Three Slices

"My advice is stand firm for what you believe in, until and unless logic and experience prove you wrong... and there's no aspect, no facet, no moment in life that can't be improved with pizza. Thank you." -- Daria Morgendorffer

I spent my morning in SoHo with Rutila, and by accident, our shopping trip was perfectly timed from beginning to end. She caught her bus, I caught my train, we arrived at 10 AM when the stores were opening and the streets were blissfully empty, we arrived at Lombardi's Pizzeria when the place had just opened, and we finished for the day just when Broadway started to get crowded. In commemoration of the three delicious slices of calamata olive and spinach pizza each of us consumed, I'm writing about three slices of our day.

1. Because I'm a crazy woman when it comes to makeup, skincare, and hair products, I had enough Sephora Beauty Insider points saved up to earn a 500 Point Perk today. (You get one "point" in your bank for every dollar you spend. Yep, I have a problem.) Anyway, my perk was a little shopping bag full of Benefit Cosmetics goodies, including a sample size of BADGal Plum mascara. It's a warm purple color designed to enhance one's eye color, but since I live and die by black mascara and black liquid liner, I was naturally skeptical. Miraculously, it works -- my normally nondescript brown eyes looked wider and more striking than usual today.

2. I purchased two cotton tanks -- one black and one slate blue -- at Uniqlo. The cut and quality felt identical to the J. Crew tank I was wearing... and they cost $4.90 apiece. I'm not sure if this is an indication of Uniqlo's general amazingness or J. Crew's slipping standards.

3. As always, Rutila and I lunched at Lombardi's, the oldest pizzeria in America and purveyor of the best coal-oven pie you'll ever devour. We arrived when the shop opened and shared a dining room with a crowd of about twenty visor-wearing, fanny pack-toting tourists. This normally isn't a problem, but we soon discovered that these tourists were on a pizza tour. Meaning they were accompanied by an overeager tour guide who spent half of our meal loudly delivering a lecture on all the crap you never wanted to learn about pizza. We heard about the pizza of New York City, the history of pizza, the composition of pizza, and the importance of staying hydrated while consuming pizza. The tourists were given pizza journals to record their undoubtedly profound observations about pizza, took turns visiting the kitchen to see the coal oven where the pizzas are made, and were instructed to look at the bottom crusts of their pizzas to observe the charring patterns.

Naturally, Rutila and I guffawed into our Italian sodas the entire time. We then began to chuckle audibly when the tour guide demonstrated "the semi-fold method" of eating a triangle slice -- which, allegedly, is the only way to eat pizza like a true New Yorker.

Note that Rutila and I were using knives and forks to eat our slices... and you can't get more Noo Yawk than the pair of us.

The tour guide then confided that the semi-fold method works on a scientific level "because it changes the moment of inertia of the slice." Yep. Cue the huge, ridiculous belly-laughs which earned us at least one withering glare from the tour guide.

And in an example of why the universe sucks, the pizzeria's top review on Yelp is written by some out-of-towner who calls herself a NY pizza expert after taking the same tour we overheard today! Hence the reason why Lombardi's mediocre website, not Yelp, is linked in this post. Too much asshattery for my taste.

Crab Gravy

"I am on your side. This house is empty. We could cross the line... yeah, we could make a big mistake. The silence breaks and you hear me say, 'Don't go! Don't go so far away!'" -- Jack's Mannequin

It's summer! Summer equals fishing trips, which equals fresh seafood -- and, last weekend, summer equaled someone handing me ten feisty blue crabs in a Hefty bag. They were too beautiful to turn into crab rolls or crab cakes, so I cooked them, cleaned them, and decided to use them in a pasta dish. (This decision also meant that my dinner guests, not me, would be responsible for shelling those bad boys. Score!)

I made crab gravy last night, and since it's my favorite way of eating crabs that doesn't involve frying or mayonnaise, I'm sharing it here. This dish is a bit labor-intensive, but it yields a sweet, delicate, flavorful tomato sauce that can't be matched by any other method. Add a vegetable and/or a big salad and you've got yourself an amazing meal. This recipe makes a pretty huge vat of gravy, so definitely halve it if you're feeding fewer than four people. You can also substitute shrimp for crabs -- or three cans of lump crab meat for whole crabs -- in a pinch.

If you've never cooked and cleaned live crabs before, read this for a quick-and-dirty primer.

Crab Gravy with Linguine

Enough whole crabs to feed six people, cooked and cleaned

Half a large white onion

Six cloves garlic

1/2 stick butter

1/2 cup white wine

2 tbsp lemon juice

1 24-oz (1 lb) can chopped tomatoes

1 24-oz (1 lb) can pureed tomatoes

1 tsp chili powder

1 tsp Old Bay seasoning

1 tbsp chopped fresh parsley

Pinch of salt and black pepper

1 lb linguine

Chop the onion and garlic. Add to the largest pot you own and sautee in butter until the onions become translucent and the garlic starts to brown. Add white wine and lemon juice and simmer for five minutes, then add tomatoes, one cup of water, and seasonings. Stir well and bring to a boil, then add the crabs to the pot, submerge in the sauce, and cover. Cook for one hour, stirring occasionally.

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the linguine and cook to your preference. Strain cooked linguine into a large bowl and spoon crab gravy over the top. Feeds six hungry people, or four hungry people with leftovers. (You won't mind eating this one two nights in a row, though.) Make sure to have a nutcracker or a hammer handy so you can attack those crabs properly.

Frozen

"We had a drink in each cafe... you talked of politics, philosophy and I smiled like Mona Lisa. We had our chance. It was a fine and true romance. I can still recall our last summer. I still see it all." -- ABBA

When the weather is disgustingly warm (like it's been for the last few days), I get frozen yogurt cravings. Often. And since Pinkberry, Berrywild, Yolato, Red Mango and their ilk aren't located anywhere near me (and aren't exactly inexpensive, either), I sought an alternative today. I researched frozen yogurt recipes, I studied ice-cream making techniques, I brushed up on basic chemistry, and, miraculously, I created an absurdly easy fifteen-minute recipe that turned out one delicious serving of fat-free tart frozen yogurt.

Here it is, and you don't even need an ice cream maker for it. (You can still make it with an ice cream maker, of course -- simply mix all the ingredients in the bowl of the ice cream maker then process according to the manufacturer's instructions.)

Frozen Yogurt

1 level tablespoon sugar

1 tablespoon water

3 heaping tablespoons Fage 0% strained Greek yogurt

Two drops vanilla extract

Two sandwich-sized zippered freezer baggies

One gallon-sized zippered freezer baggie or one round coffee can with a lid

Two trays of ice cubes (or enough to half-fill the gallon Ziploc bag or completely fill the coffee can)

1/4 cup coarse salt

Add sugar, water, and vanilla to one of the small baggies, seal, and shake around until the sugar dissolves. Add yogurt to baggie, seal, double-bag with the second small baggie (removing as much air as possible) and squish with your fingers until thoroughly mixed.

Fill the large baggie or coffee can with half the ice and all the salt, place the baggie of yogurt atop the ice, then cover it with the rest of the ice. Seal the large baggie or can, removing as much air as possible, and roll it around for fifteen minutes.

Once the yogurt firms up, remove it from the ice and scoop or pipe it into a bowl. Top with whatever you want -- I used strawberries and honey on mine today -- and serve.

Incidentally, this was my first experiment using baggies, salt, and ice to make ice cream since fourth grade science class. Now that I know it works so well, expect lots more frozen dessert creations from me this summer!

Madman With A Box

"To hell with the 'raggedy.' Time to put on a show." -- the Eleventh Doctor

I haven't had to study for anything since I took my last college final two years and twenty days ago. I have a certification exam coming up in a few weeks, though, which means I'm currently calling all of my hard-earned and long-lost study skills into practice. I'm making slow progress on my huge stack of source material, but in the process, I've realized something horrifying: living a couple of blocks away from the Hungarian Pastry Shop and its bottomless coffee mugs during college ruined me for life, since I can no longer concentrate enough to study at home. As a result, in an effort to buckle down and get some work done, I've undertaken an unofficial tour of the coffee shops of New York City. And since the weather has been gorgeous, a lot of walking is involved.

Today, I walked a couple of miles to spend a few hours in my favorite bakery. I was dressed for a lazy Saturday, too -- dark jeans, high-top red Chuck Taylors, and one of my favorite t-shirts:

The graphic is a stylized portrait of David Tennant wearing 3D glasses in the 2006 season finale of Doctor Who. The episode aired way before David Tennant became a household name... not that the man in the image is recognizable as Tennant anyway. It also predates the show's popularity in America (and the Doctor's appearances on the sides of MTA buses) by half a decade. Point is, it's foreign, it's subtle, it's niche, and it's ridiculously obscure. Though I've worn the t-shirt regularly for the past three years, I can count on one hand the number of times someone has been able to positively identify the image's source.

Back to today's story. I studied at the bakery for a few hours, then I began walking to my next destination. Halfway down a residential block, I noticed an Orthodox priest walking towards me. How did I know he was an Orthodox priest? He looked exactly like the image that shows up on Wikipedia when you search for "Orthodox priest," robes, beard and all:

We locked eyes as we approached each other. I smiled and gave a little "good morning" nod. He gasped and pointed at my t-shirt. "That is my FAVORITE television show!" he exclaimed in a deep, heavily accented voice. After I picked up my jaw from the pavement, I told him that it was my favorite show, too. We then wished each other a good day and walked on.

I guess the Doctor transcends more than just time and space.

The Geeks Were Right

"Egghead boys with thin white legs. They've got modified features and software brains, but that's what the girls like." -- The Faint

Today is Geek Pride Day, America's excuse to dork out with impunity from ridicule. According to Wikipedia's description of the holiday, it's celebrated on May 25th in commemoration of the premiere of Star Wars on that date in 1977.

Appropriate, then, that I just encountered a woman on First Avenue trying to rein in a squirmy child. "Get back over here, Anakin!" she shouted. "Don't wander off! Anakin!"

No words. But I salute her for celebrating her geekery so boldly.


- Posted from my iPod Touch

What You Own

"I'm wearing someone else's clothes and looking better. I'm wearing someone else's clothes and feeling fine." -- Jason Robert Brown

It's finally warm enough for me to spend time outside without freezing to death and I actually left work on time today. Thus, when I got home, I dug out a pair of shorts and my Viva La Zvi t-shirt, laced up my sneakers, knotted my curls into a ponytail, and went for a brief run.

A couple of hours later, I took a good look at the shorts I wore.

They're black cotton, size medium. The label says "Discus." They're loose-fitting and, if the shape and stitching of the crotch is any indication, they were definitely designed with a man's anatomy in mind. The elastic band sits at my natural waistline and the hems end about three inches above my knees.

What's wrong with this picture? Working out -- sweating, turning red, getting winded -- makes me feel gross, so when I do it in public, I try to disguise the disgustingness by wearing incredibly flattering workout gear. Meaning my pants are skin-tight, my shorts are short, and my waistbands don't venture any higher than my hipbones. And today's baggy, high-waisted shorts with the mysteriously misplaced crotch seams do not fit that paradigm of hotness.

Which leads me to one regrettable conclusion: I did not purchase the shorts I'm wearing.

This in turn leads me to a second regrettable conclusion: I borrowed the shorts I'm wearing from someone and completely forgot to ever return them.

If they once belonged to you, my sincerest apologies. I'll happily send them home if you're willing to own up to them.

Now I Know Better

"Tonight, you arrested my mind when you came to my defense. With a knife in the shape of your mouth, in the form of your body, with the wrath of a god. Oh, you stood by me. And I stand by my belief." -- Gavin DeGraw

I graduated from college in May of 2008, and two days later, I started my first full-time job. My first week of work was spent in typical fashion for a career in science -- catching up on data entry, doing lots of literature searches, completing half a dozen web training programs, etcetera ad nauseam. I couldn't get through all of that without background noise and I couldn't justify keeping my iPod on for eight hours a day, so I turned to Pandora Radio for my music fix.

I don't remember the name of the Pandora station that occupied my workdays back then; I chose the music specifically for non-distracting background noise and it served its purpose beautifully. Every so often, though, a song would play that cut through my concentration and made me focus on the music. And every time that happened, the artist was always the same.

Gavin DeGraw. A cute guy with a grand piano who had albums on the charts for five years before I discovered him. And when that happened, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. If someone told me that Gavin was practiced in the art of telepathy and regularly rifled through my thoughts as a part of his songwriting process, I wouldn't doubt it. Not many musicians are able to sing lyrics that feel ripped out of my chest, or play instruments with the same passion or misery I'm feeling, or choose melodies seemingly orchestrated to my daily routine. I purchased Chariot during the first week of June and listened to it nonstop for the next two months.

Those two months were some of the most nerve-wracking, mindwarping, emotionally draining days I've ever experienced. I was settling into real life, meeting new people, and trying to balance what was left of college with my newborn career. I admitted attraction to someone who actually reciprocated -- hey, this never happens -- but I was powerless to do anything about it. A very good friend made a very bad decision and I took it too personally. I said some cautious hellos and one earth-shattering goodbye. Gavin and his piano were there to narrate all of it, to give a voice to my frustration, and to help me make sense of everything that was happening to me. He managed to awaken thoughts I didn't know I was thinking and feelings I never realized I was feeling.

The world kept turning. Things got worse, then they got better, then they got really bad, then they got better again. I gained a few new musical obsessions. My type and quantity of work changed, so I couldn't get distracted by Pandora's uncanny song choices any more. I fell for someone best described by Taylor Swift and Peter Cincotti. I left Chariot to languish on my iPod's ample hard drive.

Fast-forward nearly two years, to March 2010. Thanks to Rutila and her excellent taste in literature, I had the privilege of reading a collecion of essays called Heavy Rotation: Twenty Writers on the Albums That Changed Their Lives. Each author chose an album and crafted an essay around it, taking care to explain the music in terms of social impact, emotional relevance, coming-of-age, or inspirational value. The collection blew me away; the writers spoke about their subjects with the same reverence I often feel for favored pieces of music, and it heartened me to learn that I'm not the only lost soul who uses other people's lyrics to shove my own experiences into sharper focus.

I've tried to examine that tendency before. I've written about the poetry of Bob Dylan's songs, sang West Side Story in concert during a time when Maria's situation mirrored my own, borrowed a Jonathan Larson lyric that he had borrowed from Stephen Sondheim. I'd never penned an homage to a complete album, though, and reading Heavy Rotation made me want to try.

I was inspired. I was itching to write. I couldn't decide on an album, though. Sure, I have favorite lyrics -- they show up as the first line of every blog post I write, and they often express what's really on my mind far more frankly than my prose does. I have favorite songs that could easily inspire a blog post or two. Albums, however, stumped me. There's my all-time favorite album (Twentysomething by Jamie Cullum), the first album I ever bought with my own money (The Nylon Curtain by Billy Joel), the album that changed my personal definition of music (Jethro Tull's Thick As A Brick), and the album that I hated when I first heard it and loved a year later (the Les Miserables 10th Anniversary Concert). But I couldn't write more than a few sentences about any of them. They all told a story, but none of them told MY story. Or any story I wanted to tell, for that matter. I set the project aside and decided to revisit it another day.

My PIs were out of town last week, so I settled in to enter data and opened Pandora for background noise. I wasn't in the mood to listen to any of my more recent stations, so I scrolled down to the very bottom of my list and clicked on something random. An advertisement for Axe body spray aired, followed by a hushed, plaintive, nearly a capella lyric:

"You need a friend? I'll be around. Don't let this end, for I'll see you again. What can I say to convince you to change your mind to me?"

As Gavin sang about unconditional love in the face of rejection, I was transported to a lawn on a mild summer night, fighting desperately to stay calm despite the undeniable recognition that I was about to lose something forever. I turned off Pandora, fished my iPod out of my purse, and turned on Chariot for the first time in years.

The album used to serve as the theme music to my existence. Now it evokes emotions, sensations, and experiences with far more clarity than the mere act of remembering ever could. "I Don't Want To Be" fills me with blinding rage, utter betrayal, and just a little bit of disappointment. "Belief" recalls lying on a bare mattress on a bare floor in a bare dorm room in light so faint I can barely see what I'm doing but it doesn't really matter anyway. "Crush" makes me feel like I have a secret... sad, but in a nice way. "Follow Through" sends me walking home with a Silver Moon baguette in my hand, smug as all heck and anticipating the next step in my life.

As an exercise prior to writing this essay, I gave Chariot the American Idiot treatment -- I rearranged the songs to tell my story, added some narrative between the tracks, and made an iTunes playlist. Listening to it was like living it all over again... and it was all a lot better the second time.

Elements of Style

"Maybe it's been crazy and maybe I'm to blame, but I put my heart above my head. We've been through it all and you love me just the same." -- Neil Diamond

The fashion trends of spring 2010 need to die a quick, horrible death. But before I rant about why I can't walk into clothing stores without cringing any more, I need to define my own sense of style so you'll know where my feelings are coming from.

I have a typical southern European look -- dark hair, dark eyes, and an hourglass figure. Consequently, my current sense of style tends to recall the fashions worn by the women of classical Italian cinema. Sophia Loren, Gina Lollobrigida, and all of Fellini's women dressed themselves using a simple, flattering set of rules:

1. Wear curve-accentuating clothing to look sexy without showing too much skin.

2. Choose high-quality fabrics in classic silhouettes for a sense of timelessness.

3. Keep most of your clothing low-key and mix in a select few eye-catching elements. Use color judiciously to add dashes of drama.

4. Tailor your clothing to accentuate your best assets.

Though each of those women reached her prime more than fifty years ago, styles like theirs are visible on the streets of Rome to this day. The principles behind their fashions perfectly flatter women who look like me, and they're great guidelines for building a wardrobe that will transcend fads and pay for itself in the long run.

Their rules are amazing for me, in any case. I work in an environment where I need to dress conservatively, so looking good while keeping covered up has become an art form for me. My waistline is my favorite part of my body, so I like to show it off whenever I can. I buy quality items so they'll last me years. (Yeah, I indulge at H&M as much as the next woman, but I'd rather have one well-made Theory blouse than a dozen Abercrombie tees that will fall apart in the wash.) I wear a lot of black, grey and solid jewel tones because they complement my coloring, but I can never stay away from carefully chosen punchy accessories. I choose my skirt lengths, pants cuts, and shoe styles to provide the illusion of long legs and added height. And if something I own doesn't fit me perfectly, I get it tailored so it does.

So... what am I seeing when I go shopping lately? Neutrals and whites all over the place, which make me look pastier than I already am. Florals and big prints everywhere, which would be awesome if I didn't get lost in patterns. Blousy shirts and frilly dresses seemingly designed to hide the best parts of my body. Embroidery and fabric embellishments, which screw with my silhouette. Activewear, see-through shirts, and metallic lame, which look cheap and won't last me more than one season. Military jackets, which I've been wearing for years already. Clogs and Oxfords, which are ugly as hell. And, worst of all, SOCKS WITH HIGH HEELS, which is an easy way to make one's legs look six inches shorter than they really are.

Sophia would not approve. And neither do I.

Fancy Pants and Flooring Inspectors

"You fight like a dairy farmer."
"How appropriate. You fight like a cow." -- Orson Scott Card*

The sun is shining, the birdies are chirping, the cherry trees are blooming, the new series of Doctor Who premiered last night, and the ovens in my house are filled with delicious Easter cooking. In other words, the world is reborn.

And yet, today, I'm going to forego turning over a new leaf by writing about a man I used to have a huge crush on. I've outgrown it by now, but he still means a lot to me. He was prideful and slightly mean and a bit of an asshole, but he was smart, selfless, and deliciously sarcastic... not to mention sexy in an awkward, gangly sort of way. If you want to be melodramatic about it, I guess you could call him my first love.

It's been years, but lately... we've sort of reconnected. I've had the opportunity to spend some quality one-on-one time with him over the last few days, and though I'm older and wiser than I was when he first captured my heart, he's still a pretty amazing guy.

His name is Guybrush Threepwood and he's a pirate.

Hopefully a few of you will recognize his name from your own pasts. For those of you who do not, Guybrush Threepwood is the hero of the Monkey Island series of video games, where players can swashbuckle their way through various quests in a choose-your-own-adventure format. The first game in the series, The Secret of Monkey Island, was released by LucasArts on floppy disc in 1990. I met Guybrush in 1994, when I got my first computer.

Yes, 1994. Which implies 1994 gameplay and graphics. Which means that my first crush looked like this:

Suffice it to say, I didn't fall for Guybrush for his looks. I fell for him because he was a cool, confident smooth-talker who knew he was destined for greatness despite all evidence to the contrary. He could trade insults with masters and seamlessly toss pop culture references into normal conversations. He was clever and resourceful and could solve complicated puzzles with ease. He was still human, though -- bumbling and awkward and prone to making mistakes. And as if all of that wasn't enough reason to love the guy, he was noble enough to risk his life to rescue Governor Elaine Marley from zombie pirates. He was also secure enough in his own masculinity to fall in love with Elaine, even though she was smart, powerful, and never really needed rescuing in the first place.

After I sprayed the zombie pirate captain with root beer to win the game, I was rewarded with a glorious, pixelated, 256-color closeup of Guybrush Threepwood's face:

Yes, he's a hottie, but I was smitten long before I knew what he looked like. (And whether I subconsciously modeled my current hairdo on Elaine's is a blog entry for another day.)

I found an archaic CD-ROM version of The Secret of Monkey Island yesterday afternoon and played it yesterday night. It only took me a few hours to get through it, as opposed to the weeks I spent solving the puzzles when I was a child. It was just as funny, irreverent, and intellectually fulfilling as I remembered it, though, and the jokes and puns still sparkled with clarity and relevance twenty years after they were written.

Right after I vanquished the zombie pirate captain to unlock the portrait of Guybrush that used to make my nine year-old heart melt, I realized something astounding.

My sense of humor -- my wry, snarky, intellectual sense of humor that I adore and often use as a compatibility test -- is identical to Guybrush Threepwood's sense of humor. Both of us quip. Both of us make random remarks about inanimate objects. Both of us can switch from poetry to intellectual banter in a heartbeat. Both of us have a natural gift for rhyme. Both of us can insult someone so smoothly that they don't even realize they've been mocked. And, most notably, both of us enjoy peppering our conversations with quotes and images from old computer games, George Lucas films, and The Graduate.

My sense of humor is definitely on the quirky side of normal, but it's one of my favorite things about me. And since it came into being around the time I first met Guybrush Threepwood, I'm pretty sure he inspired it. Guess I just found another reason to love him.

* Yes, Orson Scott Card wrote all of the exchanges used in the famous "insult swordfighting" sequence of The Secret of Monkey Island.

Curves Ahead

"Picture-perfect memories scattered all around the floor. Reaching for the phone 'cause I can't fight it any more. And I wonder if I ever cross your mind... for me, it happens all the time." -- Lady Antebellum

I've started drawing again. I've also started reading a lot about New York City architecture and infrastructure. One thing led to another, and before I knew what was happening, I had a sketchbook full of this:

From top to bottom: Wallace Harrison's Metropolitan Opera House; Harrison and Fouilhoux's Trylon, Perisphere, and Helicine from the 1939 New York World's Fair; Eero Saarinen's TWA Flight Center (i.e. my favorite building in the world); and, of course, Frank Lloyd Wright's Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum.