Fled the Cube

Vestiges of Another Era, Residences for Women Still Exist in Manhattan - NYTimes.com

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 22:47:03 -0500

Vestiges of Another Era, Residences for Women Still Exist in Manhattan - NYTimes.com:

Why didn’t I know about this magical place years ago?

The Coop

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 23:01:01 -0500

Here’s a link to the recent New York Times article on the Park Slope Food Coop. My colleague and fellow coop member thought the piece was whiny and forced, but there were also some accuracies. During my monthly maintenance shift, I too hang out in spotless bathrooms and wonder what the hell I should be doing to keep myself busy. I can drag out stair sweeping for a good 10-15 minutes, not counting the time I take to read all the posters tacked to the wall for various classes, meet-up groups, stuff for sale. Believe it or not, this shift goes by faster than when I used to deliver groceries during snowstorms.

However, I disagree with the so-called “community” at the coop. I’ve been a member and have served on various squads for a few years, and while I love the coop’s prices and food judgment, I don’t feel like I’m part of any particular tribe. Though I do enjoy the sometimes bizarre interactions I see there, including one I was involved with tonight.

Leaving the subway station, I saw an old white woman in a white turban with some sort of medallion pinned at its center. I wished there was a way to discretely snap her picture to share this site, but I just walked by. I stopped at the coop, grabbed some ingredients for lentil soup and got in the checkout line. The woman, who magically transported herself there at lightening speed, ended up being my cashier. Still wearing her turban, she looked at me and said, “Are you from another world?” I said, “No.” I couldn’t tell if she was crazy, whimsical or pissed that I had my headphones on (volume off). Then she said, “Well is there something I can do for you?” as if I was some canvasser who just knocked on her door. I said, “Well, I’d like to purchase these groceries.”

The rest of our exchange continued in this fashion and I could feel the man next to me stifling laughter. I held a straight face to add to his amusement and then lost it when I went outside.

Indian Cooking

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 23:02:00 -0400

Yesterday, Rachel and I attended a cooking class at the Indian Culinary Center, which is actually a rented space in the Inn on 23rd St. Our teacher was a riot who talked all sorts of smack while she taught us to make vegetarian entrees with potatoes, cauliflower, chickpeas and spices. We also cooked an amazing carrot dessert and learned how to fry poori and make paneer—much easier than I thought.

To make paneeer, just boil a quart of whole milk in a heavy pot then add an acid such as 2 teaspoons of lemon juice. We also added 1 1/2 cups of yogurt for extra creaminess. Stir gently to curdle it and lower the heat. Once the milk curdled, we put it in a cheese cloth and let the water drain out for awhile. Since we had limited time, we didn’t let the cheese sit long enough to cut it into cubes, so we just put chunks of it on top of vegetables we had stir-fried. We let the dish cook for awhile without stirring in the paneer so it wouldn’t break apart into tiny pieces. Before it was served, we folded the cheese into the vegetables. Our teacher told us that if we weren’t there, she’d eat the whole bowl of paneer by herself. She’s done it before.

About 12 of us participated in the class and after the food was ready, we sat down for dinner together. Everything tasted wonderful, though I liked the cauliflower the best. I learned that the word “curry” in India simply means a dish with a sauce and that Indians don’t use curry powder at all. Apparently it’s a British invention that makes every dish taste the same. I also finally understand what it means to julienne something. I highly recommend the ICC!

Avenue C

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 21:52:45 -0400

On Avenue C, people like to hang things from things.

Like umbrellas on fire escapes.

And junk on fences.

Walking around, it’s a mix of hipsters and Spanish speakers and you feel like you’re in Rent as well as West Side Story.

They love Obama.

But not bad murals of George W. Bush.

At the Sunburnt Cow, you can get an all-you-can drink brunch for $18 (like Chrissy) or a surprisingly good a la carte portobello sandwich (like me). This place is super loud and dive-y, like the aftermath of a house party not cleaned up for a week, but the Australian waitstaff is nice and if you show up at noon you don’t have to wait.

Edna’s Falafel

Sat, 12 Sep 2009 12:45:44 -0400

Before Annie, Sara and I went to The Moth reading at Cooper Union Thursday night, I went to Edna’s Falafel (formerly known as Chickpea) on Third Avenue and St. Mark’s. Seriously the best falafel sandwich I’ve had…maybe ever. The falafel was crispy on the outside and hot and soft (and green!) on the inside, served on delicious fresh pita. I was going on and on about how great it was, snapped some photos of the place and went back to eating. However, in an effort to get myself in trouble for no reason wherever I go, the story couldn’t stop there.

After taking a bite of my sandwich, a giant man with gray hair and dark eyesmaterialized before me. He’s wearing an apron and in his accent asks, “Is there a problem over here?” I’m thinking, “Oh my god, what?” He said he was either the manager or owner and that he saw me taking photos. Where the hell did he come from? Was he watching me via video in some secret room? Taping my phone calls?

“I just want to know if there is a problem.”

“No. I really like this falafel.” I could tell he didn’t believe me.

“Why were you taking photos?” (I just finished reading The Monster of Florence and his questioning had me paranoid the police were on their way to get me).

“Just for a memento.” I gulp. I’m sweating. Feel my face getting flushed. “Are we not allowed to take photos?”

“Oh no, you are. Just wanted to make sure there wasn’t a problem over here.”

For the record, I don’t plan on opening a competing falafel shop or bombing the place or reporting it to any sort of sanitation police. I really like the falafel here and highly recommend it. Just beware of taking photos.

Day of Service and Remembrance

Fri, 11 Sep 2009 11:02:10 -0400

I absolutely love that President Obama signed into law the Edward M. Kennedy Serve America Act, which federally recognizes Sept. 11 as an annual National Day of Service and Remembrance. What better way to honor the victims than to work to improve the country we love? To help others and give thanks for what we have?

“As a 9/11 family member, I cannot think of a more inspiring, appropriate and constructive tribute to my late brother and all those who perished, were injured or rose in service – to rekindle at least for one day each year the remarkable spirit of compassion and service that unified our country,” says MyGoodDeed.org co-founder and vice president Jay S. Winuk, whose younger brother Glenn J. Winuk, an attorney, volunteer firefighter and EMT, died in the line of duty in the collapse of the World Trade Center. “This groundbreaking national service legislation will greatly benefit the nation in so many meaningful ways as we face these challenging times.”

Of course, there are ignorant cranks who hate this idea and the Village Voice offered this humorous blurb about the “traitors” who will participate in a United We Serve event today. “Clearly [actor Gary] Sinise has been brainwashed by Obama’s food-bank agents. Is there no depth to which he will not sink in his mad quest to reward our enemies with canned goods?”

Birthday Thanks

Wed, 09 Sep 2009 12:22:21 -0400

Thank you to everyone for another fantastic birthday that stretched two weeks. It began with an Italian feast at my grandmother’s, complete with her famous whipped cream cake—and the eating hasn’t really stopped.

After treating me to a pedicure at Dashing Diva, Sarah treated me again to dinner at Pepolino, where the waiters are real Italians who drive motorinos. As you can see, Rachel tried to steal one, as always.

Later that week, my mother visited and took Rachel and me on a food tour of the West Village. Literally, a tour where you just walk around and eat! Had the guide offered more historical anecdotes, it would have been perfect, but still, it was a great tour that included Amy’s Bread, Joe’s Pizza and Murray’s Cheese.

We were bursting by the end of the walk but recovered in time for dinner at Buttermilk Channel, where I ordered the cheddar waffles (as good as they sound), which came with asparagus and mushrooms. The manager (owner?) thought we waited too long to get our meals and so she sent us free peach cobbler for dessert (free food is pretty much all it takes to garner a return visit from me). We then walked home in an 80-mile-an-hour wind storm that knocked down 100 trees in Central Park. Fortunately, we made it to the apartment before the downpour, which surely would have swept away our flip flops in the flooding of the sidewalks.

Wait a minute. I completely messed up this story. The day before my birthday, I returned to Dashing Diva with Mom and Rach for a manicure, then to Buttermilk Channel. The food tour was the next day on my actual birthday. Not that you care about any of this.

Anyway, on my actual birthday we went to Al Di La, where I had the best meal I’ve eaten at a restaurant in a long time (Grandma’s cooking still beats restaurant). Rachel and I both ordered the corn tortelli and we all shared the polenta and Swiss chard (which I only ordered to be healthy, but it turned out to have a surprisingly nice flavor and texture). We had no room for dessert, but later Rachel and Mom sang Happy Birthday while I ate leftover chocolate chip Challah from Amy’s.

Oh, no. I’m not done. Another cake awaited me. The following weekend I visited Lacey and Jay and sweet little Addison. We ordered Mexican and drank wine and watched My Life on the D List. They then surprised me with an ice cream cake, which we ate while playing The Office Trivia Game. I was Jan. I won.

Thanks again for the great food, books, beach trips, Italian DVDs, fun and everything else! My birthday is over. Summer is over. But here’s to a good fall.

Frankie’s

Sun, 06 Sep 2009 22:44:38 -0400

Rachel and I had dinner at Frankie’s Friday night. The weather was perfect, so we sat in the garden and drank rosé (well, I had rosé. Rachel does not believe in it and had white) in the garden until our table was ready.

We both enjoyed the gnocchi and shared the chocolate tart for dessert. Frankie’s offers sandwiches on their dinner menu, which is both rare and fantastic and, based on the fresh bread they gave us, I’m sure they’re delicious. Rachel also ordered an espresso and said it’s the best she’s ever had.

We loved the tin roof (get that B-52s song out of your head) and wooden décor. Carroll Gardens is our new favorite nabe.

Oh, and we took photos all night as if we’ve never had access to a camera. To the left, Rachel + wine. To the right, the lowest doorknobs ever. That’s where the gnomes live.

Below, what we passed on our way there (in addition to new and renovated buildings)

And on our way back down Union St. All aboard Rachel’s Geriatric Express! Cut out the photos and make a flip book.

And Speaking of Missing Children

Sat, 05 Sep 2009 16:10:45 -0400

As I was running through a wooded part of Prospect Park today, I came upon an old man playing a banjo on a bench. A little boy nearby clapped in accompaniment and up ahead, a couple pushed a stroller. I thought it was nice of them to walk so slow so that their boy could listen to the music a little longer. I kept running with my headphones on until I noticed a woman trying to say something to me. In a foreign accent she asked, “Have you seen a child? A little boy with a blue shirt?” I said yes and she looked scared and hopeful and said her husband had been looking for him. I’m guessing they’d been at the nearby green market, which can get crowded, and the boy slipped away. I tried to assure her that her son was OK and was just listening to music, but she was understandably frantic, so I ran with her until she could see him. I’m glad this story had a happy ending. I’m still so upset by that story in California and how our country continuously fails to protect children.

It’s Official. I’m a Bum.

Sat, 22 Aug 2009 13:53:27 -0400

Statistically, New York is one of the safest cities in the United States, and now I have my own anecdote to confirm this. Yesterday, my colleague invited me to a last-minute barbeque in Prospect Park after work. Because it had rained that evening, we had the place to ourselves and, despite the wetness and mosquitoes, had a lovely time sitting around picnic tables in the dark talking about books (White Tiger and The Lemon Tree are now on my list). At one point, a lawyer named Becky, who had 1940s movie star eyebrows and pinned-back curls, wanted us all to be quiet so we could listen to the peep frogs.

So we’re sitting there like good school children quietly listening to the nightlife when all of a sudden two giant police vans roll in and shine their headlights on us. Eight cops get out of the car to investigate our little soiree and they take our licenses to see if we are criminals. We’re not, though half of us had expired licenses since no one drives. If I were a teenager, I would have hysterically cried, but since I’m old, I found the situation kind of amusing.

The police, who were polite enough aside from mocking one young man for drinking non-alcoholic beer, said someone had ratted us out for having a party and that we would have been fine if we had left earlier (it was about 9:30 or so). We all received tickets for drinking in the park, except for one guy who used his magic card. I kicked myself for not giving mine along with my license, but 1) I had completely forgotten about it as I don’t often have run-ins with the police and 2) I doubt I would have had the balls even if I did remember.

Now I have a court date for September. I heard one cop say something about paying a fine instead, but I don’t see anything about that on the pink summons he gave me. Of course when I arrived home, a sketchy crackhead was rummaging through my neighbors trash and trying to pick a fight. I didn’t bother calling the police, though. They’re busy enough busting up wine and cheese parties.

Spelling & Dumpster Swimming

Wed, 19 Aug 2009 09:04:08 -0400

Brooklyn was all over NPR this morning. In one story, the host says, “One popular adult spelling bee lives in an unlikely place.” And I thought, “Hm. Unlikely. Unlikely. Is she talking about Kansas?” But then she says, “A bar in Brooklyn!” What? That’s absolutely the first place I’d guess an adult spelling bee would be occurring.

Another story was about the dumpster swimming pools in Carroll Gardens. But don’t get too excited. Swimming in the trash bins at this “urban country club” is by invitation only.

Celebrate Brooklyn

Wed, 12 Aug 2009 12:33:05 -0400

I’m crying crying because Celebrate Brooklyn ends this week. I love this event because it involves all the best things in the world: music, cheese, wine, friends and time travel. Once you sneak your picnic items through security and pay the ridiculously low $3 suggested donation, you set up camp on the grass. You are then transported to the 1970s, where the boys all have beards or mustaches or mutton chops (or some combination) and the girls wear vintage clothes or reproductions and sport cowboy boots or no shoes at all. Not everyone follows these rules though, including me, the village asshole, who showed up in a Ralph Lauren polo dress. No, I did not look as hip as everyone else, but it was the easiest outfit to throw on in heat so sticky our Brie baked itself 30 seconds after leaving the fridge.

Once night falls and the music begins, pot smoke fills the air and you time travel again to a concert you went to in college, though this time you’re not as inebriated and the chances of you making out with someone are slimmer (unless you’re the couple sitting behind you, in which case you’re making everyone sick).

Last night I went to a benefit concert featuring TV on the Radio. Money raised will be donated to the Sweet Relief Charity fund, which offers financial support to sick and disabled musicians, and also to the Scotty Hard Trust. Scotty Hard is a musician/producer who was paralyzed when a car crashed into the cab he was in, crushing his vertebrae. Unfortunately, like many artists, he didn’t have health insurance at the time, so of course his medical bills are astronomical. This is yet another example of why it’s absolutely shameful that the richest nation on earth hasn’t yet found a way to offer affordable health care to all of its citizens.

The Old Stone House

Sun, 09 Aug 2009 22:22:03 -0400

As I was on my way to an artists’ market at The Old American Can Factory, I stumbled upon an old stone house that I’d never noticed. Literally called the Old Stone House, the building is a 1930 reconstruction of a Dutch farmhouse built in 1699. The original played a somewhat significant role in the Battle of Brooklyn, the largest battle of the American Revolution (we did not win this battle, but being positive Americans, we were able to put a good spin on the situation). In the 1800s, the Old Stone House became the first clubhouse of the Brooklyn Dodgers, who in 1890 switched to the National League and made it to the World Series, only to have it canceled because no one cared. The original Old Stone House was razed in 1897.

The current OSH (should I start abbreviating?) was rebuilt using the original stone and is now run by a nonprofit that has activities there all the time. I started chatting with the director, who invited me inside to see a free play about Walt Whitman.

My day got even better as I walked up the OSH’s stairs and discovered air conditioning and gigantic glasses of wine for $3. Unfortunately, they cut the air when the play started and the room became unbearably hot. Windows locked, sweat streamed down our faces and grown children fell asleep against their parents. Trooper that I am, I continued to drink my red wine even though my face burned as if someone had thrown me in an oven with a plastic bag tied around my head. The room took on the swamp-like qualities original to this part of Brooklyn, and I thought, “What is this, the opera? Do the actors really need to save their voices from artificial coolness?”

Sitting upstairs roasting away, I felt as if I was at church, as I kept spacing out and thinking about my own life. However, I did walk away inspired by Walt Whitman. He lived a simple life and dedicated years to caring for wounded Civil War veterans in Washington, D.C. At one point, he worked for the Department of the Interior, but he was fired when the Secretary found out he wrote Leaves of Grass, which the secretary found offensive.

Our Economy Explained

Wed, 04 Mar 2009 06:43:00 -0500

Our Economy Explained:

What’s happening to our economy is difficult for most of us to wrap our heads around. This week, This American Life did an excellent job breaking down the collapse of the banking system.

Brooklyn’s New Culinary Movement

Thu, 26 Feb 2009 21:34:00 -0500

Brooklyn’s New Culinary Movement:

This story perfectly demonstrates why I’m lucky to live in the greatest borough in the world. I tried the Mast Brothers’ dark chocolate with pistachios tonight—worth the hype! You can find their bars at the Park Slope Food Coop.

Savory Olive Muffins with Sun-Dried Tomatoes and Ricotta Cheese

Tue, 24 Feb 2009 22:42:00 -0500

Savory Olive Muffins with Sun-Dried Tomatoes and Ricotta Cheese:

I found this recipe while searching for the soak time for sun-dried tomatoes. Yum! Definitely going to try this.

Che?

Thu, 11 Dec 2008 02:23:43 -0500

Italian is full of linguistic traps. For example, there is the word pene and then there is penne. Pene means penis. Penne is the pasta. So it’s quite possible that, at some point here, I’ve ordered Pene Arrabiata, which translates to, “I’ll have the angry penis.”

There are so many grammar rules and tenses and everything is masculine or feminine—sometimes both (certain words like to swap genders when the mood strikes). Some things you write, but never say; other things you say but never write. One word can mean ten different things.

Also, the spelling/meaning/pronunciation of a word depends on its tense. But then Italians break their rules all the time and use something like this as an excuse, “We say it this way instead because it sounds more musical.” Ah, I see. Esser andata is much more musical than essere andata. Glad I have that non-rule down. Grrr.

Catacombs of San Callisto

Wed, 10 Dec 2008 03:27:00 -0500

Well, I finally have an Italian friend, which is good for a number of reasons, including her invitation to visit her parents’ place in Calabria this summer.

Caterina and I have only hung out a few times, but she’s helped my Italian a lot. Last weekend, she, her brother, my friend Kelly and I visited the Catacombs of San Callisto on the periphery of Rome. About 500,000 people are buried in this multi-layered labyrinth. The oldest graves are on the top level and they get progressively “newer” the deeper you go. There’s still a lot of art at the lower levels, but the barbarians destroyed a lot of what is now accessible to the public.

The catacombs, there were a few dozen, were the sole burying place for Christians until the 300s (A.D.), when Constantine became the first Christian emperor and allowed Christian burials to take place within Rome’s walls (the Roman’s cremated their dead). People continued to be buried in the catacombs until the barbarians invaded them a few hundred years later because they were considered sacred, and the early Christians martyrs. In total, the catacomb tunnels stretch about 375 miles.

There’s a myth that the early Christians hid out in the catacombs to escape persecution, but our guide said there’s no evidence of this. The Romans knew of the catacombs but didn’t go to them because they respected the burial places of other religions (They might’ve killed you if they found out you were Christian, but at least you could rest in peace).

At the Catacombs of San Callisto, I learned where the Jesus fish comes from. The first letters of “Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior,” spell fish in Greek, the official language of the church until 400, according to my guide (although my teacher disputes this).

After our catacombs visit, I had lunch with Caterina and her brother and sister, who cooked up a meal da Calabria ed era molto buono e divertente a pranzare con loro. Mi mancherano già.

A Virtual Brunch for Rach

Tue, 09 Dec 2008 07:01:25 -0500

Museo Nazionale Romano

Tue, 09 Dec 2008 06:44:00 -0500

I believe most of the art I photographed at the Museo Nazionale Romano comes from the first century A.D. There are a few national museums here and this one, at Palazzo Massimo alle Terme, is said to be the best because of its collection of ancient art.

Greek Discus Thrower

Aphrodite—looking more womanly than goddess-like here. Yay!

A sleeping hermaphrodite.

From a ship. Pretty ornate, no?

I loved the mosaics. Check out the different colors used to add depth to the birds and fish and food. The pieces are so tiny.

This intricate design made me dizzy.