Festa Dei Pesci

"Take some macaroni home!"

"No, I can't! I made macaroni three times this week!"
"I understand. [Pause.] Take some macaroni home!"-- two of my aunts

I'm Italian-American, so Christmas Eve in my family means a crazy, raucous, seafood-based meal with a couple dozen relatives and entirely too much food. Entirely too much amazing, incredible food so delicious that I had three helpings of it.

We started off with antipasto -- provolone and parmigiana, cured meats, dried sausages, bread with chunks of prosciutto baked in, and a variety of pickled vegetables.

Next came the macaroni course, and we offered three different varieties: linguine in a red fish sauce, rigatoni marinara, and penne a la vodka. Shrimp, fried calimari, and potato croquettes were available as hot appetizers.

The centerpiece of the meal -- zuppa di pesce -- followed. Though the name of this dish translates to "soup of fish," it's actually far more complicated and rich than the name suggests. Ours featured mussels, clams, scallops, lobster tails, crab legs, cod, squid, shrimp, and scungilli stewed in a zesty tomato sauce.

If anyone was still hungry after that, we also had some escarole and beans and veal valdestano (cutlets topped with prosciutto, mozzarella, mushrooms, and roasted red peppers). We then finished off the meal with a cold seafood salad.

I didn't photograph the dessert spread because I was too full and happy to pick up my camera by that point.

Ironically enough, the inspiration for our meal -- the traditional Feast of the Seven Fishes -- came into existence during the Middle Ages as an exercise in abstinence from meat and culinary moderation. Ha!

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.

Golden Poo

"Are you sad because you're on your own? No! I get by... with a little help from my friends." -- Lennon/McCartney

I pride myself on knowing a lot of stuff about a lot of different things. I'm well-read and well-educated, I'm familiar with many subject areas, I can hold a decent conversation with many types of people, and I have a head filled to bursting with many random facts. Thus, it's very rare for me to find myself in a place or a situation where I'm totally out of my element.

Well, it happened last weekend.

After two days that fit every possible definition of "homecoming," I found myself wandering around Chinatown. It's something I've done countless times before -- I've traversed Canal Street, ventured into Pearl Paint, eaten dim sum, and browsed the wares of the street vendors pretty regularly for years. However, I'd never been to Chinatown accompanied by actual Chinese people... and, accompanied by Q and DW, Chinatown was a whole new world.

They led us to places I never even knew existed -- streets that barely looked like New York City and shops that contained no English signage whatsoever. We went to a grocery store selling live frogs in a garbage can. I became acquainted with dried shellfish, and I'm still not sure if it requires rehydration or if it's eaten as is. I waited on line to buy dried udon noodles and briefly panicked about whether I could use US dollars for my purchase. We had Vietnamese for lunch and I didn't know how DW's coffee pot worked. Q took me to a bakery to get some buns I once tried, but all I remembered about them was that they had sweet yellow filling and that description basically fit everything in the display case. We went to an underground shopping mall filled with plush depictions of bear excrement. ("Golden poo" is allegedly a symbol for good luck, but no one knew why.) I pointed at what I thought was an endive and was told that it was actually a torpedo vegetable. I then pointed at a vegetable that looked like a carrot, asked what it was, and was told that it was a carrot.

We continued to wander, deeper and farther into shops and streets that I never knew existed, and I truly began to feel as if I had been transported out of New York and onto a different planet. Despite my cultured upbringing, the obscene amount of time I've spent with my Chinese friends over the years, and all of the reading I've done during the course of my life, I was totally clueless about everything. I felt incredibly ignorant.

Then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, we stumbled upon a pocket of Little Italy. Q decided that she wanted sfogliatella, we stopped into an Italian bakery... and and all of a sudden, my world once again made sense. The sights, the smells, the biscotti in the window and panettone boxes hanging from the ceiling all felt comfortable and familiar to me.

We approached the counter. One of my companions pointed at a display case, turned to DW, and said, "Ooh, have you ever had a cannoli?" I'm not sure how he answered; I was too stunned to listen. Have you ever had a cannoli?! What kind of a question is that?! In my world, asking someone if they've ever had a cannoli is like asking them if they've ever breathed oxygen or if they've blinked at least once today.

I then realized that I was the only person in the crowd with any Italian blood, and that my companions probably weren't weaned off the bottle onto cannoli like I was. And then my entire day made sense. I wasn't ignorant -- I just have a different cultural identity than the one I happened to be facing. And I'm lucky enough to have an open mind and friends willing to help me fill it. All in all, it was a pretty amazing afternoon.

The Lure of the LBD

"I've got a new interpretation and it's a better point of view: while you were looking for a landslide, I was looking out for you. I was looking out for you. Someone's looking out for you." -- Brandi Carlile

This weekend, I drove out east and spent my Saturday morning at the mall. I made a few insignificant purchases, but they don't matter -- today I'm writing about the item I could not buy.

On my way back to the parking lot, I paid an obligatory visit to my favorite retail chain and spotted a gorgeous black dress. Do I really need another black dress? Nope. Is this particular black dress entirely too fancy to wear to work? Yep. Do I have more important ways to spend my money than on another fancy black dress? You betcha.

But god, this dress was perfect. Soft, stretchy, plain and tailored but with interesting origami-like folds snaking across the front. I knew the hem would graze my knee in exactly the right place, the seams would hug my curves to perfection, the neckline would make my chest look twice as shapely as it actually is. I had to have it.

I wandered around the store for twenty damn minutes searching every rack, shelf, nook, and cranny for the dress, but aside from the one on the mannequin's back, I couldn't find it anywhere. So I went to bother my favorite fitting-room attendant.

"Hi. I'm looking for that dress."
I pointed. She chuckled and shook her head.
"Honey, the whole world is looking for that dress. We have one left in a size ten."

Damn. No worries though; I work within walking distance of two more stores and one of them was bound to carry it in my size. Right?

I visited one of them after clinic today. Wandered around, located a rack of the dresses, found three size eights and a twelve, learned that the store was sold out of their entire stock except for those left on the floor and wouldn't be restocking any time soon. The attendant suggested that I try the other store but didn't offer to call ahead for me, so I headed towards Lexington Avenue and started walking south.

On 62nd St., a cab pulled over to the curb, the door opened, and an older lady slid her legs out and leaned back to collect her bags from the seat. Half a block away, an approaching cyclist shouted "Watch out! Watch out!" and sped towards the cab's open door. The woman turned and looked, but she wasn't fast enough -- instead of slowing down or (gasp) steering around the cab, the cyclist crashed into the open door at top-speed and fell off his bike. The cyclist screamed at the lady, the lady screamed back, the cab driver honked.

I know, I know -- that anecdote has nothing to do with my quest for the dress. It didn't seem like a good omen, though.

I went into the second store in search of my dress and -- surprise -- they carried a size two and a size zero petite. They wouldn't be restocking any time soon, either. I spent a good five minutes staring at the size two, debating whether I should try and wedge myself into it, before a sales associate approached me.

"Excuse me? I'm sorry, but I just wanted to say that I love your boots."
"Thank you." I moved my coat aside so she could see the cut of the leather and the little buckle near the back of the knee. "I got them at Bandolino."
"Bandolino? Where's that?"
"These came from Bloomingdale's, but I think there's a store on Madison, near 42nd Street. Shoe Woo across the street carries the brand too."
"Thank you so much! I have to go look for them." She blinked. "So can I help you with anything here?"
"Yes, actually. I've been to three stores looking for this dress in a size 4, but I can't find it anywhere."
"Well, you won't find it in any stores, I'm afraid. That dress is close to sold out everywhere."
"Damn."
"But... I actually have a 4 on the rack in the fitting room. The stitching on the front is torn -- some woman who was definitely not a size 4 tried to squeeze herself into it and ripped the dress -- but you can try it on for size and order it from the website if it fits you."

I tried it on. It was every bit as gorgeous as I thought it would be and it's due to arrive in five business days.

And in other news, this is my 100th post on Literatura Mundane. Many thanks to those of you who are still reading!

A Lesser Babka

"What are we going to do now?! If we can't get the babka the whole thing's useless!" -- Jerry Seinfeld

I had dessert in my favorite bakery this evening, and after I settled my bill, I decided to buy some pastry for the road. I waited in line with the intention of purchasing a particularly delicious-looking chocolate babka I had been eyeing in the window all evening. Then, when I approached the counter, a woman appeared out of nowhere, cut in front of me on line, and ordered my babka. She left, I repeated her order, and, as luck would have it, she had nabbed the last one right out from under me. With no babka alternatives, I left empty-handed.

As someone who can quote whole episodes of Seinfeld from memory, this was one of the most thrilling things that has happened to me in a long time.

Comfort Food

"Just give me a chance to hold on. Just give me something to hold on to. It's so clear now that you are all that I have." -- Snow Patrol

I just finished preparing my favorite meal -- baked fish with roasted potatoes and string beans -- and since it's elegant, delicious, and ridiculously easy to prepare, I thought I'd share it with you all. I used mahi mahi today, but tilapia, flounder, sea bass, and even salmon also work. I get all of my fish from the freezer section in Costco -- each serving is individually vacuum-wrapped and the quality is first-rate, believe it or not. My Italian bread was semolina, but I've used whole wheat and white with delicious results.

Preheat your oven to 400 degrees. Prepare the potatoes and put them in the oven first, then prepare the fish while your potatoes are roasting, then prepare the string beans while your fish is in the oven. Dinner serves four and will be ready in one hour.

Roasted Potatoes

4 potatoes, scrubbed
1/4 cup chicken or vegetable broth
Spice of your choice -- sage, thyme, parsley, and chili all work, though I used paprika today
Olive oil, salt, and pepper

Cut each potato in half lengthwise, then cut each half into slices approximately 1/2-inch thick. Place in a 9x9 baking pan (or a pie pan, or anything you have that snugly fits the slices) and toss with salt, pepper, a drizzle of olive oil, and whatever spice you chose to use. Pour broth into the bottom of the pan and bake for one hour, turning every fifteen minutes.

Buon Pesce

4 fish steaks, thawed, rinsed in salt water, and dried
A good three-inch-thick chunk of crusty Italian bread
2 tbsp Smart Balance or butter, melted
5 cloves garlic, peeled
1 tbsp dried parsley or 2 tbsp fresh parsley
Juice of half a lemon, plus four slices from the other half
Olive oil, salt, and pepper

Cut the bread into cubes and throw it into a food processor with the butter, garlic, and parsley. Pulse until crumbly. Coat the bottom of a 9x9 baking pan with olive oil, then squeeze in the lemon and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Arrange the four steaks in the pan, then flip them over so both sides are coated in seasonings, olive oil, and lemon juice. Spoon breadcrumb mixture atop each fillet and top with a slice of lemon. Tightly cover in foil and bake for 20 minutes. Remove the foil and the lemon slices and bake for an additional 10-20 minutes, until the crust browns and the center of the thickest piece of fish flakes.

Sauteed String Beans

Four handfuls of fresh string beans, washed with the ends snapped off
Two cloves of garlic, sliced
Olive oil, salt, and pepper
Dash of balsamic vinegar

Blanch the string beans in boiling water until they reach your desired level of softness. (I like my string beans al dente, though you may like to go softer.) Heat a large skillet, then sautee garlic in olive oil on low heat until it begins to brown. Add string beans, salt, pepper, and balsamic vinegar, quickly toss until coated, then remove from heat and serve.