Sin Cities

The first weekend in December, I visited friends in Minneapolis. I took the Amtrak train Friday evening, and while a view of the landscape was eclipsed by the dark, some of the cities were quite pretty. Red Wing, with its stone buildings lit by a combination of slow-falling snow and glowing street lights, was particularly stunning. I rolled into St. Paul at about 10:30pm, so after making our way back from the station through the snow, we chatted a bit and then went to bed.

On Saturday, we went to a craft fair at the Midtown Global Market and ate massive falafel sandwiches at Holy Land. The sandwiches were seriously large, containing about 5 or 6 balls of falafel, a generous amount of well-executed hummus, and shredded romaine. I adored the contrast between the spiced, crispy falafel, the fresh romaine, and the creamy hummus. Next time you're in the Sin Cities, I highly recommend trying it. Not only does Holy Land have amazing food, but a friend who lives there told me that they also contribute to their community in various ways. For instance, they reclaimed an entire city block that was in bad repair.

Check out the size of that falafel sandwich. And that was after I'd attacked it a bit. The expression on the guy in the background who was inadvertently included in our photo op. is classic.

Later, we met for dinner at Pad Thai on Grand Avenue. I had green curry rice noodles with veggies and fresh tofu. Mara had green curry with fresh tofu. Em had green curry with chicken. Naomi had the eponymous pad thai, but laced with sriracha and more vegetables than normal. Sriracha transforms pad thai from a bland, dowdy noodle dish into something fabulous. Who knew?

At dinner, somehow the conversation meandered onto the hideous Twilight series. Em brought up the very good point that it would seem rather improbable that Bella could be pregnant in the next movie, being that she's relying on what we termed "undead semen." This made us descend into crazy laughter. Needless to say, a few glasses of wine were consumed at dinner.

Also, at the end of the evening, I had an exchange with an older gentleman who was donning his galoshes at the door. (I was waiting for people to return from the bathroom.) He said his wife makes fun of him for wearing them, but that they work really well in Minneapolis. So to those of you--and you know who you are--who are embarrassed to wear your galoshes, you should just buck up and don them proudly.

Later that evening, we went to a holiday party at Darren's house. Funky ice luminaries lined the walkway, but I didn't capture a photo because it was too cold to tarry outside. Inside, we were met with a pretty Christmas tree decorated in silver and blue and a yummy buffet table graced with various delectable items. Among them were tortilla pinwheels containing cream cheese, pickles, and lord-knows-what-else; pretzel rods; and corn chips with a devilishly yummy amalgam of Velveeta, turkey, and salsa. I didn't need to know how delicious that latter one is. Now I must plan a trip to the grocery store to search out this bizarre-o "food product," if only to verify that it is segregated from the regular dairy products and does not need to be refrigerated. Someone at the party gave me this little tidbit, and I must confirm it. Someone else said they are no longer allowed to even employ the word cheese, even when paired with the word product, on the package. Fascinating. Simply fascinating.

And I can't allow the miniature kale Christmas tree centerpiece constructed by Mister Mike (at Darren's bidding) to go unnoticed. The boughs were kale leaves affixed to a styrofoam base. Cherry tomato "ornaments" were staked onto it with toothpicks. It was Mikey at his Martha Stewart best.

The highlight of Sunday was visiting the Como Conservancy with Mara and Rachel and then having another Thanksgiving dinner at Naomi's house. Thanks to Naomi for a marvelous dinner! I might add homemade creamed corn with leeks to my Turkey Day menu. It was heavenly.

And the next day, I boarded the train early to head back home.

Gluttony, Pheasant Branch Conservancy, and Fake Thanksgiving

It's catch-up time again, dear readers.

Maple sweet potato pie at Pie Palooza

Two weekends ago, we feasted on a gluttonous level. On Friday, a group of us went to the Avenue on East Wash for a traditional fish fry. The wood paneling, the beehives, the assemblage of homogenous Wiscoheads: I was transported back my small-town upbringing. Some were enamored with the traditional surroundings, but the kitsch eluded me, perhaps because it was ubiquitous where I learned to tie my shoes.

Saturday held hiking at Pheasant Branch Conservancy, followed by beer and my beloved nachos at the Great Dane. Walking around afterward to banish the overwhelmingly large platter of nachos from our system, we stopped into the recently re-opened Argus. (I used to meet there for a drink with my Madison City Channel-12 colleagues occasionally, so it has a nostalgic charm.)

This is from our hiking trip to Indian Lake, not Pheasant Branch Conservancy, but I neglected to post it when I wrote about Indian Lake. And we didn't take pics at Pheasant Branch. So just deal with it. :)

We ended the weekend on a resounding note with Pie Palooza. Benefiting the REAP Food Group (http://www.reapfoodgroup.org/), this year's event was held at the Goodman Community Center. Between us, we tried two slices of country cheese pie with prosciutto, a maple sweet potato pie, and a mushroom spinach quiche. The maple syrup and sweet potato did make a lovely combination, but the crumble on top added too much sweetness.

A snapshot of our pies--and deliciously creamy vanilla ice cream and coffee and salad--at Pie Palooza

Last weekend, we attended S. and N.'s Fake Thanksgiving. I made Brussels sprouts sauteed with prosciutto and Parmesan. I don't have a recipe, but basically, I halve the Brussels sprouts, coat them with olive oil, and roast for about 15 minutes. Then I remove them from the oven, slice them, and saute them with onions and garlic. Once the onions are translucent, add the prosciutto and cook until crispy. (And don't be stingy with the prosciutto!) Plate the hot sprouts and top with slivers of parmesan. I also made pureed, gingered sweet potatoes with orange-infused Craisins. Here's my bastardized version of the recipe:


Gingered Sweet Potato Puree with Craisins
-5-6 organic sweet potatoes (I specify organic because I'm more inclined to leave the skin on with organic root vegetables. The skin holds nutrients, but I think it can also be a depository--or perhaps a filter--for pesticides. If they're traditional ones, I'd scoop out the cooked insides and discard the skins.)
-1 large onion
-6 cloves of garlic
-2-3 Tbsp. grated or finely chopped ginger
-2 Tbsp. butter
-drizzle of milk, rice milk, almond milk, or soy milk
-handful of Craisins

Heat the oven to 400 degrees. Pierce whole sweet potatoes with a fork and bake for 1 hour or until soft. Saute onions, garlic, and ginger with a few drops of olive oil. Once the sweet potatoes are done, plunk them into a food processor with the onions, garlic, and ginger mixture, the butter, and the milk. Process until smooth. Top with Craisins.

Trick or Treat?

On Tuesday night, I looked at a Sherman Terrace condo. It was cute, but a bit small and rough around the edges. And I need to assess if I can afford it and if I want to own something right now.

When I got home, I watched Glee and made braised bok choy with glazed tofu. It turned out very well, although I had to employ the fan to dispel the greasy scent filling my abode after the glazing. Here's the recipe:

Glazed Tofu over Braised Bok Choy
1 14-oz. package firm tofu (cut into 1/2-inch slices)
spray of olive oil
2 heads bok choy (~ 6 c. cut into 1-inch pieces)
3 garlic cloves (1 thinly sliced, 2 minced)
1 14-oz. can vegetable broth
1 1-inch piece ginger, peeled and grated
2 tsp. fish sauce or tamari
1/4 c. soy sauce
4 tsp. dark brown sugar
2 tsp. toasted sesame oil
2 Tbsp. cornstarch

Dry tofu with towels. (Wrap the tofu with the towels and press it with some heavy cans to extract a bit more moisture.) Heat oil in large skillet over medium-high heat. Saute bok choy and garlic in oil for about 4 mins. Add 1 1/2 c. of broth and simmer until reduced by half. Meanwhile, combine minced garlic, ginger, fish and soy sauces, brown sugar, and sesame oil. Heat oil in another skillet over high heat. Add tofu and brown, ~ 3 mins. per side. Add the soy mixture to coat the tofu. Simmer, uncovered, until the sauce is syrupy, ~ 4 mins. Stir the cornstarch into the reserved broth; add to the bok choy. Stir gently until thickened, ~ 2 mins. Divide the bok choy onto 4 plates and top with glazed tofu.

On Glee, they featured Rocky Horror Picture Show, which made me want to be one of the characters from it for Halloween. (It's now recorded on my list of potential costumes.)

My favorite article on NPR this week noted that Tom DeLay's trial starts in Austin on Monday. I hope they nail the bugger for illegally financing Texas state legislature races.

On Friday night, I hauled my exhausted bum to a Halloween costume party on the west side. I went as Mia Wallace (Uma Thurman's character from Pulp Fiction), and my accomplice played a garden gnome. It was a fun evening filled with tons of creative costumes. In attendance were bumblebees; several Pirates of the Caribbean-inspired pirates; Willy Wonka--the new Johnny Depp interpretation, not Gene Wilder's original version; Princess Leia; Snooky; The Situation; Cat Woman; Batman; crazy clowns; Go-Go girls; witches; and a simply marvelous man posed as a female sailor. Honestly, he nailed female mannerisms--casually brushing his blond locks away from his face, the coquettish side stance, and the entire party envied his up-to-there legs. The evening also included fun Halloween-themed food and drinks, a bonfire, and a few new acquaintances.

Prairie Home

Fall has arrived, and it's marvelous. I love the smell of decay in the air--the fallen leaves breaking down, the grass turning brown, the flowers dying back. When I walk by the small patch of prairie by the First Street railroad tracks, the smell of the prairie transitioning into winter mode reminds me of home. Rain has stripped some of the trees bare, but others still have leaves, often in more muted or wine-colored shades. (The notable exception being the bright yellow gingko outside of my office window, valiantly clinging to its leaves against wind and rain.) Drab skies have descended over the past few days, but I don't mind...yet. (Talk to me in February when it's been cold for ages and the landscape is nothing but endless brown and gray.)

We went hiking at Indian Lake a few weeks ago on a gorgeous, bright day. After tromping around for a few hours, we ate apples and granola bars and drank leftover coffee on the back bumper before heading back to the city. I'd definitely like to make a return trip.

And today was a lovely little Saturday. It included a little paper-reading, coffee, and a bacon biscuit from Batch Bakery, and then picking up a few more items for my Halloween costume (Mia Wallace, Uma Thurman's character in Pulp Fiction) from Mallat's Pharmacy.

In the evening, I cleaned my house, did laundry, and fell in love with Two Fat Ladies...and Bitchin' Kitchen... and Nigella Lawson and those crazy guys from Food Jammers. The Cooking Channel kicks ass! I may never leave my house again.

A couch! A couch! My kingdom for a couch!

Just a quick note before I go to bed. I need to get back into the groove of writing regularly here. This week has been a bit of a whirlwind. Last Saturday morning, Mike was nice enough to help me pick up and move a Crate and Barrel couch that I was purchasing from a couple through Craigslist. When we tried to move it into the apartment, we discovered that my stature put us at a unique disadvantage for maneuvering the piece into the house (it entailed either lifting the whole thing about a foot over my head to hoist it over a balcony or creative twisting and turning to accommodate narrow doorways). Luckily for me, other tallish friends left the football game early because they were broiling in the hot sun, so they finished the job. So now when y'all come over, you won't have to feel like you're perching on uncomfortable parlor chairs circa 1902.

Work is v. busy as we prepare for an upcoming conference. And I subbed for three different yoga classes this past week, so on Monday and Tuesday, I didn't get home until 8pm. Dexter says he's beginning to forget what I look like. (He's sitting next to me, silently pleading for a lick from my ramekin of java chip ice cream.)

However, I did manage to go to dinner with Jim and Jason at the Weary on Wednesday. As usual, I had the west of the Andes sandwich on tuna (http://bit.ly/9bbmpD). Mmm. Pico de gallo and chipotle mayonnaise on a marvelous tuna steak with a generous swathe of avocado: It just doesn't get any better than that. Jim and Jason both had the Hungarian goulash

Last month, a bunch of us saw Wicked at the Overture. I enjoyed it, although the experience was somewhat tempered by a major case of vertigo. Also, I wish I could've been closer to really see the costumes and appreciate the choreography.

Beforehand, we went to Fresco, the rooftop restaurant about the Madison Museum of Contemporary Art, for dinner. And that was phenomenal. I had the chicken Fresco, which was yummy. But I think my favorite part of the meal was dessert. Abby B. suggested (well, it was more of a directive ;)) we order the buttermilk beignets. Masquerading as simple round donuts, they are equipped with a milk chocolate center and vanilla creme anglaise. Thanks, Ms. A., for introducing me to the beignet!  

Last month was also my birthday, and my favorite birthday wish came from Ms. Lisa. With music from Bizet's Carmen playing in the background, her electronic card read: "Celebrate like a gypsy slut." Hilarious. Cracked me up. (Yeah, yeah. I know: The correct term is Roma, but it was still pretty damn funny.)

Valley of the Sun

Hola! I am not dead! Sorry for the gap in writing, dear readers. It's been a whirlwind lately. In this post, I'll detail the highlights of my last trip to Phoenix (in late August and early September), and I've got a few other posts up my sleeve.

So: Phoenix. This trip centered largely on shoving food in my face, which suits me. We hit Tortas el Rey. We meant to go to Los Reyes de la Torta because it was featured on Man vs. Food, but our sub-par Spanish tripped us up. Anyway, it doesn't matter because we got essentially the same thing: a big-ass sandwich. The king version contains: breaded beef, pork, ham, chorizo, cheese, avocado, beans, tomatoes, onions, jalapeno, and an omelet--all on a telera (a Mexican type of bread) bun. We each ate half and probably consumed more calories than we normally eat in about three days.

We also had burgers at 25 Degrees. This joint's hilarious tagline is "bordello meets burger bar," so I guess their decor is supposed to remind you of your favorite brothel. I had the number 2, which was topped with prosciutto, roasted tomato, burrata (a fresh Italian cheese, made from mozzarella and cream...had to look that one up), and pesto. Matt chose the number 3 with mezzo secco jack, green chili, chipotle, and avocado. Here's the menu if you ever happen to find yourself in the Valley of the Sun with a hankering for a delicious slab of beef.

After eating gigantor tortas, we ventured over to the swanky Phoenician for a farewell party of one of Matt's friends. I hung out in one of the pools for a bit, but then I took refuge from the sun in the shaded outdoor bar.

And we returned to Postino for their unusual bruschetta and wine. This time, we chose the warm artichoke spread, the albacore tuna with gaeta olives,smoked salmon with capers and pesto, and prosciutto with figs and marscapone. Amazing!

For the Labor Day holiday, we had a few people over to grill out and hang by the pool. All in all, it was a brief visit, but a good one.

Crustless Rainbow Chard and Cheese Quiche

I just pulled a crustless rainbow chard and cheese quiche out of the oven. (This is what I did in lieu of going to the gym tonight. Well, that and wrestle with Sprint over a new phone and plan.) It's beautifully browned on the top and smells heavenly. You can find the recipe here: http://collardgreenblog.blogspot.com/2009/07/crustless-rainbow-chard-quiche.html.

Last week, I tried carrot tops in soup, and it was unpleasant. They tasted...well, how you'd imagine carrot tops to taste: grassy and bitter and like something that you'd only eat if the rest of your crops had been destroyed in a plague of locusts or you live in a cold, god-forsaken part of the world (Mount Horeb in February?) or the fief of the feudal estate you call home demanded more of your meager agricultural output, pushing you and your family to the edge of starvation. Yeah. That's how they taste.

Pickling Phobias + Fender Benders

Pickling intimidates me. I'm fearful that I'll screw it up and be forever linked to a botulism epidemic ala Typhoid Mary. Except I'd be Botulism Erica. But with last weekend's Farm and Fleet purchase (jar grabber, pint and quart jars, and a few other tools), I will conquer my fear. As god is my witness, I shall never be pickle-less again. :) I've enlisted a few friends, and we might try beets and dilly beans next weekend.

And now a small recap of last weekend: On Friday night, I attended a Cock Party at the Inferno. We knew one of the four bands (The Type), so we went to see them perform. There was also an art show gravitating around....you guessed it, male genitalia. The reasoning behind the show was that male erotic parts are generally ignored in art. Well, that may be the case (with some notable exceptions such as Mapplethorpe and Michelangelo), but it's also true that you could throw a stone and hit a guy who'd be more than happy to regale you with a description of his junk.

On Saturday morning, I went to Macy's to get a bachelorette party gift. As I was waiting behind a parked SUV for another car to leave, the SUV proceeded to back right into my passenger-side door. The driver was very nice about it, though. He first asked if I was alright and then apologized, saying he's not used to driving his wife's car. He was using the camera viewer thingy to back up, but apparently something wasn't functioning correctly. "It usually beeps," he said. I didn't ask why he didn't also look in the rearview mirror. He gave me his insurance and contact info., and I've already filed a claim. So not a big deal, although I must admit that I was shaken up for awhile that day.

Purple Things That Are Way Cooler Than Barney

Howdy. I just got out of the shower after watching episode 1 of season 2 of True Blood. I love it when a shockingly gruesome scene ending an episode is immediately followed by incongruent music. In this case, a horrible murder scene transferred over into a perky country song.

Last Thursday night, I made purple carrots braised in a red wine sauce with garlic mashed potatoes and black beluga lentils with spinach and garlic scapes. As many of you already know (I've been yapping about it ever since ;)), it was a divine version of a bastardized, separated shepherd's pie. And they said I couldn't cook comfort food!

Garlic mashed potatoes are simple. I use butter and soymilk or real dairy of some sort if I have it on hand. For the lentils, just cover them with a bit of water and add some vegetable or chicken broth for flavor. I don't measure or time it. You just do it a few times until you've gotten the hang of it, and it depends if you like your lentils a little soupy or not. The carrots were braised in a sauce of onions, garlic, mushrooms (recipe called for porcini, but I used shiitake because it's what I had), red wine, rosemary, thyme, a smidge of flour, and a dash of tamari. You could also add tomato paste to thicken it. There's a great recipe for it in Deborah Madison's Local Flavors: Cooking and Eating from America's Farmers' Markets.)

Asparagus Tart + Chocolate Beet Cake

On Sunday, I made an asparagus tart and a chocolate beet cake. Let's attack the tart first. Since the Willy St. Co-op didn't have ricotta salata or creme fraiche (damn you, keyboard; I want a circonflexe and an accent aigu), I had to employ some creative substitutions. Thinking ricotta salata was similar to ricotta, I grabbed a tub of it, and in lieu of the creme fraiche, I snagged half and half. I wanted to get the tart started, so I didn't look up the definitions of ricotta salata and creme fraiche (I'd never used either in my cooking) in my food dictionary until after the tart was in the oven. Alas, I am woefully ignorant about these two ingredients apparently because half and half is a far cry from creme fraiche and ricotta salata is an entirely different animal from  ricotta. I was beginning to suspect it wouldn't set well, and when I took the tart out of the oven, my fears were confirmed. I managed to salvage it by beating two eggs and baking them on top of the tart. It turned out pretty well, but next time I'll abide by the recipe. Oh, and my wrists have forbidden me to type up the longish recipe for the tart, so if you want it, let me know.

The chocolate beet cake was less successful in my mind. A colleague graciously said it tasted "earthy," not "like dirt," which is how I'd described it. (A.H., I stole that descriptor from your take on spring mix.) If there's another bunch of beets in this week's CSA share, I'm going to either pickle them or roast them and make a salad with goat cheese or shaved Parmesan, arugula, and maybe some balsamic vinegar. Beets might be one of those things that, for me, are best served in a more traditional mode. (Never fear, though. I shan't become traditional anytime soon; I've been called eccentric or quirky so many times that I probably couldn't become traditional if I tried.) The cake wasn't my favorite, but it might appeal to other palates, so here's the recipe (from MADSAC's From Asparagus to Zucchini: A Guide to Cooking Farm-Fresh, Seasonal Produce):

• 2 cups sugar
• 2 cups flour
• 1/2 tsp. salt
• 2 tsp. baking powder
• 1 tsp. baking soda
• 3-4 oz. unsweetened chocolate
• 4 eggs
• 1/4 c. oil
• 3 c. shredded beets

Heat oven to 325. Grease 2 9-inch cake pans. Whisk dry ingredients together. Melt chocolate very slowly over low heat or in a double boiler. Cool chocolate; blend thoroughly with eggs and oil. Combine flour mixture with chocolate mixture, alternating with the beets. Pour into pans. Bake until fork can be removed from center cleanly, 40-50 mins.

Skechers

I have a new pair of Skechers Shape-Ups, and I love them. They do nothing to downplay my skinny chicken legs, but since I won't be developing the gams of Serena Williams anytime soon, I'm just gotta deal with it. They're uber-cushy, which is heavenly for those with flat feet. I probably won't attend any workout classes in them for fear of people thinking I'd downed an array of cocktails prior to class, but I'll wear them for walking and on the elliptical or the bike at the gym. It's really the standing still that is problematic because you're constantly trying to correct for the fact that you are somewhat imbalanced by the rocking of the shoe. For instance, while I was waiting for the light at a curb the other day, a stiff wind kicked up, further messing with my already precarious balance. So I pretended that I had a sudden urge to step and turn to look at something over to the left. Otherwise, I imagine I would've looked like I was doing a mini line-dancing routine.

Blogger just erased a lengthy post about the asparagus tart and chocolate beet cake I made last night. Grr. And it's now past my bedtime, so you'll have to wait for me to re-create that post tomorrow.

Bon nuit, dear readers (all 3 of you ;)).

Yin Yoga + Grilled Cheese

Tonight, I had my second yin yoga class, and I think I'm hooked. I highly recommend it for anyone who wants to deeply stretch their fascia and thoroughly relax.

Upon arriving home, my nose met with the intoxicating smell of grilled cheese. Following my roommate's lead, I made a delectable version with pepper-crusted parmesan cheese and green peppers (from my CSA share) on sprouted wheat bread. It gave me the opportunity to use my brand-spankin'-new panini press (thank you, T.J. Maxx), and cut into four tiny little triangles, it provided a satisfying, but light late-night dinner. I would provide a photo, but the camera's broken, so you'll just have to use your imagination.

Reasons Why I'm Not Allowed to Drink Espresso Often

I got back into town last Saturday. After enduring the red-eye flight, I was greeted by a pretty sunrise and a rainbow in Minneapolis. Thanks to B. for picking me up at the airport.

This week, I was tired. Just plain tired. I guess I'm still realigning my sleep patterns because I only got about 4-6 hours of sleep each night. On Wednesday, in an espresso-fueled haze, I noticed a full-sized phone book living on the roof outside my office window. It was rain-bloated, forlorn, and splayed open, its pages fluttering in the breeze. How did it get there? Did some inebriated person launch it up there?* Was someone having a privately perusing the White Pages on my rooftop? Was it abandoned by a family of phone books who couldn't afford to raise it? Poor, poor cast-off phone book. The next day, a beer bottle had been added to the rooftop, and my friend S. said it looked like an art installation. I'll keep you guys posted about the opening night for our little installation. :)

*I admit that this is the most likely explanation, although even when drunk, it has never occurred to me to propel a big-ass phone book onto a local office building.

Yoga al Fresco, Flashlight Tour at DBG, Lola's, the Suns, Bats, and Postino

Today for my last lunch in Phoenix, we tried the Blue Nile Cafe, which is an Ethiopian restaurant in Tempe. I had the kik alitcha, kik misir watt, and inguday over injera, and M. had the meat lover's combo. Afterward, we trolled around Sunset Clothing Exchange and Buffalo Exchange for a little shopping. The latter has a great program: In exchange for not taking a bag for your purchase, you can donate five cents to different causes.

Last night, I went to a free outdoor yoga class in Old Town. The class was a marvelous workout and great stress (you know, all of that dreadful vacation stress ;)) reliever. The 1.25- to 1.5-hour asana was followed by a luxurious half-hour of savasana, and afterward, there were treats (little bites and roasted apricot sorbet) from Crudo. We ended the night with sushi at Kyoto.

On Tuesday night, we went to Postino for bruschetta and wine. On Monday and Tuesday nights, you can get four different kinds of bruschetta and a bottle of wine for $20. We had the brie and apples with fig spread, prosciutto with figs and mascarpone, warm artichoke spread, and albacore tuna with gaeta olives and a bottle of Damilano Nebbiolo.

On Wednesday night, we watched a bat colony that roosts in a tunnel at 40th and Camelback leave for their evening insect hunt. Just after sunset, several thousand Mexican free-tailed bats and western pipistrelle bats emerged. Although not as dramatic as I'd expected (I imaged an Indian Jones-style blanket of screeching bats), it was cool to see their wacky, erratic flight patterns. (I suppose that's a result of echolocation.)

Last week, we did a flashlight tour at the Desert Botanical Gardens. We'd been to the DBG before, but never at night. Stations throughout the garden taught us about tarantulas and scorpions, snakes, mesquite, geckos and lizards, saguaro, frogs and toads, agave, birds and bats, and tortoises. Afterward, we met K. + J. for tapas (house marinated olives, tortilla de patatas, garbanzos con espinacas a la Andaluza, and the paella of the day), delicious sangria, and tres leches cake at Lola's.

What else? On Saturday, we went to a barbeque at F. + S.'s house and then onto R.'s house to watch the Suns game (or, in our case, to pretend to watch the Sun's game). Most people left after the game was over, but the few of us remaining played Trivial Pursuit.

On Sunday, we saw Metalhead play at Martini Ranch. Normally, this is a hoot, but the holiday weekend made it way too crowded. It was like being repeatedly mauled for 2 hours. And on Monday, people came over to hang out by the pool and shove food in their faces. (Holiday weekend!)

Okay, enough sitting in front of the computer. It's my last day here, so I'm going to enjoy the pool for a bit before we go to the First Friday Art Walk tonight.

Sedona and Drive-in Movie

Last Sunday, we loaded up the rental car with snacks, a thermos of coffee, lots of water, blankets, wine, and sunscreen and set out for Sedona.

On the way, we spontaneously stopped at Montezuma Castle, which is the ruin of a pueblo built by the Southern Sinagua (Spanish for without water) people. The Southern Sinagua inhabited the Verde Valley from about 700 AD to the early 1400s and were skilled farmers. Situated in a cliff recess 100 feet above the valley, the original pueblo was five stories tall and consisted of 20 rooms. Early settlers who thought the ruin was of Aztec origin mistakenly assigned the name Montezuma to it.

In Sedona, we hiked the Boynton Canyon Trail in the Coconino National Forest and the Red Rock Ranger District. The trail was mild, which I appreciated because the backs of my knees and legs are still injured. Parts of the trail were positively beach-like with thick white sand, and I was amazed at the extent of the forest.

Afterward, we had a snack at the Enchantment Resort's Tii Gavo restaurant. The restaurant has a stunning view, and the prickly pear mojito was marvy, but the cactus fries resembled mushy green peppers. The cornmeal crust offset the texture somewhat, but they were still rather bland and greasy.
For dinner at the Heartline Cafe, we shared pecan-crusted trout with grain mustard sauce, seared polenta and braised pork with roasted pepper sauce, and quail in a port wine demi-glace.

After dinner, we drove up Airport Road to watch the sunset and then walked around the Tlaquepaque shopping district before getting back on the road.

On Tuesday night, we went to Scottsdale 6, a drive-in movie theater, to see Shrek 3 and How to Train Your Dragon. I'd never been before, so it was a hoot.

Just Deserts?

There's lots to love about Phoenix: funky architecture; geography, flora, and fauna vastly different from the Midwest; a vibrant vibe; marvelous restaurants; great hiking; and tons more. One thing that concerns me, though, are the lawns and the golf courses. Lush, artificial environments requiring lots of maintenance and resources (read: water) should not be plunked in the middle of the desert.

Water has always been a major issue in Phoenix, but massive population growth (one figure said the city has grown 77% since 1980) and a persistent drought over the past two decades has made it even more pertinent. Phoenix receives its water from four sources: the Colorado River (34.5%), surface water (from lakes, streams, and rivers other than the Colorado)(17.2%), groundwater (35.8%), and effluent water (water mixed with waste that can be reused (12.3%). The drought particularly affects the surface water levels. To sustain surface water, the area relies on precipitation. Melted snow from the northern part of the state and rain feed surface water suppliers such as the Salt River and the Verde River.

And where is the water being used? According to the Phoenix Department of Water, the majority of usage is not for drinking. Instead, 2/3 of water is used for residential purposes, including landscape irrigation, and more than 60% of Phoenix' overall demand is for outdoor water uses, mainly landscape irrigation.

Doesn't xeriscaping make more sense? Xeriscaping is a portmanteau of xeros (Greek for dry) and landscaping. It's defined as utilizing plants that require less water, especially in arid ecosystems. Here, that means rocks and sand as filler instead of grass and plants like yucca, cacti, agave, and a host of others.

Why do people insist on having grassy golf courses and green lawns? My guess is status. As in temperate climes, a manicured lawn is a marker of status among certain groups. And using an inordinate amount of resources is also a way that many groups express social dominance.

Read It and Weep

I've landed in Phoenix and am settling into the desert sun and heat, and the relative languor of vacation. This morning, I picked oranges, grapefruits, and lemons from the backyard and did my physical therapy exercises and some strength work on my legs and abs.

I've spent most of the rest of the day reading Rick Riordan's The Lightning Thief outside (in the shade, of course) and consuming massive quantities of sun tea and water. Riordan's book is an entertaining young adult read that postulates that titans, gods, and demigods walk among us in the contemporary world.

After the pool cools down (we washed and removed the insulating cover a bit ago), I'll take a swim.

Let's see. What else? Last night we went to RA, a sushi joint up the street, for happy hour, played with the Wii (according to which, by the way, I suck at most physical tasks :)), and watched a movie.

I also wanted to mentioned the book I read right before this one. It's called The Help by Kathryn Stockett, and I was so enthralled that I burned through it in about four days. It's set in 1962 Jackson, Mississippi and is told through the voice of two African-American maids and one white woman. The white woman is writing a book about the maids' experiences, which was a dangerous and subversive act during this volatile period. Read it and weep, literally. It will make you cry, it will make you laugh, and above all, it will make you think.

Happy Cinco de Mayo + The Green Owl Cafe

Happy Cinco de Mayo, everyone! I did nothing to celebrate. Not a damn thing. But I don't think I've ever celebrated Cinco de Mayo. Maybe next year.

Last Saturday was the state event for history day, so I spent a chunk of my day asking kidbots about their historical research process and such. It was a good day, but I was tuckered out by the end of it.

The night before, L. and I went to dinner at The Green Owl Cafe, which is a funky, newish vegetarian restaurant at Schenk's Corners. I had the barbequed jackfruit* sandwich with kale crisps, and L. had the Middle Eastern platter with hummus, muhammara, and baba ganoush served with toasted pita wedges, olives, and pickled vegetables. The jackfruit sandwich is their take on a pulled pork sandwich and was surprisingly successful. I must admit that I was a little skeptical about jackfruit. I'd never had it before, and the notion of a fruit even approaching the texture and taste of pork seemed doubtful. I mean, it didn't taste like pork, but it was a satisfying substitute, and the vegan slaw on top of the sandwich was a delicious contrast. Oh, and the kale crisps rocked, too. L. was also pleased with her platter. After dinner, we shared a slice of spectacular lemon-poppyseed cake. I'm a lemon-poppyseed fan to begin with, but this defied expectations. The cake itself had the consistency of a delicious pound cake, and the glaze was citrusy and rich. We were both quietly moaning at our table, and the cake vanished way too rapidly.

Afterward, we saw Broom Street Theater's production of Multiple O: Women on Top, for which I wrote a review for the Isthmus (http://bit.ly/dpO5io).

*I was curious about jackfruit, so I looked it up. Here are a few highlights:
     -species of tree in the mulberry family
     -national fruit of Bangladesh
     -native to southern and southeast Asia
    -its fruit is largest tree-borne fruit in world
    -fruit can reach up to 80 lbs. in weight

Wisco Film Festival and Red Curry Sweet Potato Soup

Alright. The dishes are washed, but I want to stay up later. K. came over for dinner and a movie tonight. We watched Adam's Apples, a slightly twisted Danish black comedy. The menu included:

• red curry sweet potato soup
• sautéed greens (a mixture of mustard, spinach, collard greens, and turnip greens)
• crostini with a selection of cheeses (feta, grana padana, herbed Happy Cow), roasted garlic, marinated artichoke hearts, and black olives

Red Curry Sweet Potato Soup
(from Real Simple)

Ingredients
* 1 1/2 lbs sweet potatoes, rinsed (about 3 large potatoes)
* 1 tablespoon vegetable oil
* 1 onion, roughly chopped
* 4 tablespoons fresh ginger, peeled and thinly sliced
* 1 tablespoon red curry paste (found in the international section of markets)
* 1 (15 ounce) can unsweetened coconut milk
* 3 cups chicken broth or vegetable broth
* 3 1/2 tablespoons lemon juice
* 1 teaspoon kosher salt
* 1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil
* 1/2 cup fresh cilantro stem

Directions
1. Preheat oven to 400°F Put the sweet potatoes on an oven rack and bake for 50 minutes or until tender. Remove from oven and let cool. Heat the vegetable oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Sauté the onion and ginger until the onion softens, about 5 minutes. Stir in the curry paste and cook for 1 minute. Add the coconut milk and broth and gently bring to a boil. Reduce heat to a simmer, partially cover, and cook for 5 minutes. Skin the potatoes and cut into 1-inch chunks. Add the potatoes to the soup and simmer for 5 minutes. Stir in the lemon juice and salt. Ladle the soup into serving bowls. Drizzle the sesame oil evenly over the servings. Garnish with the cilantro.

A few notes: The Co-op lacked cilantro, so I omitted it. Had it been available, I would've gladly used it. Cilantro is a magically delicious herb. I used low-fat coconut milk, replaced red curry paste with garam masala, substituted fresh lime juice for lemon juice, and threw in a few handfuls of spinach ribbons (another recipe suggested it...so I claim no credit for that). Close enough, I say.

Wisconsin Film Festival

In mid-April, I attended four films at the Wisconsin Film Festival. Here's a little recap:

OSS117: Lost in Rio is a French satire of 1960s-era spy movies. It especially pokes fun at Sean Connery's tenure as James Bond. If you can get ahold of a copy, I'd highly recommend it.

Romania's The Happiest Girl in the World was less entertaining. It centered on a teenage girl who wins a car in a contest put on by a juice manufacturer. She and her parents go to Bucharest to film the commercial for the juice company and to claim her prize. However, tensions arise because her parents want to sell the car to advance their lot in life and she just wants the independence and freedom afforded by a car. It's a lot of bickering and watching her shoot and re-shoot the commercial, but it was interesting to see a movie about the Romanian people as they navigate their rather new relationship with capitalism.

Mid-August Lunch from Italy was the charming story of a middle-aged Roman man and his mother who agree to care for his building administrator's elderly mother over the mid-August holiday (Ferragosto) in exchange for some of his overdue condo fees. When the administrator shows up, he brings his mother and an aunt. And then the local doctor asks if he can add his mother to mix while he works the late shift. It's endearing to watch the man try to keep up with these feisty ladies, often with the addition of a glass (or three) of wine.

In Masquerades (Algerian), Mounir is just trying to make a life for himself and his family in a small Algerian town. In a drunken outburst, he announces to the whole town that he's found a stellar match for his sister, Rym. (She lives with them and has bouts of narcolepsy.) Rym is in love with Mounir's best friend, but he doesn't know it. The fake story about the wealthy match is exaggerated as it moves from person to person in the town, and soon gets out of control. It was a sweet little film.

Technogeek Moments and John Mayer

Holy technogeek moment, Batman! I believe I just imported this blog into my Facebook account, so let's see if it works. Testing. Testing. One, two. One, two. John Mayer's a douche bag! (Isn't douche bag a lovely term? It's so deliciously crass.)

Hee. Hee. I know that's not a routine mic-testing sentence, but it should be. Alright. I just needed a segue into discussing John Mayer. I am referring, of course, to the now-notorious Playboy interview wherein Mayer makes some bizarre, if not outright sexist and racist, comments. To me, his tidbits about race were particularly disturbing and offensive. Here's the passage that has received the most flak:

PLAYBOY: If you didn’t know you, would you think you’re a douche bag?

MAYER: It depends on what I picked up. My two biggest hits are “Your Body Is a Wonderland” and “Daughters.” If you think those songs are pandering, then you’ll think I’m a douche bag. It’s like I come on very strong. I am a very…I’m just very. V-E-R-Y. And if you can’t handle very, then I’m a douche bag. But I think the world needs a little very. That’s why black people love me.

PLAYBOY: Because you’re very?

MAYER: Someone asked me the other day, “What does it feel like now to have a hood pass?” And by the way, it’s sort of a contradiction in terms, because if you really had a hood pass, you could call it a nigger pass. Why are you pulling a punch and calling it a hood pass if you really have a hood pass? But I said, “I can’t really have a hood pass. I’ve never walked into a restaurant, asked for a table and been told, ‘We’re full.’"

PLAYBOY: It is true; a lot of rappers love you. You recorded with Common and Kanye West, played live with Jay-Z.

MAYER: What is being black? It’s making the most of your life, not taking a single moment for granted. Taking something that’s seen as a struggle and making it work for you, or you’ll die inside. Not to say that my struggle is like the collective struggle of black America. But maybe my struggle is similar to one black dude’s.

PLAYBOY: Do black women throw themselves at you?

MAYER: I don’t think I open myself to it. My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I’ve got a Benetton heart and a fuckin’ David Duke cock. I’m going to start dating separately from my dick.

PLAYBOY: Let’s put some names out there. Let’s get specific.

MAYER: I always thought Holly Robinson Peete was gorgeous. Every white dude loved Hilary from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. And Kerry Washington. She’s superhot, and she’s also white-girl crazy. Kerry Washington would break your heart like a white girl. Just all of a sudden she’d be like, “Yeah, I sucked his dick. Whatever.” And you’d be like, “What? We weren’t talking about that.” That’s what “Heartbreak Warfare” is all about, when a girl uses jealousy as a tactic.

Let's get an insignificant issue out of the way first: Even if he believes this crap, isn't the boy bright enough not to say it in a major magazine interview? Yeah. Apparently not.

The next distasteful statement is that African-Americans love him because he is so "very." I'm not sure what the hell it means to be "very." Very what? If he's wanting me to fill in the blank, I can present several choice adjectives after reading that interview. I am curious to know precisely what attribute in in his noggin because he's generalizing an entire group of people based on it. And I'm convinced that the African-Americans who did like him prior to this interview are not particularly fond of him now, despite his Twitter apology. (Who chooses a medium that limits you to 140 characters for a genuine apology?) At least he then has the good sense--after making broad generalizations about African-Americans again--to say that his so-called struggle is not "like the collective struggle of black America." Really? I can safely say that I never, ever thought that John Mayer's "struggle" was equivalent to the struggle of African-Americans. Just for the record.

Next, he refers to a "hood pass"--a term that I fortunately had not previously encountered--and then flippantly drops the N-word. The latter is simply unacceptable, especially for a white person, and we'll just leave it at that. As a term, the former implies that a white person can access and own the often traumatic history of African-Americans by being a cool pop star. In his own inarticulate fashion, he rejects this notion, but does so with an example of racism (being refused at a restaurant) that is so mild that it makes me wonder if he's ever heard of slavery and racism. If being refused at a restaurant was the worst thing that occurred during slavery and the ensuing years of oppression, we'd be in much better shape.

Then there's the "Do black women throw themselves at you?" question. When I first saw excerpts of the interview, the snippet would begin with this question, and I always wondered why Playboy was asking such a bizarre question. Well, now that I've read the larger interview, it makes a bit more sense, but it's still a demented leap in the dialogue. Then again, it is Playboy. I guess I wouldn't expect them to be grilling Mayer about his feelings on Anna Karenina.

And here we are at my favorite part, the piece where he compares his penis to a white supremacist. Talk about wandering into all kinds of dangerous territory. By adding the sexual element (i.e., referencing his penis) he brings to the surface all kinds of crazy history. Off the top of my head, I think of the historically fraught relations between white men and black women and between black men and white women. More specifically, it summons black slave women suffering rape at the hands of their male owners and the lynchings and violence perpetrated against black men as punishment for alleged and/or imagined crimes against white women. I could go on.

Even apart from that, his comments that he doesn't "open [him]self up to" the attentions of African-American women, that his heart is a Benetton ad* (read: multicultural and open), and that his penis resembles David Duke are bizarre. The last detail is really the worst for me. Bringing a prominent KKK member into the equation upped the creepiness quotient about a thousand-fold. A charitable interpretation of his comments would be that even though at heart he is a tolerant soul, he's just not physically attracted to African-American women. (I find this hard to believe because of Halle Berry, at the very least. I am attracted to Halle Berry. That woman is stunning.) On a side note, I was under the impression that desire emanates from one's heart and brain. Can't that Benetton heart override his penis? (Insert joke about men thinking with their penises.)

And then he lists a few exceptions. By name. Is naming a few women that would be worthy of his attentions--if he could "start dating separately from [his] dick," that is--supposed to cancel out the fact that he has just said he is not attracted to any African-American women? He then insults white women with the "white-girl crazy" line and ends with on a charming note by pulling this horrendous train wreck of a discussion back to a shallow plug for his song.

Whew. On that note, I'll wrap it up. I know Mayer is just a singer and not a political and historical brain trust, and I guess we shouldn't expected him to be. And why devote so many words to the putz? I just wish that people in general would be a bit more thoughtful about the ideas they espouse. This especially applies to celebrities because their status confers a degree of authority (or if not authority, at least significant media time). And that authority can influence people's opinions.

Note: Farai Chide at The Huffington Post had some insightful commentary: http://huff.to/aPjIEw. And this article (http://bit.ly/aukSBE) by Andrea Plaid from Racialicious was also interesting.

*The Benetton ads are problematic representations of diversity, but that's for another article.

It's All in the Pajama Pants

This past week, I achieved a minor life goal: to wear pajama pants to work. On Wednesday, I had a physical therapy appointment, and when I woke up, wearing anything besides soft, comfy pajama pants seemed out of the question. So I did it. And the world did not fall apart. Makes me think I should do it more often.

Also this past week, Laura and I had a crappy meal at Babe's. The waitress wasn't exactly surly, but she was painfully awkward. We ordered hoops (their version of onion strings), Asian chicken salad, and Cajun chicken salad. My Dreamsicle martini was yummy and watching the middle-aged women get plastered was entertaining, but I wouldn't recommend eating there. The trouble is that the far east side has a dearth of decent restaurants unless you're into crappy chains.

What else? I watched Auntie Mame in its entirety for the first time, and she's my new role model. Also, while I'm talking movies, I saw two great ones last week that I forgot to share with you: Sita Sings the Blues and Happy Endings. Sita is an animated retelling of the Ramayana juxtaposed with the contemporary story of the director's divorce. Several different animation styles are utilized, yielding one Sita that resembles Betty Boop and belts out bluesy numbers. I never buy soundtracks, but I'm considering buying this one because it features original 1920s recordings of singer Annette Hanshaw. There's also some great debates about the true meanings of the Ramayana. Happy Endings also discusses the vagaries of contemporary love, but with a heavy dose of reality. In other words, this is not your typical chick flick.

Working Stiff

As some of you know, I've had a few jobs in my tenure on the planet. For kicks, I thought I'd assemble a comprehensive list.

-apple orchard employee (Kaste’s)
-pizza maker/convenience store employee (Budget Mart: twice)
-sales associate (Naturalizer)
-boat cleaner
-wholesale spice packager (Wildwood)
-library assistant
-tutor (TRIO)
-AASPIRE intern (EOC)
-assistant director/video editor/production assistant (MCC-12)
-assistant archivist (WCFTR)
-notetaker (ASM and McBurney)
-prep cook/office assistant (Trempealeau Hotel)
-PR/advertising rep. (Aging and Disability Resource Center)
-map organizer (map library)
-deli worker (grocery store)
-house cleaner
-gardener
-office assistant (Trempealeau Family Chiropractic)
-bread peddler (Whole Foods)
-car hop
-baker (Renaissance Bakery)
-tractor cleaner
-assistant for program introducing high school students to campus
-editor (WHS and CE Publishing)

Tell me about your wackiest jobs.

Overheard in the Steam Room

Yesterday, in the steam room, I overheard a guy say the following regarding Obama appointing someone to a post after Congress had finished its session: "I just think it was a sneaky way to get other Socialists, Communists, and crooks in." Yeah. I thought y'all would enjoy that little tidbit. And I kept my mouth shut, too. (Sometimes I blurt when a more suitable response would be silence.)

Other than that, the weekend was pretty low-key. Today, I attended a baby shower, so I had to venture into Babies R Us to buy a gift. I would not recommend this unless it's absolutely necessary or you are keen on inflicting pain on yourself.

On Saturday, I slept in deliciously late, did laundry, made the aforementioned hideous run to Babies R Us, serendipitously ran into friends and shared a coffee with them, and had my little steam room session. Yesterday evening, I watched Desk Set with a friend.

And that's about it.

Oh. I almost forgot! Last week, I made an amazing Thai curry soup. I cheated a bit in that I used Trader Joe's Thai curry sauce, but the result was yummy. It had green beans, cauliflower, tofu, Indian spices (turmeric, mustard seed, coriander), onions, and garlic. If you like spicy Thai flavors, give it a whirl. You could use whatever veggies appeal to you.

The Knights who say Knee

Since my knees have been aching, I've been exercising less. I'm doing the R.I.C.E. (rest, ice, compression, and elevation) regimen and will see a Sports Medicine person next week. It's very challenging to rest all the time. I mean, as a general rule, I begrudgingly go to the gym, but exercise does make me feel better and relieves stress.

Since I'm kind of laid up, you'd think I'd have lots of time to write in my blog. Alas, that does not seem to be the case. Well, I guess I have the time; I just haven't been devoting it to writing. I have been reading a fair number of books, though. Let's see. Jeffrey Eugenides' The Virgin Suicides, Laura Esquivel's Swift as Desire, Janet Fitch's Paint It Black, and Dai Sijie's Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress. And now I need a new book. Any suggestions?

Why celery got the boot

This week was pretty uneventful, although dancing on Saturday was a hoot.

Today I made Mushroom Barley Soup. Here's the recipe: http://bit.ly/9P8Kxg. I omitted the celery largely because after using 2 or 3 ribs of celery, the remainder languishes in my fridge until it's desiccated and sad. And then I throw it out. Omitting it keeps me from killing yet another innocent 3/4 bunch of celery. And I added rosemary because I had some frozen from last season's garden, and it sounded like it'd pair well with mushrooms and barley. And I was right. :)

What else? I did my taxes and met a friend for coffee at Ground Zero. The walk to and from the coffee house reminded me how much I love my neighborhood. Often, I'm either driving or reading on the bus. And there's no better way than walking to truly observe and engage with a neighborhood. I forgot about the funky houses and the fun gardens (they're just starting to peek out) and the vibrancy of people out and about. It was lovely.

The Day Off and Harbingers of Spring

Today, I took the day off. I didn't do anything terrifically exciting, but it was wonderful to do whatever I wanted and get a few basic things done. I slept late, then had breakfast and went to yoga at noon. At class, I met a new friend from Rome, and since I had planned to go for a hike in the arboretum after class, I invited her to join me. We grabbed lunch at Cargo Coffee and reminisced about various travels. (We were also hit on by a guy at the table behind us. He asked if he could take us bowling sometime. Yes, bowling. It was very odd.) Then it was off to Trader Joe's to get groceries. After putting away my groceries, I sat in the eucalyptus steam room at the gym and then picked up a few items at Target.

On the way home, I saw a gorgeous, gorgeous moon. It looked a bit like a mottled blood orange hanging in the sky. I'm choosing to interpret the beautiful moon as a harbinger of spring. I am so very glad that it is finally March. I know I'm supposed to appreciate all of the seasons, but the Wisconsin winter wears me out. By February and March, I am desperate for heat and sunshine and open water and green things.

Dancing and Lady Gaga

It’s Sunday evening, and I’m watching Bringing Up Baby and hoping for someone else to make dinner. ;) I might throw together a frittata after finishing the movie. Last night, a bunch of us went to the Ivory Room (downtown piano bar) and then to Plan B. The latter had a good crowd, and it felt good to dance, but I’m very ready for an early bedtime.

Yesterday, I finally got around to watching some of Lady Gaga’s videos. (I've been hearing people talking about them, so I was curious.) “Just Dance” is less impressive, but “Paparazzi” and “Bad Romance” were intriguing.

Fashion hate

Walking around on campus these days makes me cringe. On the street, I confront awful ankle boots with crazy, spikey heels, skinny jeans, slouchy boots, and side ponytails. The other day, I saw a girl wearing denim cut-off shorts with tights and then saw the look repeated in Urban Outfitters' window. The mall--when I risk entering that creepy realm--is populated with rack upon rack of neon, graffiti-inspired prints, and American Apparel was displaying shiny, spandex leotards ala Jane Fonda. Even peplum has reared its ugly head in the pages of catalogs. Peplum, for the love of god! What's next, those football player-caliber shoulder pads?



What the hell is going on? I understand that fashion is cyclical, but why bring back such hideous specimens? I’m not sure why this disturbs me so much. Perhaps I don’t feel old enough to witness a revival of trends from my childhood.

Lindsay's date from hell

Ladies and gentlemen, we've got another horror story from the dating trenches. This one comes to us from Ms. Lindsay, and it tops any of my so-called worst dates. Hell, I couldn’t even imagine anything this bizarre—and I’ve got a pretty good imagination. Thanks for sharing, darlin’.

Lindsay met him for the first time on a Friday night. Within 10 minutes, he had berated old girlfriends and opined that all women are clingy and needy. (Who leads with that? He couldn’t think of a single topic other than past girlfriends and negative stereotypes about women? I mean, talk about the weather. Discuss current events. Ask about her day or her hobbies, for goddess’ sake.) Despite the awkward beginning, they played pool and darts and had a great time. He seemed fun and smart.

At the end of the night, he asked her what she thought of him, which is a wee bit weird in itself. She said she was still deciding. Put off, he asked her why. She explained that she was unimpressed by his sexist and chauvinistic oratory at the evening’s start. To his credit, he apologized and clarified that he had been speaking of his own past girlfriends and shouldn’t have extended his nasty generalizations to all female humanoids. I believe he said, “Oh, not all women [are clingy and needy]. Just the ones I’ve dated.” (Lovely.) In a fledging bid for sainthood, Lindsay decided to see him again, and they made a date for the following weekend.

Before the weekend arrived, however, he said he couldn’t possibly wait that long to see her, so she saw him twice in that week. During one of these mini-dates, he requested to spend the night at her apartment and to “sleep next to her in bed.” (Does this smack of complete b.s. to anyone else? Based on personal experience, that statement coming from most men is akin to Augustus Gloop—the gluttonous, grossly obese* boy in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory who falls into the chocolate river and is sucked into a chocolate extraction pipe—contending that he will only eat a tiny sliver of chocolate.) Lindsay’s response was that he needed to slow down.

At some point during one of these little interludes, he also announced that he didn't like her seeing other people and demanded that she decide whether or not they were exclusive by the next date. (I would’ve been done here, despite the deeply ingrained Midwestern niceness. The older I get, the less crap I’m willing to take. I mean, I’m not off-base here, am I? It is rather strange to request that someone decide on exclusivity after a few paltry dates, right? I’ve taken longer to decide on purchasing shoes—and those are sometimes more practical than some relationships.)

The weekend arrived and it was time for the second official date, which took place at an Italian restaurant. In the car, he announced that he didn’t want his partner to get pregnant because “women get fat and bitchy when they’re pregnant” and “the sex is never the same." (Again, why begin with comments that make your date contemplate the logistics—and potential pain quotient—of hurtling herself out of the moving vehicle? How does that topic even present itself?) After arguing a bit about the veracity or appropriateness of his comments, they agreed to disagree.

I hope y’all are still reading because this is where the juicy stuff begins. Here’s a sample of some interesting he shared with her in the course of the date:
· “I want you to be the mother of my children.” (Lindsay and I are utterly baffled as to how that would transpire without her being “fat and bitchy” and decimating their future love life.)
· “I am ready to exchange promise rings.” (Lindsay’s comment: After a week?)
· “I would want to get married in six months.” (L. again: Again, a week?)
· “You should come with me to Arizona to meet my parents.” (L.: Yikes!)

Next, he launched into more…explicit matters. Lindsay doesn’t believe in sex before marriage, which she had divulged, and he had said he was fine with it. Alas, he next told her his last relationship was predominantly about sex and then proceeded to explain how dating resembled “legalized prostitution.” You see, “I bought her things and she gave me sex.” Since Lindsay wasn’t going to sleep with him, he relayed his immediate expectations on this front:
· “I need to sleep next to you.”
· “Well, can I go down on you?”
· “Would you at least give me a blow job?”

Next, he asked her to send him a naked photo. (You gotta give the boy credit for perseverance.) When she refused, he inquired how he was supposed to show his friends how amazing her chest is without a photo. (Because men never discussed women’s breasts before the advent of photography.) And then he came up with a brilliant solution: “You don’t have to include your face in the picture.”

Needless to say, Lindsay was finished by this time. In retrospect, she fully admits that she should've run screaming from the restaurant (or perhaps tossed a drink in his face. I’ve always wanted to do that if the circumstances justified it. Very Bette Davis.) before the full-on crazy set in, but for whatever reason, she didn’t.

She finally made it home, and this last little snippet was conducted via text after she’d arrived at her apartment. She told him he made her feel like a piece of meat and that she was not okay with his behavior and ideas. His response: “I can’t settle anymore. I’m done.” (Heaping dose of melodrama, anyone?)
________________________________________________________________________

*Roald Dahl’s original novel describes Gloop as an enormous boy who has “fat bulging from every fold, with two greedy eyes peering out of his doughball of a head.” You gotta love Roald Dahl.

Kansas trial

Although I'm sure most of you have heard about this case (http://bit.ly/cQYxzA), I still want to mention it for those who haven't. I feel that the judge made the right decision in not allowing the jury to consider voluntary manslaughter or second-degree murder. In permitting a lesser sentence, he would have set a dangerous legal precedent for similar cases. In fact, some anti-abortion activists, including Operation Rescue founder Randall Terry, were advocating a justifiable homicide defense. This decision strongly supports women's control over their reproductive health.

L.'s challenge

Alright. The time has arrived for L.'s challenge. To remind y'all, my charge is to connect a personal experience on a trampoline to any of Quentin Tarantino's films in three paragraphs. And I will vanquish this worthy adversary. Oh yes. She is a wily opponent, but she shall fall in the end. Wow. Apparently, red wine makes me talk like Athos from The Three Musketeers.

Shall we begin?

The last time I jumped on a large trampoline was at a summer cabin owned by my father's boss. Said boss always dressed like someone from the past. To be more precise, he looked like a guy straight out of the 1950s. He could've easily been thrown into a Grease revival. He wore black polyester pants and white muscle shirts, and sported slicked back hair.

That reminds me of Pam Grier, who was featured in Quentin Tarantino's Jackie Brown. Grier had achieved success starring in blaxploitation films in the 1970s, but her starring role in 1997's Jackie Brown marked a major comeback in her career. So, like my father's boss' mode of dress, Grier's career seemed stuck in the past until she appeared in Tarantino's film.

(Dang. I need a third paragraph to complete the challenge. Here goes nothing.) The eponymous character Jackie Brown* reminds me of another Tarantino film, Reservoir Dogs. In it, Tarantino plays Mr. Brown, whose last name is shared with Grier's character.

*On an interesting side note for the cinephiles, the film Jackie Brown was based on Elmore Leonard's book Rum Punch. In the book, the lead character is named Jackie Burke, but Tarantino changed it to Jackie Brown as an homage to one of Grier's earlier films, Foxy Brown (1974).

Hot, buttered popcorn, red wine, bean dip, and Quentin Tarantino

Instead of doing pilates at the gym, L. and I are eating buttered, air-popped popcorn and drinking red wine. We also had a first course of bean dip and chips. The full array of non-cable television that Wednesday has to offer is at our disposal.

I did not spend the entire night camped out in front of the TV. Before L. came over, I paid some bills, cleaned the litter box, washed the dishes, took out the trash, and folded some laundry. Oh, and I worked all day. :)

Also, L. has posed a blog-writing challenge. I am to write three paragraphs about how an experience on a trampoline is intertwined with a Quentin Tarantino movie. Stay posted.

Broccoli Cheddar Soup and Jane Austen's Emma

Last week, I made an updated version of Broccoli Cheddar Soup, thanks to 101 Cookbooks' marvelous recipe (http://bit.ly/mp0V5). I didn't take any pics, but it actually resembled the lovely photo featured on the site. I must insist that you don't skip the mustardy croutons. They're a crunchy counterpoint to the creamy soup. As an added benefit, it is a decadent soup without the guilt.

On Sunday, I watched the second installment of PBS' new version of Jane Austen's Emma. Nothing better than a little Regency-era amorous intrigue to end the weekend.

Loafing around

Last Sunday afternoon, I had a craving for comfort food, so some friends (Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson, Otis Redding, The Temptations, Al Green, and such) and I set about assembling a lovely salmon loaf. I must admit that ever since I was a kid, I relished crunching the little round bones in my teeth. And while doing so, I say:

Fee-fi-fo-fum!
I smell the blood of an Englishman
Be he 'live, or be he dead,
I'll grind his bones to make my bread.

That's a joke. I don't do that.....Well, not when anyone is around. Kidding! Ahem. Yes. Time for the cooking portion of the entry, don't you think?


I started by sauteeing onions, garlic, and curry powder.


Then I crushed multigrain crackers with a rolling pin to provide the breadcrumbs for which the recipe calls.


Next, I mixed all of the remaining ingredients (eggs, salmon, parsley, onions, garlic) together in a large bowl.

Then I chilled the mixture for 15 minutes, and baked it in a *loaf pan. So Joy of Cooking's salmon loaf turned out pretty well, although I think next time, I'd leave out the curry powder. It and my poor photographs make the loaf a crazy sort of yellow. Also, I was trying to avoid the fatty white sauce (with peas) that usually accompanies the loaf, but in the end, the salmon loaf seemed incomplete without it. I guess there's a reason they're usually served together.

*Upon searching in my cupboard for a loaf pan, I realized that I am without one, which is odd. I could've sworn that I had one, but perhaps it vanished in one of my many moves. I used a casserole dish instead, but salmon casserole doesn't sound nearly as classy as salmon loaf. ;)

Got milk?

I'd sort of forgotten this story, but a friend* reminded me of it the other night.

I was interviewing for a job at a bed and breakfast. Rather than a formal office, it took place in the owner's apartment, which adjoined the B&B. As we chatted, the owner's four-year-old daughter watched cartoons nearby.

At some point in the course of the long, rambling interview, the little girl walked over to the mother and started pawing at her. I thought the girl just wanted attention because we'd been talking for quite awhile. But then the mother said, "Oh, she's just hungry. But I'm not going to do that while we're talking."

I think I still didn't understand what she meant. So I said, "Oh no. That's fine," thinking she'd get up and make a sandwich for the kid in the adjacent kitchen while we continued our conversation. But she wasn't talking about peanut butter and jelly or alphabet soup. Nope. She was talking about breastfeeding. I finally realized this and of course assured her it was completely fine. But what am I supposed to say, "No, let the kid starve"? So after my continued reassurances, she whipped out her boob. She breastfed two or three times, which was a bit awkward and distracting during an interview, but I survived.

Now let me intercede for a moment to say that I support breastfeeding (if a woman is capable of doing so). The benefits for the mother and the child are well-documented.

My question is what about biting? That child possessed a maw full of razor-sharp teeth connected to a strong jaw. Women, please take a minute to contemplate that: rows of tiny, calcium-fortified teeth like a miniature metal bear trap ready to clamp down on your unsuspecting nipples. You've heard of Freud's vagina dentata? Well, this is just dentata, and it's a helluva lot scarier.

*Thanks, AB!

Haiti and Pat Robertson

I'd like to take this opportunity to nudge anyone who hasn't donated to the Haitian relief effort to do so.

Also, I wanted to officially say that I think Pat Robertson is a ninny.

And to channel Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about that.

In praise of ramen

It's the last night of the three-day weekend, and I'm settling in to enjoy Letterman with a steaming bowl of picante chicken ramen* (doctored up with several handfuls of spinach) and some crusty, multigrain bread. Some people think only college students eat ramen. But it has always been a favorite of mine, and it contradicts those who claim that I am a food snob. :)

I promise to present something a bit more exciting on the culinary front in the near future. The potatoes in the kitchen have been clamoring to be used before they are irreparably spoiled, so I'm thinking potato-leek soup is on the horizon. Also, I saw Julia and Jacques cooking French onion soup and a Mediterranean fish stew with rouille, and I'd like to attempt those, too.

*This post generously sponsored by a donation from the Nondorf Foundation.

Elementary, my dear Ritchie!

I saw Sherlock Holmes the other night, and it was just ok. Maybe I was surly because I was up past my bedtime. Or perhaps I'm unprepared for such a physical version of Holmes. I know that several of his stories mention Holmes' proficiency in boxing, martial arts, and other fighting skills, but only small amounts of text are devoted to actual combat. I mean, Holmes also habitually used cocaine and occasionally used morphine, but the new interpretation doesn’t feature Holmes in a cocaine-fueled stupor.

Guy Ritchie is a heavy-handed presence in some parts of the movie. For instance, the scenes wherein Holmes mentally rehearses his fight moves before executing them in rapid-fire motion are highly reminiscent of Ritchie’s earlier works, such as Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels. This way of visually representing Holmes’ thought processes is effective the first time, but it becomes stale and contrived after about the third or fourth repetition.

Certain elements of the movie worked for me. The witty dialogue was still there, and the dynamic between Holmes and Jude Law's Watson was particularly endearing. At times, they ventured into old-married-couple land and at other times, they seemed like two hormone-drenched adolescents trying to aggravate each other. They may bicker, but they can’t imagine a world without the other.

The upshot is that because I don’t see movies in the theater very often, I expect sheer awesomeness when I do plunk down my hard-earned dollars. For some people, SH would’ve provided that, but for me, the steady stream of fighting, ships crashing into the Thames, and orchestrated explosions eclipsed the substance of the tale.

Bravo, Google!

I'd like to commend Google for making moves to pull out of China because of censorship. China has a strong history of quashing dissent. This time, they've hacked into human rights activists' Gmail accounts.

With approximately 384 million internet users last year, the Chinese market will yield an estimated $600 million in revenue for Google. This is a small fraction of Google's predicted $26 billion in annual profits. But if they decide to cut ties with China, Google's real sacrifice would be China's future growth.

Their move signifies ideals rather than bottom lines.

NPR has some great coverage of this.

Uncorked

The weekend was lovely and low-key. I taught yoga, worked out, hung out with friends, and thoroughly cleaned my house. Since none of that is very entertaining, however, I'm going to regale you with a story from online dating land.
I received the following message on an online dating site several months ago:

Your hometown refers to diluting something with water, something my French father-in-law did to his own wine.
Does our age disparity absolutely preclude dialogue? Because I find you interesting, and you should know by now that men take a long time to mature, like good Bordeaux. Think I'm ready to be uncorked.

First things first: The name of my hometown means "a mountain with its feet sitting in the water" because of the bluffs situated by the Mississippi River. It has nothing to do with dilution. Perhaps he's confusing dilution with delusion. He's obviously familiar with French. And what purpose does the reference to his former French father-in-law serve? Am I supposed to be impressed by that?

Let's skip the age disparity thing for a moment. We'll get back to it.

Next, we have the trite comparison of men to wine. Really? Wow. Clearly, he has been imprisoned in a wine cellar since 1947 because that one is ancient. As for the "uncorked" thing, it invokes a mixture of nausea and amusement at his sheer cheesiness. For anthropological purposes--and to give him the benefit of the doubt--I consulted an older colleague to see if this man's message appealed to a different generation. Nope. She confirmed that he is odd to people of all ages.

His profile said he was 63, but a friend pointed out that he was probably older. The profile also informed me that he "eventually wanted babies." This is disturbing on a few fronts. First, he used the word babies. Not children. Not kids. Babies. Second, I'm troubled by the word eventually. When, exactly? Even if he's not lying and if someone wants to immediately procreate with this guy, he'll be 78 when the aforementioned baby is 15. Cripes. Junior could break this man's hip by playing catch with him. Sheesh. And besides, he already has kids. Has no one else heard of overpopulation?

So: No, the age disparity does not preclude dialogue, but your smarminess most certainly does.