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

Rocking NYC

We rocked NYC, until it rocked me...

It all started with a drunken phone call from Schmat. "Wanna go to NYC for my 35th to see Book of Mormon". "Sure", I replied. I love it when others plan my social life. Julie McCoy does it all the time for me. She makes lists and google docs with things to do/see/eat. Schmat plans my getaways. 6 years ago she planned a 3 week excursion for us to England, Ireland, and Scotland. 8 years ago it was London and Paris. She has never failed me, so I said yes. I had no idea what the Book of Mormon was, but I was game. Soon after that, as word got out that I was heading to NYC to see the show, people started telling me how jealous they were of me. "Do you know how hard it is to get tickets to that show? How did you do it?" Easy...Schmat did it for me. Then, it won 9 Tony Awards. Yup, I was gonna go to NYC to see Tony Award winning show! "What's it like to want, suckers!" I thought to myself.

We timed it perfectly. Schmat got into JFK 30 minutes before me and met me as I got off the plane. We took a death defying cab ride to our hotel, The Hudson, in midtown. The ride was totally worth it, as the hotel was amazing! Incredible bars and lounging areas...not to mention central air conditioning, which was essential on this 90 degree humid day. From there, we were off to Julie McCoy's favorite restaurant for lunch. We were the coolest people there because I ordered the quattro panini, which isn't even on the menu anymore. We also drank proseco, which was delicious on this steamy day. We wandered a bit, ate gelato in Central Park (Schmat picked pistachio because she was attracted to the color, I had the usual chocolate) and headed back to the hotel to rest, clean up, and get ready for dinner.

After much contemplation, we decided to walk to dinner. Thankfully, there was a street fair of some sort on Broadway that broke up the walk a bit. I secretly love street fairs. They are so dirty and a rip off, but there is something so appealing about them. Schmat and I each bought a David Yurman knockoff ring and were quite satisfied with our purchases. We ate our prix fix dinner and had plenty of time to wander a bit more before going to the show.

Then, it happened. We saw Book of Mormon. For those of you who don't know what it is, look it up. It is only the funniest thing I've seen thus far in my life. How can you not love a musical with lyrics such as "F U God" about a missionary who dreams to be sent to the majestic Orlando, FLA!?! And here's the cherry on the top of this amazing evening....wait for it....Oprah and Gayle were in the audience. Yup. Oprah Winfrey and her non sexual life partner, Gayle King were in the same room as us. Don't hate! Since all good things come in threes, I ran into Christopher Noth as we were trying to get away from the crowds of the theater. Yes, ladies, Mr. Big is as beautiful in person as he is on t.v.

Oh, and I almost forgot. Because we are crazy and adventurous, Schmat and I decided to go to the nightclub in our hotel after the show for just one drink. After we ordered our first drink, we looked at each other and realized just how out of place we were. One drink. Then we could go to bed and say that we were fancy ladies in NYC who went to a Broadway show and sipped cocktails and a nightclub afterward. Three hours and many drinks later, we were still there. We took control of the bar and became gatekeepers for those looking to get closer to the bartenders. We realize now that being the gatekeepers was probably a huge faux pax, but we didn't care. We were superstars!

The next day proved to be equally as lovely as the last. Leisurely brunch, a stroll through the neighborhood, and magazine reading time in the outdoor space of our hotel. Incredible. Schmat had to head to the airport in the mid afternoon while I headed to Brooklyn to visit a friend for a few hours. Like a fancy person from Park Slope, I had to call a car service to get a ride to JFK. On the way to the airport, I couldn't help but think what an amazing weekend Schmat and I had in NYC. It was truly perfect...until it wasn't.

The next 12 hours were a bit of a blur to me. I spent most of them in the bathroom at JFK, the bathroom on the airplane, the bathroom at Logan, and then my own bathroom. I don't know what hit me, but whatever it was, it was miserable. It sucked. I can't imagine anything worse. Ok, maybe I can imagine worse things, but at the time, it felt like NYC was giving me the finger.

Schmat and I had rocked NYC, and then in rocked me in return!

The End of an Era

Today is officially my man's last day in the sandwich biz. I really can't believe it. 12 years is a LONG time. I think restaurant years are like dog years, or at least they sure feel that way. To celebrate, Bot 1 and I headed to the store to get a suitable balloon and card. (We affectionately refer to the kids as "The Bots" because of a Beastie Boys song that Bot 1 loves.)

Anyways, I hate card shopping. I struggle to find something I like every time. Luckily, there was a great assortment of stickers right next to the cards. I should add here that we were hoping to find a SpongeBob themed card and/or balloon because my man loves watching the show with Bot 1. I also thought it would be fitting to have Mr. Krabbs, a Sandwich King in his own right, on the card.

Once we spotted the stickers we knew just what to do. We bought a yellow, smiley face balloon and a cool enough card that we then doctored in the car with kick ass stickers. The result was better than we had hoped. To add to our great luck, we went to buy some scratch tickets for the card. I hardly ever buy scratch tickets, but I had a feeling one would be a winner. I picked out one and let Bot 1 pick out the other. When she was choosing, she hit the first button twice so we got two of mine. I told her that it was all fate, and that maybe she picked the winning card. Well, sure enough he just scratched the tickets and won on both! $100 on one and $10 on the other. I knew it!! A sign of good things to come I hope.

Once Bot 2 starts sleeping through the night and we find a babysitter, we will go out sans Bots to celebrate an incredible journey properly. I am very proud of my man and the place he helped build. Cheers and here's to the future!!

conversation with a nephew

I was over at my parents' house for dinner. For some reason, we were talking about people getting dumped. I am not making this up. And remember, Nephew is 5 years old (although he'd be sure to remind you he's turning 6 in August. Then he'd probably make a fart noise.)





Nephew: What does 'dumped' mean?


Me: Well, if you're dating a girl, and you decide for some reason you don't want to date her anymore, you dump her.


Nephew: Oh! I would never dump anyone!


Me: But, she might turn out to be crazy or something...


Nephew: That's okay. I might be a little crazy, too.


Me: Or, the girl could dump you, ya know.


Nephew: Well, then I'd just find another girlfriend.


Mom: That's true. He does like a lot of girls.


Nephew: I like every girl I see!


Mom: Especially Inez.


Nephew: [wistfully, leaning his back and head against the door frame] Oh Inez. She makes me melt like ice in the sun.





*End Scene*





Note: He is allegedly already engaged to Inez. He asked if they could get married, she said she'd marry him for gum. So he sent a stick of gum in the mail to her (with the help of grandma). Later on that day he proposed marriage to me as well. Homeboy is shaping up to be quite a player.

Fashion Future

I am scared. Terrified, actually. Yup, I am afraid of my fashion future. And here's why. I am a social worker. A mental health professional. A member of a field that is known for its peace, love, and happiness approach to life and fashion. When I was studying to become a social worker, I had a stereotypical image of social workers in my mind. You know...flowing skirts and over-sized shirts, tie-dyed attire, etc. When I joined the profession, I worked with young, hip, middle classed women with long brown hair with Longchamp bags their mothers bought them for their birthdays and Tori Burch shoes they purchased at Nordstroms. While I wasn't proud of my wardrobe that was completely supplied by Marshalls and Target, I sighed of relief thinking that social workers didn't really dress as poorly as I thought.

Then, I came to the Cape this week to take a class. Not a bad gig. 8:30-12:15 M-F, good snacks, continuing education credits, time with other mental health professionals from around the country, and time enough left in the day to get to the beach and cook out. The only problem is that I've had difficulty focusing on the topic at hand (executive functions) because I've been distracted by the hideous fashion that has surrounded me. My fear of becoming a fashion "don't" as I continue in the field has returned. Here's why.

First, there's a woman I've named Cat Lady. While she does seem like a woman who has a dozen cats and no friends, I call her Cat Lady because 3 days this week she wore three dimensional cat socks along with her black sneakers, over sized pocket less jeans, and various amazing (and you know what I mean by amazing) tops. The scariest top was worn today. A black sweatshirt with shoulder pads. Yup, you read it right. Shoulder pads. The collar, shoulders, and 3/4 of the sleeves were covered in gingham plaid, while legs and red shoes that were bedazzled made up the rest of the core of the sweatshirt. The back said, "There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home". Incredible.

Then, there's Crunchy. You know the type. Shorts that are too short and tight, hideous orthopedic sandals, and a funky t-shirt with some Native American representations. I wasn't as distracted by her attire as I was by the pale skin she displayed with the only hint of color coming from her varicose veins.

Oh, and Florida Fashion Plate is also a winner. Today, she had on a leopard print jacket, black clam diggers, gold strappy sandals, and too much gold jewelery which was only outdone by her perfectly highlighted helmet of hair.

Of course, there was also My Favorite Repeat (wore the same thing every day in different colors), Christy McNichol (head to toe in different color denims), and Token. Token is every man at a mental health conference. There are only a few. Usually, they are the speaker. Sometimes, there are a few in the crowd. Wherever they are, these men are usually Fraud-like psychiatrists with white beards and mustaches, receding hairlines, short sleeved Sipowitz shirts, khaki shorts, skinny hairless legs, and Birkenstocks.

So, can you blame me for being anxious about my own fashion future? In a room of 45, I couldn't identify one social worker who had any sense of style. What's worse is wondering...what if I, too, am a horrible dresser? Am I in denial? Is it because of my childhood? Should I blame my mother? Good thing I have one more day with these mental health professionals, as they might be able to help me work through these issues.

Illustrious Narrative?

I have an amazing food story to tell, but figured I'd take advantage of our new agreement to tell you about my day. The craziest part of my day was that this stuff is becoming normal.

9:26am Finally make it out the door of my apartment and to the car. My first appointment wasn't scheduled until 10am, so I slept in a little as I was out to a wonderful dinner the night before (that's the amazing food story). I'm sure this is a grey area, as far as not really starting my work day until 9:26, but I figured that since I rarely take my union mandated 15 minute breaks (2 per day) and my hour lunch, whomever wants to kiss my ass regarding this is welcome to do so. I had left all my files in the car, so I took a few minutes to organize them and plan my morning. It's also a grey area to leave a whole lot of confidential files in my car, but I'm kind of sick of schlepping them up to the 3rd floor at night only to schlep that back down 12 hours later.

9:30am I call a phone number and am surprised that the person I am looking for actually answers the phone. This is rare. I make an appointment to meet this person on their lunch break from their job at the dry cleaners.

10:00am My first appointment, which I am not looking forward to at all. I have already visited this house about 4 times, spent about 2 hours sitting outside the house stake-out style, and had two angry phone calls with the home's occupant. Also, instead of a regular answering machine beep, her celly has a man's voice saying "hello". She has received several messages from me saying, "Hello? Is Leona there? Hello?" That's on her though, because how was I supposed to know?
Leona, name changed to protect confidentiality, is not yet 30 and has 8 kids and one who died as an infant. Most of them were taken away because she used to beat them up, and now she doesn't want to talk to me because it's not her fault I'm knocking on her door. Which is true. Her stepdad's girlfriend, we'll call her Madea, took one of her daughters to the fireworks on 4th of July, got trashed, and passed out at the bus stop. The two were found by police and taken to the ER at 1am. So now I have to investigate why this kid was with this drunk lady. I believe that Leona didn't know that Madea was a complete alcoholic. Madea, whom I interviewed at the hospital, insisted she only had one shot of tequila. "But how come your BAC was 0.24?", I ask. She doesn't know. Later I find out that she visits the ER for alcohol poisoning a couple times a year and her own kids were taken away because they set the house on fire when she was passed out on the couch. The fire fighters woke her up after they extinguished the flames.
Leona's house is a complete dump, but better than some I've seen. 4 of the kids live with her. They have food and she doesn't beat them up anymore because she's following the suggestions given in her mandated parenting class. I get to ask more questions than I thought I would. I hope I never have to see her again, mostly because she's kind of moody, but also because I hope she really has changed.

10:32am I head over to Joseph Avenue. Back in the day, it was the Polish section of Rochester and fake mom's grandmother lived on that street. Now it is one of the worst neighborhoods. I drove by the house I was visiting the day prior, but it totally looked like an abandoned warehouse. I didn't stop, because my line of thinking was, "I don't want to be murdered there and miss my dinner reservation." But I had to go back today, because allegedly a biodad of a kid lives there. We have this stupid policy that we have to locate and try to contact all the bio parents of kids in the home that's the focus of the investigation, even if the bio parents don't ever see their kids. It takes up a lot of time.
I knock on the door and when there's no answer, I chat to a couple people on the street. One is a fat latina woman with a thick accent. A man in a leather Yankees hat approaches me and offers to help. The lady confirms that it's an apartment building, she thinks she knows who I'm looking for but he's at work. I feel connected to my helpful 'hood brothers and sisters and feel bad that I assumed I'd get stabbed by visiting this address. Although I think somebody got stabbed here last week. I leave a note for the guy and head off, with the confidence to visit my next destination.

10:45am If Joseph Avenue is one of the worst, Avenue D is the worst. I think the most haunted place in Rochester is the intersection of Ave D and Conkey Avenue, because I bet about a trillion people have been shot there. Even if you didn't know that area's reputation, I bet you'd sense it in your bones. It's totally creepy and gives me chills to pass through that space. I am searching for another bio dad. I get to experience the whole length of Ave D and the haunted intersection. I don't even know if this dude lives a the address I have obtained, but I leave a note when there's no answer.
As I get back in my car, a man from Joseph Ave calls. He says he got my note but he's not the guy. He explains that I stuck the note in his door, but if go around to the back of the building there's another entrance into the rest of the building and the person I'm looking for probably lives in one of those apartments. Again grateful for help from a nice 'hood resident, I wonder if I can postone going back to that building to check out the scary back door entrance until after my NYC trip, because I don't want to be murdered and have my theater tickets go to waste.

11:00am Visit to a grandmother to pick up paperwork. Grandma wants to get custody of her 6 grandchildren who I put into foster care last week. That's a whole other story. I call to check in with my supervisor, and she lets me know I have a new case waiting back at the office. Super. I drive past Natalie Street. I didn't know this existed, so I drive around the block to take a photo of the street sign and this makes me happy. I contemplate how awesome it would be if every street was named Natalie St, but then redact the idea because it would be too confusing for people if streets didn't have different names.

11:15-12pm Wasting time, drinking latte, driving around, waiting for noon appointment because it's not enough time to bother going back to the office. I also organize my files again.

12pm I meet my appointment, another bio dad, at his job at the dry cleaners and we walk to a nearby Tim Hortons. I tell him about how his kids' mother's husband beat up some of the other kids in the house. He tells me about how he just got out of a 40 month prison sentence for stabbing a guy. He says it was an accident, and I believe him, but can't help but wonder why he did 40 months when the other guy "fell on his knife". He says he's going to petition for custody of his kids. Part of me is thinking, "go for it", part of me is thinking, "go for it but don't hold me up because I need to close this investigation", and part of me is thinking, "I'm hungry and I need to pee". We talk for about 30 minutes. He's a very likable guy. Meeting him is actually a bright spot in my day.

1:10pm Sitting at my desk, stuffing a turkey sub in my face, trying to do some typing and leg work on my new case. I am not trying very hard, because I am tired, and a lot of this is bullshit, and my new policy is apathy so that I hopefully can avoid having a stroke before I turn 40. I check voicemails, read donk emails, procrastinate with coworkers by talking shit about other coworkers.

2:15pm My attorney calls. I actually have several attorneys now, and I like referring to them. "I'll need to check with my attorney on that." It sounds so fancy. In fact, I do indeed have a team of attorneys at my disposal but approximately one of them knows my name. One of my attorneys is doing an afternoon of consultations in my building, and he has time for me to talk to him about a case I have legal questions about. In this case, the drunk mom lawyered up and is insisting that I get a warrant to talk to her son and all this bullshit. My attorney may not be able to do anything about that, but we talk about a couple things we can do to cover our asses. He really loves his job and I have a lot of respect for him, so I am thrilled that I can speak intelligently about the case and that he likes how I write my progress notes. Compliments somehow mean more when they come from my attorney.

2:55pm More emails, heavy sighs, trying to convince one of my favorite coworkers not to quit, and organizing some files. I get a hold of the dad on my new case and I arrange to meet him at 4pm. I spend a bunch of time trying to mapquest "Westbrook Circle" and get frustrated when I can't find it. At least 3 coworkers, also trying to waste time, jump in to help me find the street. It turns out the dude lives on "Resolute Circle" but his accent is so thick that "resolute" sounds like "westbrook".

3:38pm Finally leave my desk and head to Resolute Circle. I spend an hour with a frustrated and animated 34 year old Puerto Rican man. At the advice of his attorney, he called CPS his own baby mama, who drinks excessively and has diabetes and is BiPolar. I love this guy, because he's collected evidence already. He took photos on his phone of her passed out on the bathroom floor, which I text to my own phone so that my clerk can print them and I can add them to the file. We sit on his floor, because he doesn't have any seating in his studio apartment, and sift through pages of hospital records and other random crap as he explains to me in broken English about how he loves this crazy woman but can't take any more. I take a couple of things to photocopy at the office. He keeps telling me to take his baby to foster care and that he's very scared. I try to explain to him that after hours CPS visited last night, saw that the baby was safe, and I'll go visit tomorrow (hopefully, because I have a 4 hour training and have to be to Family Court at 3pm) but I probably won't be able to snatch the baby.

4:59pm I call my supervisor to let her know I finished my visit, I didn't get killed and am on my way home. I hate this part, because you're not free until after the phone call and she's anal and could make you go investigate more stuff. Thankfully, I quickly learned to express, "I'm not dead! I'm going home!" without leaving her time to ask questions.

So that's that. Don't tell anyone I didn't start until 9:26. And please don't let me be shot until after I see the 9 Tony Award Winning Musical "The Book of Mormon". Do people want to switch back to only writing about food now?

still searching....?

Ladies, I've got to be honest. I've given up hope that I'm going to find a Roma's here in the ROC. I recently found two promising contenders, and the fact that they failed so dreadfully to meet my expectations led me to finally accept that for about 12 years I was wonderfully spoiled and Roma's is not sandwich reality.

Contender #1 was called Genesee Bakery and Deli. It is a place near work in a crappy strip mall. I thought maybe this was a good sign- chain stores are never going to be the Roc Roma's, and the original location of my beloved eatery was also in a crappy strip mall. Genesee bakery is a tiny shop, two 2 seater tables, and a large bakery case. Tons of cupcakes, cookies, and other assorted pastries pointed to this establishment being more bakery oriented than deli oriented. They did have a poorly organized deli cooler thing, but nowhere near the selection of Roma's.

If a place looks promising, I try to be as scientific as possible and order my turkey standard. They had turkey, but I don't think they had mozzarella (I've totally given up hope on anyone having fresh mozz). So turkey, swiss, lettuce, tomato, mayo was my order. I went for the "medium", missing Roma's "one size fits all unless you're going to puss out and get a wrap" philosophy. Points granted for the bread, which had a lovely thin crustiness and was fresh baked. Points also granted for the turkey, which I beleive was freshly sliced, or at least was good deli turkey and not cold cut crap. Points taken away because they also randomly were selling rosaries. That's just weird. Points also taken away because I ordered a cupcake which totally sucked. It was dry and flavorless. I did go back for a second turkey sub, but this time the turkey was dry and crumbly, which is obviously not okay.

Contender #2 was Cooper Street deli. It's not in an area of town that I ever go to, but coworkers suggested it as we were in the area for a training. This was another spot frequented by locals, with a promising menu and promising shitty decor. I was pleased to see mozzerella as a cheese option, so my order was a "medium" turky sub, lettuce, tomato, mozz, mayo. Points granted for a lengthy list of condiment options. The dumbass chick in front of me ordered a sub "with everything" and the order taker said, "Are you kidding me? That's disgusting!" and made her amend her order. (Turns out the chick just wanted lettuce and tomato, not the 43 item long list of every condiment ever invented that was posted directly in front of her face). Points granted for order taker personality and sass.

Points taken away for bad bread. It was probably freshly baked, but pale. No real crust to speak of; more like a thin glaze of potential that maybe could have become crispy if baked a bit longer. Points taken away for the amount of turkey and cheese that was sadly flopping about beyond the bounds of the sub roll....I lifted my eyes to the ceiling and had a silent moment of appreciation for the Roma's cheese/meat roll up method.

So, I don't know if you've all known the truth all this time and have just been protecting my feelings. If that's the case, I appreciate that you let me hit rock bottom on my own and now I can begin my recovery. There's only one Roma's. I must try to accept average sandwiches in daily life. One day at a time, I guess.

Country Corner: Homestyle Version.

Tonight I really wanted diner food. My wild and crazy Thursday night included a trip to Target and on my way home I thought about stopping by Victoria's Diner for a chocolate shake. I really wanted to eat there but decided I couldn't do that but then started thinking about pancakes for dinner and it sounded really good to me...

So as I strolled the lanes of my recently re-organized (sigh) Target  I saw the solution to my PMS and slight cold craving self: Chocolate Chips.  What does that mean for dinner you may wonder? It means breakfast for dinner. It means - chocolate chip pancakes! I love me some chocolate chip pancakes.

My favorite chocolate chip pancakes are at Country Corner in Saratoga Springs (obviously). They are perfectly golden brown and the chocolate chips melt perfectly. Put some whipped butter and a small dash of syrup and it's the best breakfast - along with a side of bacon.

So tonight in honor of Country Corner, my breakfast for dinner craving, my pms and the fact that we are headed to Saratoga on June 4 (YEAH!) I made chocolate chip pancakes for dinner with a side of turkey sausage.

The pancakes turned out pretty well, I must admit. There were a nice golden brown and I added a dash of vanilla to the batter.

Overall a pretty rockin' Thursday night.


See you in 'toga.

Italian Nachos

Rose lives above a little place called Anchovie's.  It's our favorite Friday night spot because:

1. It's basically an extension of her living room
2. Food and drinks are yummy
3. By the end of the night, we've participated in or overheard a few good stories from our bar stool neighbors.

After a long week of various challenges on both our ends, I told Rose we had to go out and get a little drunk on Saturday night. I said she could pick the place which I knew meant Anchovie's or her couch. I was really ok with either.

We arrived at the bar which was packed and got a spot in the little bar to the side. We ordered our drinks (gin and tonics and vodka and sodas) and grabbed our bar stools. We decided that tonight we would go all out and get the nachos - the large plate.

Finally after stalking some people for their stools at the main bar, we got our new seats just in time for our nachos to arrive.

So what's make them "italian nachos?" The nachos are tortilla chips with bolognese sauce, jalapenos, mozzarella and ricotta cheese. They are freakin' amazing. The bolognese is oddly yummy on the chips and then you toss in a little ricotta and these are way better than any regular cheddar and bean nachos. You really need enough sauce though and enough ricotta. This particular night there must have been some god like man in the kitchen becuase he put a spoonful of ricotta on the side of the dish - perfect for dipping!

After a few more cocktails, two guys breaking up next to us, picking on the snobby girls with weird side ponytails, getting one free round from the bartender, we gathered up our tipsy selves and headed home.  Rose upstairs to her house and me the four blocks home.

I'd like to note we were out until Midnight ON A SATURDAY!

Not only did we eat amazing italian nachos with extra ricotta, we were out on the town and not home by 930pm. It was a big night, indeed!

I'm cooking. Crazier things have happened.

So I'm cooking. I know  - it's crazy. But last week this girl ate out almost every stinking meal and my waist line and my wallet can't handle much more. Tonight I'm going with a basically easy recipe - veggie lasagna. The plan is make it today on this lovely Monday Holiday and eat it for the rest of the week.
 
I tried to make it Weight Watchers friendly but that includes no cheese and that's BS. I also tried to make it with whole wheat no bake noodles but there were no no-bake noodles. So I lost on that front and the fat free cheese front too. I chose low fat ricotta and mozzarella - sorry WW it's the best Whole Foods and Julie McCoy could do.  Me and Zip Car were not making additional trips to suit the appropriate caloric intake.

So we got spinach, mushrooms and zucchini in the mix for the veggies. The lasagna is in the oven right now. I'm worried the spinach was too watery. I cooked frozen chopped spinach and don't think I did enough to drain it and remove the excess water. Basically, I was lazy. I am anxious to see what it looks like once the tin foil comes off the top.

I sauteed the spinach, zucchini and mushrooms all together with some garlic, olive oil, oregano, basil and a little salt and pepper. That made me feel almost Martha Stewart-esque. I combined it with the ricotta, a dash of mozz and then started assembling.

Along with the lasagna I will serve a mixed green salad. I'm debating what to put in the salad but it will have a balsamic dressing because that's all I have. In addition, I will heat up a little whole wheat baguette.

So readers (all five of you) that's it from windy and chilly Boston. I'll let you know how it turns out.

Haut Chocolate

After work this evening, to celebrate the fact that it was my last day with that particular employer, I went to my favorite gift shop to buy myself a treat. I ended up buying myself 3 treats, because I had a gift card and thus got $24 worth of treats for $12.03.

I am really good at picking out presents for myself and this was no exception. One of my purchases was a Vosges Naga Bar. Vosges Haut Chocolat makes a bacon and chocolate bar that I was once disappointed with, I think because I felt at the time that I could have eaten a slice of bacon and a Hershey bar at the same time and gotten the same effect for a lot less money. But the Naga bar was not disappointing and not something I could have recreated on my own. It was milk chocolate, curry, and coconut flakes. The chocolate had the perfect shine and gave the perfect snap. The coconut added more texture-wise than flavor-wise (although my palate may be off due to ongoing sniffles) but was a pleasing component nonetheless. The curry was amazing and gives the whole chocolate-peanut butter combo a run for its money. It was just the right ratio and gave the chocolate an inexplicable sparkle.

So, next time you need a treat, seek this out. The price tag was kind of redick ($2.50 for 0.5oz), but some occasions just call for that kind of extravagance. Maybe I'll even send one to the next person who posts on this blog, because that would be worth celebrating.