Someone To Fall Back On

"I know the darkness pulls on you, but it's just a point of view. When you're outside looking in, you belong to someone. And when you feel like giving in at the coming of the end, like your heart could break in two... someone loves you." -- Brandi Carlile

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, mostly because of the food involved but partially for the traditions I practice. I head out to my high school on Wednesday morning, then I have lunch with friends, then I grocery shop, then I go home and start cooking. I finish cooking on Thanksgiving morning, then I have dinner with several branches of my massive Italian family with napping in between. And at some point during those two days, I blog about all of my reasons to feel grateful.

On my drive to my high school yesterday morning, I tried to decide what I was going to write about this year. I was going to stick with an updated version of last year's list, but a conversation with a dear friend inspired me to think outside the box.

As part of our high school's Thanksgiving festivities, my friend was asked to describe a memory from his junior year of high school that makes him feel thankful. Problem was, he couldn't think of anything to share. He had awesome stories from every other year of high school, but junior year stumped him completely. So he called up five of his best friends -- all classmates from high school -- to see if they could suggest any stories, but they couldn't remember anything good either. He then realized that, despite the fact that he graduated from high school over twenty years ago, he still has five high school friends on speed dial... and that's something incredible to be thankful for in its own right.

So this year, instead of providing a laundry list of things to be thankful for, I'm going to focus on friendship. More specifically, I'm going to write about how wonderful it is to be able to care for others and know that others care for you in return.

I'm perfectly aware that I'm not an easy person to get along with. I'm generally kind to everyone I meet and I know enough to find common ground with nearly everyone, but I don't go out of my way to make an effort to get to know strangers. I'm very quirky -- I have an odd sense of humor and lots of obscure interests -- and I lose patience very easily with people who don't immediately understand what I'm talking about when I speak. I'm also not the sort of person who ever puts on any pretenses; aside from what's required for polite conversation, I don't change my speech patterns or censor my conversation for anyone. I refuse to compromise who I am or pretend to be something I'm not to impress someone, either. I've been described as completely unapproachable, and I don't deny that for a second.

And despite all of that, I have a core of wonderful friends who love me. I have friends who laugh at my jokes, regardless of how stupid they think they are. I have friends who listen to my rambling stories and my complaints about life. I have friends willing to taste my more bizarre culinary experiments. I have friends willing to stay up until three in the morning watching obscure German musicals with me. I have friends willing to care for me when I'm feeling ill at work and friends willing to let me crash at their places for a night or a weekend. I have friends who have put up with some incredible crap from me and continue to call me a friend because they like having me around. I have friends who sense when I'm hurting and try to cheer me up. I have friends who defend me and fight for me, even when doing so will cause them endless personal inconvenience.

I'm thankful for all of them today, and I hope they know how much they mean to me.

Someone Else's Clothes

"I'll take your side. If I'm the only one, I'm used to that. I've been alone. I'd rather be the half of us... the least of you... the best of me." -- Jason Robert Brown

There used to be a restaurant on 70th and Broadway called Cafe Mozart. It wasn't a culinary paradise by any means, but I stopped in for dessert constantly and dragged countless friends there. Why? For the thrill of the moment when their eyes focused on the painting hanging above the piano... and the subsequent moment when they realized that the woman in the painting looked exactly like me.

I didn't pose for the painting, of course; I was six years old when it was created, so the model who once looked so much like me is probably in her forties by now. Ink-and-paint doppelgangers are nothing new in my world anyway; in addition to Ms. Cafe Mozart, I once blogged about a twin from the Notre Dame Class of 1948.

Things have been getting a little more real lately, though. A few weeks ago, one of my colleagues told me that she saw me on the upper west side on a Saturday afternoon. She spotted me from across the street as I was walking with friends, but since I seemed to be in a hurry, she didn't call out to stop me. Trouble was, I was nowhere near the upper west side that day. My colleague was bewildered -- she sees me every day and is perfectly equipped to recognize me from across a street in plain daylight -- but we laughed it off.

Today, one of the rotating MDs came up to me and apologized for freaking me out at the gym the other night. She was on the adjacent treadmill, kept smiling at me, and tried to initiate conversation, but I obviously didn't recognize her so I gave a nervous smile and switched treadmills to get away. I haven't been to the gym since I left college, but the MD worked out with me last Tuesday. She recognized my face, my hair, my body, and even my glasses.

So in this sprawling, diverse city of eight and a half million, some anonymous woman is living in my skin. She sees the world with my eyes, she tames my hair every morning, she flashes my smile, she keeps my body fit, she kisses with my lips. And though I'm pretty panicked about all of this, there's not a damn thing I can do about it. I just hope she's treating me with respect.

Sick Sad World

"You've gotta love to hate." -- 114th Annual Varsity Show

6:22 PM: I sprint down the escalator to the subway platform and a W train is waiting for me. SCORE.
6:23 PM: I lean on the door to the conductor's compartment and load Doom: Resurrection on my iPod.
6:25 PM: Take THAT, chaingun zombie sergeants!!!
6:27 PM: I notice that the train hasn't moved and the car doors are still open. I lower the volume on my iPod.
6:28 PM: "We are being held momentarily by the train's dispatcher. Please be patient."
6:30 PM: My fellow passengers are starting to lose patience. Everyone starts to fidget.
6:32 PM: The conductor finally speaks. There was an incident at the next stop and service is temporarily delayed.
6:33 PM: The guy standing next to me curses out the MTA.
6:34 PM: The couple seated on my right decides to find somewhere nearby to get dinner. They exit the train and two other passengers take their seats. All of this takes some effort, since the train is now so packed that people can barely move.
6:35 PM: The conductor again informs us that there was an incident at the next stop and service is delayed all along this branch of the BMT. I'm slightly impressed that the conductor knows what the BMT is. More of my fellow passengers bail off. Cursing Man curses even more.
6:38 PM: DOOM level boss is annihilated after a few well-placed headshots. Gosh, my aim rocks.
6:40 PM: The conductor explains the nature of the incident. A woman didn't feel well on the train at the next station, so all trains on the line are being held until the ambulance arrives to examine her. The volume level in my car explodes.
6:41 PM: The woman next to me yells, "These a**holes! What part of 'Do not get on the train if you feel ill' do they not f***ing understand?!"
6:42 PM: Cursing Man curses a lot, bashes the handrails a few times, and calls the sick woman a pretty impressive array of insults.
6:43 PM: More people bail off the train.
6:45 PM: The conductor repeats his announcement about the sick woman at the next stop. Several passengers wonder aloud why the MTA can't "just make the b*tch get off the train" so service can resume.
6:46 PM: Another fellow wonders how long it takes to get a f***ing ambulance to a major transit hub.
6:50 PM: The conductor repeats his announcement. The mumblings, hisses, and sniping resume. The subway car is filled with an almost palpable haze of pure hatred, all directed at the ill woman at the next stop.
6:55 PM: I realize that I have to pee.
6:56 PM: I start to become enraged at the ill woman's audacity. Hell, I've fainted in the subway system several times over the years -- but each time, I had the decency to run off the train and pass out on the platform to avoid causing a train delay!
6:57 PM: It dawns on me that the New York City subway system is the only place on the planet where people will hear about a sick lady and respond with hatred and rage rather than concern and empathy.
6:58 PM: I remember that I'm a healthcare professional who has devoted her life to curing people. Part of me starts to feel guilty for resenting the sick woman.
6:59 PM: The doors close. The train moves.
7:00 PM: Cursing Man sighs an expletive of relief. For the first time all evening, I take a good look at him. He's wearing scrubs and hospital clogs.

High School Traditions

"I just can't wait for my ten-year reunion. I'm gonna bust down the double doors. And when I stand on that table before you, you'll know what all that time was for." -- John Mayer

Last Saturday, I spent my evening at my high school celebrating the fifth anniversary of my graduation. I had a wonderful, amazing time in the company of people I love (i.e. the same six people from high school that I still hang out with on a regular basis), and I officially became one of the first alumnae to ever take part in one of my school's legendary all-years reunions. We laughed, we reminisced, and we discussed the traditions that bind all graduates.

My particular group of friends had a few traditions of our own to remember, too. Between wasting free periods on the gym balcony, tap-dancing in the hallways late at night, finding back entrances into locked rooms, injecting theatrical spectacle into religious services, and eating The Big Cookie several times a week, we'd patronize the Flagship Diner.

The Flagship, a dive diner on Queens Boulevard, is not a culinary paradise by any means. It has two things going for it, though: killer matzoh ball soup and a bread basket filled to bursting with fresh, steaming popovers. The popovers are perfection -- crispy on the outside, tender and airy on the inside, and light enough to justify eating about six in one sitting. Even after we graduated, my friends and I would routinely head back to the old neighborhood, visit our former teachers, spend some time on the gym balcony, and head over to the Flagship for soup and popovers.

Saturday was the first time I'd been to my high school in a long time without patronizing the Flagship, and despite the reunion's cocktail hour, open bar, dinner, and dessert, I found myself missing those popovers. A recipe for them fatefully appeared on The Kitchn this week, which inspired me to spend my Friday morning making a batch of my own. I was in the market for popovers a little sweeter than The Kitchn's recipe would provide, though, so I added some sugar and spice to my batter. (I also added some baking powder to aid in the rising process, since I made them in a muffin tin instead of a popover pan.) These should be eaten while they're hot, so make a half-batch if you're dining solo. Leave out the cinnamon, chocolate, and sugar if you'd like to use them as dinner rolls.

Cinnamon-Chocolate Popovers


2 tablespoons butter
3 eggs
1/2 tsp salt
1 cup milk
1 cup flour
1/2 tsp baking powder
1 tbsp sugar (raw, preferably)
2 tbsp chocolate shavings -- I made these by attacking two squares of Lindt chili-infused chocolate with a microplane grater
1 tsp cinnamon

Melt the butter, then let it sit for a while to cool. (Eggs and milk should also be left out for a little while to warm to room temperature -- gas laws being what they are, the popovers will rise better if the ingredients aren't too cold). Whisk eggs, then whisk in butter and milk, then add salt, flour, baking powder, chocolate shavings, and cinnamon and whisk until just incorporated. Spoon batter into a greased muffin tin (as close to the rim of each cup as you dare) and sprinkle a little sugar on top.

Bake at 450 degrees for 15 minutes, then lower the temperature to 350 degrees and bake for an additional 25 minutes. Do NOT open the oven at all during that time, since any escaping heat may cause the popovers to fall. Remove from the oven, allow to cool for one minute, then pierce the side of each popover so the steam can escape. Makes fifteen popovers.

On the Shoulders of Giants

"How do you numb your skin after the warmest touch?" -- Jann Arden

I left work so late today that I actually got a seat on my usual train. Thus, instead of my usual quest to avoid eye contact with my fellow commuters and remain standing upright without touching anything, I got to spend my subway ride people-watching. Specifically, watching the two people occupying the bench directly across from me.

Across the aisle sat the most fearsome woman I've ever seen. She was enormous -- six foot six if she was an inch and broad enough to play linebacker for the Jets. She wore choppy hair that looked as if it had been trimmed with an axe, steel-toed boots that could crush a human skull with ease, and a deep scowl etched on her ruddy face.

Next to her sat a small, balding, twentysomething man. He wore a blazer and jeans and he loosely clutched a briefcase. And, every few minutes, he'd doze off.

Now I've spent a lifetime learning how to recognize various breeds of subway sleepers -- the drunks, the druggies, the hung-over, the fakers, the ill, the crazy, the newly deceased. This man, however, fit into none of these categories.

He was clearly, obviously, just plain tired.

He'd jump, widen his eyes, and shake himself awake repeatedly, only to nod off once again a few moments later. Then, three stops from my home, sleep claimed him for good. His head drooped forwards, tilted to the left... and eventually came to rest snugly against the muscular, plaid-covered shoulder of the fearsome woman.

She froze, inclined her head slightly, and peered at the man out of the corner of her eye. The scowl on her face deepened. He cuddled a little closer.

I expected the woman to say something, move over, push the man upright, and/or crush his feeble body under her mighty fist. Instead, she shrugged and left him right where he was. They were still sitting in comfy, companionable silence when I reached my stop and exited the train.