in praise of hibernation.

I was inspired by these thoughts in a recent post by Miss Sarah:

"In these winter months my attitude towards transportation is much more defensive than it is offensive. The application of some perspective on moderation suits me very well, and since I don't particularly prefer driving, I only do it when I must. One can embark on the quest for sustainable transportation practice in a variety of ways. I like consciousness and choice. And sometimes I choose not to go out at all as a way to save a car trip.

Instead, we have fun in our neighbourhood doing hibernation-like things instead of battling the roads. Watching movies. Having brunch. Walking the dog on a sunny afternoon. Spending time building mega blocks towers with Dexter. Ordinary stuff that we should be careful not to take for granted."

The last month has probably been the least bikey of the seventeen I have lived in Philly. Between my trips to Boston and Salt Lake, weather, and illness, I have had a handful of bicycle commutes into school and only a few opportunities for bike errands. Although the lack of exercise (with its attendant mental health benefits) has been rough, I am fortunate on a number of fronts:

-I live in a neighborhood with a number of amenities in walking distance, including great bars, a grocery store, a liquor store, and a number of friends (and not to mention, all of Center City).

-I live several blocks away from a subway line that takes me directly to school and work. While it's not my favorite way to travel, I appreciate being warm and dry. I have biked a lot less this winter because I live on a direct public transportation route, but I have also been a lot happier not showing up on campus completely soaked and miserable.

-I have a roommate. Living with someone does much to temper cabin fever. We've gone on walking excursions in the snow (the hamburgers / Apple Store / liquor cabinet restock adventure was a favorite). We've enjoyed plenty of cocktails at home watching foreign films, RuPaul Drag Race, and 30 Rock. Cooking projects abounded. And perhaps best of all-- he went out for groceries when a cold completely knocked me down. A good roommate is far more useful than a car!

So let me just add an amen to Miss Sarah- hibernation in the winter is the way to go, whether underground or at home. Location is key-- living in an urban neighborhood is a critical component in maintaining a sustainable, car-free lifestyle year round. Bikes are a part of it-- a key part of it during most times of the year- but it's nice that when weather makes biking inconvenient, dangerous, or impossible to have a number of ways of getting around and living a comfortable life.

weeks of hibernation meant a momentous and hoarder-like trip Trader Joe's. Putting those Walds to work!

subletter salad.

My roommate went away to do research for the summer.  This has opened up a great culinary hole in my life, as there was nobody in my home doing interesting things with harissa or to share my delight in the creation of a stunning dessert tour de force.  His room was let to a sweet couple of visiting researchers.  They were the perfect room renters—gracious and tidy and quiet.  They really won me over when they shared this salad with me during a week that we had five days of 90 degree weather. As we have another week of that ahead, I think you'll find this salad it just the ticket.

I love it because you could serve it alone or over leafy greens, plain or dressed in a balsamic vinaigrette.  On more than one occasion, I've mixed it in with my standard caprese. This salad is fresh and light and even has a little bit of protein- completely perfect for days when it’s too hot for eating.

Subletter salad

Cucumber

Canned butter beans

Artichoke hearts

Corn (best cut off the cobb)

Red bell pepper

Craisins

bicycle graveyard.

I liked this recent story about our own Bicycle Coalition Bike Ambassadors wielding tools to rid the city of skeleton bikes."  One of my professors claims that these bikes are not so much victims of theft as abandonment- and once they've been sitting around for a while, the restaurant worker subculture of bikers (see in highest volume in Center City near Broad Street between 12am and 2am) will part them out so they can get parts for their own bikes.  While I don't know if that's true, I am sure glad the BCP is out there cleaning up.  

Then of course, it snowed in Philly.

Many people opted not to ride.

Like me.

Others left their bikes right where they were. Many of the racks at Temple had one or two bikes emerging from the melting snow or wedged in between heaps of plowed snow.

At home, our own resident unfunctional bike- a victim of a broken chain- has taken a turn at modeling. 

unexpected day in the life.

Give me a day that starts out with me falling asleep around 4am.


I'll tell you that it's not going to be a good day.  There's that midday social obligation.  There's articles to read.  There's all those bike miles to add up.  There's that class I'm not interested in, talking about that book that I didn't get much out of with that group of people who bore me with that nutty professor.  That's going to happen.


Ugh.


I'm going to wake up a little grumpy.


And things are going to add up.


That toast is delicious.  And that music?  It's music to my ears.


Those people outside the liquor store?- yes, I'm there at 11:30am- the ones who always heckle me for cash when I pretend I'm not listening?-- dollar bills all around, not really thinking about it.  It's windy, get some coffee.


Let's get on that bike, the one I fight with, the one that carries me through Center City as that van honks at me but I miss all the potholes.  Bake some cookies, my favorite thing to do.  Baking with the girls who are like my Relief Society, making our own group just like the Relief Society would've told us to.  But give us mimosas- the idea they scoffed at, drinking at noon- give us mimosas and chocolate chips and snickerdoodles.  A few hours of much needed sisterhood and that bread!  Something you could only find in Philly, that bread!


Breeze through those articles, the ones we won't talk about, and on to dinner.  Leftover spaghetti noodles somehow transform themselves into some proto-yakisoba, pan-fried noodles, onions, garlic, pea sprouts, soy sauce.  And we have that conversation, texting back and forth about that UPS guy who likes you.  I look forward to that, you know.  Coffee, yes, at 6pm, class tonight, what a bore! But I'm glad we talk- a different we- when we meet in the kitchen. I'm glad when you offer me some of that soup and when you tell me you liked the latkes I made, the ones you ate without asking.  Going to that talk tomorrow, getting an advisor tomorrow, class tomorrow.


Let's not think about tomorrow.


Let's talk about going to OAH in April, tenement style, with everyone.  Or you- the other you- call me and squeeze in that five minute conversation while you walk home and I race out the door.  Headlight, blinkee light, helmet, lock.  Green lights and minimal traffic, easy parking and not even late!


Allow me to bust out every strategy in the book to get through that class.  The instant challenge to a viewpoint that you tell me later will make me that professor, the one people are afraid to take and who challenges them to learn!  The notes to the person sitting next to me that inspire discreet smiles and solidarity.  The discussion's dragging, please, let me ask that question- the one about how this book would look if we wrote it from a different methodological perspective.  Let it be 9 o'clock when the professor starts answering that question, when he lays out how the book would be called "Spain on the Brain: Anglo Anxieties in Hispanic World, 1500-1800," and tells us the who thesis and sums up the class just perfectly in spite of repeating the phrase "Spain on the Brain" five, eight times.  Who cares if the monologue lasted 35 minutes?  It's the second time I've made this happen, that question, this monologue.  I've already forgotten I don't care about colonialism.  What a time we had with those guys! The ones who drive us crazy, the ones who tell us they enjoyed our comments and that they like our folding bike. The ones who exist only as types and never come out with us afterwards.


Beer, glorious beer, finally!  Let there be the favorite usual waitress who we always overtip at our favorite usual bar, the ones where people's eyes twinkle as the pitcher gets emptier and the light reflects off the yellow glass lamps and the dingy wood paneling.  Oh, that laugh that reminds me of my cousin, and please, tell me again that twenty-five isn't that old.


Oh you guys! You don't have to wait.  Headlight, blinkee light, helmet, lock.  I'll try that smaller intersection, just right, an easy left turn.  Why have I never taken that route before? 


Give me third gear all the way down the Parkway, wind on my face, no cars, dim lights glowing against the Art Museum.  I'm on the folding bike, it's not as blissfully cruise-y as the other bike, but wait, it is.  Sublime propulsion along the usual unnoticeable route.  Don't let the cat in, he comes in anyways, but he's home, I'm home, he's happy, I'm happy.  I'm headed up the stairs, happy because I'm leading this life that I never planned to lead, happy that I enjoyed this day that I didn't expect to enjoy.

chocolate truffle tart recipe.

I bake pretty regularly, but I can't say that I try out new recipes all that often.  Part of it is pragmatic- fancy desserts aren't as portable or long lasting as say, cookies- and the other part of it is the fear factor.  I get so nervous-  baking failures are just so public.  As a result, my baking vanity is largely tied to my ability to produce endless batches of sugar cookies, chocolate chip cookies, brownies, beer bread, Hershey's Perfectly Chocolate Cake, etc. etc. Nobody seems to mind.

This all changed the other night [drama!], when my roommate presented me with a major challenge- to produce something "French and decadent" that would compliment his Duck Casseulet.  I didn't know what exactly that was, but I was pretty sure I'd stumbled upon recipe gold while searching through one of my favorite food p*rn sites.

Using the Chocolate Truffle Tart recipe from the food blog Tartelette, I had one of the most pleasant baking experiences that I've had in a long time.  Maybe it was spending a quiet, lazy, unrushed, rainy Sunday morning in a clean kitchen- something I find infinitely sublime- but it had a lot to do the quality of the recipe. It calls for relatively few ingredients and offers some really useful method directions.  I have long been a hater of rolling out crusts, but this recipe had me transferring pie crust into the pan with zero cracks and no falling apart. I might have almost cried, crust has been that much of a burden to me.

I was scared of using unsalted butter and could only find unsweetened chocolate, but consensus was that the dessert was not too sweet, and sufficiently French and decadent.  It received rave reviews (and totally cleaned plates) from our dinner guests, and pairs nicely with red wine or coffee.

Chocolate Truffle Tarts [adapted from Tartellete according to how I made the recipe- which is not necessarily the most efficient way]

makes 1 mega tart- could probably serve twelve or more- perfect for crowds who just want a little sliver of dessert

For the chocolate crust: 
1 stick unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/2 cup  unsifted powdered sugar
3 egg yolks
pinch of salt
1 1/4 cup flour
1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

For the chocolate truffle filling:
8 ounces bittersweet chocolate [or unsweetened chocolate + 1/2 cup of sugar]
12 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup strong brewed coffee
4 large eggs

For the chocolate ganache:
4 ounces bittersweet chocolate [or unsweetened chocolate + 1/4 cup sugar]
1/3 cup heavy whipping cream
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
pinch of salt

Prepare the crust:
In a mixer, whip together the butter and sugar together until light and fluffy. Add the egg yolks and pinch of salt and mix until incorporated. Add the flour and cocoa powder and mix briefly. Dump the whole mixture onto a lightly floured board and gather the dough into a smooth ball. Do not work the dough while in the mixer or it will toughen it up. Flatten the dough into a disk, wrap it in plastic wrap and refrigerate for an hour.
Preheat oven to 350F and position a rack in the center. Butter a springform pan [parchment would be a good idea here] and set aside.

When the dough is nice and cold, roll it out on a lightly floured board or in between two sheets of plastic [rolling the dough out underneath a sheet of cling film was a revolutionary concept for me]. If the dough tears while you roll or/and transfer into the rings, just patch it with your fingertips. Bake for 10 minutes. Keep the oven at 350F.

[I did these steps while my dough was chilling]:

Prepare the filling:
Place the chocolate in a medium bowl and set aside. In a medium saucepan set over medium heat, bring the butter, sugar, and coffee together to a boil over medium. Pour the mixture over the chocolate and leave it undisturbed for 2-3 minutes. Gently whisk until smooth [by hand is much better than mixer for these steps, believe me, Kitchen Aid addicts, I tried both]. Add the eggs, one at a time whisking quickly until the mixture is smooth. Pour on top of crust and bake for 10 minutes. It will look a little jiggly when you take it out, but it will set in the fridge later.
Let cool completely.

Prepare the chocolate ganache:
Place the chocolate in a medium bowl and set aside. In a medium saucepan set over medium heat, bring the heavy cream to a gentle boil. Pour it over the chocolate and let sit for 2-3 minutes. Whisk until smooth and incorporate the butter at the same time until the ganache is completely smooth. Resist temptation to store in refrigerator if you are waiting for your dough or the tart to bake.  

Left with about twenty extra minutes of dough chill time after preparing the truffle and ganache, I recommend mixing up the egg whites with some of the leftover heavy cream, scrambling them, and serving them with some of the leftover coffee you made.  Coffee with supplimentary heavy cream, that is.  COTGB is all about full fat dairy.

Spread ganache on top of tart and smooth out with an offset spatula. Refrigerate until ready to eat- be forewarned, it gets pretty solid in the fridge so you may want a substantial warm knife to help with the cutting.  We served ours with vanilla flavored unsweetened homemade whipped cream.  Delish.

gratitude.

It's time for the annual "I'm thankful for" list. I'm just dashing it out as I have a lot of writing to do this evening, but this really is one of my favorite yearly exercises.

I am thankful for my always supportive family. They keep me going when times are tough. They give me perspective and insight and patience and love.  In this past year in particular, they generously and graciously opened their homes to me when I needed the time and the space to rebuild my tattered sense of self. My family sustains me, and there really aren't words to express how grateful I am for that.  I couldn't do this alone. I can't wait to be with them soon!

I am thankful for opportunities. I'm grateful I'm in my seventh year of college. I'm thankful that I've been able to travel, present at conferences, meet new people, take on exciting projects, and have such a dang cool career path. I forget how awesome it is when I get caught up in the drudgery and the logistics, but I'm glad that I continuously get reminded that I am doing something special.

I am thankful I changed my life. This city, this school, this program, this life, these challenges-- they were all exactly what I needed. I have never worked so hard or put so much of myself into anything, and I'm grateful for what that experience has done to my spirit. I feel fortified. I am glad I didn't take other paths and that so many things in my life didn't happen so that I can be here, now.

I am thankful that I sold my car and became a bike commuter. The 455 miles I've ridden since moving to Philly last August have made my body fit and relieved me of so much stress.  Those miles also allow me to consume lager and fries several times a week without consequences, which I am particularly grateful for.

Which reminds me, I am thankful for my health. In a season of colds and swine flu, I feel phenomenally blessed that I have not been sick once. 

I am thankful for my friends in every time zone. I like knowing that they are out there in the world being good people and making the world a better place. It gives me hope. I am thankful that we have the bonds that we do. 

In the moment- I'm thankful I have a place to be this Thanksgiving. I'm thankful that in the past month I've become apart of a great group of friends who give me endless opportunities to laugh. I'm grateful for the prospect of pear butterscotch pie, a ride in the rain, finally being able to understand how to write about political culture, and getting to tell stories that have never been told this way.  I'm thankful for white Christmas lights and a roommate who, in five seconds, is going to ask me to help him start preparing an amazing meal for tomorrow.  And I'm thankful for all of you who read my blog and make me smile with your comments and encouragement. I have so much to be thankful for!

Happy Thanksgiving! 

the eyes of my eyes are opened.

 e.e. cummings' "i thank you god for this most amazing" popped into my head this morning.  To me it's the happiest, sunshiney-ist poem in the world, a sincere prayer of gratitude that I have oft repeated. It reads:

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

This morning I considered sarcastically rewriting it, including the damnable heavy rain and the tribulations of being a graduate student as apart of my fascetious catalog of blessings. I decided against it for sake of time (being in such a hurry to leave the house to go to school to read a book that I forgot at home, in the rush) and went on my merry day.

At midday, I hit the wall, admitted defeat, and resigned myself to the misery brought upon me by my own forgetfulness, copiers, my eagerness to sign up for conferences I don't have time for, and even my own acid tongue.  

It was an off day, and when I got home I started to tweet that the only redeeming quality of the it was that I had realized that I had good hair this morning, and throughout the mess of my day had continually been able to say, "at least I have really great hair."

But.

I kept finding things to add on that had made the day better, and had vastly exceeded my number of allowed characters with all of my qualifications.  There were so many redeeming qualities in my day! So many good people that make my life better! So many that I had to name them, one by one:

-an in-depth discussion about gin with L.

-A letting me whine ad nauseum about my troubles, including particularly pathetic complaints about soap residue. What a saint.

-unexpected professional development in class, which included a professor memorably giving a student five dollars for a well timed comment.

-Realizing with R that we constitute a peanut gallery, and getting to liken us to these guys:

(I am the short one, naturally)

-In turn, getting to talk about muppets at school.

-Did I mention how fun it is to have a girl friend here? Finally!

-A very nice girl brought "Happy World Series & Halloween" candy to class that included my favorite, Reese's PB cups.

-Seeing a modest, incredibly smart professor get the accolades she deserves. There was so much love in the room! Why do we wait until funerals to tell people how great they are?

-Free wine. Free wine. Free wine.

-M (a man) talking in a very loud voice about douching (you had to be there).

-My roommate telling me I should make cookies for our party instead of getting candy because my baking is so much better.

-A dry, low traffic, twilight ride home, complete with plenty of yellow leaves on the ground to ride through.

I don't talk to god hardly at all anymore, but some days I just have to put it out into the universe how glad I am that somebody- and so many- make(s) my life as beautiful and wonderful as it is. 

Good hair is a start, but being apart of everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes is so much better.

(excuse the wonky formatting... evil Blogger....)

another chinese dinner.

Knock knock knock.

For fifteen minutes I had been listening to the gathering rally of Chinese voices in the kitchen. I had hoped I had been forgotten so that I might immerse myself in my professor's latest essay, or that book about Central Texas, or maybe a browsing of some must-read book on my list (how am I going to move them all in six months?!). Alas, I was not forgotten. Met by Miss Nigh's slender form clad entirely in green, I excused myself noting that I had much studying to do and might join them later. I was surprised as she said forcefully that the food would not be good if I waited and that, as she grabbed my wrist, I should come join them. It's hard to say no to someone who's got a grip you, so I joined the celebration.

And wouldn't you know, I shared in debates about which is bigger-- America or China (I dissented from the women in that gendered debate and came out on top, China, of course), and whether or not the Utes are actually better than TCU (debatable). If anything, the Chinese love me because I can, without flinching, suck down two room temperature Heinekens (strangely complimentary taste to the regional fair of Schzwan, Dombe and Hainan) (most of them share them between styrofoam cups). I ate tofu, chicken and napa cabbage, brocolli and sausage, 'old air' fungus and get this- I found out what that mystery meat was-- pig's ear! It tastes good, classic pork flavor with a bit of crunch, served parched, with a sauce-- but a little too intimate for me, nibbling on Wilbur's ear (it makes me want to whisper sweet nothings, really).

I served them family recipe molasses cookies to mixed reviews. I think the full bodied molasses was a bit strong for the more mild Schzwan people. Miss Ling, my other roommate, seemed to like them. I like to throw them for a loop after they've served me fungus and pig's ear, it makes me feel like I'm part of the joke.

Anyways, there is nothing like a potluck dinner with the Chinese. Surrounded by jovial conversation I couldn't understand, I just had to sit back and smile. I have really great roomates, and I forget that sometimes.

and here i thought my moral standards were pliable enough that nothing could shock me anymore.

Well, internet, it is certainly a sad day here in my apartment. My fears have been confirmed. Not long after my roommates moved in last year, I noticed a particular guy frequenting our apartment. I thought it was great that my roommate had a boyfriend and being as we don't talk I never really addressed it. And then she told me she had a husband and daughter and then they came to visit and I saw a lot less of the dude over the summer and more or less forgot about it, writing it off as perhaps a mistaken perception on my part.

So last weekend she went up to Canada to go to some National Park. I thought it was weird that she was going to go into the wilderness alone like that-- I mean she is not exactly the guy from Into the Wild-- but again wrote it off because I really don't care and have quite enjoyed my monopoly over the kitchen (our other roommate is on the East coast for break). She got back at 2 this morning.

Today I come home from a lunch date with a buddy in Provo and who comes out of her room but the guy from last spring! And as I am sitting on the couch with my laptop on my lap, I watched them-- completely wide eyed-- sharing a loving embrace and deep longing glances. I might has well have not been in the room. The way they were both glowing-- I mean really freakishly glowing--glowing like people that have been having a whole lot of sex in Canada (did she even go to Canada?!) all weekend-- completely betrayed them. After he left, she gave me a smug smile and beaming, returned to her room.

I was left on the couch, completely mortified. This is a scandal of international proportions. I am completely heartbroken for her husband back in China, raising their child. Not that she doesn't have needs-- and I obviously don't know the status of her marriage-- but troubling nonetheless.

mystery meat.

Part of the magic of living with The Chinese is wondering what they are eating.


When there is hair growing out of it, I start to raise questions. Though there's not the questions raised about Afghanistan like Obama raised or the questions raised about every military conflict that has happened (and was consequently supported by John McCain) since 1983. But I digress. Really, the issue here is meat ON OUR COUNTER that has HAIR ON IT. I think it's pig skin; in honor of college football season maybe? GO UTES!

when' affection for roommates' stoped being facetious.

Dear Humanity,
Tonight the Chinese redeemed me from the low intellectual wallowing state that I have been in for the past 36 hours. Apparently, all of the people with families have gone on a tour, while the childless and unmarried were left here to make me dinner. It was divine! I tried so many new things! The fish-- when I got it without bones-- was incredible and I had like eight different dishes served with bacon (bacon and cooked cucumbers! who knew!). They had a "hot pot" of very spicy dark red broth with vegetables-- it's good but the kelp in it almost made me throw up-- definite texture thing. They may have served me liver-- they said liver and then decided what they were serving-- sliced up with cooked celery stalks-- was better identified as "sausage" but their manner was "call it sausage because Americans don't eat liver so she will try it." Not my fav but I did try it. I like how they cut everything into strips-- potatoes with green onions and my absolute favorite of the evening, eggplant and green bell peppers in some yummy sauce. I provided Fat Tires for the eleven people and they bought Bud Dry-- a drinkable, sweet tasteless beer that worked after dinner and for the innumerable "cheers" clinking of cans and glasses with my hosts-- really I felt like a guest in my own apartment, they were that sweet. Watermelon was the most complementary dessert. The Chinese go apeshit over that stuff.

There is really nothing more magical than watching the Olympics with the Chinese-- they are genuinely excited for the winners of any event, be it their own or Michael Phelps or anybody else except the Japanese. Even though I couldn't understand what they were saying, their happiness was apparent, as is their success-- some work in foreign affairs, one is the editor of a newspaper, and all are very well traveled. With our kitchen table in our living room, our apartment felt the coziest it has ever been. It was palpable that these people have become family while they've been here; they really made me feel like family too, in that "we are all God's children" kind of way. It was exactly what I needed.

opening ceremonies.

I forgot how much I lose my shit over the Olympics. I think it's almost more potent this time, living with women from the host country. This evening we all got up from our late afternoon naps (they do it everyday, I do it because I am sick) and gathered round the TV. It was probably a good thing that they were watching the theatrical bits with me because I otherwise would have cried all over the Olympics. First off, it was beautiful. Spectacular. Amazing. Magnificent. Stunning. Huge. Extraordinary. It was a big night for vocabulary building around here. Second, the humanity of it all-- all of the hope and unity in the forefront and politics set asides (though I think the NBC commentary was too political-- damned if we don't get the Canadian channel in Utah!). I loved the part with the pictures of all the global children! The boats part was my absolute favorite though. I cannot seem to find any good pictures this on the web! Argh.

I found the fashions during the parade of nations to be pretty entertaining. I think Ukraine and Hungary should get mad props for even getting dressed. The Polish women and the French men looked extra classy-- and hate me, but I really loved the waspy look for the US team and thought that Kobe looked smokin' hot. I thought Russia had the best hats, and loved that a Utah Jazz player was their flagbearer. But what I loved, loved, loved the most was the piping on the Netherlands suits. I really did almost loose my mind over it.

Pictures: here and here and here.

quiet living in the tenement.

Are you surprised by the subject heading? Me too. Xiaoling's family arrived on Friday night and
after a brief chaotic settling in period that made me exceptionally "queen of my castle" cranky, things seem to have reached their equilibrium. While there have been some moments of hiding out at work, I do that anyways, so it's nothing out of the usual. I am still a little miffed that there were no formal introductions but so it goes. I have had absolutely zero interactions with the husband-- clearly he saw me in my primitive pre-coffee stupor and decided to steer clear for his entire journey. The kid is a completely different story.

She is totally quiet-- she has been watching tv since before I got home from work and I haven't heard a peep. Kid is stealthy and clearly used to being on her own. I don't think she speaks very much, if any English, and frankly I was unnerved that there is no way for me to really communicate with her because I really miss being around kids and she's going to be here for a while even if I didn't like kids. But we made a breakthrough last night, when she and her little friend encountered me on the swings at our complex's playground. Before that she had only stared at me with really wide eyes, but she seemed to appreciate that I was out to play too and slightly less of some strange person lurking around the apartment periodically bringing large piles of dishes from my bedroom.

She still stares at me with huge eyes-- this morning I had the yearning for cinnamon toast, so she watched me get out the toaster and go through the whole process. I had no idea I was so interesting (I know, don't let it go to your head Mel, you're not). The funny part was that after I retreated to my room with food and coffee I hear this little quiet knock on my door. In comes my little buddy with my toaster. So we are taking baby steps.

UPDATE: Kid, after much ponderance on the issue, chose to identify herself as Coco. She is making a shit-ton of noise so I have to rescind all of my "she is so perfectly quiet" comments. And it is making me cranky because this is grad student housing, not "make a shit-ton of noise" housing. Ugh. I am the worst kind of spoiled.

UPDATE DEUX: We are speaking English after all. woohoo!

preparing the tenement.

The other night my sweet bacon adoring roommate stopped me in the hallway. She let me know that our other roommate had gone to LA that day and that the next day she too would be going to LA. To meet her husband and daughter who are coming to visit from China. Who, next Friday, will take up residence in our apartment-- the husband for five days, the eight year old for twenty.

UM HELLO?! You are MARRIED!?! You have a CHILD?!!?!

So maybe we don't talk that much-- but after living together for six months, you'd think that might come up. You'd think? It now makes sense that she asked if that picture of my brother and niece was of my husband and child. And the constant weighing-- duh, one must look good for hubbie! Kind of exciting to have an entire family setting up housekeeping in one of our bedrooms! I'm pretty sure there's some student housing policy against that, probably right next to the one prohibiting closets full of beer! So I couldn't really say anything.

Anyways, I stepped into our kitchen this morning and realized that the overlay of filth was now a matter of international perceptions of America on the global scale-- fuuuuuckkkk--- after two hours of scrubbing through permadirt, it sparkles and I can feel a little more like Nixon showing Khrushchev the model kitchen. Rest assured, America-- the worldwide reputation of democracy has once again been preserved!

do you smell bacon.

Ever since a post-family reunion stop at my brother's fantastic in-law's a few weeks ago (did you get that?) I have been craving the combination of bacon and avocado and tomato. We had these awesome grilled chicken sandwiches that included such condiments and ultimately I broke down at the store today and bought all three of those things to go with some whole wheat pitas and the bottle of Evan I bought earlier (which I have also been craving for weeks).

Lately my roommates have been weighing themselves obsessively. We have a scale that was left in our kitchen by the ghost of roommates past, and for whatever reason my sub-one-hundred-pound chums are on it all the time. And weight loss soy shake powder is popping up on the counter next to the uncovered meat and bowls of seaweed (the smell of that, I might add, makes me sick). This worries me a little as my college roommate at my undergrad had some weird body dismorphic things going on (she sang a chorus of "I'm just five pounds away from my perfect weight" as she got thinner and thinner)-- less healthwise, I admit, but mostly because it's annoying. I mean the last thing I want to see as I try to stealthily grab the half gallon of Breyer's from the freezer is someone who already lives on the cabbage soup diet by virtue of regional tastes standing on the scale, pondering her girth.

So today the three of us found ourselves in the kitchen at once, a rare occurrence given their habits of cooking full meals after midnight. I eagerly tossed my really nice, thick cut bacon in a pan and started sizzling away. The girls were up and down from the table refilling their teeny bowls with dark red broth and cabbage and seaweed and Diety knows what else and I was just doing my own thing as the magical fragrance of bacon filled our poorly ventilated kitchen.

As I put the perfectly soft but crispy pieces of bacon on a paper towel, preparing myself for the inevitable delight of my forthcoming sandwich, I sensed a presence over my shoulder. I looked to find Xiaoling staring with wide eyes at my magnificent pile of pork. "That looks delicious," she said softly.

I am tempted to make the scale disappear. I just can't bear to see people live like that!

p.s. the sandwich was the best thing I've eaten since going to Trio last week.

passive aggressive haiku insomnia.

it's now 2 am
what are you fucking cooking
do you ever sleep


conservatism
has five syllables and it
delays my rest


recession means i
should be hoarding cheap food
fuck it buy ice cream


semester over
so many papers to write
please pass the gin please

chinese fire drill.

My heart is filled with tender affection for my roommates. I have been castigated for saying stuff like this before, but sometimes I feel like Vice-President Nixon showing Kruschyev the American model kitchen. It's been a slow tour-- they were amazed at the drawer for storage underneath the oven, but we haven't quite made it to the dishwasher, which they have never inquired about and I don't really have the patience to explain (despite the fact that they go through about fifteen times the dishes I do during a given day. I know this makes me a bad person. I tried to explain to them why practicing your English by watching Fox News is not a good idea and it was a lost cause; I figure if I can't do that, the dishwasher would be too much).

Anyways, there have been a couple of incidences lately that have increased my concern that perhaps we needed to conference over the kitchen-- like running water for a half hour to defrost fish (we live in the desert!) or the many narrowly averted grease fires that might have occurred in unsupervised pans. But I hate to be the stodgy, unpleasanttolivewith American, so I have become resigned to grumbling to myself about how I wish I could afford my own place again. I really wish the kitchen wasn't so sovereign to me, but it is. I recognize that living with other people it would probably drive me just as crazy because I have seen what other people do in their kitchens, and really, maybe I have it good.

Nonetheless, you can imagine my dismay this morning when I awoke to the flashing lights and piercing shriek of our smoke alarm. I had just reset my clock so that I could resume a dream I was having about swimsuit shopping (which is so out of character for me that I had to find out what would happen). You can perhaps imagine the chaos amplified for my roommate as I come blazing out of my room, swearing, yelling, hitting all of my main points-- stove burners, stove fan, living room window, bathroom fans-- as she stands on a chair waving a bright orange felt flower placemat at our smoke detectors to no avail. The ante is of course up-ed when her shouting at me in broken English is replaced with her shouting at the other roommate in Chinese after she emerges belatedly and half asleep from the hall and at the moment when she goes to open the smoke filled microwave-- DON'T DO IT!!!!-- but like watching conservative news pundits, she does it and the apartment again fills with more smoke and burnination. After the detector finally silences, I inspect whatever it was that burned in the microwave-- a black, indistinguishable cube in a bowl. Fish, maybe?

It's a complete mystery.

I know I shouldn't complain, but I would give up my dishwasher just for the ability to take the batteries out of my smoke detector now and then.

fish heads. and nineties nostalgia.

This post is brought to you by the collaborative magic of cranberry juice, limes, vodka, and triple sec. Lots and lots of triple sec.

So two days ago I encountered a fish. It was in my kitchen sink. Whole. Mouth open, eyes wide. So real looking that at any moment one would expect it to spontaneously commence violently flapping around. But alas, it was dead. I smiled to myself and moved along because that's standard fare where I live-- it's part of the magic of living with Chinese nationals. They served me a similar fish once, so I know the outcome is good, so I take it in stride. In the past, some of the cuisine thawing out in our kitchen has driven me to photography:

(dead fish twinsies)

(frog legs-- they smelled really good once cooked but it kind of made me want to wretch. And revert to "The Muppet Movie" state of consciousness.) (funny that that's the second time that movie comes up today) ("motorcycle cop")

but now I am more or less chill about the whole "whole fish dead in my sink" thing.

Thusly (is that a word?) you can imagine but shock and dismay to encounter the same fresh looking fish in a rather cooked state of being when I opened the microwave today. The difference today was the three quarters of his (or her's) body was gone, and really all that remained was his (or her's) skeleton and his head, which was presumably meant to be eaten. I couldn't really handle that, you know? Especially because it stank like re-cooked dead fish and he (or she) looked startlingly familiar. I left a passive-aggressive note on the microwave ("the microwave is not for food store--please use the refrigerator thanks :)") and I believe I exclaimed in an exasperated tone "WHAT THE HELL?!?!" and busted out the Saran Wrap. I swear, some days, it's like I just keep finding fish heads in the microwave. It's like the fucking theme for the day. Like when I went for my Netflix dvd to watch for class. Whatdoyaknow, it was CRACKED!!! And ya, there were seriously other fish heads throughout the day but I'm not going to get into it.

So after getting myself some serious groceries-- a supermegahappy fruit and veggie run, my friends) I came home and determined that there was simply no other option but to watch Empire Records for free on my Netflix internet player, because well fuck, The Longest Day and Seabuscuit (my last two movies to watch for class on Thursday) just weren't on there.

I admit, I own the Empire Records soundtrack, or at least at some point I think I burned my brother's copy onto my computer (it took me like eight times to spell "computer" right-- thank you, Mozilla spellcheck). And so of course the first thing that hits me about the movie is "this song's not on the soundtrack!!!" again and again. The second thing to get me was "Man, Renee Zellwellger used to be healthy looking!!!" and by like, five minutes in I'm completely immersed in like, complete nineties nostalgia. Like I swear, even though ER was made in 1995, me and my best friend J probably tried on outfits akin to Liv Tyler's when her mom used to drop us off at the Tacoma Mall in the old red Saturn (back when the Bon was not Macy's and The Cube occupied the Bon basement, not Menswear-- fuck, back when there was a fountain with stairs down into the Bon basement and NOT a fucking Thomas Kinkaid store-- yah, fellow-Tacomans, you remember dat).

Nineties nostaligia is the new eighties nostalgia, just you wait. But for serious! The music? not on the soundtrack? The Presidents doing "Video Killed The Radio Star". I was fucking moved, it was fucking epic. Like remember "Peaches"?! And "Kitty?!" And "Volcano", that dank tribute to our own magical Mt. Rainer?!?! They just don't make music like that any more? Or what about guys wearing Value Village-esque cardigans? The counter-culture kids today are just to hipster-esque for that shit, and it really causes me grief, because as the standard of living goes up, somehow-- and I don't really understand this-- the recession gains strength. Do not understand. Must stay in school through recession.

Another thing that kills me about this movie is that THEY WORK IN A RECORD STORE. Back when we got our music AT STORES. Pre-iTunes, hell, pre-DSL. This was circa-AOL-dialup! Back when I saved up my allowance to buy a polyester shirt at Rave and the new Bush album (the second one) (and for as shitty as it was, "Swallowed" was and is still a great song, no?). The world has changed so much! There was no 9-11 yet! There was no George W. Bush! There wasn't even an Iraq War! Obama? He was like, twelve years old! Oy. Such simple times were those. Dramatic eyeliner under the eyes, The Cranberries (so fitting!), brown lipstick, being in love with your best friend before there was no stupid Facebook "in a relationship" or whatever. Seriously. I'm pretty sure they just don't make teenage angst like this any more. Mark and his pot brownies (no, not that Mark.), dudes wearing necklaces? Can we please be transplanted back to the magical Clinton nineties? Pleeeease? Mock suicide funerals?! The nineties were so geniune!!! Arggggghhhh!