When I told y’all a few blogs ago I was cooking, I really meant it. I’ve been cooking (and consequently cleaning) in the kitchen the past few days, and I’ve been to Whole Foods like four times in the past week. This is unprecedented. For me, at least.
I got to make lamb, as promised to myself, and God was it good. I learned a lot from the recipe, too. I did a lamb curry recipe from Cook’s Illustrated, and I invited my gal pal Patsy over to corroborate. We started with whole spices: cardamom, bay leaves, peppercorns, cloves, and cinnamon sticks. And after the addition of some more dried spices, the lamb, some potatoes, and a jalapeño--voila! The most amazing, full-bodied curry imaginable. And so wonderfully spicy, I got hot and bothered after my first spoonful. I swear food and sex are really just enmeshed entities.
And what would a week of cooking be without the famed chicken tetrazzini? Oh yes, dear reader, it was wonderfully orgasmic as well. The nutmeg brings it all together, I swear. It takes the cream, noodles, mushrooms, onions, and peas together and tells them all to do their best. And the crisped breadcrumbs and parmesan on top is the perfect crunch. I really could go on all day about all of this.
I also decided to take a walk on the wild side with Janet Planet and did some gluten-free cooking. The fact that science has come up with gluten-free flour and xanthan gum is just amazing to me. I mean this banana bread woulda fooled me had I not know it had no wheat. I suppose I’ve never been much for molecular gastronomy and cooking with chemicals, but we’ve come a long way from slaughtering tigers with bows and arrows.
Today, however, I believe was my most proud culinary moment. I made carnitas on a whim, and for the first time in my life the recipe came out flawlessly. And as much as I know people who won’t eat pork, just try to appreciate how amazing this recipe is. So basically it involved me simmering the pork in a broth with onions, an orange, some spices, and a bay leaf. And it just sat in the oven for two hours, rather than being fried in lard. Barf. So it all came out moist, not dry and crispy, and it wasn’t overly salty or pork-y tasting. And while all that was cooking I decided to make some Nilla Wafer banana pudding. Total Americana food.
So we’ll see what the rest of this week brings to my culinary forefront. Over and out. And don’t forget to preheat your ovens.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Open Wounds
Sometimes we don’t really get closure on relationships. It’s no phone call, it’s no email, it’s nothing. Like sinning through omission it never feels right, but it seems the least wrong. And it drives people absolutely mad, especially the communicators. Regardless of whether the person didn’t find the other attractive, interesting, or intelligent, I think many would rather face not being any of those things to facing an awkward disconnect.
It comes down to an issue of fear, I’m beginning to think. People are afraid to dish and take the truth. In many ways I think people are cutting off communication as an act of compassion, rather than discussing their issues with the other person. However, the question then becomes, what is the most compassionate thing to do when you want to get out of a southbound relationship? How do we walk the paper-thin lines of etiquette and emotional maturity?
To be honest, I’ve never cared too much for Emily Post. I hardly believe etiquette is an adequate reference when dealing with case-by-case individuals who all behave differently. But let’s talk about emotional maturity for a moment: to be a truly compassionate person, what choices are best when saying goodbye? There are a multitude of answers to that question, all with a gradient of least to most mature methods.
Let’s try to imagine an individual with a psychological disorder, for which they are not receiving treatment. Let’s also imagine you’ve been dating this individual for a few weeks, and it’s now clear that the disorder interferes with, or will interfere with, a future relationship. You’ve decided to jump this sinking ship of a relationship, so to save yourself, do you pick the speedboat, the rowboat, or the inner tube?
Maybe you pick the speedboat—you just have to get out as quickly as possible, and by dint of the other choking on your exhaust, it’s obvious you’re gone without ever opening your mouth. They never know why you left, and honestly, who cares? He or she is obviously so screwed up that they wouldn’t even know how to handle it, right? Or maybe they would go ballistic and emotional and it’d all just be a hot mess you want no part of.
But maybe you pick the rowboat—you’ve got time and energy enough to row away slowly, and you’re able to at least say goodbye. You don’t get into specifics as to why you’re leaving, and maybe you fib a little. The dog died, grandma’s in the hospital, you’d rather just be alone: whatever your excuse it gets you out of it, and at least you’re not cutting them off like a drugged up conjoined twin. It’s the kind thing to do, no? And maybe you muster up a crocodile tear for your eyes they always told you were beautiful.
And then there’s the inner tube—you’re ready to float around for a while, and you know the calm winds won’t be taking you anywhere soon. But you’re ready to brave it out, and you’ve got the maturity to take their reaction. You explain to them that they’ve clearly got some issues to work out and that you can’t be in a relationship with someone who isn’t willing to seek treatment for these issues. And best yet, you give them the benefit of the doubt and promise them you’d think about seeing them after they’ve worked things out, so long as the two of you are still available.
So these are just three metaphorical options that came to mind, and any is a viable option. It comes down the issue of compassion ultimately, though, as you question how much you are able to sympathize with another person. Love can be tough, and sometimes you’ve gotta get tough on those you love. And in many ways, it’s not about loving the other person, or even humanity. It’s really about loving yourself in the end.
It comes down to an issue of fear, I’m beginning to think. People are afraid to dish and take the truth. In many ways I think people are cutting off communication as an act of compassion, rather than discussing their issues with the other person. However, the question then becomes, what is the most compassionate thing to do when you want to get out of a southbound relationship? How do we walk the paper-thin lines of etiquette and emotional maturity?
To be honest, I’ve never cared too much for Emily Post. I hardly believe etiquette is an adequate reference when dealing with case-by-case individuals who all behave differently. But let’s talk about emotional maturity for a moment: to be a truly compassionate person, what choices are best when saying goodbye? There are a multitude of answers to that question, all with a gradient of least to most mature methods.
Let’s try to imagine an individual with a psychological disorder, for which they are not receiving treatment. Let’s also imagine you’ve been dating this individual for a few weeks, and it’s now clear that the disorder interferes with, or will interfere with, a future relationship. You’ve decided to jump this sinking ship of a relationship, so to save yourself, do you pick the speedboat, the rowboat, or the inner tube?
Maybe you pick the speedboat—you just have to get out as quickly as possible, and by dint of the other choking on your exhaust, it’s obvious you’re gone without ever opening your mouth. They never know why you left, and honestly, who cares? He or she is obviously so screwed up that they wouldn’t even know how to handle it, right? Or maybe they would go ballistic and emotional and it’d all just be a hot mess you want no part of.
But maybe you pick the rowboat—you’ve got time and energy enough to row away slowly, and you’re able to at least say goodbye. You don’t get into specifics as to why you’re leaving, and maybe you fib a little. The dog died, grandma’s in the hospital, you’d rather just be alone: whatever your excuse it gets you out of it, and at least you’re not cutting them off like a drugged up conjoined twin. It’s the kind thing to do, no? And maybe you muster up a crocodile tear for your eyes they always told you were beautiful.
And then there’s the inner tube—you’re ready to float around for a while, and you know the calm winds won’t be taking you anywhere soon. But you’re ready to brave it out, and you’ve got the maturity to take their reaction. You explain to them that they’ve clearly got some issues to work out and that you can’t be in a relationship with someone who isn’t willing to seek treatment for these issues. And best yet, you give them the benefit of the doubt and promise them you’d think about seeing them after they’ve worked things out, so long as the two of you are still available.
So these are just three metaphorical options that came to mind, and any is a viable option. It comes down the issue of compassion ultimately, though, as you question how much you are able to sympathize with another person. Love can be tough, and sometimes you’ve gotta get tough on those you love. And in many ways, it’s not about loving the other person, or even humanity. It’s really about loving yourself in the end.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Summer
I’ve been home for about a month now, and I can’t say it hasn’t been uneventful. In this short time, I’ve been up and down, drunk and sobered, and loved and tricked. This whole new summer adjustment period felt so ridiculous. I mean I had (and still pretty much have) nothing to do. So what did I do?
I slept. I slept a lot. I’d do that whole go to sleep at 6AM and wake up around noon or one. I absolutely hate that schedule…I mean it just feels so unproductive. I live in a country house (we’ll get to that in a moment) in a valley that goes to sleep every night around ten, maybe eleven at the latest. Nightlife isn’t exactly rich here, so I found myself creating nights of downloaded Family Guy episodes and Super Mario Three. (The costume where he throws the hammers is a personal favorite—it even kills the Thwomps.) And don’t feel sorry for me please, dear reader! I did enough of that already.
And I adjusted to living in this country guesthouse in Saratoga, which my mom affectionately refers to as the “Cozy Cottage,” as if it’s a fairy tale locale with mythical creatures and princes and princesses, kings and queens. I find it quite ridiculous, myself, as I listen to coyotes out my window at this very moment, whining at the moon reddened by forest fires. It’s beautiful, really, but it’s too much of a getaway for me. This is the kind of place I’d retreat to on vacation and spend a week, and then return to city life, or a variation thereof. The internet is also lousy here. Just insult to injury I guess.
And I went on a few dates. Of course, I’m not going to say my life isn’t controlled by hormones nor say I’m a teenager looking to marry, but it’s the summer and I want to have that more than platonic summer companion. Just wondering where he is now, I suppose, as the last three didn’t really yield much. To their credit, they were great guys and I have nothing bad to say about them, suffice it to say together we lacked chemistry. I’m beginning to think my valence electrons are as shifty as Oprah’s weight. Gosh darn it!
And I started to work. For the most fabulously successful gay realtor known to man. But he doesn’t call when he needs to and it’s always hard to figure out what he’s looking for. But he’s paying me cash to do his marketing biddings and door knocking. Mother says I’ll probably have to find another job, but I hate restaurants and I hate retail. I need another La Patisserie era to come again. I truly will remember my days there in a profoundly fond way, and I sincerely hope they’re all doing well, especially to those with whom I have lost touch.
And then I sold the car. Mom gave me ten percent of the proceeds of the sale. Whoopee!
And I’ve cooked. “Yum-O!,” as that dreadful bitch Rachael Ray would say. Chicken tetrazzini is officially my new favorite food, and I also love pies. Thus far, I’ve done blueberry and cherry, and I have yet to get that piecrust just right. Almost there, though. Stay tuned. Waffles are also tickling my fancy lately: I’m doing the recipes that use yeast and you make the batter the night before and let it rise. They’re wicked good if you like a bite of buttery tartness to your waffles. I went out and got a chef’s knife, too. I don’t work with those little steak knifes when I cook. I really need to cook lamb this week.
And I’ve seen a lot of friends. It’s interesting to see how much we’ve grown as we’ve been apart, not to say we’ve grown apart, but y’know just how we’ve grown. Some have become entirely different people while some have remained their old selves. I like to think that regardless of how much I grow, that my friendships with people at home and in college remain the same. There’s something funny about relationships I have with friends…it’s like there’ll always be that little thing that somehow keeps us together. And with respect to the friends I’ve lost or let go, I still think about them in a positive way and just acknowledge our differences.
So this is my summer thus far. I was supposed to be living with my dad, but he unfortunately bizzounced to Boston to work at a new company. Can’t say I don’t want to bitch the little bugger out for ditching both me and my nine year old sister. I’m finding more and more though that I’m silenced by his financial offers—a debit card linked to his account, the responsibility to pay his bills and handle his finances, and my gas, paid. Not to mention I also guilted him into getting me a window air conditioner for those extra sultry nights and a phone with internet for the lack of internet at my residence. My Love Don’t Cost a Thing? Well for daddy, not so much.
I slept. I slept a lot. I’d do that whole go to sleep at 6AM and wake up around noon or one. I absolutely hate that schedule…I mean it just feels so unproductive. I live in a country house (we’ll get to that in a moment) in a valley that goes to sleep every night around ten, maybe eleven at the latest. Nightlife isn’t exactly rich here, so I found myself creating nights of downloaded Family Guy episodes and Super Mario Three. (The costume where he throws the hammers is a personal favorite—it even kills the Thwomps.) And don’t feel sorry for me please, dear reader! I did enough of that already.
And I adjusted to living in this country guesthouse in Saratoga, which my mom affectionately refers to as the “Cozy Cottage,” as if it’s a fairy tale locale with mythical creatures and princes and princesses, kings and queens. I find it quite ridiculous, myself, as I listen to coyotes out my window at this very moment, whining at the moon reddened by forest fires. It’s beautiful, really, but it’s too much of a getaway for me. This is the kind of place I’d retreat to on vacation and spend a week, and then return to city life, or a variation thereof. The internet is also lousy here. Just insult to injury I guess.
And I went on a few dates. Of course, I’m not going to say my life isn’t controlled by hormones nor say I’m a teenager looking to marry, but it’s the summer and I want to have that more than platonic summer companion. Just wondering where he is now, I suppose, as the last three didn’t really yield much. To their credit, they were great guys and I have nothing bad to say about them, suffice it to say together we lacked chemistry. I’m beginning to think my valence electrons are as shifty as Oprah’s weight. Gosh darn it!
And I started to work. For the most fabulously successful gay realtor known to man. But he doesn’t call when he needs to and it’s always hard to figure out what he’s looking for. But he’s paying me cash to do his marketing biddings and door knocking. Mother says I’ll probably have to find another job, but I hate restaurants and I hate retail. I need another La Patisserie era to come again. I truly will remember my days there in a profoundly fond way, and I sincerely hope they’re all doing well, especially to those with whom I have lost touch.
And then I sold the car. Mom gave me ten percent of the proceeds of the sale. Whoopee!
And I’ve cooked. “Yum-O!,” as that dreadful bitch Rachael Ray would say. Chicken tetrazzini is officially my new favorite food, and I also love pies. Thus far, I’ve done blueberry and cherry, and I have yet to get that piecrust just right. Almost there, though. Stay tuned. Waffles are also tickling my fancy lately: I’m doing the recipes that use yeast and you make the batter the night before and let it rise. They’re wicked good if you like a bite of buttery tartness to your waffles. I went out and got a chef’s knife, too. I don’t work with those little steak knifes when I cook. I really need to cook lamb this week.
And I’ve seen a lot of friends. It’s interesting to see how much we’ve grown as we’ve been apart, not to say we’ve grown apart, but y’know just how we’ve grown. Some have become entirely different people while some have remained their old selves. I like to think that regardless of how much I grow, that my friendships with people at home and in college remain the same. There’s something funny about relationships I have with friends…it’s like there’ll always be that little thing that somehow keeps us together. And with respect to the friends I’ve lost or let go, I still think about them in a positive way and just acknowledge our differences.
So this is my summer thus far. I was supposed to be living with my dad, but he unfortunately bizzounced to Boston to work at a new company. Can’t say I don’t want to bitch the little bugger out for ditching both me and my nine year old sister. I’m finding more and more though that I’m silenced by his financial offers—a debit card linked to his account, the responsibility to pay his bills and handle his finances, and my gas, paid. Not to mention I also guilted him into getting me a window air conditioner for those extra sultry nights and a phone with internet for the lack of internet at my residence. My Love Don’t Cost a Thing? Well for daddy, not so much.
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