen exploded with a burnt, sticky caramel-like substance, ceiling, floor, all. Ha-ha, my poor mother.)

So as I sit here in the library enjoying my alfajor, it brings back a flood of sweet memories from my Chilean experience so far. When we arrived to Chile in February, still hung over from the Christmas cookie season, I found myself in the middle of a warm and sunny South American summer and ice cream season. And unlike our guilty pleasure status of sweets in the states, there’s no shame in eating ice cream here. My first day in Valdivia, Marcelo took us to sample the best ice cream in the city. The place – Entre Lagos, a decent, but rather expensive restaurant. Here it’s better to skip the meal and dive into their selection of gourmet coffees and desserts. If opting for ice cream, know that while the cones aren’t massively overstuffed, they usually give you two choices of flavors in the same cone, so choose wisely. I recommend a scoop of Swiss chocolate on a scoop of pistachio.

Thanks to the German influence in the area, kuchen is a staple on any dessert menu in town. Kuchen simply means “cake” in German, and with such a wide variety of flavors and variations, it’s difficult to classify it as anything else. Usually sliced in wedges like a pie, I’ve commonly seen three types of kuchen in this area: miga, nuez and frambuesa. Kuchen de miga tastes similar to coffee cake with a top layer of crumbs. Nuez simply means nuts, and the frambuesa contains a healthy amount of raspberries.

One thing you won’t find here is a Krispie Kreams (although my mother offered to ship me some.) Instead, sopapillas cover the sweet, fried dough category. And that’s pretty much what they are. Fried dough sprinkled with sugar or filled with cheese. As Marcelo described them to us, “When you’re a kid, and it’s cold and rainy outside, you ask your mom to make sopapillas. They’re warm and sweet, and it’s the perfect rainy-day treat.” Nicole and I bought a box mix, struggled though Spanish instructions, and ended up with a few burnt bread discs and an apartment smelling of fried foods.

A dessert that Nicole and I did manage to successfully recreate is the ever-notorious flan. I still haven’t figured out this stuff, a mix between pudding and jell-o, I suppose. You can buy it here in a snack cup right alongside pudding, jell-o and yogurt cups. Maybe it’s an acquired taste, or maybe I’m just too stuck on fruity jell-o, but nothing about flan makes my mouth water.

So that’s an account of my sugar high here in South America. As of late, I’ve been snacking on an Easter basket filled with Starbursts, M&M’s and Reese’s peanut butter cups, thanks to a surprise visit from the Easter Bunny (Nicole’s mom. THANK YOU HOLLY!) While you can find shelves stocked with exotic candy bars and foreign delicacies, it helps to curb the homesickness to have some familiar favorites around. So feel free to send me some.

BIRTHDAY!

After three tedious days of wandering around UACh looking for classes like zombies hungry for brains, we finally headed across the river today to the Conservatory of Music to find out about the university choirs. At UW, the fear of the audition and of the time commitment had previously confined me to my shower for singing (although I did have the lead in my high school musical.) Lynn had mentioned that her Dutch roommate made a number of friends last semester in the UACh choir, so Nicole and I were eager to dust off our vocal chords and join the Chilean songbirds.

            One broken-Spanish conversation later and we met the director who promptly, and unexpectedly, tested our vocal ranges at his piano. I squeaked my way through the audition, wavering through notes sharp and flat, shattering glass and causing babies to cry and stray dogs to howl painfully. Luckily, this isn’t American Idol, and we were both invited to join the 100-member student/community choir as sopranos.

            Later that afternoon, Marcelo told us that he would pick us up at 10pm for an evening of karaoke. Expecting a late evening, Nicole and I prepared with a long nap and a pasta dinner. While primping, I made a startling revelation that my hair straightener and blow dryer don’t actually require a voltage converter to work with Chilean outlets. Duh! After an entire month of bad towel-dried hairdos, blissful relief came in the form of hot air and hairspray.

(Travelers’ Tip: Know the country’s outlet voltage before you pack. Some American devices like digital camera and laptop chargers have built-in charge converters that read something like 120/240V, meaning they’ll accept any voltage within that range. If not, you’ll need to invest in a charge converter. In addition, you’ll need outlet adaptors with country-specific prongs. Chile and Argentina don’t even use the same outlets. Check with  your local electronics store.)

            It’s an unwritten law that karaoke is always supposed to be bad. In fact, it’s nearly a social crime to sing karaoke well. Serious karaoke contestants are usually the socially awkward that find acceptance by singing old 80’s hits in a dingy bar, and they always have a list of favorites ready. They’re the type of people that sing with their eyes closed in public.

            Apparently, the notion that karaoke is a nonchalant, slightly-intoxicated contest of shameless showmanship hasn’t reached the desolate corners of Chilean bars. Marcelo said that karaoke has grown so in the past few years that average singers can’t compete with the pitch-perfect performances of the selected few mic hogs. Eager to prove him wrong, that accuracy meant very little in the realm of karaoke, Nicole and I signed up to perform a Spice Girls classic.

            Like everything else in Chile, their idea of karaoke was foreign to me. The mic went from table to table, and the performers just sat, SAT!, at their tables while following the words on the big screen. Granted, there were some incredible notes hit, but lacked any stage presence.

            Finally, our names were called, we grabbed the mics and stood up – away from the table. Singing and dancing from table to table, the crowd (excuse the cliché) went wild. We definitely missed a lot of notes and words but had the simple advantages of being native English speakers, bold and blonde.

I remember our Santiago hitchhikers commenting that Chileans are less sure of themselves than Argentineans. And although it’s a generalization, I’m curious if being reserved or timid is part of Chilean culture. It would explain why it was so easy to impress the karaoke crowd. I’ll have to do some more searching for Chilean guts. Not literally. And you can bet that I’ll be singing more karaoke in Valdivia. Not too much though as I don’t want to become a karaoke regular.

“Hey, guess what,” I said to Nicole, nudging her awake at 4am from my reclined airplane seat. “We’re in South America.”

She gave a big sleepy grin and shook her head in slight disbelief expressing the surrealism of that idea.

Around 7am, after a full 24 hours of traveling, we finally touched ground in Santiago, Chile. Getting off the plane in my Wisconsin Badgers sweatshirt and boots, I was greeted by the warm air of a South American summer, and the chaos of an international airport. Customs, baggage claim, registration with the international police, fractured Spanish at all stations, we made our way through the unrelentless crowd to the transportation area where we dodged desperate taxi drivers to find a city bus to take us to the actual bus station. Without any sort of itinerary or instructions, we lugged our some 200lbs. of suitcases through the thick mob of travelers to the bus and through the station to discover that the next bus to Valdivia wouldn’t leave until 9pm – a full 12 hours later.

Left tired and sweaty and buried under our luggage, we sought out the station’s luggage storage service and, on our way, found “los baños ejecutivos.” These curious bus station bathrooms offer a private bathroom for 30 minutes complete with shower and towels for a mere $7. In such desperate need of grooming, the cost was easily justified.

Half an hour later, we were luggage free, refreshed and ready to explore the capital city of Santiago.

I’m not sure that I can wrap my head around the size of this city. With over 5.5 million citizens, Santiago and its surrounding suburbs house roughly one-third of Chilean citizens. On foot, Nicole and I were limited to nearby locations that seemed interesting enough on the bus station map. Later we would learn that the city surrounding the bus station isn’t Santiago’s finest neighborhood. We first headed across the main street to the University of Santiago. Not realizing that Chilean students are now on their summer break, we halted at the locked gates around the entrances. Still ambitious, we strolled the streets, filled with dingy newsstands, graffiti and run-down convenient stores with barred windows. Nicole and I, with our blonde hair and fair skin, stuck out like the skinny kids at fat camp. It wasn’t long before every hombre on the sidewalk or passing truck whistled or said, “Hello beautifuls” in a cheesy, Spanish accent. At first, we just laughed and ignored the comments, but after an hour or so, it felt like they might as well be throwing eggs.

Upon recommendation from the bus station information booth, we sought out La Casa de Moneda – the capitol building of Chile, and a must see for first-time tourists. But with our poor Spanish in a huge, strange city, we mistook passersby’s directions and walked circles until we ended up back at the bus station.

Still eager and with nine hours left to kill, we tried our hand at the metro – the city’s subway system. Entering the train, I noted to Nicole the surreal irony that two Wisconsin farm girls who grew up without traffic lights in their towns just hopped aboard a train in a booming South American metropolis. I suppose, sooner or later, it’s bound to happen.

Coming out of the metro station, Santiago looked like an entirely different city. The buildings were gentle giants that stood proudly on either side of the plaza. Each median that separated the street was its own city park, you could picnic between zooming cars headed in opposite directions. In the plaza, men didn’t cat call and no one starred at us hungrily for a quick swipe of the purse.

La Casa de Moneda unmistakably sits like a palace with two football fields of a front lawn and guards stationed at every corner and entrance. With elected officials’ offices consuming the interior of the building, tourists are able to roam the open courtyard within towering walls. In the basement, an eloquent art museum displays pictures and art from Chile’s rich places and artists. Nicole and I practically drooled over photographs of the Chiloé Island in the south, hearts leaping when thinking of traveling to the different locations.

After an afternoon of gawking at such an impressive city, Nicole and I stopped to rest on a park bench and soon fell asleep like the lazy, stray dogs that roam the city.

A quick metro ride back to the bus station, and Nicole and I were again on guard with our passports and money. Tired and sun burnt, we settled for a cheap dinner at the bus station food court. We purchased one McDonalds quarter pounder with fries and a Chilean fast food equivalent – to compare the meals. While the Chilean meal included a tasty cheese empanada (like a half-circle hot pocket), McDonald’s fries are hard to beat. I will note though, that as a ketchup addict, I am disturbed by the off-flavored sauce everywhere in Chile. It’s subtle, but a ketchup conoser like me can pick up on the difference, an almost chili sauce flavor.

During dinner, someone made a grab for Nicole’s backpack by her foot. Witnessing it, I kicked her bag towards me seemingly nonchalantly, gave the guy a nasty look and told Nicole we should be going…now.

By 9pm, we were comfortable in our reclined bus seats, exhausted from an intense day in the capital city but left satisfied having seen the sites, and ready to sleep through the 10-hour nighttime ride to Valdivia.

On Guard