I heart Amorina

Mmmm, the Siciliana pizza from Amorina: fresh ricotta, oranges, fennel, caramelized onions and mint. It is like I died and went to pizza heaven. I could not wait and ate a slice in the car before I even pulled away from the curb.

I heart brussel sprouts

The other night at Fairway, I picked up a small carton of Brussel sprouts and a jar of organic chestnuts, already planning a scrumptious meal of...Brussel sprouts. 

Forgive me, for I am new to the secret, and completely under-rated, delectable-ness of Brussel sprouts, since I only started to eat them perhaps three or four years ago. This is something that I noticed. Once I entered my late 20s and early 30s, its like I had a reversal of what I had deemed acceptable to eat. Those fruits and vegetables and other weird foods once banished to the "you are so freaking disgusting" category have had a reversal of fortune. Because now, as long as it not an organ meat, or really any meats at this particular juncture in time, anthing highly diary-based (and this is not because I don't love diary, but because it does not love me), or mayonnaise, it falls into the "bring it on!" category. Like brussel sprouts. Cauliflower. Bananas. Mangoes. Stinky cheese. Tomatoes (although they must be really fresh, or else I navigate around them on my plate). Sea cucumber. Bitter melon. Chocolate. Cake of any kind. Coffee with hot chocolate. Seitan. Pickles. If you feed it to me, chances are, I will eat it. In fact, olives might remain one of the only things other than mayonnaise, which I pretty much loathe the taste of. I don't count organ meat since that is universally just gross. And if you did make me a loaf of olive bread with your bare hands, I could probably choke it down without throwing up, to be polite.

So that being said, today for lunch, I ate the entire container of Brussel sprouts, which I had sautéed in some olive oil with some of the organic chestnuts. It was such a delicious meal that I practically licked the plate when I was finished. 

One for me, and one for you

I woke up today, and felt a little off. It might have been vestiges of the cold that I had yesterday. You know how it is when you just don't feel like your brain is functioning at even 90%. But I still decided to bake an apple pie in case I went to the Prinsky's for my annual Thanksgiving dinner with the Prinskys. 

This year, I actually got smart and bought pre-made pie crusts, albeit an organic whole wheat pie crust, to make life simpler for myself. And without having to deal with the whole pie crust bullshit (the dough ripping, sticking to the counter, not fitting into the pie dish, and on and on), making the apple pie was actually incredibly pleasurable. And easy. I defrosted two pie shells — one for the bottom and one for the top. The top one I did not even have to roll out. I just inverted it and stuck it on top, and crimped the edges of the two shells together. Of course, then I wanted to stuff in the remaining apple slices left in the bowl (waste not, want not!), so I uncrimped the edges, ripping the crust a bit, shoved in more apples, and recrimped the now tattered edge. Violá! I baked it for 50 minutes and it came out perfectly. And I am choosing to overlook the giant burnt patch of crusty apple effluviant now burned onto my oven floor. Since I was on a roll, I decided to also bake a pumpkin pie. This was even simpler, since I used canned pumpkin (who really uses pumpkin from a fresh pumpkin?), and after mixing in a can of condensed milk, two eggs and spices, I just poured it into a frozen pie crust and baked it for 45 minutes or so. Yeah, I totally could do this for a living, that is how satisfying it was to whip out two pies in two hours. If only I could overcome the piecrust stress.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Tootsie Pops

Today might be the first day in my entire life, where I have not crunched through a Tootsie Pop immediately after opening it. I'm shocked at my ability to resist temptation, and this lolly's consequently lasted a good twenty minutes. Instead of twenty seconds. However, there is something to be said for the co-mingling of the crunchy candy outershell and the tootsie part. Now, I'm just getting one part at a time. I'm not sure which is better: one candy taste and texture at a time, but over a longer peroid of time? Or an instaneous rush of sugar and two opposing taste sensations at once, but it only lasts fleetingly? I'm leaning towards the instant payoff of everything. Thoughts?

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The Little Red Bike Cafe

photo by Kevin Wagoner

Tonight, I was trying to clean out some of my magazines and got caught reading some of the more salient articles, before I could throw them out. One that caught my eye was in the August 2008 issue of Gourmet. it featured a blurb on a new little café in Portland, Oregon called the Little Red Bike Café. It is very Portland-y in the sense that the owners, Evan and Ali, support local vendors, especially those who deliver food by bicycle, according to the Ecospace Conscious Community blog. For instance their coffee bean supplier pedals about an hour to deliver the beans. In addition, there is a bike pickup window (!!), coffee can be delivered (by bike, of course) and 50¢ drink discount for anyone on a bike. And because it is the west coast after all, of course they also insist on using local eggs, milk and produce for their sandwiches, baked goods and ice cream.

Address: 4823 North Lombard Street, Portland OR, 97203
Phone: 503-289-0120
Hours: 7am to 3 pm Tuesdays through Sundays, although there's after-hours service at the "bike-thru" window

i almost peed on myself laughing so hard

I really needed this today...laughing out loud at my desk while I ate lunch; everyone who walked past must have thought I was insane. What I as doing was checking out Natalia Dee's most recent drawings, and I am not sure which is funnier — her images, or the names she saved the images as. 

Drawing the line at being green

I had to pick up some boxes of e.p.t. just now in the company store (for work!), and the company has decided to eliminate bags as a "green" measure. Totally agree with that, except when buying things like pregnancy kits. Multiple boxes of pregnancy kits. Which I then I had to parade through the cafeteria and stack on top on my food (which was, thankfully, not pickles or ice cream) when carrying it through the halls of the J+J campus. Not exactly the image I want to project, but its all for sake of one less poly bag in a landfill, at the expense of my humility, I guess its a fair trade off. Considering that the paper shopping bags were $2 and I was too cheap to buy one. Apparently, the embarrassment of toting around a few boxes of pregnancy kits is not worth $2 to me. I just really hope that no one asks me if I am pregnant.

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Asking Santa for a tv set

Today, I broke down and asked my family for just one thing for Christmas this year. Initially, I was going to casually mention the desire for a Design Within Reach gift card, ideally with a balance large enough to buy all new furniture. But instead I emailed my family, asking if they all would chip in together and buy me a television set. Specifically, a white Samsung HDTV with a 22" screen. This was on the advice of someone who told me that it appears that watching television is the one thing right now that seems to make me genuinely happy — since reading, my usual favorite past time, has temporarily lost its luster for me.

Ironically enough, the New York Times then printed an article in today's paper that stated:

Happy people spend a lot of time socializing, going to church and reading newspapers — but they don’t spend a lot of time watching television, a new study finds.

That’s what unhappy people do.

Although people who describe themselves as happy enjoy watching television, it turns out to be the single activity they engage in less often than unhappy people, said John Robinson, a professor of sociology at the University of Maryland and the author of the study, which appeared in the journal Social Indicators Research.

Jeez. Thanks, John. Fuck you. Thanks for ruining my Christmas wish by pointing out that I am obviously not happy if I want to be a television set owner. I mean, until recently, I never really felt the need for a television set (Kenny sold my 9" white Sony for me on eBay in 2004), since any show I wanted to watch, I just watched online in a marathon of episodes on a Saturday night at like 3am. And usually, I would have rather read a book, visited friends — maybe not go to church, but perhaps baked some pumpkin bread; a spiritual offering unto itself. But lately, I have been dying for the cool, hard plastic feel of a remote in my hand, idly flipping through BET and the Food Network, while eating Cheetos straight from the bag.

BKS Iyengar at almost 90.

I was reading the December issue of Yoga Journal this evening, and on the last page there was an interview with B.K.S. Iyengar, also known as Guruji to most yogis, who the founder of Iyengar Yoga. His 90th birthday is on December 14, and the studio where I practice — The Iyengar Association of Greater NY — is holding a birthday party for him on Saturday night, December 13th, as they do every year. I wish that before I get old and die, that I will have the opportunity to go to Pune and study at the Ramamani Iyengar Memorial Yoga Institute, where his son, Prashant, and daughter, Geeta, are both teachers. As someone who makes such profound, and almost austere in a meditative sense, statements as the one below:

I try to get the physical body in line with the mental body, the mental body in line with the intellectual body, and the intellectual body in line with the spiritual body.

I could only imagine what it might be like to study yoga at his institute in Pune, India. One, I can imagine my sholders and arms hurting for days, from holding my arms above my head for probably 25 minutes at a time. Which might be oddly remiscent of my week spent at Indiana University's basketball camp in the summer before 10th grade, where I was so sore I could not pull my sports bra off of over my head, and had to shower with it on. I think of Guruji being like that...a force who drives you to push yourself to try things that you never thought you were capable of, and even afterwards, you might think, how on earth did I accomplish that? But you will know its because of your faith in yourself to allow yourself to keep on wanting to learn, and knowing that with each practice, you are still getting better, no matter how old you are, or how "good" you already are.
From the perspective of someone turning 90, what is essential for a happy life? "Uniting the energy of the body with the energy of the soul. There is a difference between happiness and delight. Happiness is a mind level. Delight is beyond the mind. When you see a sunset, you don't see it from the mind. You see it beyond the mind, from beyond yourself — its an experiencing state. My asana is all beyond the frame of mind, not within the frame of mind. That is delight. Happiness is sensual happiness. But delight is spiritual happiness.

The smell of fresh challah

It was freezing today and even chillier tonight, in an rather unusual display of winter weather that is not supposed to arrive until at least February. Until winter, frankly. But as I left yoga this evening, shivering in my yoga pants under my jeans with wool knee socks, and my fleece that was layered over a cashmere sweater and two tank tops, with a down jacket snugged on top and a wool scarf and hat, I caught the scent of freshly baked bread in the air as I walked down Washington Avenue towards my car. How odd! Mingled with the scent of cold weather and imminent snow flurries, was the delightful smell of fresh challah? On a Wendesday night in Prospect Heights? Completely unexpected, it was like sniffing some sort of transportative elixir...and instantly, I was felt as if the world was all warm and cozy despite the near frigid temperatures in reality. And so then I ate a miniature Ritter Sport bar with cornflakes inside, since the smell of the bread in the air made me realize how freaking hungry I was.

I am thinking that the challah smell must have been coming from the bakery next to the methadone clinic, the place where Shakil goes up to the metal gate and slips the guys a dollar through the gate and in exchange, they surreptitiously hand him a loaf of challah. Except on Saturdays, when they are closed. Only in Brooklyn does this sort of thing happen, seriously.

Coffee condoms

Because K-Y® is one of the brands that I work on at work, people send me all sorts of interesting links to bizarre sexually-related stories, this is amongst other things (for example, if you remember my link about the beaver shaped vibrator post from this past summer). That being said, this link about coffee flavored condoms in Ethiopia was particularly interesting. Albeit, this was not the actual link my friend sent me, because these emails then cause me to google the item of interest, where I spend hours sucked into the online world of researching weird subjects such as this. I am sure the IT people at J+J must find my online search patterns to be incredibly strange. That being said, I found a bunch of links for the condoms in Ethiopia story, but then I also got a link for this on Etsy:

for a coffee condom. Which I love. Not the actual coffee condom itself, because I abhor that sort of fringy yarn, it makes my skin crawl. But the fact that One: a agency even created dark brown colored, coffee flavored (actually they are supposed to taste like a macchiato, which is quite popular in Ethipoia — its an espresso with a generous amount of cream and sugar) condoms in the first place. 

(Side note: the same company created sweet corn flavored condoms in China, and durian flavored condoms for Indonesia. Durian flavored condoms are just plain wrong in so many ways.) The Ethiopian public was rather divided on the idea of the coffee condoms, see below and here:

"It is about time to use an Ethiopian flavour for beautiful Ethiopian girls," said Dereje Alemu, a 19-year-old university student.

"I hate coffee-flavored condoms," said Tadesse Teferi, a 37-year-old mechanic. "But I use ordinary condoms when I have sex with ladies other than my wife."

And Two: I love that Google links all of these things together, so not only do I get articles about condoms in Ethiopia, but I also find links to cute little coffee cup snuggly things that are hand knitted and for sale.

Pincha Mayurasana or the pose I used to hate

Forearm stand is a pose that I have a particularly intense feeling about — and not necessarily in a positive way…until recently, that is. It's hard, and makes me crabby, and I usually spend class fruitlessly trying to kick up, and getting all sweaty for nothing.

But lately, I have been taking a vinyasa flow class twice a week together with my friends. Since it's in the neighborhood and my friends take the class, I was willing to overlook the fact that I don't actually like vinyasa flow yoga (because it makes me sweat and I sort of hate that). That being said, the teacher of the class is really into forearm stand, much to my chagrin. So finally, during a class last week, I asked her to help me since I could just not kick up. Even getting my arms into the pose was so intense, that the act of kicking up was far too exhausting, and my shoulders were always being reduced to a quivering mass of jello before I could even get into the pose. So she showed us a way to stretch open that space under our arms which is apparently very tight + tense on my body, doing something against the wall. And then the next class, I was able to kick up fairly easily, albeit with a giant thud, into the pose. 

But today, today, I floated up into the pose like I had strings magically pulling me into place. Yes, it was not perfect, because my quadriceps are not strong enough yet to get the kick up bit looking lovely. But regardless, it was effortless and I was in the pose and full of this incredible lightness of being and happiness that I finally could do it!; so much so that I could not stop smiling the rest of my practice. I mean, I was positively gleeful. It was like I finally had conquered something that I hated, and I had hated it only because I could not do it.

O'Hare Airport's Light Fantastic

I had forgotten the one thing that I actually love about coming to Chicago — that is the weird light and sound sculpture in Chicago's O'Hare airport terminal. As you take the moving sidewalk towards the exit, you are surrounded by ambient music that sounds sort of like whales mating mixed with what you brain might sound like if you connected it to a microphone while you were asleep. Its pretty freaking incredible, and makes you sort of forget that when you exit you are going to be entering the cold cruel world that is called Chicago in winter-time.

Duane's 33rd Birthday

Duane's birthday cake with his name spelled out in candied ginger.

The addition of walnut trim.

Blowing out the candles, all 11 of them. There was not room for 33.

For Duane's birthday, Michelle threw a dinner party with all of Duane's favorite foods and all his favorite people. Back in July, when we celebrated Ali's birthday, Duane let me know that he wanted a party for his birthday too, so this birthday celebration has long been in the planning, to ensure that Duane had exactly what would make him super happy for his birthday. This included having a homemade cake with his name spelled out on the top in some sort of edible sprinkle type of thing. Hence the chopped ginger "Duane."

Duane specifically asked for a carrot cake with walnuts, when I asked him which cake flavor he would like. Carrot cake is not the easiest to make, since it involves multiple fruits and vegetables being tossed into the batter, in addition to the usual flour + sugar combo. But I found a recipe online last week when I was researching cakes to make for another friend's birthday. In fact, I spent so much time researching the ideal recipe, that I actually ran out of time to make the cake in time for my friend's birthday earlier this week (This has been a reoccuring issue with me lately. All planning and no follow through.). But, I was all set for Duane's cake due to the advance planning — and Michelle even bought the ingredients. Albeit she had ZERO appliances, forcing me to chop the nuts in a blender, and mix the batter by HAND. Hello, no Kitchen-Aid mixer, not even a hand mixer. I have grown incredibly spoiled by the Kitchen-Aid, and now making any baked goods without it feels like I am baking in the Dark Ages. Thankfully, carrot cake is already sort of lumpy due to the inclusion of pineapple chunks, carrots and walnuts. And I just picked the large lumps of solid powder sugar out of the frosting as I was spreading the frosting on the cake.

Given that I had never used this recipe before, I was pleasently surprised that the cake did not even turn out at all fucked up. Since my method is that I usually have to do something at least twice, because without fail I skip over a crucial element in the recipe (ok, well, I did add 2.5 tespooons of baking soda instead of baking powder, but I just scooped it back out and think I got most of it), this time, all went smoothly. Perhaps because I was not using the mixer, and things were moving at a much slower speed. Normally, I get all excited and everything just gets thrown into the mixer willy-nilly. I also had read all 150 reviews of the cake earlier this week, so that I would not mess it up for my other friend's birthday. Somehow, I retained all of everyone's comments: less ginger, freeze the frosting, lalala... and actually kept them in mind when baking Duane's cake. Wow.

Needless to say, I do believe that Duane was happy with his party, and his cake. The food was all thoughtfully made by his friends and loved ones (salad + peas + carrots from Ladan + Ali, corn from Candace + Roger, lasagna from Melba?, macaroni + cheese from me, Red Stripe beer from Kenny, lamb + potatoes + chicken from Michelle), and we all ate way too much, and then stuffed in carrot cake on top of it all.

We love you, Duane.

Keep your head up

Today in yoga class, we were doing gomukasana - that pose where you you stick one arm up your back and your other hand over your shoulder and then clasp hands somewhere around your shoulder blades' nether regions. This pose is particularly tricky for me because I am so tight in my shoulders - it's where every single stressful thing in my life gets stored for later reflection. And where the natural inclination is to lean forward and turn your shoulders into a little potato bug posture, paradoxically, the more you open up and the more you lift your head up higher, the deeper you can get into the pose. It hurts (me at least), but in a deep meaningful way, where you can actually acknowledge the strength of the feeling and open up into it.

The same can be said for the rough bits in life. If you keep your head held up high, your heart will stretch open and even though you may be hurting inside, you will at least be in a place to take that feeling of anguish or pain, and breathe deeply into it. And the more you breathe with your heart wide open and your head held high, the more you realize that with time + patience, and faith in yourself, you can overcome anything.

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Q-tip's voice

Just downloaded Q-tip's new album (Renaissance) from iTunes, and his voice still makes me weak in the knees. And combined with D'Angelo's voice...mmmmhmmm.

A salad at 10:10pm

Mâche, Manchester artisanal aged goat's milk cheese (from Consider Bardwell Farms in West Pawlett, VT), chick pea sprouts, sliced baby shitake mushrooms, mini plum/grape/cocktail and cherry tomatoes, fleur de sel and olive oil.

Alejandro's reading at Barnes + Noble

Tonight I went to the Barnes + Noble bookstore near Lincoln Center to hear my Spanish teacher read a play that he had written. It was a dramatic reading, where a series of five people, including my teacher Alejandro, dramaticized what they read. Now, my Spanish is really still quite rudimentary, and I had some serious trouble following the whole play, but managed to feel what it was about, if that's possible. It was really great to listen to the pay that my teacher wrote, and I was so excited for him to have a reading at Barnes + Noble. That's so cool! And my feelings are that if I listen to Spanish being spoken long enough, it will just sink in unconsciously, sort of like a good olive oil soaking into fresh bread. I paid attention very seriously, and even managed to stick around for the first part of the Q+A, despite hating question and answer sessions in English, let alone in a language where I have not even fully grasped the past tense. Regardless, it seems that people ask stupid and pointless questions in any language, and I finally had to leave because I was totally lost by that point.

Dinner with Judy at Zampa

The window illustration nicely pointing out all 

of the parts of the pig that you can eat.

I have not seen Judith in more than a year, since we all met in Prospect Park for Ravi's birthday in July 2007. However, this past week, we spontaneously made plans to meet for dinner at Zampa, and actually did meet, which unto itself is pretty unusual. Normally we flake out on one another for one reason or another, but not tonight. And despite not seeing one another for so long, it was as if we had just seen each other last Tuesday. We talked for almost three straight hours and it was as if dinner was completely secondary. Although the food is quite delicious at Zampa, that night was so not about the sheep's milk ricotta with figs and honey, although it was really good. I had forgotten how much I have truly missed and enjoyed Judy's company, and it was so terrific to see her again, and to catch up on where our lives have taken us thus far.

Banana Bread

I have been on a bread baking spree. Banana Bread is the second in my repetoire. The last to make is pumpkin bread, and then I will need to start branching out, experimenting. Carrot cake bread? Apple walnut bread? Spinach and cheese bread? Chocolate pecan bread? Coconut, macadamia banana bread? Cranberry and orange bread? Gingerbread chocolate bread? Let me know if you have any favorite savory or sweet quick bread recipes.

A fresh car wash

This afternoon, I decided to go and get a car wash. I am not sure why, but this was slightly intimidating to me, to go to the car wash place all by myself. Perhaps because I think of car washes as places full of high levels testosterone, Amor-all, and naked lady air fresheners on sale for dangling from your rear view mirror. And in that order. Which made me think how surprising it is to be 34 years old and still encounter things that make me nervous. Surely, there must be an age, soon, when nothing will cause me anxiety. Right? I hope so. Anyway, being fairly new to the ins and outs of owning a car, I felt it needed a washing, since it was covered in bird shit, and took it to the place on the corner of Vanderbilt and Atlantic Avenues. When I got out of the car and went into the little viewing corridor where you can watch your car inch along on the conveyor, I felt this weird sense of protectiveness for my car. Like it was my five year old kid on his first day of kindergarden or something equally maternal.