Goodies First

Bittersweet Memories

I must admit that I've never gotten fancier than using Stirrings blood orange bitters at home, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate the handiwork of others. Pay a visit to my Metromix piece about  bars around town using unusual bitters.

Does Django records in Portland still exist? I think not, though I guess I'll find out soon enough. In the late '80s, the white plastic record divider for the Morrissey section had "he's bitter" written in the same hand as the one-name heading, just below the jump. Someone else had scrawled, "you're stupid" underneath that phrase. Whenever I'd flip through the vinyl, which was frequently, the "you're stupid" got under my skin. Though now, thinking back, the "he's bitter" was the unneccesary commentary. There's nothing wrong with being bitter.

Crustacean Nation

If you ever wanted to know where to find hard shell crab around the city (soft-shells are a different story and much easier to obtain), here is my new piece on Metromix.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to plan a low key birthday party and wish I hadn't already used Clemente's Maryland Crab House two years ago because I hate repeating myself.

Bizarro World

Write what you know? How about write what you hate? It’s not really fair to say you don’t like something if you haven’t even done it, but sometimes scorn is contagious and irresistible. At least to me. So, this Saturday I vowed to be open minded and actually experience popular food-related activities before making any judgments. Opposite Day wasn’t really that painful.

Brunching and trying Stumptown coffee would be easy to accomplish at the same time in 11231. I feel like I cheated a little bit because instead of heading into the maw of the beast, a.k.a. Smith Street, or just walking the three blocks to Prime Meats, we drove to Kevin’s in Red Hook. A true Opposite Day would involve biking the short distance but procuring a new means of transport was too much on short notice. Oh, if I were doing this full force I would’ve found a venue with sidewalk seating, that’s the worst. I’ll sit in a backyard if it’s not crazy hot and humid but there’s nothing less appetizing than dining all exposed on an NYC sidewalk.

 Kevin’s was suspiciously mellow, just a few occupied tables, a same sex couple, single diners, not a stroller in sight, completely trauma-free. I never ever go out to breakfast or brunch because I don’t like getting up early, and yes, to me being somewhere at noon is getting up early. If I truly wanted to experience what I think I loathe I would’ve woken up around 8am and walked a dog, gone for a run and/or bike ride. None of those things will ever happen (I’ll jog, but only indoors). Other non-food related activities that are likely to never happen: yoga, mani/pedi, paying to have my laundry done and bikini waxing.

A rich cheddar cheese and bacon-filled omelet was just what I needed. The bacon was soft and fatty, which I prefer, but if you like crunchy doneness you might be disappointed. The toast was buttered within an inch of its life, soaked through and through.  The potatoes were ok, though I’d like a little more char on the edges. I would never cook food like this for myself in the morning, but I do appreciate the break from my dull weekday packet of oatmeal or Kashi bar.

I’m by no means a coffee connoisseur, despite how it may appear Northwesterners are not born with an exacting coffee palate, I drink a pre-ground brew from Trader Joe’s. I was expecting this coffee to be stronger, however it was subtle, low in acidity and very smooth. I wouldn’t say there was anything unique about the coffee but the large pot for $5 seemed fair. It turns out I don’t really have any problems with Stumptown or brunch as long as they are consumed a non-populous neighborhood.

 

Next stop, the Grand Army Plaza greenmarket. Rationally, I don’t issues with fresh produce and meat from humanely raised animals. I just don’t like crowds and I happen to be very cheap. For a little over $30 I picked up random odds and ends that included: pea shoots, snap peas, sourdough bread, Cato Corner Farm Hooligan cheese, half a dozen eggs, half a chicken, mesclun, peppermint. It was ok, and definitely didn’t kill me but I doubt I’ll be back any time soon. I am trying to look happy in my photo but I'm not sure if I'm succeeding.

My original plan was to go to Hapa Kitchen at BKLYN Yard, which is completely walkable from my apartment. Asian female food bloggers cooking greenmarket sourced food, the Treats Truck and DJs? Can it get any more Brooklyn? No. And I took a pass.

I fully embraced the speakeasy experience, though. Well, sort of. I think I was probably cheating again because I went to Dutch Kills, in the still no-man’s-land of Long Island City. Oh, and at 8pm so there were only two other groups of people and everything was running smoothly, lots of personal attention.

First I tried one of the chalkboard specials, the Water Lily. I will always try something using Crème de Violet, partially because I like the pretty lavender hue (which this didn’t have). The main liquor was gin and I think there was also Lillet and lemon involved.

Next, I asked for something citrusy (I prefer sour over sweet drinks) that uses Peychaud’s Bitters and was given a Pendennis Club, a riff on the Pegu Club that was made from lime juice, gin, apricot brandy, bitters and sugar syrup. It certainly looked girly with its rosy hue but the bitters keep the drink from heading into Sweet Tarts candy territory.

One more, I requested, “something like a whisky sour” and received my favorite of the night, a Silver Lining (rye, Licor 43, lemon juice, egg white and club soda). I love frothy egg white-topped drinks and the fruity-vanilla flavor of the Licor 43 was soft and creamy. I don’t know why vanilla, like pineapple or coconut, seem to make a cocktail seem trashy, there’s nothing wrong with any of those ingredients if they’re balanced. You never see a sophisticated bar using coconut or pineapple, though. Maybe I should ask, or better yet insist on Kahlua, and see what kind of reaction I’d get. (Ok, weird, a New York Times article on coconut cocktails just showed up in my feeds.) Here’s a Silver Lining recipe if you want to try one at home.

I can deal with $9 non-crappy cocktails, the going rate at Dutch Kills, because you can experiment a bit. Yes, they’re all dead serious about the ice cubes, the foam, the pomaded hair and dress suspenders, and old-timey vibe…and it didn’t bother me in the least. It might’ve though if I was paying $12+ and had to wait in line to get in. Go Queens!

Er, or not. After 10pm Opposite Day went off the rails. I took it upon myself to check out the new 18,000 square foot beer garden, Studio Square, in the same general area. This wasn’t Opposite Day material because I would drink beer and eat pretzels outdoors with no prompting. Yet, I was shocked at the mob scene and gruesome clientele. Maybe I’d spent too much time in the rarified dark woody interior of Dutch Kills, but yeah, this was a serious Queensy crowd, tanned, loud and in their twenties. The only bust of the day. I waited the snaking line to use the bathroom, then we left.

Starving after three cocktails on a now-empty stomach that hadn’t seen a thing since brunch ten hours earlier, food was a must. Roosevelt Avenue is a treasure trove but a startling number of restaurants close by 11pm. I started getting panicky and cranky, very much Normal Day not Opposite Day. James wanted to try Jollibee, but they were closing in ten minutes so he ran in and got two Aloha burgers to go. These we saved for Sunday. Now it’s Sunday and I’ve eaten mine (no, I'm not bothered by day-old fast food) so I can say that yes, I do love a pineapple ring on a cheeseburger. Pineapple seems to be a running theme.

Still with burgers in mind, we knew bars would still be serving food and headed up to the Irish part of Woodside and got a pint of Bass and an always awesome cheeseburger at Donovan’s. I hate steak fries, Opposite Day won’t change that, but the medium-rare burger was juicy and perfect with a gril-marked bun and two just-beginning-to-melt slices of American cheese on top and bottom. Donovan’s totally saved the night.

Hasta La Vista

I will be out of town for next week and I don't usually blog while on vacation, though I suspect I will Twitter a bit (I don't travel with a cell phone, though, so it's all semi-guilty laptop use when I should be outside touring).

After joking earlier about no NYC-style "Spanish" food in Madrid, I did read about a Dominican restaurant so I might just find mofongo in the Spanish capital, after all. Not that I should be eating rice and beans when I should be sampling jamon and gambas.

Strange, I just noticed that my Twitter widget thing stopped displaying in the sidebar. If you feel compelled, follow me at http://twitter.com/goodiesfirst. I don't blame you if you don't.

Velvet bullfighting painting from Official Bad Art Museum of Art

Pa is My Co-Pilot

I have a particular fondness for Michael Landon’s touching portrayal of Charles Ingalls, a.k.a. Pa on Little House on the Prairie (I swear more than once I caught my own dad’s eyes welling up with tears during an episode. He was full of paternal pioneer spirit, too) as well as smoked comestibles, so a friend’s impromptu birthday celebration at Diamond in Greenpoint served me well. By the way, have you ever seen the real Charles Ingalls? He sported some seriously au courant facial hair. 

Never a beer aficionado, I just discovered rauchbier, a German smoked beverage that tastes like a campfire. A little goes a long way as I’ve been discovering with the newish smoker in my household. (I will soon be experimenting with different flavors—cherry, hickory, alder—since last night I gave a wood pellet assortment to James as one of his birthday gifts. He shares the same date of birth as Jane, who was the guest of honor at Diamond, but missed out since he was out of town.) If they can mentholate beer, why not add smoky overtones?

I need to stop complaining about the state of dining in my neighborhood because Greenpoint seems unusually bereft of choice. I have plenty of options in Carroll Gardens and environs; I just don’t happen to like many of them. If you don’t want mediocre Japanese, Thai or even exemplary Polish what do you do?

I ended up at "Mediterranean Bistro" Lokal, primarily because it was close the subway, en route to drinks afterwards and inoffensive enough (probably a little too inoffensive). Pork ragu with handmade pasta was actually pretty good and soft enough that I could justify eschewing the mush-only wisdom tooth extraction regimen I’d been following. It's not the most attractive plate of food but it was very satisfying.

The birthday season has begun and the first of my fellow 1972ers has turned 37. The greatness of that number shocks me. Thankfully, I still have four months to spend staving it off.

On the upside, I was able to convince a few guests to pose with Pa. My favorite bar decor so far this year. 

Chew on This

Things have been quiet around here, not so much because I’m lazy, but because I can’t eat anything except mush and I’m foggy from pain killers. I had my wisdom tooth out over a week ago and something went awry and it’s not healing. Hmm, maybe I attempted corned beef, hamburgers and a pupu platter a bit too soon. I was being optimistic. After a return visit to the dentist and a new batch of vicodin, I am now back to oatmeal, soup and yogurt. Despite being three pounds lighter (temporarily, I’m sure) I am also greatly saddened, not to mention starving.

Reading about the opening of Num Pang makes me want to cry. I don’t know if I can read food blogs until I can eat real food again.

On the up side, I am just about exactly half-way through the 896-page 2666. A little book learning never killed anyone.

Party Like It's 4707

Anyone who is sick of reading food-related tidbits yet for some odd reason would like to hear me prattle on about even less interesting topics should head to Project Me!: Part 2 [www.projectmetoo.com]. I've brought my personal blog back from the dead.

This fresh start is too late for 2009 but just in time for 4707, year of the ox. I always give myself a month before taking a new year seriously.

Ratted Out

I haven’t officially acknowledged the new year yet. I’m about as interested in forward-looking resolutions as I am in end-of-year wrap-ups, which is to say...ok, there you go, 2009 will be about living in the present. Brilliant prediction.

Meanwhile, I’m still churning out Southeast Asia eating memories (only four more to go, thankfully) and am back to my sad daytime yogurt, oatmeal, soup and salad routine (I loosen up after dark—I’m like a food werewolf). That is it.

It is still my rat year until January 26 anyway, no need to spaz yet (I hate to admit my Chinese zodiac year was kind of a bust and it scares the hell out of me to think that I won’t have another until I’m 48. 48?! I don’t even know if I’ll make it till 48) The only things I can even vaguely think of trying to improve upon in the next 350+ days are my liquid eyeliner applying skills, standing straighter and taller and not getting violently angry and high blood pressured by slow moving pedestrians; the handholders, multiple birth stollers, stumblers while texting and wide loads with weak cardiovascular systems who hold me up on staircases and on narrow passageways (I honestly believe it is possible to be fit and fat, though I see little evidence of it in the city. Don’t worry, skinny people who huff and puff and drag their feet have their own place in hell). But I still have a few weeks before I concern myself with those life changes.

And to All a Good Night

I've spent many of my ten December twenty-fifths in NYC sitting in apartment alone. Last year I did the classic movie and dinner with a couple friends (I still think I'm scarred from Juno). This year I was just going to cook a shitload of Thai food for myself (yes, I had to take advantage of James being out of town, now that he's boycotted Thai food for six years) then decided to throw an impromptu mini-party after finding out that a ton of people (ok, nine is a ton in my world) I knew were staying in town this year. I enticed six to come to Carroll Gardens for Christmas.

I don't do Christmas in a big way, which is to say I'm not a huge participant in gift exchanges. When I hear others discussing present-buying for a slew of cousins, in-laws and other loose extended family members, I'm bowled over. Call me a scrooge but I only buy gifts for my mom, sister and boyfriend. I might swap trinkety things with a few friends, but that's it. Hence, my haul is not mammoth. Get what you give.

This season, I got flowers and tons of cheese, six Snowdonia cheddars from my sister and chevre d'argental, gres des vosges and humboldt fog plus quince paste from James. I've noticed that after being diagnosed with diabetes this year I've received lots of flowers and cheese on occasions I would normally get candy. I could really go for a box of See's right now but I do love dairy products very much. (I've pretty much given up on even a vaguely healthy eating regimen until January anyway. I relinquished my salads, yogurt and oatmeal, no sugar routine on Thanksgiving en route to S.E. Asia and have yet to resume the bothersome strictness. I did start running again this week now that I've finally gotten that pseudo-SARS out of my system after self-medicating with Mexican Cipro.)

Also, a digital SLR, which has me a little unnerved. I haven't even used it yet, if that's not obvious from the murky photos below. Blog-wise, the thing is that you'd think nicer restaurants would require nicer photos but there's no way in hell I'm pulling out a chunky camera in say, Le Bernadin. That's just too dorky (I was going to say gay but that new Think Before You Speak ad campaign has wisened me up to such hurtful language, though until they produce anti-retarded PSAs, I will continue to use that immature adjective). Until I'm embolded, I'm more likely to take pretty photos of tacos or pork buns.

I can't forget bath salts with Japanese delicate pretty boy illustrations that I love so much, socks with an anthropomorphic corn dog and Goldlion antibacterial striped toe socks. Goldlion is a weird obsession of James'. On our first visit to Singapore in '03 he bought a pair of Goldlion (a Chinese brand that seems geared towards middle aged men) pants at Takashimaya and now we always find the Goldlion section at Asian department stores, whether it be Wing On, Isetan, Robinsons or Tangs.

Ok, onto the food. Prepping is no small feat in your typical Brooklyn kitchen, and I crammed in a little mise en place next to the coffee maker and toaster. I had all four burners occupied and every inch of counter and fridge space (inside and on top) filled to capacity. But apparently, tiny kitchen cooking is all the rage. And I've always suspected that people with giant islands and Viking ranges are the least likely to use such luxuries.

I don't know that it's actually traditional, but the coconut-pumpkin soup from old standby Hot Sour Salty Sweet is always a hit and one of the only concessions I made to my poor vegetarian diners. I used butternut squash because Wegmans is too fancy to carry Caribbean staples like calabaza (they do sell truffles, however) which I'd normally employ. I also pureed half of the squash into the broth and kept the other half in whole cubes rather than the keeping it all cubed. I like the orange on orange.

I didn't have time or energy to make green curry paste from scratch though I would have if I were making fewer dishes. I adapted a recipe from It Rains Fishes and used chicken instead of pork, Japanese eggplant instead of Thai, apple and pea (this did bother me) and added bamboo shoots just because I like them. This didn't turn out to be anything special, what tasted spicy the night before turned out to be fairly mild on Thursday. I still think it was better than anything I could've ordered in Carroll Gardens, though.

Pork with snake beans and chile paste is really pork belly with long beans as a garnish. I've had pad prik king pork and beans in restaurants before and the meat to vegetable proportions are more balanced. For this recipe, though, I followed one from Classic Thai Cuisine that calls for 7 ounces of pork to 2 ounces of long beans. I tripled that but kept the same meat-heavy ratio. And it was damn good, if I do say so myself. Either you're passionate about fatty pork or you're not. There's no pretending there's anything healthy about it.

Traditional catfish mango salad became catfish papaya salad. I was lucky enough to find green papaya at all. I usually avoid making these salads and have ended up using green apple in the past. Deep frying is kind of a pain at a party because I don't have one of those open kitchens made for entertaining and you get stuck cooking in an isolated kitchen while everyone is eating in the living room (James has mentioned this same problem with Super Bowl and buffalo wings, he never gets to watch the game). With that said, I think this was very successful and the perfect combination of crispy, crunchy, hot and sour. Maybe my favorite dish. I used a recipe from Dancing Shrimp that doesn't appear to be online anywhere.

Karen astutely noticed beef was absent from my planned menu and brought a rich panang curry. It made me wish I had gone with my original plan to make panang instead of green since green can be soupy and dull in the wrong hands, i.e. my hands. Though it may seem so, I'm absolutely not a control freak, I love it when people bring food to my parties (ahem, as long as it fits the theme).

Mario brought vegetarian lettuce wraps with peanut sauce. This was also much appreciated because I didn't want the meat-averse to starve.

Jane, always an avid baker, made cookies and confections and Jessica crafted a vegan pumpkin pie, which was odd because I've never known her to bake. She forgot the whipped cream but we all survived because Sherri brought vanilla goat milk ice cream. Sure, goat milk product cancel out animal-free nature of vegan pie but the combo is surprisingly good.

Seven bottles of wine, a six-pack of Singha and countless You Tube videos of people falling and portapotty users in Japan getting punked later, I deemed the Christmas party a success (I mean, in my head, that's not something you declare aloud unless you're a freak). Though for me, the highlight was when Norbit came on HBO. Nothing like Eddie Murphy in a fat suit to put me in the holiday spirit.

Once again, it has became apparent that I'm averse to including humans in photos, both myself and others. This is absolutely not intentional or any sort of backlash to endless Facebook party pics. I just forget. Maybe this could be a 2009 resolution, as opposed to resolutions as I am, to focus more on people than food in the new year. We'll see.

It Had Better Not Be Bird Flu

I don’t know what’s going on. Yesterday I forced myself to go to work despite being insanely jetlagged and having a horrible sore throat/head cold. I managed to make it through my office holiday party, met friends for drinks at The Bell House afterward and even ate White Castle at 2am no problem. But this morning I woke up feverish and barely able to speak. And after finally getting a bagel (something New Yorky I had been craving in Asia) and a cup of coffee, instead of feeling better I started puking uncontrollably. I’ve spent my entire Saturday in bed. I’m too dizzy to even look at a computer screen for long, which is frustrating because I have a zillion photos to go through. All I can do is sit still, drink water and watch bad TV. Thank goodness TNT has a new Librarian movie premiering tonight.

Hong Kong Fluey

I’ve been mum the past few days because the nausea that randomly struck in the cab on the way to the airport on Saturday turned into some sort of full blown stomach flu. I’ve barely been able to keep food down in Hong Kong, which is distressing to someone who travels with the primary intention of eating. I’ve been biting my tongue (or rather, tempering my typing fingers) but now I can honestly declare this the worst vacation ever.

(I also just found out that my freelance review gig for nymag.com has been eliminated, which was no surprise after the recent Gael Greene debacle. I do wonder if it’s bad karma for recently speculating on how the economy hadn’t really fucked me up yet. At least I have a day job and it’s not as if penning a few short reviews a month subsidized SE Asian vacations, anyway. That said, I wouldn’t mind another side deal.)

I spent all Monday night throwing up with those severe kind of stomach cramps where you think a creature is trying to escape. I had to lie mummy-like still on the bed, even moving an inch would trigger another vomit attack. I began to have new empathy for the Zimbabwean cholera victims they keep showing on rows of hospital beds on CNN (and Al Jazeera—I’ve really taken a liking to that station and totally don’t get why Americans are so freaked by it. I learned more about the Hajj in the past few days than I have in a lifetime). At least I’d probably perk up in 36 hours or so. Amd all that hurling has left my ribs in pain, which must mean that my abs have been given a work out. Oh, and I probably didn't digest nearly as many calories as I thought I would. Great vacation diet.

So, today is my last day in Hong Kong and I’m determined to have fun. I’ll eat Sichuan food for lunch, something I’ve had to put off all week, even if it kills me. Tonight it’s schmancy Chinese food at Hutong. HK is obsessed with dress codes, as if the average citizen (or perhaps tourist) is brain damaged. Do not show up at Hutong in shorts, sandals or sleeveless. Our pricy Intercontinental buffet admonished, “no slippers or singlets.” I assume slippers are sandals and flip flops but singlet threw me for a loop. I’m guessing tank top?

I will buck up, keep my meals down and try to refrain from putting on a singlet. And I will be back in NYC Thursday determined to make the rest of 2008 a win.

Black Friday, Indeed

Tracking travel data is part of my job, and I’ll admit that I’ve been selfishly happy over all the statistics about Americans staying home or close to home during the holidays. Fewer hordes are always a good thing. I’m not scared of our nation’s floundering financial state, I just want to get the hell out of the country for a few weeks. Especially now that vague terror threats are aimed at NYC’s subways.

But as it stands, it looks like half of my vacation is a bust, and it has nothing to do with Thanksgiving traffic or our tanking economy. I’m honestly not sure what will happen tomorrow morning when I depart JFK for Hong Kong, Bangkok being my ultimate destination. If the airports in Bangkok are still closed, Friday night, 16 hours later am I just stuck in Hong Kong? I don’t even want to begin thinking of how I’m going to get money back on the three hotels in Thailand I’ve already paid for (that all stipulate that cancellations less than two days before reservation are eligible for zero refund. And no, I don’t have travel insurance, as I’ve been asked multiple times today—I never gave any thought to such a thing).

I don’t want to spend a whole two weeks in Hong Kong, it’s likeable, but not that likeable. I’ve scoured for cheap (or even not so cheap) flights to either Singapore or Kuala Lumpur. If need be we can scramble and put together a new itinerary, but seriously, everything in the immediate future is booked and the available tickets are close to $900, ridiculous for such a short flight.

I was really counting on cheap prescription drugs and a haircut at Toni & Guy, but more importantly, my detailed eating list may not be realized and that breaks my heart. As much as I like Chinese food, I like Thai more. And I learned my lesson trying to eat Thai food in spice-averse Hong Kong last time I was there. You’re better off in NYC.

Wherever I may be the next two weeks, I won’t likely post much if anything. I never do on vacation. But I have the feeling I may Twitter a bit. As much as I like to loathe the service, it’s growing on me rapidly. There, I said it, Twitter is fun.

Never Say Never

I have to be careful about never because softening occasionally occurs. I resisted using the term blog for many years, until it became so pervasive that using personal website, online journal or just anything else sounded as antiquated as referring to an iPod as a Walkman (which I’ve been known to do unintentionally—at least I don’t call computers “the machine”). I held out on buying a cell phone until last August (I seriously use it like three times a week, kind of a waste) and at some point decided leggings weren’t the devil (but I still don’t believe they are a substitute for pants and these skintight shiny things must go away).

The only thing I can say with strong certainty is that I will never wear thongs (flip flops or flossy undergarments).

But I’ve caved on Twitter. I still think it’s asinine and do not understand why anyone wants to read non sequitur snippets from friends, family or strangers. I don’t really. Yet as each month seems to become more time-crunched, a sentence or two is sometimes all you can muster. I get that.

So, hidden halfway down my right-hand column is evidence of my potentially short-lived foray into microblogging. Tweet tweet. Please don’t hate me for succumbing.

Spirit of '76

Ok, it has now been two months since my birthday and I’ve come to the conclusion that all my fellow 1972ers did this year: it’s ok to make up your age. I was not initially on board, especially since I’m not really dating (and attracting the young‘uns seems to be the point of digit deceit) but the more I think about it—what’s the harm in saying you’re 32? That’s not so young, it's still woefully gen x, no one would ever question it, but it gives a totally different impression than 36 does. And a better one, I might add. I mean if women who look like this can claim to be 37, I have little remorse in fudging.

The only trouble in maintaining this ruse will stem from pop culture references. Like the new 90210 could come up in conversation and I might be tempted to say something about watching 90210 in college (though frankly, I’m more fascinated by how someone can be my height and weigh 100 pounds) and now I’ll have to remark, “Oh, yeah, I watched it religiously in…uh, high school. Yes, high school.” And I’ll have to claim that I’m too young to have seen Star Wars in the theater when it came out, you know, being an infant and all.

And do you know what clinched it? Bonnie Root. Yep, that girl I went to school with who has become a faux-fixation of mine (background here and here). The other night I was on imdb trying to determine if a character I only caught a glimpse of on Prison Break was played Bonnie Root. I didn’t think so, this actress seemed blonder and a few years older. And it turned out that it was someone named Stacy Haiduk. What I did notice is that Bonnie Root has her birth year listed as 1975. Not unless she skipped three grades...

The S Word

While sitting in my apartment all weekend (please don’t make me use the S word) I had time to sort through the first few batches of books that my mom has started sending in padded envelopes from my 15 or so boxes that I left in storage over a decade ago in Portland. She has downsized from a decent sized mobile home in the suburbs to a smaller version (I’ve yet to see) at the coast. She’s not retired, it’s just a change.

I’d forgotten how many books I used to own and how much shopping for them was a regular part of my life. I’d scour used book stores, junk and thrift shops on a weekly basis. I’m not sure if the fact that I haven’t performed that task in years is a function of NYC simply not providing enough of these shopping venues or if times have changed all around and everyone just sells on eBay now (even my mom had a little online bookselling business for a spell, or maybe she still does, I’m not sure).

I prefer the serendipity of finding say, a copy of Keyboard magazine with Nick Rhodes on the cover (Arcadia era, not Duran Duran) stuffed in a pile for a dollar. I’m never going to search for that online, pay even that same dollar (which would be an unlikely minimum) plus shipping. That’s a dollar gem, nothing more.

I’m waiting for the cookbooks and pamphlets to show up, so far the bounty falls into categories like 20th century sex ed/dating, pulp fiction with lascivious covers, folklore and coloring and activity books. In the early ‘90s I kept my eye on these genres for art project fodder (I majored in printmaking). Later I xeroxed found illustrations for zine clip art.

I don’t do anything with them now, though I can’t bear to part with this ephemera despite a lack of shelving. I don’t want them to get lost for another ten years either. So, I’m going to talk about these most uncollectable paper items from time to time whether or not it’s of any interest to anyone. The Big John, Little John coloring book? Come on, that's brilliant.

I did have the intention of writing about young adult books and created the I Kid You Not tag for that purpose at the beginning of 2007. But I’m not single minded enough to ever write about any one topic with enough passion, persistence and gravitas to stand out in any way. That’s why I was wowed earlier this year when I read about the Jezebel blogger who got a book deal as a result of her column about YA lit.

And subsequently, I read the single funniest sentence ever on Gawker in reference to it:

“I guess there probably aren’t a lot of bloggers, blog-editors and freelance writers sitting around thinking ‘I am the perfect person to write a collection of nostalgic pieces about classic young adult novels, but she gets to do it and I don’t! Bitch!’”

Well, you know...there might be one or two. Just speculating. It never would’ve occurred to me in ten million years that you could get a book deal for analyzing kids books from the perspective of someone who came of age in the ‘80s. Never. And that’s why I’m staycaytioning over Labor Day weekend instead of living the good life.

Feliz Cumpleaños

Ah, it’s the one time of year where I willingly post a photo of myself. I don’t know when I decided that it would be a good idea every July 25th (yes, I know it’s the 27th now) but it’s a not-terribly-useful habit I’ve stuck with. So, this is 36. It could be worse.

Friday, I had a birthday dinner at Dovetail, which was odd because I never eat (or do anything) on the Upper West Side. The food was likable, service was a little strange. More on that later.

Last night I had a low-key party with a Spanish-ish food theme. As to be expected, I drank too much (it’s all I can do to get these words out in a semi-coherent fashion). What I didn’t anticipate was receiving a copy of Sing Blue Silver, which I foisted on my captive audience.

Now that I’ve come to terms with my aged status, I can openly reminisce about the big deal it was when this Duran Duran documentary aired on MTV a full 24 years ago. I recall having to use the timer on the VCR and being scared to death that it wouldn’t record properly. DVR had changed my life.

I also received a soda siphon, the two liqueurs I’ve been meaning to track down: crème de violette and maraschino, a Sephora gift certificate, Vosges bacon chocolate bar, plastic Japanese food containers with anthropomorphic characters, a few bottles of wine including a Riesling in a crazy pink cat shaped bottle, a Spanish grammar book (from my Spanish teacher, duh) and a few more items.

Back to the food. The more I looked at last month’s alfresco feature in Gourmet (this month’s has totally upped the ante, by the way) the more I realized how good the recipes sounded. I’m not a hater, so I borrowed two dishes. I must point out that they were consumed completely indoors.

I couldn’t bear to also use the white sangria recipe included with this set menu and opted for a Thai basil infused sangria from Food & Wine that ended up having zero basil flavor.

Manchego with almonds and green olives

Roasted red peppers and cauliflower with caper vinaigrette

While still not a greenmarket convert, I will concede that you need quality tomatoes if you’re going to make gazpacho. I wasn’t thrilled about spending $35 on the summery ingredient, but it had to be done. I did have to nix serving Serrano ham to keep within a reasonable budget. I didn't expect the color to be so orange. I did throw in a few yellow and green-striped tomatoes, which could've toned down the more typical ruddiness. Update: hmm...I brought leftovers for lunch and just noticed a strange bitter undercurrent, likely from too old garlic. I didn't taste much of the soup on Saturday so I didn't catch it, and it's not like there would've been anything I could've done about it anyway. It's a shame, though.

Boquerones are as easy as buying them and placing the vinegary fillets on a plate. I was actually surprised that these disappeared so quickly because people are generally anti-anchovy.

I braised chorizo in hard cider with a bay leaf based on a recipe from The New Spanish Table. This was also insanely simple.

Murcia, mahon and cabrales were served with membrillo and fig-almond cake.

There was also an Oreo ice cream cake from Baskin Robins (I didn’t grow up with Carvel so Cookipuss and Fudgy the Whale mean nothing to me) that I neglected to take a photo of.

Blue's Clues

Maybe I’ve been watching too much too much HGTV because this weekend I decided to get into the open house game. Just what sort of stuff is selling in my neighborhood, anyway?

Apparently, scary stuff. I now know that $1.6 mil will get you a stuccoed townhouse with security cameras, next to a junk yard on a dead end warehouse-centric street that dead-ends at the Gowanus canal. There might also be a scary pit bull in the paved-over backyard, a one-armed realtor, carpeted floor-to-ceiling columns, Jacuzzi tub, metallic flower vase sculpted to look like two guns and lots of vitamins and protein powder on the counters of the most overwhelmingly glossy blue kitchen you could ever imagine.

I’ve lamented for years about the lack of color in American kitchens (and the abuse of travertine and granite). Even though you wouldn’t know if from my current mishmash apartment décor, I’m obsessed with everything green (despite having little interest in the Upper East Side or Italian food, I’m smitten with the color scheme at new restaurant, Alloro, and might have to pay a visit just to see the unbelievable greenness in person) and fantasize about the day I can apply the emerald hue in a serious way.

So, I have to admire the homeowners’ dedication to a single color (and I know the brand must’ve cost a pretty penny) but this abomination makes me question my own taste a bit. However, this blue kitchen renews my faith some.

And the pseudo-serious house hunt continues.

It’s Not All John Waters and The Wire, Right?

Yay, four-day weekend. It’s not quite the same as a European two-month break but this is as close to a French work ethic as I’m likely to get. I’m not going to argue with a freebie Monday off.

I’ll be in Baltimore for no other reason than that I was only there once for like five hours a few years ago and figured this weekend was as good as any to go back and find crabs, crabcakes and pit beef.

First Things First

In a hopeless attempt at becoming less me-centric I’ve finally gotten my new URL www.goodiesfirst.com up and running. www.project-me.com should still work just so old links don’t break, but from here on out it’s Goodies First all the time.

I Have Been Known to Drink 99-Cent Wine...

...though not in this decade.

Apparently times are tough. If you’re to believe all the belt-tightening, penny-pinching articles showing up lately, that is. I’m not feeling particularly pinched, or maybe things like the price of milk, white bread and gas have next to no obvious effect on my existence. In fact, I’m more financially stable than I’ve ever been in my life, which isn’t to say rich.

My timing has always been horrible. During boom times everyone I knew was doing well and I was destitute. Now, it seems like everyone is unemployed or sporadically employed by choice, oozing free time and mellowing out while I’m tied to a rigid schedule.

I don’t often have moments where I’m like, “hey, that was my idea” mostly because I don’t have that many ideas. I’m horrible with ideas, that’s why I could never survive as a freelance writer, I find pitching extremely painful.

But yesterday I couldn’t ignore mentions of The 99¢ Only Stores Cookbook everywhere (ok, just on Chow and NPR) It made me sick and panicky, er, then I noticed it was blurbed by Jack Black and felt a little better. I’ve had an obsession with 99-cent store food for years. Ages ago when I took a horrible, miserable food writing class, I kept pounding away on this piece about 99-cent store food but it seemed lame, there wasn’t much of a hook and it just didn’t seem relevant to a larger audience (like much of what I have to say).

So, one woman ran with the idea of 99-cent store food and got a book deal. Fine. Then today in the New York Times it’s 99-cent food all over again, “How to Survive in New York on 99 Cents” written by an “investigative humorist” and maybe I missed it but they don’t seem to even reference the book, like it was a spontaneous, simultaneous genius idea.

I have no idea why I would feel defeated and incensed by a book and article about 99-cent store food appearing at the same time, it’s a gimmicky flash in the pan conceit, and one that I never even perused with anything resembling a vengeance.

I wonder if The 99 Cent Chef feels left out.

Pretty bottles photo from Ghetto Wines

For Just 5 Cents a Day...

Do you know how long it takes to earn $100 (the minimum amount they’ll cut you a check for) through Google ads? If you’re me: 18 months. Today I finally became rich. I would’ve just gotten rid of the damn ads but it was an experiment. A long, drawn out experiment, for sure.

I could just take them down now and declare the test an unsuccess, but I’m kind of looking forward to that next $100 check…in October 2009.

The Sweet Life

Do you know what happens when you dredge up memories of an unwelcome diabetic birthday dessert from more than a decade ago? God gives you diabetes. Seriously.

Considering the alarmingly crappy genes, particularly on my father’s side of the family (in college, my aunt Belia’s foot rotted from diabetes and rather than have it amputated, it festered and she died. The story is funny to me, both ha ha and strange, because it seems so unreal and antiquated for the late 20th century), I just assumed that the disease would eventually catch up with me. I kind of thought I’d at least make it to my forties, though.

What irks me most is that diabetes is viewed as an affliction for fat, stupid people, primarily minorities with the exception of Wilford Brimley. All the literature I was given was illustrated with smiling blacks and Latinos and a list of foods you can still eat at McDonald’s and Wendy’s.

I certainly don’t think I’m special but I don’t need to be told about walking (I’ve been working out 3-4 times a week since the early ‘00s), I haven’t touched a Big Gulp since I was in grade school and I eat Whoppers like never. Of course I do like pork belly, curries, cocktails and dulce de leche and sit in front of a computer all day like total diabetes bait. I just get frustrated because while I have slowly chunked up over the years, I’m not Biggest Loser, gastric bypass obese and the people I see on TV don’t even have high blood pressure or diabetes. What gives?

No longer being able to eat (much) sugar and starch does not fit into my pro-rat year. Not one bit. At least I'm not being made to take any medicine or deal with needles yet. I pretty much need to lose the twenty pounds I've been trying to get rid of for an eternity and see if that does anything. I almost cried when I saw my favorite seasonal treat, green Hostess Sno Balls at CVS last week and had to ignore the beauties, and it bummed me out not to be able to partake in cornball bagel Friday at work.

There’s no way in hell I’m going to start eating boneless, skinless chicken breasts and steamed broccoli seasoned with Mrs. Dash. And I’ll keel over before allowing Splenda into my life. Who knows, though. I always though brown rice was for assholes, and this weekend I was the asshole who asked for brown rice with my Sichuan food and only ate a quarter cup.

I’m still going to eat good food. This site will not turn into Goodies Never, but I don’t feel like there are any online role models for people who like to eat well, adventurously and happen to be diabetic. As far as I can tell there aren’t any. Vegans and the allergic have their place in the food blog world (as well as the inexplicable volume penned by lawyers, ex-lawyers and Asian girls) but it’s not like I want to read about their foibles. Diet talk is too uncomfortably close to Lifetime territory.

Mickey Finn Meet Ruby Tuesday

Ack, I’m home sick for the second day in a row (I just spent the week entertaining my sister and her husband who were visiting from England. It was all fun and good, despite their vegetarianism, until I caught the creeping crud or whatever virulent bug they brought with them from Europe. As if it wasn’t enough that our dollars are chump change to them. I can barely hear, breathe or swallow and was convinced I had a deadly fever but my temperature is only 97.1. I hate when people say they have fevers and it’s not true so I wanted to make extra sure before declaring one) and have no typing energy.

But I can’t ignore stories involving chain restaurants, especially ones involving Ruby Tuesday, roofies and vigilant waiters named Colt.

Heavens, I don’t want to live in a world where single women with master’s degrees aren’t even safe in family restaurants.

Who Needs a Sugar Daddy When You Have Splenda?

I told you 2008 was going to be my year. First I found out that fruit, my least favorite foodstuff, has little nutritional value. Then I was completely shocked to discover that cocktails brimming with cream, juice, chocolate and/or liqueurs are caloric. Thankfully, mudslides and white russians aren't part of my drinking repertoire.
 

And now I’ve read about two studies in one week that allow me to feel (minutely) superior in my choices. Disgusting things: diet soda and saccharin-sweetened yogurt, make you fat. I thought we had already decided that aspartame was evil. I never touch either so god only knows what my flabby excuse is. General excess, I suppose.

I’ve always wished I had something small and radical I could cut from my diet like chips (salty and boring) soda and juice (water has always suited me fine, which might be the most un-American thing about me) or milk and sugar in my coffee (I’ve always taken it black) and not things like bread, alcohol, pork products or candy (I actually have stopped snacking on sweets since January to infinitesimal results).

I am still waiting for the miracle study linking bacon to heart health and general svelteness. That's not so outrageous--isn't lard healthier than shortening?

Rat On!

I’ve never eaten at a Qdoba even though they have begun invading Manhattan, but I am a sucker for quizzes so when I read about the What’s Your Q-dentity personality test this morning I couldn’t ignore the silly time-waster. It’s the best fast food advergame since White Castle’s Craverscope (um, five of the seven Google hits for that keyword are from me).

The thing is that the questions are ridiculous, the results dubious, but it’s not wholly made up like horoscopes. There is actual methodology given, which isn’t to say that Dr. Hirsch isn’t a quack.

As it turns out I’m a walking talking quesadilla. “A dependable and true friend, those who prefer quesadillas are content being one of the crowd; they are loyal followers more than leaders. At work they are the foot soldiers, task-oriented, functioning ideally in a group. They don’t require individual praise, but share their successes with those around them. They toil behind the scenes for others at work or in their family.” You know, like Bill Murray in What About Bob and Talia Shire as Adrianne in Rocky.

I don’t like that one bit. Foot soldier? Nuh-uh.

Instead, I’m claiming my rat-ness and today is my day. Pardon, this is my year. Rats aren’t followers and they don’t toil behind the scenes. Rats get shit done. I’ve waited over a decade for this moment.

Looking back, I guess 1996 must’ve been lame and un-ratty because I can’t remember a thing about it. I know that I was 24, dating someone twenty years my senior, shelved books part time for a living, went out and drank a lot, fell down stairs and broke my tail bone and that’s about it. I don’t understand urbane go-getter twenty-somethings who own real estate and have prestigious job titles, and I don’t care to.

But I do recall ’84 because one of the eighth graders in my English class (which I got to take as a sixth grader and got picked on a lot mostly because I was a teacher’s pet and kind of because I wore crap like purple polka dot knee highs and jellies and had bleached eye-covering waver bangs) who I’m pretty sure turned out gay, had a yellow sweatshirt that said in brushy calligraphy script, “Year of the Rat” superimposed over a red Japanese-looking orb even though it was referencing the Chinese zodiac.

In college, I brushed past this sweatshirt kid on the sidewalk downtown Portland during a rainstorm and he huffed, “Get some umbrella control!” That’s when I was like oh, he’s gay now because what kind of straight guy would say something bitchy like that and think it’s witty?

So, here’s to a more memorable 2008. The KFC rodents had their fun last year, now it’s time for the human rats to shine.

In rat news, I do appreciate that yesterday’s Wall Street Journal didn’t simply publish a gross-out story about Vietnamese rat eating (which has nothing to do with the Chinese new year). They actually give recipes…and rat steamed with lemongrass doesn’t sound half bad.

An Oldie but a Goodie

As much as this minor redesign implies a fresh start, I’m really just reverting back to an old url and title. Oh, and there’s a cat. But not an lolcat (lord, that reference will be dated by 2009).

You’re supposed to write what you know and in my case, that would be myself, duh. Here's my new About Me page just to up the me ante even further. I just like to pretend that this is an outwardly focused food-dominant site so I’ve removed the Project Me title. My 1998-2006 online diary of the same name still exists in all its hand-coded HTML glory.

Confusingly, www.project-me.com and goodiesfirst.typepad.com both work, but you're likely still seeing project-me.com if you came from a link, bookmark, wherever. I’m still working out technicalities like getting rid of the project-me.com without losing the small number of links that actually point here. That is all.

Booked Solid

I had this bright idea during my two Christmas days off that I would actually read books in 2008. So, I put a shitload of hardbound printed matter on hold at the library, assuming they would slowly trickle over to the Carroll Gardens branch (it took months for my requested The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao to show up and when I went to pick it up someone had taken it from the holds shelf. There is a place in hell for patrons who “steal” others’ reserved items). But now I’m freaking out because they’re all coming at once and the tomes are laughably enormous.

I’ll never be able to get through 753-page American Food Writing: An Anthology: With Classic Recipes, 582-page Secret Ingredients: The New Yorker Book of Food and Drink and 614-page Tree of Smoke in my allotted three weeks. I don’t even know where to begin.

Thinking about books got me to playing around with Shelfari, a social networking tool that seems fun yet ultimately as useless to me as MySpace, Facebook and the rest. I started adding all of my cookbooks that were available and quickly realized that I have hundreds of cookbooks and pamphlets, yet probably only cook from about ten on a regular basis.

Great, in 2008 I could start cooking from all the books I’d bought for one reason or another, mostly reasons having little to do with good eating. For instance, Girl Food (an old zine pal made ziti from this for Robert Crumb--and wouldn’t you know it--she got laid) and The Madison Avenue Cookbook (which is poo poohed in this 1963 Time article that does give the nod to new book, Mastering the Art of French Cooking with no mention of one of the now legendary authors). It would be fun.

Except that Slashfood practically started doing the same thing, I recently stumbled on Cooked Books which champions gems from NYPL, the kitchn just started a book club and now Eat Drink One Woman has a guest blogger also talking up old cookbooks. Whew. Never mind, then, I'll keep my cookbooks to myself.

Um…because everything else I write about here is so original. No matter, I do foresee some tweaking and revamping in the immediate future. I just don’t think it will involve cookbooks (or god forbid, viral videos).

Don't Forget Me When I'm Gone

While it’s quite tempting to blow $150 on “delicious salmon” and presumably a garish view at the Times Square Applebee’s, I will be heading to Toronto (via Buffalo and a rental car) on Sunday and returning promptly Jan. 1. My only two goals for New Year’s Eve were no Williamsburg and no ‘80s music. I’ve escaped the first, unfortunately there is no guaranteeing the latter. For all I know I’ll be subjected to a Glass Tiger marathon up north.

Applebee's shout-out [New York Times via Eater]

Whine Bar

I was going to post this last week and forgot about it and was about to discard it because now it’s old news, plus complaining isn’t attractive. Unfortunately, now I have to because this weekend I ran into a friend at a party who was raving about how great Viñas is and I realize people who live in Williamsburg have wildly different standards from mine but I can’t allow delusional folks to perpetuate falsehoods. So, my friend, her South American boyfriend and a Zagat employee who treated them to a meal love this place. So much so that it was brought up as a fun New Year’s Eve dining spot. That already breaks my rule for a Williamsburg/’80s music-free new year. It’s going to be a tough 2008, I fear.

Original post (ha, or should I say blog as is the new-style parlance):

Generally, I hate eating in Williamsburg. The only time I ever dine in the neighborhood (my hand so wants to type ‘hood or nabe) is when I get a haircut every three months or so, which lord knows, sounds way lamer than just flat out eating in Williamsburg but I’ve yet to find any professional with better prices who grasps non-ugly styling. (Here’s my new cut if you’re into exhibitionist MySpace crap—I don’t like putting photos of myself here despite the Me in the title)

But if for some reason you like to eat in Williamsburg, stay away from Viñas. I know the no seating until your party has arrived deal is an annoying standard but they went beyond. I’m punctuality-crazed but was fifteen minutes later than expected thanks to the G train. I said I’d meet James there at 7:15 and didn’t make it till 7:30. He showed up fifteen minutes early, which was also uncharacteristic. It was a perfect storm of time management flubs.

They wouldn’t let him have a drink at the bar (because essentially most of the seating is at the bar, I assume) even though the room was empty. They wouldn’t let him stand inside and wait either. It’s not that small of a space--75-seats according to New York. And now that we’re into winter weather, it seems especially rude. What kind of restaurant insists you must leave when it’s not even half-full? I don’t want to turn into a fussbudget, but it seems kind of ridiculous because couldn’t you just change your tune and say you were dining solo, oh, and then a friend stops by like fifteen minutes later?

So, there wasn’t any way we were going to eat there when the full party, i.e. me finally showed up. Ok, out of curiosity we did pop in to ask about seating for two and were quoted 30 minutes. Please, it’s just pan-latin tapas.

Old standby Diner, a block away, seated us immediately and my duck breast with sweet potatoes (mysteriously crunchy and brown) “spaetzle” and endive salad with lardons, poached egg and walnut vinaigrette were uber-seasonal and higher caliber than much of what passes for edible in the area. I can’t really find fault with them, though that chain restaurant-style of waiters crouching at your table has always weirded me out. And somehow we managed to spend $100 without even realizing it. Still, it’s $100 that thankfully wasn’t wasted on a needlessly attitudinal new wine bar.

L'Eggo my Eggo

In my nine-and-a-half NYC years, I’ve pretty much managed to re-buy all the kitchen appliances and utensils I left behind in Portland and then some (though I’ve never been able to justify another juice machine and toaster oven).

But I don’t think I ever had a waffle maker and finding one is more problematic than I realized. It seems that all they sell now (at least at mainstream stores like Target and Wal-Mart) are Belgian-style waffle makers. I don’t want big squares and fluffiness. I never even eat waffles, but I might if I could make ones that were crispy with lots of close together crisscrossed ridges.

Eggos aren't Belgian-style, Waffle House doesn't serve Belgian..why are Belgian waffle makers the standard machine?

And is it my own fault for shopping at big box stores or is this a rampant epidemic all over?

Fighting Tooth and Nail

Maybe it’s because I just got a filling (those eight years of dentist-avoidance are starting to catch up with me. I never used to get cavities. I fear that my 20/20 vision is the only thing still going for me. Now, it’s only a matter of time before cholesterol, diabetes and other inevitables start ravaging my system. But I’m definitely having second thoughts about picking a Brooklyn dentist, the original logic being an office I could walk to in case I ever had to be anesthetized. It’s all stereotypes you could imagine. While drilling my teeth, the phone repair guy forced his way back to our room and got into an altercation about a job taking too long even though the dentist had given him $20 to work quickly, and the repair guy didn’t speak English and the dentist didn’t speak Spanish so they were angrily translating through the dental hygienist, all the while the pressure and pulling in my mouth got more aggressive as this situation escalated. I will definitely not return to this office when and if I ever decide to get my wisdom teeth out) or because I’m at my bedroom computer, which I rarely use since I got a laptop for Christmas, but I’m out of sorts.

There’s no excuse for feeling irrationally downtrodden; it’s Friday, the weather is finally crisp, I’m leaving for China in twelve days, there’s a fun food adventure planned for tomorrow, my copy of Dead Boys showed up at the library last week and it’s really good (reading fiction before going to bed instead of browsing websites [urgh, I almost typed Web sites, which is the wrongheaded style I must use at work] is so much more satisfying)…but I’m one of those moods where I hate everything and want to lay in bed for a week. Is that indulgent or pitiful?

The grunginess of the spaces between the keys on my keyboard is bothering me, and my irritation starts at my fingers and spreads outward to infinity. I can’t concentrate because I’ve run out of room on my shelf for magazine storage and now there’s a foot-high pile of newish issues stacking up on a speaker, my cat hasn’t stopped pooping on the floor and peeing on my clothes since spring (I had to remove all of my clothes from the bottom shelf they’re stacked on—not having drawers for nearly a decade also irks me—and now they’re piled in my windowsills, which is doubly irksome), the zipper on my only decent winter coat has been broken since last year and I don’t know how to fix it, the prospect of dyeing my rapidly graying hair dark brown for the rest of my life only to have it fade to copper a few weeks later is demoralizing, letting it just go gray is even more demoralizing, I need to move my old Tripod site to save a few bucks a month but never find the time, this here blog makes me crazy because the design was only meant to be temporary and it’s not like web weaving is my forte, plus I’m sick of the name, and I don’t mean to write about food so much but I’m too old to regale the world with personal foibles, and now I’m annoyed for even saying that because I don’t really believe that personal foibles ever get stale, long live personal foibles, I want my apartment to look stylish and thought out rather than being a junk heap—I would be fine with a ReadyMade or the low end stuff from Domino look, there’s no need for Elle Décor or Dwell…

Do you know how ridiculous/embarrassing it is to complain about a two-floor apartment in NYC with a dishwasher, washer and dryer and two refrigerators? That’s like weighing 120 pounds and thinking you’re fat (unless you’re a dwarf, in which that case might be tubby). See? Now I’ve crossed the line and annoyed myself, which is great because now I feel much better and can shut the fuck up. But seriously, what do you do with a grown cat who refuses to use a litter box even when you clean it twice a day?

All Atwitter

I totally don’t get the point of Twitter, but then, I didn’t immediately get what the big deal was with Flickr or YouTube either. Maybe it’s because succinct-ness isn’t my forte. Yes, the old windbag theory must be it.

So, look, here are some homegrown attempts at Twittering:

Watching Damages in awe as Dillahunt makes brief appearance. Indeterminate time a few minutes ago

Well, you can’t use HTML so that was already a bust.

Wondering if I’m going to get enough use out of my light jackets since fall isn’t cold enough to wear them yet and next thing you know it’ll be full on wool weather. On the way home from work

Phew, got that within nine characters of the 140 limit, but I actually had a lot of pointless stuff to add to that deep thought.

Angry that I saved my breakfast until 12:30pm to conserve on food and my yogurt I just bought yesterday with a Halloween expiration date had already gone moldy. 12:30pm

Angrier that I left my camera at home this morning. Using a phone for photos doesn’t feel natural. 12:32pm

Ok, that’s my entire day in a nutshell and now I’m exhausted with all that rehashing—Twittering takes a lot out of you.

New Joy

I’ve been known to torment friends with film. In college I was convinced that The Disorderly Orderly was pure genius (not to be confused with Disorderlies). Then I went through a Mrs. Doubtfire phase. Norbit even sucked me in earlier this year.

While watching perplexingly uneventful Old Joy on the (not so) big screen at Brooklyn Heights Cinema last November, I felt it wasn’t the right setting. Something was missing. The movie pushed James’s tolerance level more than any movie since Grizzly Man (which I didn’t find hard to watch). Er, because nothing happens, or rather nothing’s said, plenty happens in long real time shots, one might say. And many said just that; the film made countless 2006 top ten lists.

But it struck me recently that the ideal circumstances to view Old Joy would be with an Oregonian, someone you’ve been friends with for ages, and quite ideally while stoned. It would be the only way the movie would work. No one else could appreciate the overwhelming Northwestness of the dialogue and setting. Green and wet, moss on trees, oppressively gray sunless skies…slugs. Yes, slugs sum up all that is Oregon. I couldn’t believe my fortune when I was treated to a slug on a rock scene. The only thing missing was slow shots of mushrooms bulging from the earth.

I only have one friend in NYC that fit the criteria. Another would’ve sufficed, having spent some formative years in Portland, but she couldn’t attend. Jessica so rightly brought along a vegetarian burrito, as big as a baby’s torso, 85% beans and rice. I won’t touch those starchy hippy beasts, but it was completely appropriate.

I have no idea what their provenance is, and I’m fully aware that burritos as we know them aren’t terribly Mexican, but the burritos I love--compact, dense and meaty--come from neither Tex-Mex nor Mission-style storefronts in Portland. These reasonably sized cylinders contain no filler, no cheese, are a little greasy and stuffed with typical taco innards like carnitas or pastor. Basically refried beans and meat in a flour tortilla. I’ve not seen these in NYC.

Brooklyn burritos aren’t for me, so I easily identified ultimate snacks of my own. I went to pick up hummus to nam prik-ify, and was faced with a new Sabra variety: jalapeño. So pretty and green that I couldn’t leave it on the shelf. It’s sharper, tangier and herbier than the red chile mélange in former favorite Supremely Spicy. It looks like it would be milder, though it actually sticks with you.

I also picked up a half pound of Bleu d'Auvergne cheese, which I’m not sure qualifies as a soft blue (in my sense of the term). Despite its pliable nature, it’s really a creamy blue cheese, not a blue/triple cream hybrid.  At room temperature, the piquant cheese is spreadable not crumbly and almost fooled me into believing it was the style I was looking for. It certainly out-classed the Charles Shaw Cabernet Sauvignon I was drinking with it.

“Sorrow is faded worn out joy,” we learned. And most importantly, that watching Old Joy is much better with snacks, depressants and an accomplice. It’s worth waiting over a month for the Netflix shipment in order to glean quiet life lessons 2,900 miles from home

Reading is Fundamental

It’s easy to be critical, not so much when it comes to defining what’s “good.” At least for me. I thought I liked food writing until I tried thinking of who my favorite food writer might be and came up empty. As it turns out, I like to read and I like reading about food but not necessarily for the writing. I’m not literary minded. Maybe I’ve been ruined by the lawless potential of blogs.

With nonfiction I would want something funny, occasionally mean-spirited, highly personal, yet also informative. Sounds simple but I’m drawing a blank. Nothing overly intellectual or earnest. And I definitely don’t like reading about upper middle class+ and/or Ivy League educated men and their families. I think I’m probably supposed to read Julie and Julia (which I see has been retitled and packaged to look more chick lit) but I’ve always avoided it for no good reason. Book suggestions anyone?

Fiction-wise, well, I rarely read anymore, but I prefer mundane and/or melancholy, preferably about fuckups or outcasts. Raymond Carver and Sherwood Anderson are nothing alike but I enjoy short stories from both authors. I have Richard Lange’s Dead Boys and Junot Diaz’s (who plays food writer in this month’s Gourmet) The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao on hold at the library (who knows when I’ll actually get them).

In the early ‘90s, The Sterns drew me in with kitsch and a tangible passion for their subjects, frequently food-related. I still read their longstanding Gourmet column and even wrote them fan letter when I was younger and less guarded.

The only book I could think of in recent history that was ostensibly about food while maintaining an entertainingly personal bent was Candy Freak. Not by a food writer. And apparently, a nut. Such strange timing that I would think of Steve Almond the same day Gawker mentions him (unflatteringly, of course). And then I remembered that he's now also a daddy blogger and I got grossed out again. 

Last night I cracked open The River Cottage Meat Book, my birthday present that showed up a month and half late because it was so massive that it had to be shipped surface from England (as a money-saver not because it HAD to be). It’s kind of cruel that I make my non-meat-eating sister send me such fleshy books as gifts. A few years back it was Nose to Tail Eating. Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall definitely doesn’t fit my M.O., he’s very back to the land and posits that meat should cost twice as much for half the amount. I get his point, especially juxtaposed with slaughter photos of the livestock he’s raised (that seems so British right now, being all straightforward and graphic about animal husbandry). But it’s certainly not light reading.

Then this morning I received an email from Amazon suggesting that I preorder the Best Food Writing 2007. WTF? I haven't even looked at the list of authors yet. Am I being led to water and I just don’t want to drink? I will give it a read (via the public library again) and I’ll do so with a mind as open as I can possibly muster.

Photo from the South Carolina Library History Project

My Ugly Mug(s)

I barely touch eBay anymore; it’s too much of a time and money-sucker (though occasionally I get wrapped up with Etsy). But last month I couldn’t resist these freaky little mugs representing different body parts like gall bladder, kidney and triglycerides. I haven’t decided where to put them, so for now they’re sitting on top of a shelf at eye level. 

“What if they came alive?” James asked the other day. Um, that would be pretty fucking scary but coming from a grown heterosexual man who has numerous nutcrackers strewn throughout the apartment (after three years I still can’t abide this whole blended décor thing) I think we have bigger concerns.

When Life Gives You Lemons...

Every so often I have severe lapses in judgment that can hardly be explained away. There’s no way that ingesting only lemon juice, cayenne pepper and maple syrup for ten days can possibly be good for you. Call it a detox, a cleanse, whatever, but it’s got to be quackery. I thought so, and yet I couldn’t resist giving it a go. And well, the experience was extremely short-lived and beyond disastrous.

I was gung ho yesterday morning, drank my not all that grotesque concoction during the day and began feeling cloudy headed around lunch time. There’s no way I was starving already but figured I was missing my two usual cups of coffee. Around 2:30 I started getting a pounding headache and began sweating and getting dizzy and seriously started having second thoughts.  Even though it would ruin my detox, I thought I would eat some lettuce so I ran downstairs and got a salad at Au Bon Pain. Before I could get back to my desk I started heaving and had to run to the communal one-stall bathroom and violently puked off and on for five minutes. My face was soaked in sweat and red as a ripe tomato (I always use a tomato to describe my face because I can’t think of a better description). All I could think was that I had to get out of there and get home somehow.

This is one of the many reasons why living in NYC sucks. Getting home rapidly is an ordeal and affords no privacy. At least in the rest of the country, if you’re sick you be so in the privacy of your own car. I considered getting a cab but that made me more nervous. I was going to have to subway it. Normally, I take two with a 10 minute walk but the walk seemed too treacherous so I had to do three subways. Miraculously, they all met up. The J came quickly, I switched to the A and it came immediately and I got a seat because it wasn’t quite rush hour but I was holding in vomit and sweating profusely the entire two stops. Then at Jay St. the F was sitting across the platform, which never ever happens. And it was nearly empty, so I took a seat and the guy across from me was skeeving me out, he kept staring at me and whispering to himself and I was a little delirious at this point and he might’ve been reading lines but I felt like I was being harassed, and the train wouldn’t go, it was just sitting there tormenting me.

I totally freaked out, jumped off and started barfing all over my salad in its bag. I was trying to get everything out so I could get back on the train but the doors started closing and I couldn’t stop wretching and I felt like my brain was swelling and hitting my skull. I almost started crying because I just wanted to get home and now I couldn’t stop puking and had to wait for another subway. I really felt crazy and unstable and swore people were looking at me exaggeratedly like I was high and paranoid. Well, I was hurling into a plastic bag but that’s nothing in the scheme of things. I’ve seen much worse.

So, I did manage to wait ten minutes or so for the next train and last the next two stops and the five blocks to my apartment before practically spewing out my entire stomach lining. I lied in bed from 5pm to about 9pm when I got up, tried to watch TV and ate one bite of cheese and one bite of granola bar. I promptly threw those up and went back to bed until 8am this morning when I tried to get up for work, decided to work from home, then felt too ill to even do that and went back to bed at 10am where I stayed until 1pm. It’s now 4pm and I still feel like shit (though I can now eat). And I feel like the outer layer of enamel has been eaten off my teeth and my throat and esophagus have been bathed in acid.

I don’t understand how just drinking lemon juice, cayenne and syrup for a day could make one so ill. Of course, all the hardcore diet freaks would just say that it was because I was so full of toxins that I was having a serve reaction and that I should stick with it. I say that’s nuts and that a regimen that induces severe vomiting can’t possibly be healthy. If anything, I was poisoned and not already full of poisons.

Or maybe I really am addicted to caffeine, sugar and fat. My last lapse in diet judgment occurred back in 2003 when I wanted to see what all the Atkin’s hubbub was about. I also threw up repeatedly the day after starting that horrible routine and had welts and hives all over my chest the entire six weeks I did it. And I lost a measly six pounds, which is what anyone would lose by just eating healthier for six weeks. On the other hand, I lost six pounds since yesterday with this wonderful master cleanse. Seriously. Puking ten times in a day apparently melts away the pounds. But I was trying to detox, not involuntarily become bulimic.

If It Was Good Enough for the Golden Girls

I’ve never been to Florida and have never really had the desire to pay a visit, but I will now be going to Miami over Labor Day weekend. I’m a way in advance planner (to the point of annoyance) but someone in my household isn’t and just yesterday got the idea to go away at the end of the month. Toronto was the first choice, just a simple, quick trip, but the prices went way up today (see, advance planning). Miami and Dallas were presented to me as alternatives (I have no idea how those were arrived at—I’m not in direct contact with the out-of-town flight searcher) and I said it didn’t matter one way or the other. So, Miami it is. I just wanted to not be in NYC for a few days.

But what on earth do you do in Miami? Everything I see on TV is frightening, and I base all my travel plans around fictional shows. I don’t want to go to a horrible club like Nikki Beach on last night’s Top Chef. I was semi-forced to watch Miami Vice on cable last week and I’m really scared that South American drug lords, neo-nazis and Colin Farrells with sun-streaked slicked back hair and a ‘stache (love those S’s) will be roaming the neon-lit, palm tree lined streets. Oh, pardon, calles. I don’t know that I’ve ever had cubano made by a Cuban, so that’s a bright spot. Dexter is set in Miami, right? I don’t recall an abundance of tan flesh or bikinis on that show (just lots of dismembered body parts and blood), so maybe I’m safe, after all.

Ok, I really hope I didn’t hallucinate this. And I wish I knew how to capture video from TV. About twenty minutes after posting the above, I flipped channels, found nothing of interest (I tried watching Last Comic Standing and it was too painful. I do kind of like Mind Control With Darren Brown, though. He’s the anti-Criss Angel) and lazily left it on the USA Network where an old Law & Order: Criminal Intent was on. Griffin Dunne was playing some possible lawyer/killer and he was reassuring his redheaded Eastern European mistress with these sweet words:

Griffin: You’ve been bugging me to take you away for the weekend. I’m taking you to Connecticut.
Sexy Slav: I want to go to Miami…South Beach.
Griffin: This time of year? It’s like a damn sauna. You’ll like Connecticut, it’s got a casino.
Sexy Slav: Z’ere eez no sandy beach there (I can’t type in dialect). I got beautiful bikini today with little string go up between here (motioning towards her ass).
Griffin: Oh yeah? Why don’t you wear it in the hotel room?
Sexy Slav: You promised me Miami, you promised we’d go away for a month.
Griffin: Look, just give me this weekend, and we’ll go to Miami for Labor Day.

See? Miami is clearly the choice Labor Day getaway. If it's on Law & Order, it must be true.

Real Jeanius

Sally Brompton is useless. This “If Today is Your Birthday..” is as lamely generic as they come:

July 25, 2007 -- Look back over the previous 12 months and accept everything that happened. Then turn your back on the past and start with a fresh account. Any day can be a new beginning but a birthday is special in that it is easier to draw a line, one that represents both an end and a start. Draw that line today.

I do like the part in the general leo horoscope about “Your blood pressure should improve as well.” No one needs a coronary on their birthday.

 
Obligatory annual birthday photo: this is 35. Don't worry, you won't have to see this mug again for another 365 days.

So, I wasn’t far off. I’ll be going to Aquavit tonight. Oddly, it was chosen in part because “I’d like the design.” Perhaps, but it strikes me as the type of place that’s intimidating in its stiffness (demeanor and pricing—there was hardly a bottle of wine under $100 on their website, which I find nerve-wracking). All I can recall about Aquavit was a woman I used to work with years ago at a culinary website saying, “the portions were aggressively small.” We’ll see what that Inner Chef is up to.

Not related: I do love the bizarrely flattering brown and aqua Target dress I bought this weekend. Though when you spend $34 (it wasn’t on sale in-store) on clothing, it’s tough to justify tripling the figure for a couple glasses of wine.

I’ve been a faux bois freak for a few years now. And my favorite (only?) blog dedicated to the woodsy pattern tipped me off to Martha Stewart’s new home collection at Macy’s. I already have woodgrain sheets, but I see a duvet and bath towels in my future.

I’m so, so happy to see that pants/jeans have crept back near the natural waistline (though, the high-waisted trend is illogically as unkind to curves as the whole tired low-rise debacle). I’ve been buying trousers and jeans a size large for like the past four years to compensate for the snug, hip-hugging fit. So, when I bought an Old Navy version (why pay $69 for the Gap’s rendition, never mind the $300+ category, when the ON has similar styles for $29?) Saturday, I was shocked to realize I’m now a size smaller. Not that I actually am a size smaller, but it’s nice to wear my real size again, large as it may be.

Gift Horses

I like surprises. I never understood eager beaver kids who’d scout out their Christmas presents before they were wrapped. If I had a baby, which is highly unlikely, I wouldn’t want to know its sex until it was born. I hate it when people don’t take surprises seriously (what I think is a birthday present was left in its clearly marked shipping box on our dining room table all last week and drove me batty—and to add insult to injury, if I’m to believe the packaging, the color of the not-so-secret object isn’t really my first choice. Am I ungrateful or what?).

I do get antsy this time of year because I get wound up trying to deduce where my birthday dinner will be (my party is Saturday at Sheepshead Bay gem, Clemente’s, though it’s looking like rain will thwart my dockside dining plans). All I know as of last night is that it’s a restaurant above 14th Street, has a well-known chef, is upscale, has cuisine from the European continent but I can’t know the country because it would give it away (wha?) but that it’s not Italian, and there was uncertainty whether the restaurant was less than a year old.

Um, those are pretty useless clues. So, I’m racking my brain trying to come up with sparse European cuisines: Swedish, Portuguese, Greek (not really underrepresented but James might think it is)? Aquavit? Anthos? Can't think of a Portuguese other than Tintol and that doesn't seem right. I suspect Eastern Europe is out, at least I hope so because I don’t want to end up at the Russian Tea Room.

Second guessing James isn’t easy because his thought process is way different than mine and he’s not super up on dining trends and openings (me either, really, but I seem plugged in by comparison). I was all, “did you read about this restaurant or did someone tell you about it?” His coworkers are strangely foodie (mine not so much) so it wouldn’t necessarily by a bad thing if he got his idea from one of them. Last year he picked Cookshop, which I never would’ve guessed.

Despite saying that I enjoy surprises, I’m also a bit of a worrier and an obnoxious control freak so I always have pent up fear that I’ll end up someplace wretched. Is this what not looking a gift horse in the mouth is about?

Green Around the Gills

Apparently, I had a little (they chopped it in half) eco-friendly round-up, “10 Best Websites to Get You Started Going Green” in Friday’s New York Post. It’s online but I didn’t see it (or any of the other eleven “green” articles on their site) in the paper so it’s a mystery to me when and if it ran. I do feel the need to mention it, regardless.

Can You 'Stand' One More?

Last month I was convinced that the last thing the world needed was another Red Hook ball fields article. Or so I thought until I was asked to write one (actually the second for the same publication but whatever). Allow me to present you with “Stand and Deliver” (I’m not putting their quotes around Stand). Ok, I’ll be the first to admit the round up breaks no new ground (I wrote way more than what’s included and the photographer took hundreds of photos). But short and snappy is what the ol’ New York Post is known for, so no surprises.

Make it a True Daily Double

(Paraphrasing because I was only half-watching) “Which section of the New York Times allows critic Frank Bruni a $350,000 annual budget for expenses?” (And my own question, who's flying him first class to Moscow?)

No one on this evening’s Jeopardy knew the answer (ok, Tim Abou-Sayed from Florida did eventually come up with “what is restaurants” as a sheer guess, right at the buzzer and after a miss from the ultimate winner Monica Lenhard of Michigan answered, “theater”).

Not that Jeopardy contestants are representative of the nation at large (more informed yet more socially retarded) but it relieved me that clearly no one outside of New York reads the New York Times dining section. I like to be reminded that NYC is not the center of the world, even though I admit to feeling anxious and out of touch with local media when I’m out of town (which is why I was reading “Off the Menu” on vacation in ’05 and learned about Fatty Crab. This was pre-food blog glut by the way, when I relied on print for restaurant openings. I swear I’m not obsessed with hating/loving Fatty Crab—I think I just like typing the word fatty).

Sometimes I wish I didn’t know things, the kinds of things in the New York Approval Matrix. I don’t want to know who The Splasher and Boerum Hill Crapper are (ok, maybe the crapper is alright), yet I do. Why? The person I live with has no knowledge of any of this non-importance (though it’s not as bad as the sixth grade dropout boyfriend raised in an orphanage who had never watched TV in his entire life. Honest to god, he had no clue who Tom Cruise was and that’s a hard one to avoid). Easily 85% of the people I come into contact daily for business and pleasure are not familiar with useless New York-ish pop culture talking points. Should I stop reading self-referential blogs for sanity’s sake? It’s not like I impress anyone with witty, informed banter. In fact, I often go all day without uttering more than a sentence or two, which likely contributes to my urge for spewing nonsense here.

Last night I saw an ad for a job I’d be perfect for. Not a cool job, library work, but definitely not hip as all (northern) Brooklyn librarians apparently now are. It involved food marketing. But it was in Virginia. I’ve seen Chicago ads and seriously think, but Virginia? Uh uh (it doesn’t help that James’s parents live in that state and would kill for him to live closer to home). It’s really out of the country or not at all.

Saturday I was informed that Manila might be in a business trip future. I’d love to go to the Philippines and have been interested in the country (well, the food) since I was a teenager. Shanghai was also tossed out as a possibility for the fall, maybe both. Could I stop reading the New York Times and placeblogs, whatever the fuck those are, for at least a few weeks?

Last month everyone (in the blogosphere, duh--my god, it’s worse than I thought) was doing the let’s live on food stamp allotments challenge (I had food stamps in college and ate quite well--$112/month for a Northwestern 19-year-old in ’91 was a lot of extra money. That doesn’t seem right considering that same state’s average allotment appears to be less sixteen years later). Boring. Maybe I’ll do the same with regional periodicals and blogs. You know, doing without, living like the poors. But then, I’d miss the rare, cool non-NYC-centric chain restaurant article like this one appearing in tomorrow’s print edition.

It’s not like I’m moving (back) to Oregon anytime soon. Wild west or not, the rugged individualist state probably isn’t all that welcoming of outlaw chefs. Jason Neroni will only luck out because no Oregonian has any inkling or interest about what goes on in NYC. God bless them.

(Dilla)hunting & Stalking

This isn’t supposed to be a full on food blog, so please allow a momentary distraction. Before I get to my point, let me just say that the Lifetime Movie Network shows some amazing stuff. And you thought plain Lifetime was good enough. Friday night I got sucked into Eat Your Heart Out, a late ‘90s treat about a floppy haired guy who becomes a celebrity chef with a romance call in show, lets it go to his head and hooks up with his agent Laura San Giacomo when his heart really belongs to that whiny/raspy voice woman who played the wife on Lucky Louie (whose friend is played by pre-gastric bypass Jackie Guerra)

I was going to call it quits but then the next movie, crazylove, starred Michelle Dessler. She was a spunky grade school teacher with a live-in boyfriend who wouldn’t marry her, then her new exciting after school math program got overshadowed by her younger sister announcing her engagement to a guy she’d only known three months and who proposed to her by putting a ring in a piece of cake (unfortunately, this was verbally conveyed—no cinematic evidence). So, Reiko Aylesworth went crazy at the engagement party she threw because the martini olives weren’t right and ran out to the grocery store and had a “nervous breakdown” i.e. threw jars of olives at people, which caused her to be committed in a psychiatric hospital where she fell in love with a schizophrenic and after they both got released they lived out their fantasy of humping and eating SpaghettiOs in bed.

So, two Sundays ago I was watching that scene in John From Cincinnati where the bad actor surfer kid (I’ve never been one to agree with the NY Times TV critic but declaring, “Only Shaun, who rarely speaks, has real charisma” was particularly egregious) had broken his neck and a doctor was consulting with the family. James says, “I think that’s Henry Thomas.” Granted, James was right and I was wrong when he said the same thing about 11:14 but that was a fluke. I countered, “Uh, no, I think I’d recognize Henry Thomas if I saw him. And don’t you think a new HBO series would be a bit high profile for the Hankster?” Last I read he’d been in films no one’s heard of directed by Michael Landon Jr. and acting with the likes of Karen Black, Anne Heche and Alan Cumming.

No, that was no Henry Thomas and I paid the doctor character no mind until the latest episode when he shows up unannounced at the Yost’s house and mentions that he often smokes a cigarette or two a day and got all tongue-tied and damp-eyed dwelling on the mystical, extraterrestrial, miraculous, whatever the hell is going on in this show.

I suddenly decided that he’s disarming in an open minded yet professional manner. I think he does or would wear Dockers but if you suggested something a little more stylish he wouldn’t be opposed. I like that. Someone on the HBO boards says that he's "SO HOTTTT!!!!!" while another claims he looks like a gnome. Who ever said the two needed to be mutually exclusive?

But obviously this is a character, not the man himself, Garret Dillahunt. I know next to nothing about the real person, but c’mon the name alone is enough. It’s dapper and dirty at the same time. I’ve so not dabbled in stargazy stalkerish behavior as of late (I had a passing interest in Christopher Gorham but only as Henry on Ugly Betty, not so much as Jake 2.0). I just decided that I like this guy (or that guy—why did I forget about this site? Late‘90s wonders get so quickly surpassed).

He still has a Deadwood drawl, which was how I finally deduced where I knew him from (oh, and the instantly cancelled Book of Daniel that I never watched but from the commercials thought it was Peter Krause playing Jesus). I never understood why folks in South Dakota would necessarily speak twangily (or Shakespearean, for that matter) but the Dillahunt is a west coaster (raised in Washington) so I’m even more confused. A little confusion keeps things fresh, though.

I was going to say that Dr. Smith is older than my usual type, but then again I’m older than the last time I ogled a lesser-known actor. I forget that 42 is merely an eight-year age gap. I had a non-imaginary relationship with someone older than that a full decade ago. So watch out Garret—I’ve got (fine lines forming around) my eye on you.

Red Hooks & Barbs

Welcome to another edition of talk (to myself) therapy. Last week I came to terms with trendy Macanese food, now I’m trying to come to terms with the rise of the Red Hook ball fields and the public (ok, the blogosphere) rallying to preserve them. I should care if the little guy gets put out of business, especially when the little guy crafts tasty snacks. Yet the more I hear about something, the more I begin to loathe it even when it’s worthy of constant comment. Sometimes I worry that that’s a horrible self-defeating attitude I need to rid myself of, then I read funny, possibly made up letters and feel vitriolic and at peace.

The Latin American food vendors in no way approximate the oversaturation of Shake Shack or Momofuku Ssam—there’s no attitude or ridiculous waits. And most importantly, I just live up the street. But I don’t even feel like going if it’s going to be douche central. I thought about taking my visiting mom and stepdude this past weekend but the Charles Schumer and friends save our salt of the earth artisans spectacle ensured that I’d steer clear. We went to Coney Island and Totonno’s instead.

Making a Run for the Border

Ok, so it’s nearly 6am and I’m almost off to Mexico City. Sometimes I do question why I chose the cities when everyone seems to know that you’re supposed to go to the beaches or elsewhere if you’re going to even vaguely relax (I learned that lesson with Bangkok). I know it's wrong but I wonder if they have Taco Bells in Mexico. They have Outback Steakhouses in Australia, so why not? Anyway, I assume I’ll have internet in my hotel room so I might post a bit thought that usually doesn’t happen. Let’s just hope I don’t get kidnapped because it’s not like anyone’s going to pay my ransom.

One Man's Toothsome is Another's Melts in Your Mouth

We all have our pet peeves. I’m cliché crazy so I should tread lightly here. I use tasty to describe food and that’s probably a nuisance to some (though I wouldn’t necessarily use the term in something professional, whatever that means anymore). I would never say yummy (or god forbid, yummo) but it doesn’t rankle me. I really don’t care for the word succulent and once an editor inserted that into an opening paragraph I’d written and it skeeved me out.

My least favorite food description has to be melts in your mouth followed by to die for with sinful as a close runner up. I guess chocolate really does melt in your mouth, hence the M&M’s melts in your mouth, not in your hands tagline, but you see it used all the time to describe meat and fish and that’s not really accurate or appetizing. You usually see melts in your mouth in online forums or casual venues, it’s to be expected, but last week it was in a Time Out NY review. No, not the New York Times, but they do have standards (and a style guide).

Out of curiosity, I turned to Chowhound for a sense of this phrase’s ubiquitousness. I’m not picking on Chowhound, they just proved to be a good resource because they’re one of the longest running food boards and I thought I’d get a good sampling. I was expecting a couple hundred hits. But no, there were 3,296. Seriously. And the second hit contains an amazing double whammy right in the title. “Melt in your mouth, to die for sushi?” Bonanza.

Not completely related, and it’s a Britisism/Aussieism, but only in the past few months have I become acquainted with the phrase to the boil as in “let it come to the boil” as opposed to to a boil. Petty, I know, it’s a standing in/on line thing. My ears just can’t get accustomed to standing on a line no matter how long I live here.

I'm sure there are countless other petty offensenes. I've heard of toothsome haters and it doesn't pain me in the least to use the adjective.

You Make a Better Door Than a Window*

Maybe it’s the disgusting heat and humidity (or the troubling intestinal after effects of eating a seriously spicy Chinese hot pot in Flushing last night—I would elaborate but it’s for a New York review and I feel like I should wait until it’s published and I have no idea when that will be) but today I’ve felt nothing but steamed, cranky and ineffectual and all of my bones hurt for no good reason. (I’m really afraid that I’m at another one of those non-air conditioned jobs. I hate natural air. It’s mildly scary because we’re on the top floor and the window directly behind my back has a screen that for some reason isn’t fully covering the window. It’s not like I could fit through four inches of space anyway, though I suppose a screen wouldn’t hold back a body in motion, not that I anticipate being pushed or rolling out the window. There’s got to be an OSHA rule against large open windows 33 floors up, though. Yes, that's the desk/window combo in question. No, I don't believe in decorating my office space.) I haven’t been eating for leisure so I can’t talk about food instead of myself exclusively.

I bought arranged Mexico City tickets, so it’s a go for the end of the month. I actually could’ve tagged along a Geneva business trip the half-week before but airfare is too outrageous for a lark. I just hope I get some good chocolate and cheese out of the deal. Geneva doesn’t look too promising dining-wise, so I’m not crushed. Dull and expensive is not my way. Fondue, though, right?

I can’t figure out why I just received a call from a job that I applied to in January and heard nothing from and had a recruiter present me to in February and again heard nothing from. I never even interviewed. It’s PR, which I found loathsome in my eight-month experience, so it’s not like I’m interested. I haven’t called back, though I do wonder if they dragged their feet this long or if the person they hired already quit. I’d love it if it was the latter, though that attitude is bound to bring bad karma.

*My grandpa used to say that and I totally didn't get what it meant, even as I was standing in front of the TV.

Sock it to Me

Urgh, I lost my other camera sock (apparently, they’re quite popular—I’ve had more than a handful of internet searchers ending up here after Googling camera sock as well ugh this coworker naMED kRISTA, which I find disturbing for its implications and traumatic capitalization), which was probably a direct result of losing track of the number of mint juleps I’d consumed. This is the second year in a row that I’ve overindulged into near oblivion. It must be the convergence of Kentucky Derby and Cinco de Mayo. At least I was smart enough to eschew the Cuervo shots. I can’t resist a good limited edition promotion, though—green wax instead of red on the Maker’s Mark bottle is marketing gold as far as I’m concerned. I can't resist green non-vegetal foodstuffs.

Kristall Clear

I love to eat but I don’t really love weekday lunch. At my relatively still new job people make use of their full hour and aren’t big desk eaters. That’s wise, I’m trying to get there. I’m simply a desk eater because I can’t deal with crowds and the 12-2 crush raises my blood pressure (for real—I’d like to believe this study mentioned in the NY Times last week about dark chocolate being as effective as beta blockers in controlling blood pressure. They specifically mentioned atenolol, which is what I take because I seem to have the health level of a sedentary middle-aged man who has smoked and eaten red meat his entire life).

I just ran across the street to grab a bagel at Au Bon Pain who doesn’t make even remotely good bagels but there aren’t a lot of options around Broad and Beaver streets. It’s always frenzied and I start getting all distracted and unable to make a decision and thought I should get a seltzer because I was getting tired of the tap water I’d been lugging around in a Poland Springs bottle (I usually get a couple weeks out of each bottle before I start worrying about germs). I didn’t see any club soda so I blindly grabbed an inoffensive, clear, sparkling pear beverage in a glass bottle. I was a little bummed to realize it contained sugar after I sat down but it was fairly light and more fruity, plus, how often do you find a pear soda?

I attempted to read about the faux gastro pub craze in New York and tried not to let the bustling around me bug me out (why do I have beta blockers when I really need tranquilizers?). It wasn’t until I got back to the office that I realized my name was in the Swedish brand of all natural fruit soda.

I know, big deal if your name is John or something but I’ve never been blessed with namesake anything, (though in Budget Travel I discovered a Buenos Aires boutique hotel called Krista) not even things meant to be personalized. I even see Krystal, which seems unusual, more than Krista. Off the top of my head, there are burgers, a Filipino (one of the other Krista Garcias in the world is a teenager in the Philippines) mini chain in NYC (hmm, looks like they just closed their Manhattan branch) and a new bar I just noticed Saturday on Queens Blvd.

So now I love Kristall soda even though I normally hate soda. Oh my god, I just found out something horrifying about Kristall: they also produce a beverage called Julmust. I have no idea how it tastes, but with hops and malt extract listed it sounds suspiciously close to my least favorite foodstuff in the universe that I just mentioned yesterday, malta. Kristall clearly has a dark side.

Tidbits: Bauhaus and Mayonnaise

1. Bauhaus in Starbucks is wrong. I could deal the other morning when my favorite New Order song “Age of Consent” was playing (it already got tainted in the Marie Antoinette trailer, anyway) but “All We Ever Wanted Was Everything” is wrong anywhere, but particularly at 10am in the Financial District in a coffee chain.

In the mid-‘90s I found a bunch of old dubbed from vinyl cassettes, including a few Bauhaus ones. I tried playing them while driving and it was intolerable, like really nuts and dramatic. In a way, Destroyer is a contemporary non-Goth version of this super theatrical style, and I can listen to it (maybe not driving, though).

2. Remind me to not go to Pret a Manger again. I’ve only gone twice in the past month but I keep forgetting that the not terribly filling sandwiches ring in at $7 on the dot with tax and are overly mayonnaisey (I’m not the first to note this overabundance). I end up hungry in a few hours, grossed out even after wiping excess mayo off with a napkin and annoyed that I’ve used way more than my allotted afternoon calories. Sad. I could deal with the heavy handed condiment application if the price was even a dollar cheaper because they do have interesting flavors. But after looking up the nutritional info on my cranberry, walnut, mesclun and brie version, I almost crapped myself. I might as well have eaten a Wendy’s value menu cheeseburger and saved fat and money. Um, except I don’t think they have Wendy’s down here.