Kelly is excited the moment I pick him up from work. He steels himself, though, and falls in beside me. Walking to the car, we exchange sideways glances and I pull my scarf further up to hide my face, trying to look nonchalant. "You got the stuff?" he asks. I nod and motion him towards the car. "It's in the trunk," I say. He gets in and we drive back to his place, fully aware of the items hidden in their bags. I pull into a spot away from prying eyes and pops the trunk. He gets the items out and hugs them to his chest. We're silent all the way upstairs to the safety of his apartment. "Alright," he says as soon as the door is shut and locked behind him, "let's see what we got."
This is my first CSA. Before Kelly, the only CSA I knew was the Community Service Advisor in college. That morning, I drove all the local middle school and approached the unmarked, white van. I gave Kelly's name and got a plastic bag in return. Knowing it would be five pounds, I was a little disappointed that it didn't strain a single muscle (there's something about the word "pounds" that lends a sense of gravity and mass--a bit of oomph that would cause some effort instead of swinging it at my side as I walked back to the car). As I promised, I waited for Kelly to get out before we unwrapped our meat Christmas, eager to see what CSA Santa brought us.
Kelly digs into the bag, eager to see what we got. He oohs and ahhs at the pork chops thin enough to be prosciutto, a lump of chicken breast the size of my fist, and a unknown hunk of beef that Kel has already designated for braising and smothering. He tosses me the chicken breasts and I put them down on the table, eager to decide what to do...my limited cookbook flipping its pages through my mind.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Monday, January 3, 2011
The noodle incident
"There you guys are," Cordelia says with a grateful sigh. "They've been giving me dirty looks. 'Who's this bitch think she is taking up a four-top...'" The dumpling place smells of the usual Chinese spices, the air thick and soupy with white pepper and sesame seed. Flushed with a few hours exploring the MFA and the train ride over to Chinatown, I sit down across from her after the usual greeting of kisses on each cheek. "This place is supposed to be phenomenal," she gushes.
The menu is expected...noodles; soups; sections for beef, chicken, and seafood. But we're not here for any of those. Looking at the Dumpling section, I breeze through the short list but Cordelia's already chosen. The last two items are not the dumplings I have grown used to. Encased in the slightly sticky skin, the dumplings are filled with a cousin to pork soup. "It's the latest thing that's really big in New York," Cordelia says after she orders them. The waitress smiles and brings us refills of ice water. In only a few moments, she returns with the bamboo steamer. Cordelia pops it open with a gentle hand and fishes out a dumpling with the provided tongs. Her eagerness punctures the side of one, bleeding the pork soup out onto her plate. "Oh no! That's the best part," Kelly says with some consolation. She quickly fishes it onto her flat spoon. Using the care of a surgeon, Kelly and I fish ours out by gripping the purses' thicker tops in the tongs.
The dumplings are hot and sharp. The pork perfectly done and the soup a viscous orange that tastes just as it looks. Savoring the first one, we each devour our second with less care. Popping hers into her mouth, Cordelia's face switches back and forth from wide-eyed pain of the hot soup to delight with the taste. As the waitress returns, we make a decision that sets into motion "the Noodle Incident" [insert dramatic music here].
Cordelia orders the other soupy dumplings as Kelly and I peruse the rest of the menu for something else to go along with it. Kelly asks for another water glass and Cordelia and I decide on noodles with pan-seared pork and mustard greens. "Not the soup one," she says to the waitress, pointing to the menu with emphasis. The waitress smiles and we go back to our conversation, unaware that Pandora's box had been opened.
The waitress returns to fill our glasses and gives Kelly a second, empty glass. She looks concerned and hands it over with as much gusto as she could while imagining what this strange man wants with an empty drinking glass. "No, I wanted it filled..." Kelly says, but she is already gone to another table, and his request fades with her. And then the noodles arrive. They smell strong and we each grab a portion onto our plates. "They taste super snotty," Kelly warns and manages to suck down the bundle twisted around his chopsticks. I manage to get a little of the pork and greens with mine and shovel it quickly into my mouth to keep it from dropping onto my lap. The noodles are strings of mucus so soft that they break apart with the barest touch of my tongue. The pork is boiled and tough, while the greens are limp and soggy (and all of it is somehow flavorless despite the scent of spice).
"I think they just drained the soup and plated it," Cordelia whispers. Kelly and I nod in agreement and we all put the remainder back on our plate. As nicely as possible (and after a few minutes of agonizing), she calls the waitress back over and apologizes, but tells her that the noodles aren't what we ordered. The waitress, who understood us perfectly before, suddenly transforms into a woman fresh from Beijing with the barest grasp of English. With each rephrasing into the baser parts of the conversation, Cordelia's gentleness fades until she is all but yelling "We don't want these!" and gesturing at the plate of noodles with both hands. "So sorry," the waitress says in broken English and takes the plate away to the general manager. A slightly older woman with a no-nonsense haircut, the GM comes to our table. "You not like?" she asks. "Sorry, but it's not what we ordered," Cordelia says, bringing some of her original charm and care back into her voice. The GM nods with understanding and then is replaced by a waitress that is not ours. "You not like?" she asks harshly. We all shake our heads and watch as yet another waitress comes to our table. Lather, rinse, and repeat a few more times. Cordelia emphasizes it was not what we ordered as Kelly and I cover our mouths with our drinking glasses, sucking down water and then devouring the ice...anything to keep us from talking and taking the attention away from our unintentional sacrificial lamb.
As the GM returns, Cordelia sighs. "We'll just get our order of dumplings, please," she says. She asks for the other kind that we have not had and the waitress brings over the same steamer of dumplings as before. "Let's just eat them and go," I say and Kelly nods. We suck the dumplings down, scalding our tongues and blistering the roofs of our respective mouths. Kelly and I pull out cash to pay, but our waitress has disappeared. Awkwardly, we wait as every eye of the serving staff, kitchen, and front of the house watches us to see what unreasonable request we would make next. In what seems like a lifetime, our waitress returns and we pay her as quickly as possible. Returning with Cordelia's card, she brings a plate of orange slices that Kelly and I ignore and shrug on our coats as quick as we could. Cordelia pops one in her mouth, sucks off the fruit, and joins us on our run away from the dumpling place. "I can't believe you did that," Kelly says. "What do you mean?" Cordelia asks, her voice quivering just slightly with concern. "You know they spit on the fruit," I tell her and she gags.
Embarrassed, slightly abused, and still a little peckish, we disappear in search of a bar in hopes that we can put a good spin on the story.
The menu is expected...noodles; soups; sections for beef, chicken, and seafood. But we're not here for any of those. Looking at the Dumpling section, I breeze through the short list but Cordelia's already chosen. The last two items are not the dumplings I have grown used to. Encased in the slightly sticky skin, the dumplings are filled with a cousin to pork soup. "It's the latest thing that's really big in New York," Cordelia says after she orders them. The waitress smiles and brings us refills of ice water. In only a few moments, she returns with the bamboo steamer. Cordelia pops it open with a gentle hand and fishes out a dumpling with the provided tongs. Her eagerness punctures the side of one, bleeding the pork soup out onto her plate. "Oh no! That's the best part," Kelly says with some consolation. She quickly fishes it onto her flat spoon. Using the care of a surgeon, Kelly and I fish ours out by gripping the purses' thicker tops in the tongs.
The dumplings are hot and sharp. The pork perfectly done and the soup a viscous orange that tastes just as it looks. Savoring the first one, we each devour our second with less care. Popping hers into her mouth, Cordelia's face switches back and forth from wide-eyed pain of the hot soup to delight with the taste. As the waitress returns, we make a decision that sets into motion "the Noodle Incident" [insert dramatic music here].
Cordelia orders the other soupy dumplings as Kelly and I peruse the rest of the menu for something else to go along with it. Kelly asks for another water glass and Cordelia and I decide on noodles with pan-seared pork and mustard greens. "Not the soup one," she says to the waitress, pointing to the menu with emphasis. The waitress smiles and we go back to our conversation, unaware that Pandora's box had been opened.
The waitress returns to fill our glasses and gives Kelly a second, empty glass. She looks concerned and hands it over with as much gusto as she could while imagining what this strange man wants with an empty drinking glass. "No, I wanted it filled..." Kelly says, but she is already gone to another table, and his request fades with her. And then the noodles arrive. They smell strong and we each grab a portion onto our plates. "They taste super snotty," Kelly warns and manages to suck down the bundle twisted around his chopsticks. I manage to get a little of the pork and greens with mine and shovel it quickly into my mouth to keep it from dropping onto my lap. The noodles are strings of mucus so soft that they break apart with the barest touch of my tongue. The pork is boiled and tough, while the greens are limp and soggy (and all of it is somehow flavorless despite the scent of spice).
"I think they just drained the soup and plated it," Cordelia whispers. Kelly and I nod in agreement and we all put the remainder back on our plate. As nicely as possible (and after a few minutes of agonizing), she calls the waitress back over and apologizes, but tells her that the noodles aren't what we ordered. The waitress, who understood us perfectly before, suddenly transforms into a woman fresh from Beijing with the barest grasp of English. With each rephrasing into the baser parts of the conversation, Cordelia's gentleness fades until she is all but yelling "We don't want these!" and gesturing at the plate of noodles with both hands. "So sorry," the waitress says in broken English and takes the plate away to the general manager. A slightly older woman with a no-nonsense haircut, the GM comes to our table. "You not like?" she asks. "Sorry, but it's not what we ordered," Cordelia says, bringing some of her original charm and care back into her voice. The GM nods with understanding and then is replaced by a waitress that is not ours. "You not like?" she asks harshly. We all shake our heads and watch as yet another waitress comes to our table. Lather, rinse, and repeat a few more times. Cordelia emphasizes it was not what we ordered as Kelly and I cover our mouths with our drinking glasses, sucking down water and then devouring the ice...anything to keep us from talking and taking the attention away from our unintentional sacrificial lamb.
As the GM returns, Cordelia sighs. "We'll just get our order of dumplings, please," she says. She asks for the other kind that we have not had and the waitress brings over the same steamer of dumplings as before. "Let's just eat them and go," I say and Kelly nods. We suck the dumplings down, scalding our tongues and blistering the roofs of our respective mouths. Kelly and I pull out cash to pay, but our waitress has disappeared. Awkwardly, we wait as every eye of the serving staff, kitchen, and front of the house watches us to see what unreasonable request we would make next. In what seems like a lifetime, our waitress returns and we pay her as quickly as possible. Returning with Cordelia's card, she brings a plate of orange slices that Kelly and I ignore and shrug on our coats as quick as we could. Cordelia pops one in her mouth, sucks off the fruit, and joins us on our run away from the dumpling place. "I can't believe you did that," Kelly says. "What do you mean?" Cordelia asks, her voice quivering just slightly with concern. "You know they spit on the fruit," I tell her and she gags.
Embarrassed, slightly abused, and still a little peckish, we disappear in search of a bar in hopes that we can put a good spin on the story.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Will to eat...fading
I feel as if I have been running for days. My hands are cracked, my legs are tight with exhaustion, and I am wearing lethargy like a cape. I have been on an eating marathon.
I wake up from a night of drunken debauchery (see "Homeless fishman Christmas) and suffer through a few hours of work before schlepping back into the city for FoSF's chunkier, raucous cousin...Meat Fest. After helping Kelly finalize his apartment cleaning, I rush to the North End to pick up Evie and we return to find Kelly in full swing. A cheese platter also fitted with pate, chorizo, and prosciutto stare up at us, and we graze through the final moments of chaos that dominate Kelly's kitchen.
The menu, surprisingly, has a few vegetarian options (more so than I would have imagined)...but they are so thick with starches and carbs that they may as well be bacon wrapped around chicken stuffed with quail. Kelly pours out the champagne into our glasses (cleverly marked with wine markers that fit our personalities...I am "understated but competent") and begins plating. Pan-seared cauliflower with garlic and capers are placed right next to his English potatoes slathered with herbed goat cheese (my favorite of the whole meal). Next comes Evie's mushroom pasta and her scallop and crab stuffed jumbo shrimp. Cordelia buzzes to be let in, joining us with a flush from the cold coloring her cheeks.
And then the meat appears. Beef Wellington, as big as my fist and coated with a glossy egg-wash, is pulled from the oven and Kelly begins cutting. Decorated with a puff pastry candy cane on it's surface, the pastry crumbles under the knife and the juices spill. The meat is pale and blushing in the center. Kelly divides it into quarters and we each get a slab.
I haven't really eaten all day. Still full from FoSF and just getting over my hangover, all I managed to trick my body into consuming is a small sandwich and water. By now, I am ravenous. I pile my plate with cauliflower, potatoes, pasta, a shrimp, more potatoes, and then the Beef Wellington. The meat is so perfect that I almost pick it clean out of its protective puff shell.
After gifts are exchanged, Kelly returns to the kitchen and Evie and Cordelia glow with delight. "Time for dessert," Kelly says and I can hear something sizzle on the pan. After a few moments, he scoops out a seared slab of jelly and doles out a portion on everyone's now empty plates. "It's foie gras," Cordelia says and divides a thick piece from her own with her fork. Kelly pours a Sauternes to pair and I look down with determination at my plate. By this point, I just want to cross the finish line. Fatty and smooth, with a crust of carmelization on the tops, the foie gras tastes delicious but makes my teeth feel slick. I rinse them off with the Sauternes and manage to clean my plate yet again.
As the night ends, I pull a comatose Kelly into the car with me to drive Evie back home and wish Cordelia a good night and happy holidays. I move automatically the entire drive knowing that, in a matter of hours, I will have to get up and start eating again for the holidays.
I wake up from a night of drunken debauchery (see "Homeless fishman Christmas) and suffer through a few hours of work before schlepping back into the city for FoSF's chunkier, raucous cousin...Meat Fest. After helping Kelly finalize his apartment cleaning, I rush to the North End to pick up Evie and we return to find Kelly in full swing. A cheese platter also fitted with pate, chorizo, and prosciutto stare up at us, and we graze through the final moments of chaos that dominate Kelly's kitchen.
The menu, surprisingly, has a few vegetarian options (more so than I would have imagined)...but they are so thick with starches and carbs that they may as well be bacon wrapped around chicken stuffed with quail. Kelly pours out the champagne into our glasses (cleverly marked with wine markers that fit our personalities...I am "understated but competent") and begins plating. Pan-seared cauliflower with garlic and capers are placed right next to his English potatoes slathered with herbed goat cheese (my favorite of the whole meal). Next comes Evie's mushroom pasta and her scallop and crab stuffed jumbo shrimp. Cordelia buzzes to be let in, joining us with a flush from the cold coloring her cheeks.
And then the meat appears. Beef Wellington, as big as my fist and coated with a glossy egg-wash, is pulled from the oven and Kelly begins cutting. Decorated with a puff pastry candy cane on it's surface, the pastry crumbles under the knife and the juices spill. The meat is pale and blushing in the center. Kelly divides it into quarters and we each get a slab.
I haven't really eaten all day. Still full from FoSF and just getting over my hangover, all I managed to trick my body into consuming is a small sandwich and water. By now, I am ravenous. I pile my plate with cauliflower, potatoes, pasta, a shrimp, more potatoes, and then the Beef Wellington. The meat is so perfect that I almost pick it clean out of its protective puff shell.
After gifts are exchanged, Kelly returns to the kitchen and Evie and Cordelia glow with delight. "Time for dessert," Kelly says and I can hear something sizzle on the pan. After a few moments, he scoops out a seared slab of jelly and doles out a portion on everyone's now empty plates. "It's foie gras," Cordelia says and divides a thick piece from her own with her fork. Kelly pours a Sauternes to pair and I look down with determination at my plate. By this point, I just want to cross the finish line. Fatty and smooth, with a crust of carmelization on the tops, the foie gras tastes delicious but makes my teeth feel slick. I rinse them off with the Sauternes and manage to clean my plate yet again.
As the night ends, I pull a comatose Kelly into the car with me to drive Evie back home and wish Cordelia a good night and happy holidays. I move automatically the entire drive knowing that, in a matter of hours, I will have to get up and start eating again for the holidays.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Homeless fishman Christmas
I slump over onto my desk. My computer stares back with judgment across its screen, knowing full well what I did last night. "Well, your shoes are at least different," Virginia says with a giggle. "So you only look a little homeless." I mumble something unintelligible and reach for my water. I feel twisted and rung out like a used sponge, but it was worth it for the Feast of the Seven Fishes.
The name itself evokes some sort of ancient ritual. It's other name is the Vigil [La Vigilia], which only enhances this feel. It has also been a tradition for Kelly's Bottega friends. Since we have been seriously dating, I have heard of the magical night from Kelly at odd times. It's always said with the glitter and awe that most see in five year olds when listening to them talk about Santa.
The day of, we gather/pre-game at Karen and Michael's apartment. Karen's mother coos at the baby as Michael pours champagne for a toast. A second toast is done when Cordelia arrives, and yet a third as we get to the restaurant and meet up with Evie. The waitress seats us at a gorgeous table in the back and Kelly makes the first choice of wine for the night. Nestled between Kelly and Cordelia, I keep shooting goofy looks to Karen (the only other non-wine geek) and prepare myself for the long haul.
Fish #1 - Cherrystone clams & pemaquid oysters with prosecco mignonette and lemon
Fish #2 - Duet of Tuna (yellowfin tartare, Spanish mojama, and artichoke)
The first two dishes come out almost in tandem. The salty shellfish barely sucked down before the waiter returns with the tuna. He refills our glasses [pouring a sliver more for me because, according to Kel, I am "the hot one"] and someone initiates "the Ugly Shell Game." As the clams and oysters are sucked down, we flip the shells over and stare at the coarse, raw sides blasted with years of saltwater. I have the contender for most of the game until Karen flips her knotted and pitted oyster.
Fish #3 - North End whipped baccala with olive oil, grilled bread, and wild mushrooms
Fish #4 - Neptune Waldorf salad with smoked salmon, grapes, walnuts, and apples
Evie picks the next bottle as Kelly chases the chef (a friend of the group's) back into the kitchen to make sure he knows about Karen's nut allergy. "Kelly! He knows!" she shouts as he disappears behind a corner. The baccala is airy and savory. I dollop more of what I can only assume is a fine mousse of mushroom and olive oil onto it and force myself to start pacing. I haven't really eaten all day and I binge on the fish and wine as if it were my last meal. The salad is just as delicious--Karen's well-being saved by her own plate with some hot pepper to replace the effect of the missing nuts.
Fish #5 - George's Bank diver scallops with celery root, golden raisins, and petite mache
Fish #6 - Grilled Main lobster tail with buttery leeks, shaved black truffle, and chanterelles
Michael's turn for another white that pairs as perfectly with the fish as the previous choices. The scallops are plated like delicate sculptures, looking very much like the netsuke display at the MFA. Caramelized on top, they melt away from the fork in a way I have never seen in seafood and I swallow mine with as much gusto as the baccala. "This is my favorite holiday tradition!" Kelly beams and Michael smiles wide. "That's eight," he says and the rest of the wine geeks applaud Cordelia for her guess. "We had a pool going to see how many times he would say that," Karen explains to me as Kelly faux-fumes.
Fish #7 - Roasted monkfish with shellfish brodetto, roasted tomato, and olives
Kelly's indignation is cut off by the last fish. At this point, I am a human aquarium with the devoured fish swimming in the perfect whites. Cordelia makes the last wine choice and I look down at my monkfish. The last serving on the plate, it's heaped with vegetables and looks nothing like the monster it came from. Drinking a generous helping of the new wine, I plow through the fish before foisting my shellfish brodetto onto Kelly. The other people at the table, however, are in a similar state...nursing their wine glasses and looking down at the ruins of their plates.
After the "Merry Christmases" and drunken hugs, Kelly and I load up into a cab back to Cambridge. Content and lit like a Christmas tree, I drunkenly hug his arm the whole ride back. "And just think," Kelly says with an evil smile, "You get to do the meat feast tomorrow..."
To be continued.
The name itself evokes some sort of ancient ritual. It's other name is the Vigil [La Vigilia], which only enhances this feel. It has also been a tradition for Kelly's Bottega friends. Since we have been seriously dating, I have heard of the magical night from Kelly at odd times. It's always said with the glitter and awe that most see in five year olds when listening to them talk about Santa.
The day of, we gather/pre-game at Karen and Michael's apartment. Karen's mother coos at the baby as Michael pours champagne for a toast. A second toast is done when Cordelia arrives, and yet a third as we get to the restaurant and meet up with Evie. The waitress seats us at a gorgeous table in the back and Kelly makes the first choice of wine for the night. Nestled between Kelly and Cordelia, I keep shooting goofy looks to Karen (the only other non-wine geek) and prepare myself for the long haul.
Fish #1 - Cherrystone clams & pemaquid oysters with prosecco mignonette and lemon
Fish #2 - Duet of Tuna (yellowfin tartare, Spanish mojama, and artichoke)
The first two dishes come out almost in tandem. The salty shellfish barely sucked down before the waiter returns with the tuna. He refills our glasses [pouring a sliver more for me because, according to Kel, I am "the hot one"] and someone initiates "the Ugly Shell Game." As the clams and oysters are sucked down, we flip the shells over and stare at the coarse, raw sides blasted with years of saltwater. I have the contender for most of the game until Karen flips her knotted and pitted oyster.
Fish #3 - North End whipped baccala with olive oil, grilled bread, and wild mushrooms
Fish #4 - Neptune Waldorf salad with smoked salmon, grapes, walnuts, and apples
Evie picks the next bottle as Kelly chases the chef (a friend of the group's) back into the kitchen to make sure he knows about Karen's nut allergy. "Kelly! He knows!" she shouts as he disappears behind a corner. The baccala is airy and savory. I dollop more of what I can only assume is a fine mousse of mushroom and olive oil onto it and force myself to start pacing. I haven't really eaten all day and I binge on the fish and wine as if it were my last meal. The salad is just as delicious--Karen's well-being saved by her own plate with some hot pepper to replace the effect of the missing nuts.
Fish #5 - George's Bank diver scallops with celery root, golden raisins, and petite mache
Fish #6 - Grilled Main lobster tail with buttery leeks, shaved black truffle, and chanterelles
Michael's turn for another white that pairs as perfectly with the fish as the previous choices. The scallops are plated like delicate sculptures, looking very much like the netsuke display at the MFA. Caramelized on top, they melt away from the fork in a way I have never seen in seafood and I swallow mine with as much gusto as the baccala. "This is my favorite holiday tradition!" Kelly beams and Michael smiles wide. "That's eight," he says and the rest of the wine geeks applaud Cordelia for her guess. "We had a pool going to see how many times he would say that," Karen explains to me as Kelly faux-fumes.
Fish #7 - Roasted monkfish with shellfish brodetto, roasted tomato, and olives
Kelly's indignation is cut off by the last fish. At this point, I am a human aquarium with the devoured fish swimming in the perfect whites. Cordelia makes the last wine choice and I look down at my monkfish. The last serving on the plate, it's heaped with vegetables and looks nothing like the monster it came from. Drinking a generous helping of the new wine, I plow through the fish before foisting my shellfish brodetto onto Kelly. The other people at the table, however, are in a similar state...nursing their wine glasses and looking down at the ruins of their plates.
After the "Merry Christmases" and drunken hugs, Kelly and I load up into a cab back to Cambridge. Content and lit like a Christmas tree, I drunkenly hug his arm the whole ride back. "And just think," Kelly says with an evil smile, "You get to do the meat feast tomorrow..."
To be continued.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
'Tis the season to get really fat
The entire apartment smells like nutmeg and smoke. I crack the oven door, gag on the dragon's breath curling out in gray wisps, and slam it shut as soon as I'm sure that nothing is really on fire. I have had this new oven/apartment for a few months and this is the first time it has fought back. Have I been using it too much? I did a few items for Thanksgiving, a pie here or there, dinner...nothing too strenuous. In fact, it has been training with me these past couple of weeks. We've gotten up early everyday, downed a glass of raw egg yokes, and worked out for hours until we're sweating/rusting. It's Christmas/Hanukkah, which means cookies.
For the past few years, or rather for the past few years that I had steady employment, I have been baking cookies for the girls at the office. Virginia, Baxter, and Peggy have been putting up with my crap all year, and I show my appreciation by adding to their waistlines. I usually wait until the cookie tins go on sale at the local craft store, and then I plan on how to fill them [the tins and my co-workers]. Last year, the girls and I came to the idea of an informal cookie swap for the department if only because (1) it is cheaper than gift cards and (2) we were already doing one unintentionally.
Last year, I cranked out:
This year, I decided to up the quality instead of the quantity [and I actually have a S.O. to shop for, which adds a whole person to budget for]:
For the past few years, or rather for the past few years that I had steady employment, I have been baking cookies for the girls at the office. Virginia, Baxter, and Peggy have been putting up with my crap all year, and I show my appreciation by adding to their waistlines. I usually wait until the cookie tins go on sale at the local craft store, and then I plan on how to fill them [the tins and my co-workers]. Last year, the girls and I came to the idea of an informal cookie swap for the department if only because (1) it is cheaper than gift cards and (2) we were already doing one unintentionally.
Last year, I cranked out:
- Chocolate cherry squares
- Mexican wedding cakes
- Eggnog cookies
- Peppermint snowballs
This year, I decided to up the quality instead of the quantity [and I actually have a S.O. to shop for, which adds a whole person to budget for]:
- Port brownies
- Eggnog cookies
- Kris Kringles with dried cherries
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Let me count the ways...
It is usually this way many a morning. I wake up with my alarm pulling at my ears, punching me in the face with each shrill beep and squeak. I pull myself from the comforting arms of the bed (and often Kelly) to stare my reflection down in the mirror and dare him to say something. My hair is a mess, smooshed down along some strange plane that I can't pretend is a chosen style. My entire face hurts from the pressure building behind it and being forced to squint in the angry sunlight. I remain in my inhuman state until my third cup of coffee, where I start to return to the self I abandoned the night before.
On the mornings after that Kelly gets up with me, he is chipper from the get-go. Shiny and excited in the poisonous way that only morning people can be, he chatters at me, goading me to answer something more than "ugh," "meh," or "I will kill you" in a bleary, raspy monotone. Unlike most of humanity (leading me to believe my boyfriend is a gay robot), Kelly doesn't suffer from hangovers.
Before dating him, I didn't really drink that much. In college, yes...but only on weekends and the stray Thursday that I didn't have a meeting at one of the magazines I interned at or with my thesis advisor. I also am a fairly small man, or as Samantha likes to say, "You're too damn skinny." My mother also gets giggly from just smelling wine, so the fates are against me for having any sort of tolerance. Where most would be happy to have such a "cheap date," Kelly is slightly embarrassed and surprised the times that I manage to keep up.
One morning at brunch, he watches me sit silently, sip my third or fourth cup of life, and scrape at the remains of my pancakes, before saying "You know, you should write about the downsides of dating me." I arch an eyebrow. "You always brag about the free food, drinks, and going to these great parties and things, but you never tell them about the other stuff."
And he's right. Therefore, let me include my list of top three things that I do not enjoy about dating a foodie...
1. "Why hello Mr. Scale..."
Since I have started dating Kelly, I have gained a lot of weight. When we first met, my doctor was concerned that I was a little too thin and wanted me to try and go from 140lbs to at least 160lbs. At this time, my pants were too large and I had to start wearing a 30-inch waist. Now, eight months later, I am heavier than I have ever been. With all the rich foods, alcohol, and constant eating out, I have shot past my doctor's desired weight by 10lbs. My old pants that were too big are a pinch too tight in the waist and I have already begun trying to remember my old work-out schedule.
2. "Stupid, vile Daystar"
As mentioned above, Kelly has an iron liver that refuses to let him be punished. I, on the other hand, can't have more than a glass of wine before I have to start chugging water to combat the effects. I also have a caffeine addiction, which means that I am not safe for human consumption in the mornings until I have emptied a coffee mug. Kelly doesn't share my habits and likes to test how far he can go each morning by putting his hands in the lion's den and grabbing the tail.
3. "Could you sign it 'to Sherry, love Kelly'?"
It doesn't really matter where we go out, it is inevitable that I will be subjected to another foodie who must talk about X while Kelly and I are waiting for our entrees. Boston is a small city and the industry is even smaller. Burger joints, bagel shops, even a hole-in-the-wall donut shop in Allston all had someone in them that recognized Kelly and wanted to talk about this person's list at such a place. At first it wasn't an issue, and I actually thought it was cute to watch him geek out with another wine buyer or chef. Now, I just want to eat my bagel in peace and not have to worry about contributing to a conversation that was only half in English. "Beaujo-who? No, never heard of him...pass the cream cheese?"
On the mornings after that Kelly gets up with me, he is chipper from the get-go. Shiny and excited in the poisonous way that only morning people can be, he chatters at me, goading me to answer something more than "ugh," "meh," or "I will kill you" in a bleary, raspy monotone. Unlike most of humanity (leading me to believe my boyfriend is a gay robot), Kelly doesn't suffer from hangovers.
Before dating him, I didn't really drink that much. In college, yes...but only on weekends and the stray Thursday that I didn't have a meeting at one of the magazines I interned at or with my thesis advisor. I also am a fairly small man, or as Samantha likes to say, "You're too damn skinny." My mother also gets giggly from just smelling wine, so the fates are against me for having any sort of tolerance. Where most would be happy to have such a "cheap date," Kelly is slightly embarrassed and surprised the times that I manage to keep up.
One morning at brunch, he watches me sit silently, sip my third or fourth cup of life, and scrape at the remains of my pancakes, before saying "You know, you should write about the downsides of dating me." I arch an eyebrow. "You always brag about the free food, drinks, and going to these great parties and things, but you never tell them about the other stuff."
And he's right. Therefore, let me include my list of top three things that I do not enjoy about dating a foodie...
1. "Why hello Mr. Scale..."
Since I have started dating Kelly, I have gained a lot of weight. When we first met, my doctor was concerned that I was a little too thin and wanted me to try and go from 140lbs to at least 160lbs. At this time, my pants were too large and I had to start wearing a 30-inch waist. Now, eight months later, I am heavier than I have ever been. With all the rich foods, alcohol, and constant eating out, I have shot past my doctor's desired weight by 10lbs. My old pants that were too big are a pinch too tight in the waist and I have already begun trying to remember my old work-out schedule.
2. "Stupid, vile Daystar"
As mentioned above, Kelly has an iron liver that refuses to let him be punished. I, on the other hand, can't have more than a glass of wine before I have to start chugging water to combat the effects. I also have a caffeine addiction, which means that I am not safe for human consumption in the mornings until I have emptied a coffee mug. Kelly doesn't share my habits and likes to test how far he can go each morning by putting his hands in the lion's den and grabbing the tail.
3. "Could you sign it 'to Sherry, love Kelly'?"
It doesn't really matter where we go out, it is inevitable that I will be subjected to another foodie who must talk about X while Kelly and I are waiting for our entrees. Boston is a small city and the industry is even smaller. Burger joints, bagel shops, even a hole-in-the-wall donut shop in Allston all had someone in them that recognized Kelly and wanted to talk about this person's list at such a place. At first it wasn't an issue, and I actually thought it was cute to watch him geek out with another wine buyer or chef. Now, I just want to eat my bagel in peace and not have to worry about contributing to a conversation that was only half in English. "Beaujo-who? No, never heard of him...pass the cream cheese?"
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Gobble gobble
I'm physically and emotionally exhausted. Work has been running me ragged even more so than usual. I walk around the office wearing what Virginia so eloquently refers to as "badger face" and chew out someone for throwing in the history of document outsourcing into their analysis for the sole purpose of padding their piece. The stress only adds to my frustration and makes it very difficult to function. I have no drive to blog, my attempt for NaNoWriMo is nowhere near the word count I should have (I might be able to get 25,000 of my 50,000 words written this year), and I couldn't want to do really anything beyond escape into someone else's life [read as books and TV].
"You have Thanksgiving plans?" Kelly asks as he tries to massage the cold steel knots out of my back. His thumbs dig one out of my left side and I have to turn my head to keep from speaking into the pillow. "We're not really a big Thanksgiving family," I tell him.
For as long as I can remember, Thanksgiving has always been a sort of meh holiday for me. It's the one holiday that my family doesn't really go all out for. We do the turkey, stuffing, and the rest of the expected menu, but beyond a special grace and a jigsaw puzzle the day could be any other out of the month. My mother's side, which dominates most of the East Coast, keeps to itself and we all do our own things. I may see my grandparents, but they usually have other plans. All in all, the day is observed by my father watching the Game while Mom, D, Ej, and I look for edges and curse the artist who decided that a reflection was needed for the puzzle to really shine.
This year, however, it was something that I was truly thankful for...an honest to God holiday. A day where I don't have to argue with imbeciles, decipher broken English, or explain for the umpteenth time that no, punctuation is not optional or subjective to your style of writing. I drive from Kelly's apartment to my own and begin whipping up my expected sides. This year, Mom had mostly everything under control...and by that I mean she remembered last minute and decided to go ultra-simple. Green bean casserole and her grandmother's potatoes were made the night before. The rolls were bought from the grocery store's bakery. The turkey was already thawing in the fridge. All she needed was a little help.
I originally planned to do a pumpkin pie (I bought an apple pie for my siblings, who don't care for the pumpkin version) and two sides, but in the end was told by mom to just do the sides as Grandma was swinging by on the way to some other function and was bringing a pumpkin pie of her own. To keep with mom's theme of simple sides, I stole two recipes to work with. Kelly's roasted brussell sprouts with bacon took minutes, but I ended up getting distracted by multitasking and burned one side of the bacon. Stella (of Bravetart fame) provided me with her savory apple tart, and I used it to make her tart's hillbilly, bastard cousin. Where she uses fresh, home-made dough, the perfect produce, and the right amount of cheese, I did everything I could to cut corners. Pre-made chilled pie dough? Check. Left over onion from the previous week's chili and stir fry recipies? Check. McIntosh apples that I settled on after I couldn't find golden delicious or galas? Check. Check. Check. The only fresh thing that resembles something close to her recipe is the block of Gruyere that I shave and melt in small blobs of delicious salt along the top.
I get everything assembled and cooked in an hour. I shower as the tart cools and prepare everything for the traffic-choked car ride to my parents' place. Although we don't really celebrate, the day is already providing me with more relaxation than I've had in weeks. I slowly creep along 93 with everyone else in the state, but I find the Smiths on the radio. I sing along and realize as I pass the exit for the Ponkapoag Trail/Houghton's Pond that the apple pie is still in my fridge. "And if a double-decker bus crashes into us/ to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die," Morrisey sings and I join back up with the next verse. I refuse to get upset further, not when the day will be spent doing nothing and I won't feel guilty about it. The pleasure, the privilege is mine.
"You have Thanksgiving plans?" Kelly asks as he tries to massage the cold steel knots out of my back. His thumbs dig one out of my left side and I have to turn my head to keep from speaking into the pillow. "We're not really a big Thanksgiving family," I tell him.
For as long as I can remember, Thanksgiving has always been a sort of meh holiday for me. It's the one holiday that my family doesn't really go all out for. We do the turkey, stuffing, and the rest of the expected menu, but beyond a special grace and a jigsaw puzzle the day could be any other out of the month. My mother's side, which dominates most of the East Coast, keeps to itself and we all do our own things. I may see my grandparents, but they usually have other plans. All in all, the day is observed by my father watching the Game while Mom, D, Ej, and I look for edges and curse the artist who decided that a reflection was needed for the puzzle to really shine.
This year, however, it was something that I was truly thankful for...an honest to God holiday. A day where I don't have to argue with imbeciles, decipher broken English, or explain for the umpteenth time that no, punctuation is not optional or subjective to your style of writing. I drive from Kelly's apartment to my own and begin whipping up my expected sides. This year, Mom had mostly everything under control...and by that I mean she remembered last minute and decided to go ultra-simple. Green bean casserole and her grandmother's potatoes were made the night before. The rolls were bought from the grocery store's bakery. The turkey was already thawing in the fridge. All she needed was a little help.
I originally planned to do a pumpkin pie (I bought an apple pie for my siblings, who don't care for the pumpkin version) and two sides, but in the end was told by mom to just do the sides as Grandma was swinging by on the way to some other function and was bringing a pumpkin pie of her own. To keep with mom's theme of simple sides, I stole two recipes to work with. Kelly's roasted brussell sprouts with bacon took minutes, but I ended up getting distracted by multitasking and burned one side of the bacon. Stella (of Bravetart fame) provided me with her savory apple tart, and I used it to make her tart's hillbilly, bastard cousin. Where she uses fresh, home-made dough, the perfect produce, and the right amount of cheese, I did everything I could to cut corners. Pre-made chilled pie dough? Check. Left over onion from the previous week's chili and stir fry recipies? Check. McIntosh apples that I settled on after I couldn't find golden delicious or galas? Check. Check. Check. The only fresh thing that resembles something close to her recipe is the block of Gruyere that I shave and melt in small blobs of delicious salt along the top.
I get everything assembled and cooked in an hour. I shower as the tart cools and prepare everything for the traffic-choked car ride to my parents' place. Although we don't really celebrate, the day is already providing me with more relaxation than I've had in weeks. I slowly creep along 93 with everyone else in the state, but I find the Smiths on the radio. I sing along and realize as I pass the exit for the Ponkapoag Trail/Houghton's Pond that the apple pie is still in my fridge. "And if a double-decker bus crashes into us/ to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die," Morrisey sings and I join back up with the next verse. I refuse to get upset further, not when the day will be spent doing nothing and I won't feel guilty about it. The pleasure, the privilege is mine.
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