"I don't pick out his ties or expect his tomorrows, but I feel when he's in my arms he's where he wants to be. We have no memories bittersweet with time, and I doubt if he'll spend New Year's Eve with me." -- Helen Reddy
Happy 2009 all. In direct opposition to this blog's theme -- my quest to find and capture extraordinary moments in ordinary life -- I'm spending my New Year's Eve in the most ordinary way possible. I didn't spend my entire day planning and preening and anticipating the evening; I spent the entire day in clinic trying to meet a data deadline. I'm not dressed to kill with my lips painted red and my curls cascading down my back; I'm wearing a tank top, pajama pants, and fuzzy socks, with my face free of makeup and my hair pulled into a ponytail. I'm not socializing with adored friends or attractive strangers; I'm channel-surfing between all three parts of That's Entertainment! and The Twilight Zone. I'm not standing or dancing or bursting with excited energy; I'm on the couch under a blanket and I just woke up from a little nap. I'm not enjoying a top-shelf open bar or even a keg in someone's living room; I'm swigging Moet & Chandon White Star right out of the bottle. I didn't even cook today, not even once; I'm snacking on Costco's hors d'oeuvres and ordered a pizza for dinner.
It's a painfully ordinary and slightly pathetic evening, but honestly, the thought of spending New Year's Eve alone on my couch felt more appealing than accepting any invitation I received in or around New York City. I've been in a bit of a funk lately; I've had a loud and stressful few weeks and desperately longed for a little time to think and decompress. And so far, it's been lovely. The one thing that could have made my evening more fulfilling would have been a handsome and quirky fellow to share my couch and kiss me at midnight, but that would have put a serious dent in the blessed ordinariness of my situation.
On a related note, what should my New Year's resolution be?
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Christmas Wrapping
"When what, to my wondering eyes did appear? In the line was that guy I've been chasing all year! Suddenly we laughed and laughed, caught on to what was happening. That Christmas magic brought this tale to a very happy ending." -- The Waitresses
Happy Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, and Festivus to all of you! I'm in the middle of another lovely, hectic holiday, so this will be a short post. (Luckily, I love hectic Christmases most of all.)
Perhaps as karmic punishment for the fact that I haven't actually done most of my Christmas shopping yet, I didn't get the one thing I really wanted for Christmas. I'm probably closer than I've ever been to that gift, though... but of course, I'm the worst judge in the world when it comes to these things. In any case, I hope all your wishes came true this holiday season!
And now I'm off to cook Christmas dinner... my second of three Christmas dinners. Peace!
Happy Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, and Festivus to all of you! I'm in the middle of another lovely, hectic holiday, so this will be a short post. (Luckily, I love hectic Christmases most of all.)
Perhaps as karmic punishment for the fact that I haven't actually done most of my Christmas shopping yet, I didn't get the one thing I really wanted for Christmas. I'm probably closer than I've ever been to that gift, though... but of course, I'm the worst judge in the world when it comes to these things. In any case, I hope all your wishes came true this holiday season!
And now I'm off to cook Christmas dinner... my second of three Christmas dinners. Peace!
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Fifteen Milliseconds of Fame
"I'm a shimmering glowing star in the cinema firmament!" -- from Singin' in the Rain
My ass -- and the side of my face -- were on the five o'clock news today.
Click to enlarge... if you must.
My ass -- and the side of my face -- were on the five o'clock news today.
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| From Literatura Mundane |
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Pizzelles
I put a curse on that plane. My sister is on that plane. I put a curse on that plane that it's gonna explode, burn on fire and fall into the sea. Fifty years ago, she stole a man from me. S'aprice l'uomo! Today she tells me that she never loved him, that she took him to be strong on me. Now she's going back to Sicily. Di returne Sicilia! I cursed her that the green Atlantic water should swallow her up! -- from Moonstruck
I love gifting baked goods because food makes me happy and I can't think of a better present for someone I love than using my time, my talents, and a few good ingredients to share that happiness. My culinary gift of choice during the holiday season is a package of pizzelles, a type of holiday cookie that, like me, originated in the Italian region of Abruzzi. The English translation of the word pizzelle is literally "flat, round, and small," which is a perfect physical description of the cookie. They're light, they're buttery, they're beautiful to look at, and because they're made two at a time using a special iron press, they represent a pretty significant time commitment. It takes a full afternoon or evening to make enough pizzelles to feed a decent number of people -- my normal recipe makes about eighty, I usually double it or triple it for Christmas, and each pizzelle needs to be spooned onto the iron individually and cooked for about a minute.
Thus, good company is mandatory on pizzelle day. I would sit with my grandmother as she made pizzelles every year until I was twelve, then she passed along her recipe to me and, until her death a year and a half ago, she sat with me whenever I decided to make them. She'd tell stories about the good ol' days, pass along tips for perfect pizzelle technique, describe evenings spent sitting with her own mother making pizzelles and having the same sorts of conversations. Last year was my first holiday season without her, but dwong and my cousin TD came over a few days before Christmas to keep me company as I worked the pizzelle iron. This year, I made them on a whim late on a Thursday night, so with no one around to share the experience, I created my own companions by watching Moonstruck on DVD as I baked.
Like my technique, I inherited my pizzelle iron from my grandmother. It's an electric iron, close to forty years old, and it makes pizzelles with a snowflake pattern on one side and a woven pattern on the other. We have a few earlier models around (which require the baker to stand over an open flame flipping cast-iron plates for Lord knows how long) and a few more modern models around (which are slimmer and lighter and don't run the risk of burns or electrocution), but I still end up using the same ancient electric iron every year. The pizzelle iron itself actually strengthens the cookie's ties to love and family -- irons are meticulously cared for and passed down for generations, and those open-fire irons I mentioned earlier were often custom-wrought to imprint the family crest onto every cookie.
Since those elaborate irons have fallen out of use, people must often rely on taste to identify a pizzelle's family of origin. And you wouldn't believe it, but every baker makes pizzelles so differently that this is more than enough of a cue. My recipe -- which also belonged to my grandmother before me -- makes crisp and lemony pizzelles. My aunt's pizzelles are paper-thin with a touch of orange zest, one paisano makes them softer with anisette, another uses almond extract, another aunt works cocoa powder into her batter. I think my recipe blows all of them out of the water -- and most people who try it seem to agree with me -- but, unfortunately, I won't be sharing it with you today. Typing out a recipe and posting it on the internet seems to defy the spirit of la famiglia needed to successfully make pizzelles -- and believe me, that's half the wonder of it all. If you come to visit me, though, I'll make you a cappuccino, pull up a chair, tell you a few stories about the good ol' days, and happily show you how it's done.
I love gifting baked goods because food makes me happy and I can't think of a better present for someone I love than using my time, my talents, and a few good ingredients to share that happiness. My culinary gift of choice during the holiday season is a package of pizzelles, a type of holiday cookie that, like me, originated in the Italian region of Abruzzi. The English translation of the word pizzelle is literally "flat, round, and small," which is a perfect physical description of the cookie. They're light, they're buttery, they're beautiful to look at, and because they're made two at a time using a special iron press, they represent a pretty significant time commitment. It takes a full afternoon or evening to make enough pizzelles to feed a decent number of people -- my normal recipe makes about eighty, I usually double it or triple it for Christmas, and each pizzelle needs to be spooned onto the iron individually and cooked for about a minute.
Thus, good company is mandatory on pizzelle day. I would sit with my grandmother as she made pizzelles every year until I was twelve, then she passed along her recipe to me and, until her death a year and a half ago, she sat with me whenever I decided to make them. She'd tell stories about the good ol' days, pass along tips for perfect pizzelle technique, describe evenings spent sitting with her own mother making pizzelles and having the same sorts of conversations. Last year was my first holiday season without her, but dwong and my cousin TD came over a few days before Christmas to keep me company as I worked the pizzelle iron. This year, I made them on a whim late on a Thursday night, so with no one around to share the experience, I created my own companions by watching Moonstruck on DVD as I baked.
Like my technique, I inherited my pizzelle iron from my grandmother. It's an electric iron, close to forty years old, and it makes pizzelles with a snowflake pattern on one side and a woven pattern on the other. We have a few earlier models around (which require the baker to stand over an open flame flipping cast-iron plates for Lord knows how long) and a few more modern models around (which are slimmer and lighter and don't run the risk of burns or electrocution), but I still end up using the same ancient electric iron every year. The pizzelle iron itself actually strengthens the cookie's ties to love and family -- irons are meticulously cared for and passed down for generations, and those open-fire irons I mentioned earlier were often custom-wrought to imprint the family crest onto every cookie.
Since those elaborate irons have fallen out of use, people must often rely on taste to identify a pizzelle's family of origin. And you wouldn't believe it, but every baker makes pizzelles so differently that this is more than enough of a cue. My recipe -- which also belonged to my grandmother before me -- makes crisp and lemony pizzelles. My aunt's pizzelles are paper-thin with a touch of orange zest, one paisano makes them softer with anisette, another uses almond extract, another aunt works cocoa powder into her batter. I think my recipe blows all of them out of the water -- and most people who try it seem to agree with me -- but, unfortunately, I won't be sharing it with you today. Typing out a recipe and posting it on the internet seems to defy the spirit of la famiglia needed to successfully make pizzelles -- and believe me, that's half the wonder of it all. If you come to visit me, though, I'll make you a cappuccino, pull up a chair, tell you a few stories about the good ol' days, and happily show you how it's done.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
City of Strangers
"I'm just a someone in an old museum. I'm far away from home as someone can go, but the beauty is I still meet people I know. Hello!" -- from The Light in the Piazza
Not long after I started work at my new job and began commuting to clinic every day, I noticed that some of the faceless straphangers in the subway system started to look familiar after a while. After a couple of months (and because I don't caffeinate myself until after I get to work, yes, it DID take that long), I realized that I must share a commuting route with them. We're "the regulars" -- if I catch all the right trains at all the right times, I can guarantee that I'll share a friendly nod with at least one of them along the way. There's the lady with the pig-nose and the awesome shoe collection, the gent who prefers to ride the first car of the train and might be cute if he wasn't only about 5'1", the woman who crochets a lot more slowly than I do, the impossibly tall goddess who was definitely a model in a past life, the two men with spackle-splattered boots and tool belts who would definitely be cute if they weren't such dirtbags. They're my familiar faces in a city of strangers, and I have no idea who they are.
Lately, the last leg of my morning journey has been graced with a new familiar face. He's loud and he wears his arm in a sling, and every time I see him, he loudly announces to half of Manhattan that he's wearing his arm in a sling. He announces it when he plants himself between me and the platform edge even though I got there first, he announces it when he shoves me out of the way to get on the train before I do, he announces it when he wedges his way onto said train while people are still trying to exit it, he announces it when he jostles old ladies and small children and tired commuters to find a generously proportioned place to stand, he announces it when he's not given enough room around the handrail to wrap his entire free arm around it.
Today, after he and I exchanged our usual greeting -- he yelled at me and shoved me out of the way and I cursed him out in Italian under my breath -- I entered the train behind him. A few moments before we pulled into my stop, he oh-so-quietly slipped his arm out of the sling, held his briefcase with it as he used his healthy arm to rummage around for a tissue, blew his nose, and oh-so-quietly slipped his arm back into the sling. Sad; I thought I knew him.
Not long after I started work at my new job and began commuting to clinic every day, I noticed that some of the faceless straphangers in the subway system started to look familiar after a while. After a couple of months (and because I don't caffeinate myself until after I get to work, yes, it DID take that long), I realized that I must share a commuting route with them. We're "the regulars" -- if I catch all the right trains at all the right times, I can guarantee that I'll share a friendly nod with at least one of them along the way. There's the lady with the pig-nose and the awesome shoe collection, the gent who prefers to ride the first car of the train and might be cute if he wasn't only about 5'1", the woman who crochets a lot more slowly than I do, the impossibly tall goddess who was definitely a model in a past life, the two men with spackle-splattered boots and tool belts who would definitely be cute if they weren't such dirtbags. They're my familiar faces in a city of strangers, and I have no idea who they are.
Lately, the last leg of my morning journey has been graced with a new familiar face. He's loud and he wears his arm in a sling, and every time I see him, he loudly announces to half of Manhattan that he's wearing his arm in a sling. He announces it when he plants himself between me and the platform edge even though I got there first, he announces it when he shoves me out of the way to get on the train before I do, he announces it when he wedges his way onto said train while people are still trying to exit it, he announces it when he jostles old ladies and small children and tired commuters to find a generously proportioned place to stand, he announces it when he's not given enough room around the handrail to wrap his entire free arm around it.
Today, after he and I exchanged our usual greeting -- he yelled at me and shoved me out of the way and I cursed him out in Italian under my breath -- I entered the train behind him. A few moments before we pulled into my stop, he oh-so-quietly slipped his arm out of the sling, held his briefcase with it as he used his healthy arm to rummage around for a tissue, blew his nose, and oh-so-quietly slipped his arm back into the sling. Sad; I thought I knew him.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Secret Identity
"I'm not your princess. This ain't a fairy tale." -- Taylor Swift
For those of us who conduct cancer research, all roads lead to ASCO -- the annual meeting of the American Society of Clinical Oncology. For one weekend a year, the best cancer scholars in the world come together to listen, learn, and, if they're lucky, present their most cutting-edge research to their peers. And because I work with a few pretty influential oncologists, I'm lucky enough to have a hand in some of it.
Trouble is, abstracts are due six months before ASCO actually occurs. June minus six months, carry the one, equals three Tuesdays from now. And since our protocols need to be perfect and the abstract first authors need their data well in advance of that deadline, I've been really, really busy lately.
I have six things due at noon on Monday, so Friday was a long, hectic day. I was so busy that I didn't have time to go home between work and the Archimedes Society launch event, a super-swanky cocktail party being thrown by my alma mater that evening. Thus, I slipped into my black cocktail dress while queries were executing, brushed on eyeliner while brainstorming ways of describing genetics at an eighth-grade reading level, toed around under my desk for my suede heels while overwriting files, and pinned up my hair while receiving emails from my PIs about last-minute changes.
I was ready to go by 6:00, but pre-party plans never materialized. Thus, I worked until 8, dressed to the nines and feeling sexier than I have in a very long time, surrounded by data and printouts and protocol disks and biohazard bags filled with tubes. Forget my usual work personas of The Mad Scientist and The Researcher -- that night, I was Diana Prince and Wonder Woman, Professor Jones and Indy, Bruce Wayne and Batman. I was Cinderella in the fairy gown scrubbing down one last fireplace brick before running off to the ball, and it made me feel incredibly powerful. For a few hours I was a geeky clinician with a glamorous secret identity and, for a few hours after that, I was a glamorous engineer with a geeky secret identity. Then, for a night and a day after that, I was able to unwind as a mere woman and find comfort in the eyes, arms, and presence of some of the people who know me better than anyone else. That may have been the best part of all.
For those of us who conduct cancer research, all roads lead to ASCO -- the annual meeting of the American Society of Clinical Oncology. For one weekend a year, the best cancer scholars in the world come together to listen, learn, and, if they're lucky, present their most cutting-edge research to their peers. And because I work with a few pretty influential oncologists, I'm lucky enough to have a hand in some of it.
Trouble is, abstracts are due six months before ASCO actually occurs. June minus six months, carry the one, equals three Tuesdays from now. And since our protocols need to be perfect and the abstract first authors need their data well in advance of that deadline, I've been really, really busy lately.
I have six things due at noon on Monday, so Friday was a long, hectic day. I was so busy that I didn't have time to go home between work and the Archimedes Society launch event, a super-swanky cocktail party being thrown by my alma mater that evening. Thus, I slipped into my black cocktail dress while queries were executing, brushed on eyeliner while brainstorming ways of describing genetics at an eighth-grade reading level, toed around under my desk for my suede heels while overwriting files, and pinned up my hair while receiving emails from my PIs about last-minute changes.
I was ready to go by 6:00, but pre-party plans never materialized. Thus, I worked until 8, dressed to the nines and feeling sexier than I have in a very long time, surrounded by data and printouts and protocol disks and biohazard bags filled with tubes. Forget my usual work personas of The Mad Scientist and The Researcher -- that night, I was Diana Prince and Wonder Woman, Professor Jones and Indy, Bruce Wayne and Batman. I was Cinderella in the fairy gown scrubbing down one last fireplace brick before running off to the ball, and it made me feel incredibly powerful. For a few hours I was a geeky clinician with a glamorous secret identity and, for a few hours after that, I was a glamorous engineer with a geeky secret identity. Then, for a night and a day after that, I was able to unwind as a mere woman and find comfort in the eyes, arms, and presence of some of the people who know me better than anyone else. That may have been the best part of all.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Crabby
"I'd freak out if I saw one of these on my trash can." -- Q
"If I saw one of these on my trash can, it can have it!" -- dwong
"If I saw one of these on my trash can, I'd knock it out with a shovel, cook it in butter and white wine, and invite both of you over for dinner.” -- me
"If I saw one of these on my trash can, I'd load it onto a giant slingshot and catapult it into the ocean." -- Meet
"Just kidding. I'd do what Ash did (and way to NOT invite me to your crab dinner, miss).” -- Meet
This all occurred on Google Reader in the middle of our workday. After a bout of laughter so intense that I began to cry (and had to excuse myself from clinic to wash the rivulets of runny eyeliner off my face), I did some research on our garbage-diving friend. It's called a coconut crab, it's the largest known land-dwelling arthropod, and because it dines on coconut flesh, it allegedly tastes like coconut. Sounds delicious, but since it's on the verge of being considered an endangered species, we'll have to hold off on that crab dinner for now.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Connected at the Heart
"Become Your Dream." -- De La Vega
On my walk to clinic this morning, I passed a small mountain of trash on the curb in front of an apartment building. I usually pretend like garbage on the streets of Manhattan doesn't exist and powerwalk right past it, but today, I actually stopped to examine a dented white bin alongside the heap. There was a fishbowl drawn on it in thick blue marker, along with a fish, a few splashes, and the quote preceding this entry. I honestly can't remember if the piece was signed, but it didn't matter; I'd recognize that artist's work anywhere. (And if you're familiar with the sort of stuff I like to hang on my walls or my beloved "Sometimes the king is a woman" t-shirt, you'd recognize it too.) I've loved his art for years, and stumbling across a piece of it mere blocks from my building made my week.
Those fish are the calling card of James De La Vega, a New York artist who gained fame by covering blank walls, streets, sidewalks, benches, plywood, trash, construction partitions, and any other flat surface he could find with unmistakable quotes and images. Though De La Vega is a prolific artist with an insane amount of technical skill, he is most famous for his line drawings -- simple, quick little monochromatic doodles, usually accompanied by a few words of wisdom. He puts these all over the city for one reason: he wants people to think. He wants people to spot his work as they go about their lives, consider it for a few moments, and see the city, their peers, and themselves a little differently as a result. As someone who has devoted an entire blog to finding glimpses of beauty in everyday events, this is a cause especially dear to my heart.
On my walk to clinic this morning, I passed a small mountain of trash on the curb in front of an apartment building. I usually pretend like garbage on the streets of Manhattan doesn't exist and powerwalk right past it, but today, I actually stopped to examine a dented white bin alongside the heap. There was a fishbowl drawn on it in thick blue marker, along with a fish, a few splashes, and the quote preceding this entry. I honestly can't remember if the piece was signed, but it didn't matter; I'd recognize that artist's work anywhere. (And if you're familiar with the sort of stuff I like to hang on my walls or my beloved "Sometimes the king is a woman" t-shirt, you'd recognize it too.) I've loved his art for years, and stumbling across a piece of it mere blocks from my building made my week.
Those fish are the calling card of James De La Vega, a New York artist who gained fame by covering blank walls, streets, sidewalks, benches, plywood, trash, construction partitions, and any other flat surface he could find with unmistakable quotes and images. Though De La Vega is a prolific artist with an insane amount of technical skill, he is most famous for his line drawings -- simple, quick little monochromatic doodles, usually accompanied by a few words of wisdom. He puts these all over the city for one reason: he wants people to think. He wants people to spot his work as they go about their lives, consider it for a few moments, and see the city, their peers, and themselves a little differently as a result. As someone who has devoted an entire blog to finding glimpses of beauty in everyday events, this is a cause especially dear to my heart.
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