future foodie

I've been meaning to share this proud moment with all of you.

Scene: Charlotte, NC. Wedding reception hall, waiting for the newlyweds to arrive. One side of the large party room has the typical snack table- cheese, crackers, and a chocolate fountain with array of stuff to put in fountain. Total other side of the room has a small candy table, with assorted candies and cake pops.

Nephew, 6 years old and looking super cute in a red tie and khakis, notices the candy table because of his 6 year old candy sniffing ability. He eats a ton of candy, then goes for the cake pop.

After unwrapping it, he looks at me, eyes sparkling, and says, "We should go put the cake pop under the chocolate fountain!!"

As stated in our beloved alma mater's current fundraising slogan, "Creative thought matters." It sure does, and I couldn't be prouder of my little second generation Birch D- tote PLU.

desperate, indeed

Okay ladies. I have something to tell you. I've been postponing telling you about a revelation I had about a week ago, I think because I wanted to spare you from this sad news for as long a possible. Are you sitting down? Okay. Here goes.

We are too old to go to DA's.

I went to this favorite watering hole on a brief but lovely visit to Saratoga last weekend. After dinner at Hattie's, a drink at Bailey's (where we had to leave because it was too loud), and some nice fall patio time at Gaffney's, I begged my remaining drinking companions to head to DA's with me. They willingly obliged. According to a text I sent to Rose and Julie McCoy, stating "if i knew karate i'd kick hAlf [sic] the asses inherent [should have said "in here" damn you autocorrect]", I was at DA's and already angry at 12:24 am. My companions and I had found a booth and were drinking crappy beer (them) and a shitty vodka and cranberry (me). I was looking around at the other patrons, horrified and in awe. How old are these people? I'm quite sure that besides the tenured bartenders and possibly the fat bouncer guy, I was the oldest one there.

I was bemused and disgusted by the fashions and inflated confidence of the younger patrons. The boys, in rumpled button down shirts and attractively unkempt hair, were not so different from our own boys back in the late 90s. The females, however, seemed like some sort of alien race barely worth studying. Outfits included an odd mix of hooker chic- one subject wore a tiny, tight mini skirt with super high heels, and a look I call "awkward transition into fall". This look, prevalent at the bar, consisted of cold weather accessories such as knit hats and knee high boots paired with warm weather attire such as tank tops and shorts. There were a lot of boots- none of them attractive. All of them this light brown "high-fiber diet" color, many of them slouchy and/or cowboy-ish, none of them cute. There was also one chick who looked like she was straight out of a John Hughes film- androgynous 80s style from George Michael Wham! haircut to shoulder padded blazer to leggings. She was put together well, but she looked like a when shows put a cartoon character in a mostly live-action setting. She was too studied, too clique, and definitely too young to have seen a John Hughes film on VHS. I felt like she was mocking me.

After scowling in horror for several minutes, developing a new and unnatural feeling about Rock (who looked damn fine as he authoritatively mixed my drink), and chugging my mostly vodka vodka and cranberry, me and my companions regarded eachother with the same panicked look: "Wanna go somewhere else?" We went to 9 Maple for a decent cocktail (me), fine scotch (them) and the company of grown-ups who play it safe fashion-wise and prefer to sit down.

I can see us going to DA's on an alumni weekend where Skiddies of a certain age will outnumber this new group of.....energetic youngsters. Or maybe we could go there for a "make your own happy hour" type situation, a la 1998. During a normal Saturday night however, it's pretty depressing. I'm here if you need to talk about this. Also, I kind of need to process how hot Rock looked.

conversations with a nephew

Setting: Rainy car ride on a Sunday afternoon
Individuals Present: Me, Nephew, my Parents

Nephew: What does "plethora" mean? Is that something that grows on your tongue?
Me: No, it means "a lot". Like, "there are a plethora of leaves on those trees."
Nephew: Gramma, you go to the toilet a plethora.

***end scene***

Law & Order: CPS

Sometimes, to cope with work related stress, I think, "What would Olivia Benson do?" I am not a cop, I don't carry a gun, and I certainly don't have anything resembling a Stabler, a Finn, or even a Munch. But I do get a kick out of some of the cool legal stuff I have to do. I think focusing on that stuff, actively enjoying it even, helps take the edge off some of the more unpleasant tasks (the ones where I have to pretend to be a TV character to get through). Today I was at family court. This task varies between kick ass and terrifying, but at family court I definitely feel pretty Benson-y either way. Would it make a good TV show? A possible new installment in the Law & Order franchise? Hmmm...not so much. Let's examine.

The L&O: Family Court version would begin with the "chung chung" sound and then writing saying the location: Civic Center Parking Garage, Upper Level. This parking garage is pretty gross, and would take up half the show because it takes up a long time to find a spot. It's two levels are the shared parking area for the Hall of Justice, Sheriff''s Office, related offices, and the War Memorial (oh, excuse me, Blue Cross/Blue Shield Arena. Capitalist bastards). Other than being dank and dark, it is not really a noteworthy parking garage other than this one fact: there is a old limousine parked in the same spot every time I go. My investigative skills tell me it has been there for a really long time, as it is covered in a layer of dust. Who took a limo to court? Why is the limo left there? Why doesn't anybody tow it? If I pay $7.25 for 3 hours, what is their bill? Today I almost asked the parking attendant these questions, but chickened out. Maybe next time.

After the commercial break, it would be chung chung: Security metal detectors, 1st floor. In 6 months' time, I will be granted an official court ID, which will allow me to be all Benson-y and bypass security by flashing a badge. As it stands now, the badge will really just be a plastic ID card with a horrid photo of me, but hopefully by the time I get mine they will change it to be a gold metal star of some kind, in a leather wallety thing that I can flip open as I give the security guard a knowing look- perhaps a half smile and an eyebrow raise.

chung chung:Checking in to the Deputy, 3rd Floor, Hall of Justice. You let them know you're there so that your attorney knows to look for you, or if they call your case in while you're in the restroom they know to wait for you. This is also a good time to scan for your client and just generally appreciate those wonderful citizens who've been summoned to family court. Let's examine the fashions of family court, shall we? Take a moment to think about what you might wear if you had to appear in any court of law. Did you picture sweat pants that are both bedazzled and have a cigarette burn in them? That t-shirt you spilled a margarita on 3 weeks ago? Well, if you thought something along those lines, you are right on trend! People do not dress up, or for the most part even look remotely presentable for court. For the ladies, typical attire is too tight jeans (Roca Wear or Baby Phat) or pajama pants. Yes, freaking plaid flannel drawstring pajama pants, possibly with a Victoria's Secret logo on the ass. These items are paired either with a fake Coach bag from the public market (urban defendants/respondents), a fake Vera Bradley from Family Dollar (suburban caucasian) or a fake Baby Phat/whatever brand that uses grommets/rhinestones/tassles (suburban caucasian who likes black guys or suburban African American). Sometimes a respondent might dress up. Sadly, this doesn't turn out well either. Picture "RuPaul's Drag Race" rather than..well...just picture RuPaul's Drag Race.

chung chung: DHS caseworker room. This is the awesomest room. It's too small, never gets vacuumed, and it's stuffy and windowless. But, it's ours. Only caseworkers and thier attorneys can go in there. On a good day, you get to hear about everyone's crazy cases and catch up on county gossip. On a bad day, it's boring and you wait in there for hours just so you can finally go into the court room for 3 minutes. Thank Buddha for iPhones with Safari and Angry Birds.

chung chung: Meeting with your attorney. As I've mentioned before, I enjoy talking to my attorney, but this is one of those tasks that is both kickass and terrifying. Kick ass because I have an attorney! Terrifying because the attorney is just the spokesperson and I have to tell them what to say. I want to appear confident and competent, make my attorney's job easy, and make important decisions regarding keeping children safe, all while considering limitations of the Family Court Act and tons of legal stuff I'm not entirely fluent in. WWOBD? Luckily, my attorney today was one that I've been working with, and this is the 4th time I've been to court on this case. So I can be myself, she's amenable to my sense of humor, she's willing to talk stuff out with me, and we have time to do so. Sometimes, you meet your attorney as you're walking into the court room and you really have to figure stuff out on the fly. Yikes.

There's all sorts of scary rules about attorneys. You can talk to your attorney freely, but nobody else's attorney unless your attorney is present. In family court, everybody gets an attorney- mom, dad, kids. You have to be pretty paranoid and keep your mouth shut because you never know who's attorney is lurking where. The kids' attorney (law guardian or Attorney for the Child) might be on your side or not. Today, I had a lovely semi-casual interaction with the law guardian on my case. But of course, my attorney was present also.

chung chung: Actual courtroom. This is a mixed bag. Kick ass things include: sitting up at the table with my attorney, whispering to my attorney about very important things throughout the proceedings, and when my attorney subtley calls the public defender an asshole on my behalf. Terrifying things: when the public defender subtley calls me an asshole on his client's behalf, not being able to answer a question that the judge asks, having to testify. Then, mix in how mundane other stuff is. The judge just looks like a normal person except for the flowing robes. (I'm oddly intrigued by their hair styles, or lack thereof, probably because of the black judge robes remove a lot of opportunity for personal style. You'd think they'd pay more attention to their hair if its the only thing that's going to show). S/he has a computer on their desk/bench, they have a clerk that sits at a desk in front of the bench, bailiffs kind of walk in an out as they please, and the court typist person looks kind of bored and trapped. These 4-5 people are in this room all day long. It's their job, and they have a lunch break, and maybe even do some sort of Secret Santa. Meanwhile, they witness families torn apart and put back together and tearful teen moms in baby phat jeans fighting with baby daddies sitting in the church pew audience. Lots of weird energy in the Hall of Justice, that's for sure.

Today, the courtroom was fine, and even entertaining. I was able to answer a question the judge asked me, and my attorney suavely defended me when the public defender sublty called me an asshole on his clients' behalf. The public defender put on this whiny act and seriously seemed like he came right out of a TV show. I get very weird sketchy vibes from him. While with my psychic coworker (we make eachother more psychic when we're together), I pinpointed that the vibe I get from him is best described as "he was with a hooker about 7 years ago and they were doing coke but she OD'd and he left her dead in a hotel room". Just a guess. Anywho, the judge didn't buy his schtick and pretty much seems to be on my side. Hopefully me, my attorney, and the wheels of justice can make things better for these kids.

WWOBD after a family court appearance? She'd probably go work on another case. I, however, wasted time after court by chatting with ladies in the DHS caseworker room, then I went to Dunkin' Donuts to minimize time I had to spend at my desk before my next meeting. I don't have a Stabler to see back at the office, and since the wheels of justice are kind of inconsistent, the whole court proceeding was more maintanence than decision making and I have to be back to do all this all over again in 2 weeks. chung chung: To be continued....a very lame cliffhanger.

Careless Cooking

I kind of failed at writing every week during the CSA days last year. It became an added chore on top of the chore of cooking all of the crazy CSA bounty. I'm still doing this CSA business and am often trying to find ways to use up all the stuff.

More recently it has been basil. It must be a good basil year because it's coming out of my ears. 3 weeks in a row we have received 1/4 lb of basil. do you have any idea how much basil this is?? well i'll tell you: it's a lot. we have used it in dressing and made caprese salads. But these things use scant amounts of basil. I used two big bunches in two different rounds of pesto. And then another CSA day came, more basil. So just when I think i'm on top of my basil problem, more arrives. I think i'm getting more this week! It feels like European Vacation when the food keeps coming and the daughter has to keep eating.

Needless to say, I was tired of pesto so came across this "basil beer bread" which sounded amazing and seemed really simple to make as the beer helped in the rising and didn't require kneeding. I would use up an entire cup of chopped basil! so one day after work last week, i bought all of the supplies and made it on another night last week. I agonized over the kind of beer to get but ended up with a nice local bottle of berkshire ale that had enough for me to have a glass while i baked. I was so excited for this warm bread, i thought about it all day. so i got it all ready and put it in the oven. The recipe said to oil the baking sheet. So I put olive oil on it. Seemed like a good idea, right? WRONG. the oil proceeded to drip off the pan and burn at the bottom of the oven creating a rediculous amount of smoke. So our smoke alarm goes off. And we fan furiously. And we open all the windows. My oven doesn't have an overhead vent so the smoke just goes into the air. le sigh. we then had this brilliant idea that we would fan the smoke with the door to the apartment. bad idea #2. Apparently when you fan the smoke, it just goes into the hallway and sets of the smoke alarm FOR THE ENTIRE BUILDING. all of my neighbors spill out onto the sidewalk with their babies wondering what's up. Oh did I mention it was really hot that day? Yeah. So sweaty babies and their half-dressed moms standing out on the sidewalk. Also unbeknownst to me, you have to call the fire department to have the alarm reset. What seemed like an eternity of alarms going off finally ended when 2 trucks pulled up and two strapping firepeople (one man and one woman) came into the apt in full regalia and holding axes. The woman said "nice place" and then "don't worry, i do this all the time." The man radio'd, "cooking incident". Once they were satisfied that nothing was on fire, they left. But we were still frazzled. I tried one more time to cook my bread after cleaning up all the oil I could find, but the damage had been done. More smoke. No bread. boo.

I now need to figure out how to clean the oven. rumour has it that it will create a lot of smoke which i'm really not looking forward to. See above.

Rockin' NYC- Schmat's side

Thanks, Rose, for telling the group about our NYC getaway. For the sake of journalistic integrity, I will share my memories as well.

According to my recollection, the initial communication about the trip was not a drunk phone call, but an email. Yes, it was a drunk email, but I only admitted that later. Regardless, many of my best ideas occur when I'm drunk, and if I ever have to enroll in a program, no substance abuse counselor will ever be able to convince me otherwise. The basis for the idea was wanting to see "The Book of Mormon". I had read about it and my first thought was, "Too bad I don't live in NYC." Later thoughts were, "I'm employed, childless, and have a birthday coming up. Why can't I go to NYC to see this freakin' show?!" When my initial attempt to get tickets failed, Fergie and I briefly discussed still going to NY but doing something else. The seed was planted (by me. in my own head), however, and I would settle for nothing less. I found tickets through a "secondary market", i.e. Stub Hub where smart people buy tickets and then sell them for profit. A splurge, definitely, but it set the foundation for an truly priceless weekend.

Thankfully, that lovely cab ride through Queens Rose mentioned added to the pricelessness of the weekend rather than causing our fiery deaths. Rose was observant enough to notice that every possible warning light on the cab's dashboard was illuminated. After a brief stop at our trendy and swanky oasis of a hotel, we headed downtown to 'ino for the perfect lunch. Rose forgot to mention that after lunch, we went to see Crystal, a chick doing palm readings a few doors down. The insightful and talented Crystal told me that while many people are attracted to me, something with my energy goes wrong. I told her, "Well, I hate people". She agreed that was probably the glitch preventing me from a more illustrious social life. She recommended that I should return to have my energy fixed, because my energy is at "like a 2" while really I should be at a "10". While I don't doubt Crystal's strong skills in palmistry and energy work, energy repair is just not something I'm going to pursue at this time. Rose's reading was much shorter. We couldn't determine if it's because Crystal used up all of her good lines on me, or if it was because Rose was trying to be all stoic and not give away any clues. We pondered briefly without coming to a conclusion, laughed because the chick's name was Crystal, and went on our way.


We headed back uptown, had gelato in Central Park, and admired a fabulous dead pigeon who's head had been chewed off somehow. Back to the hotel to freshen up and check in, we scoped out our tiny yet dope room. A stroll through the street fair led us to our restaurant in the theater district, where Rose made fun of me for thanking the maitre'd in Italian, which was clearly his native tongue. Dinner was a reasonable prix fix menu and a good cocktail.

We headed over to the Eugene O'Neill theatre to see 9 Tony Award Winning musical, The Book of Mormon. As I write this I still cannot fathom how awesome it was to see that show. Not only because it was a spectacular piece of theatre arts, but because I actually followed through on a ridiculous idea . It was my birthday, and as a result of my own actions, I was exactly where I wanted to be. I think I was experiencing an emotion known as happiness. I can't be sure though.

But I digress. This show was awesome. I absolutely loved every moment of it. Our seats were not bad at all- 4th row of a very slanty balcony in a medium sized theatre. My expectations were blown away completely. Everyone in the cast was amazing, there was a shout out to Rochester (the "Holy Land" of Mormonism) and Oprah was freakin' there. I now have a tiny crush on lead Andrew Rannells, who is probably gay, but judging from his Twitter feed we'd be best friends if we ever met.

Now, here's another discrepancy in Rose's account. I don't remember agreeding to 1 drink. Not only this night, my birthday in NYC, but ever. Rose started off slow, but I chugged along. Yes, we were totally out of place. We stood at a bar that was clearly not meant to be stood at, as there were no chairs, and it was a dance club. At our spot, we befriended a large black gay man named Mykonos, and his friend Cindy. They came to visit when they needed a cocktail, and were very supportive of our "stand at the bar" plan. We befriended the gay black bartender, who I named Reginald. He was horribly busy but always found time to serve us, and bought us a round at one point (very strong evidence that our stand at the bar plan was not that bad of a faux pas). There was another dude who bought me a drink, and Rose talked to some other guy who I thought was into her but he never made any moves, and there was this really tall hot man who I just stared at when he stood next to me at the bar. I would have loved to talk to him, but he didn't notice me because he was about 3 feet taller than me. It was pretty much the most fun ever. I have no idea what time we headed back up to our room. I had many delicious cosmos. I do remember putting "Thanks!!! XOXOXO" on the back of my signed credit card slip.

The next day was brunch, some wandering down 5th Ave, and me having to stop periodically due to some odd hip pain. We headed back to the hotel a bit early to take advantage of the outdoor patio, where we lounged on a day bed and read magazines. I also totallly destroyed one of the ladies rooms in the hotel lobby. This may very well have been how Rose caught her bug. I really had a disasterous problem for a few minutes there.

I needed to get myself into a cab around 3:30pm. After saying goodbye to Rose, I chatted up one last New Yorker. The hotel guy who hailed me a cab asked why I traveled so light. I explained I was only here for one night, to see The Book of Mormon. "Fuck! You got tickets? I so wanna see that, man!" He opened the car door for me, and suggested that I come back to NYC, to the Hudson Hotel for my next birthday, if not sooner. He looked at me with sexy time eyes. God, I love this city. Another cab ride of death got me to the airport in record time despite traffic, when my cabbie got behind an ambulance with sirens blazing, cutting off all of the other drivers who had appropriately pulled to the side of the road. It was a thing of ballsy beauty, and the perfect finale to the best birthday weekend ever. I tipped him well.

compound

i can't believe we have had this hear blog for 3 years! that's crazy shit. i came across a post today in apartment therapy that said the house where the dude lives in the movie 'the big lebowski' is up for sale. the thing that makes this wonderful is that the dude's house is actually on a compound of 6 cottages. yes, 6. it's in LA, but still!!!!

http://www.bulldogrealtors.com/pages/property_detail/venezia-606.html