Extra

We are list based:

Made of the following:

Processed on the same machinery as Godbabies and stardust. If you are allergic please abstain from placing me in your mouth. Especially do not use your hands or rub your eyes after coming into contact with any of the following:

Plumbers. Watchmakers. Things that breathe.

If your daily caloric intake exceeds zero, it is suggested you take a supplemental form of company.

We recommend: Lovers, friends, people who sing naked in the street.

Avoid: Carpetbaggers, the angry, and needlessly selfish.

Seek: The loud and selflessly selfish people who don’t step on shellfish.

- Summer 2009, journal garble.

something old, something new

Don’t get too worked up. This post has nothing to do with things borrowed or blue, and it especially has nothing to do with marriage.

When summer began, my job hunt was on. With the exception of my small stint at the diner (…or perhaps especially), my efforts failed. Why, you might ask, can’t an ultra-swell girl like myself get a job? Because I’m ultra-stupid and ultra-honest about things like REQUIRING two weeks off near the end of the summer to go to Montreal. I’ve had countless friends tell me since then that I should’ve just pulled the ol’ Family Emergency card when the time was right. At least I could’ve made some money in the past three months. But I got lazy. And then crazy. And needed to leave town again and again and again, charging (very literally) myself to maxed-out freedom.

C’est Monet.

New York

We began our journey at the indecent hour of 7am after getting approximately 3 hours of sleep the night before (I believe that evening involved a a game of frog-hopping across Lead). The couchsurfers that had accepted our request to stay with them in Brooklyn a week earlier hadn’t gotten back to us with an address, while my mind raced with resentful fall back options, X checked his email one last time before the plane boarded and sure enough our reply had been lost in the constant shuffle of inbox mayhem that is a NYCS’s constant plague.

The decrepit yellowing terminals of LAG gave way to a drizzly warm night and the smell of wet cement. We decided to grab a taxi and not let our starved and exhausted bodies suffer the complexities of public transportation from LAG to the city. For a reasonable $20 we were deposited in the middle of Williamsburg; AKA Hipsterville, USA.

It was a Thursday night, pre-Friday, and the huddles of smokers on every corner resounded with the sounds of “Being Out.” Girls in metallic lycra leggings, boys in faded v-necks and flannel for everyone. In spite of my internal smirking, a side effect of being aware of looking any scene in the eye, I was consumed by the giddiness of arriving at a destination and being delighted by it’s newness. Old brick buildings painted over with amazing art, subway fumes, scaffolding covered in flyers and stencils, the smell of rotting produce, and because it was Williamsburg, the occasional clove cigarette.

The hipster grows ghost-like in a confined habitat, note the free range hipsters in upper right corner.

As a quick degression, an admittedly maudlin, but very entertaining take on all this: https://www.adbusters.org/magazine/79/hipster.html

After grabbing a cheap falafel sandwich, some babaganoush, and overpriced beer ($1 extra for refrigeration!?), we made our way to Sara and Luke’s place–a stylishly refurbished 3rd floor apartment in (like the rest of Williamsburg) what used to be an extremely Polish part of town.

The two nights we spent in New York went quickly after that. Mornings passed by with langorous coffee shop visits, we thrifted in Manhattan, walked through the steely-eyed streets of Chinatown, found some awesome/cheap Indian food at a discreet walk-down with a green awning that only read, “PUNJABI.” The place was full of cabbies in multi-colored turbans grabbing chai before heading back into the summer heat. At night, we sat on the fire escape and talked about sociology, bread, the pope, and the desert.

Delicious microwaved Indian food consumed in the courtyard of a retirement home.

Montreal

In spite of dilligently rising at 6am in order to catch our train out of Penn Station (with another impressive three hours of sleep under our belts), we somehow find ourselves running to the gates with 3 minutes until departure. It might have had something to do with the coffee purchased, the fruit sought after, and the cigarettes smoked. The spacious seats and lilt of the train did their best to lull me into an extremely long nap.

Exhausted.

It was amazing how quickly the scenery changed from the industrial marinas and rusting metal ephemera into lush green forests and rolling hills. X spent most of the time reading in the dining car, leaving me two spacious Amtrak seats to curl up in with the bevy of quilts and blankets we brought along, much to the dismay of my scrunched fellow travelers (oh, the looks…). About a couple of hours from Montreal, post border-patrol madness, we resorted to cracking open beers we brought along and pouring them into a jar for semi-discreet sipping, a genius traveling idea if there ever was one.

Somewhere between NYC and Montreal.

Upon arriving at the train station downtown the French/English barrier dawned on me. Obviously French is the default, and yes, most people speak English, but being the Anti-Ameriphile I am, I was reluctant to speak anything at all. Then I accidentally walked into the men’s restroom. A fact I realized only while I was washing my hands, looking into a sink of vomit next to me, as a bemused boy exited with a nod and a smile.

Once on the street, X re-nicotined and plans in motion for an evening of moderate hell-raising on the horizon, we met up with Rick and Lane. After some sustenance and a couple of pitchers of beer we set out on a mission of carousing and drunkenness…the latter being particularly hard to sustain when coming down from 5,000 ft to sea level. Even more difficult to afford. Ah, the land of free healthcare. R and L didn’t have such a hard time catching a buzz and L had made it clear that the trajectory of the evening was going to involve DANCING. And plenty of French Canadian faux-mockery.

Xian and Rick being ghetto in a town they won’t get shot in…

Attempt 1: Drag show SPECTACULAIRE! R suggests we hit up the gay district if we plan on any kind of good dance night. When we walk in, there’s an incredible Celine Dion impersonator on stage, belting out some serious notes to music. A fan blows her hair in cliff-breeze dramatic angles while fog combines with stage lights to whirl around her perfectly tailored sheer black dress. Beer good and somewhat affordable. R/L/X get a good ego-stroke by getting all checked out by shirtless men. No dancing to be had, we move on.

Okay, so the intermediate attempts (and all attempts prior) were more an effort to sustain said buzz (an awful lot of walking between drinks), covers were somewhat of a deterrent, particularly when most of the clubs we passed were filled with 18 year olds and their coke-addled keepers. Or lonely old men.

Attempt, the last: We walk by a narrow staircase painted red and filled with a green glowing light, we head up largely because it doesn’t look like an eyeglass store or sushi bar, and the crowd milling around outside is indicative of what we’re after. Behold! People dancing! Poles and platforms! The perfect amount of grit and decadence bathed in a red darkroom-esque glow. Better yet there are two stories (each with separate DJ’s and dance floors and a patio). We dance ourselves stupid and leave at last call.

Obviously, some calories were in order. Hence, we were introduced to the glorious food known as Poutin, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poutine. I drool just looking at the disgusting Wikipedia photograph.

Not being satisfied with the fact that it’s 4am and the sun is threatening to creep into the sky, L and I attempt to rally the troops to the notorious Club Super Sexe. R and X decline, but don’t attempt to dissuade us from our self-destructive tendencies. Rather, they jot Rick’s address down on the corner of a dollar bill and tell the cabbie our next destination. Well, that endeavor turned out to be more or less fruitless, what kind of super sexy club has hours? Nonetheless, roaming the abandoned business district and mazes of statues hours before the place would erupt into an economic epicenter had its appeal.

Outside Rick’s glorious apartment.

The following days were of a more placid variety. Sort of. We lazed about R’s apartment, cooked dinner, ate incredible pastries for breakfast and consumed bountiful amounts of espresso î’elange.

Our main obstacle was waking up before 5pm and attempting not to sound like utter assholes with our broken and mingled FreSpanglish. There was another evening of equal, if not more, debauchery than that above. It also ended around sunrise and involved an epic near-death experience. I nearly fell off a fire escape. Almost. Really, it was more like I fell in between a fire escape and the windowsill…which sounds a lot less shocking, but damnit, there was blood.

The Infamous Fire Escape…looks innocent, doesn’t it? All illuminated by the sun…

The final night of our stay we walked to a semi-hidden brewery and listened to music and drank good beer and eventually went swimming in the Canal de Chine, which was extremely refreshing if not completely un-toxic. I’ve grown up wading in the Rio Grande, what can Canadian waters do to me, what? With a gratitude-laden goodbye and a very sleepy bus ride, we were back in the claws of transportation, and my, were they ever sharp.

New York, Again

This is what we call the return trip. Ideally it deposits you back from wherest you came. Sometimes it doesn’t work out like that. Sometimes Amtrak’s tracks flood and they get put off schedule and freight trains take crossing priority and the next thing you know an 11 hour train ride becomes a 17 hour jail cell.

We arrived at Penn Station around 1am and began navigating our way to the hostel we’d found, The New York Loft Hostel back in East Williamsburg. For $20 a night, 24 hour check in, and beds available on a one day notice, it seemed perfect. Unfortunately we ended up confusing Varet St. with Vicar St. and walking into an abandoned industrial wasteland with 30lbs on each of our backs. When we walked two miles to the freeway, we figured we’d better turn around. We made it to the hostel at around 3am. The best hostel I’ve ever stayed in, and a complete deal as far as NYC hostels go. A shower. A freshly linened bed with reading lamp. A good nights sleep. http://www.hostelworld.com/hosteldetails.php/The-New-York-Loft-Hostel/New-York/27128.

Delicious breakfast at a great coffee shop nearby, AKA Potion: http://www.myspace.com/potion_248mckibbin

$5.00 Banana Pancakes with Goat Cheese, Pine Nuts, and Honey! The best Tuna Melt I’ve ever had in my entire life!

From here, all things went awry. We get to the airport in around 4pm only to find out that our flight has been canceled due to mechanical difficulties. We take a $214.00 hotel voucher (no, not redeemable in cash, alas), $50.00 in meal coupons, and an upgrade to first class. Alright. One unexpected obstacle, we got to stay in a big hotel (which is a novelty unto itself when you’re not paying and haven’t done it in years), explore Queens, embarrass ourselves by asking for draught beer at a hole-in-the-wall, and watch cartoons at 3am. The next afternoon, we’re ready to head out when we learn our flight has been delayed so badly that we’ll miss our connection in Houston, only this time, it’s due to the weather and no reimbursements are offered. In fact, our first class dangling carrot has been stolen from in front of us! No spare seats. Continental Airlines (have you ever noticed how intentionally placid their font is?) hires a driver to take us to Newark in order to increase our chances of catching the uncatchable flight. We end up spending the night in Phoenix with two incredible couchsurfers.

Flight voucher fun!

Phoenix

The Pickup: I’m inside checking to see if my bag made it to Albuquerque, or if I should consider it lost in airport abyss. John and Myko pull up in a crazy white kidnapper style van and meet X, just as I’m coming out I see them all arguing with a parking enforcer who’s apparently claiming they’ve been there for 10 minutes. They point frantically at me, “There she is! Get in, get in, get in!” I do a dive into the seatless back of the van onto a pile of pillows and sleeping bags as the car pulls away and the door is slammed shut. They honk a novelty horn and simultaneously scream, “Fuck you!” out the window, then Myko screams, “I hope you get furl-owed!” and we drive away into the oppressive Phoenix night. Back in the desert, just not quite the right one. The boys show us a good time nonetheless, there apartment is an eclectic combination of Nintendo-fanaticism and DIY artsyness. In the foyer there’s a picture of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. They’re both autographed: “To Myko, Love Jesus” and “I’ll never forget that crazy night we spent together, Love Mary.” There are bicycles everywhere. We finally make it to the airport around 6am and suffer the short jot home to Albuquerque.

Van Ceiling

And that familiar sick-sweet feeling hits me as we wait at the Sunport for my brother to pick us up. The one that says, here you are again, when are you ever going to leave? And the one that says, damn, it’s nice to be home.

Finally, Something New

So I finally tie this not-so-miniature-saga back into itself.

I got a job. It fucking rocks.

I’m a barback at Scalo now, http://www.scalonobhill.com/.

SWANK!

Oh, and I don’t want to get ahead of myself…but I may be moving into a house soon. My brain sort of works like this these days: Job, house, job, house, school, job, house, miss people/places/things, job, house, school, sewing machine, record player, job, house, dinner, school.

Which if not the most thrilling-sounding loop, is a refreshing contrast to the former: ESCAPE! drink, spend money, drink, escape, drink, disappoint someone, escape, wreckless activity, escape, spend money, wreckless activity, disappoint, escape.

See? Cycles.

With the outcome of this very turbulent summer looking (and feeling) more manageable everyday, I can’t say I’d trade an ounce of the madness that has taken place in the past couple of months for anything else. It’s been essential. I’m going to be 22 in less than two months. Fastest year of my entire life. I finally feel like I might actually have a chance to catch up.

the things my ribs make me do

There is a feeling of panic somewhere in between my ribs. It tells me I need to do something, quick, before I can evaluate action or consequence. And I listen.

And that is how I ended up in the back of a pick up truck driving halfway across the country for two weeks. Lydia says, “Come with” and I say, “Okay.” And we discuss it in the morning, sober, over coffee.

Seriously?

Yes.

Alright.

In less than 48 hours we were headed south to Austin again, a strange de ja vu settling in, as I hadn’t been gone more than three weeks. And to backtrack, that trip was incredible.

The incredible bike I got to borrow.

Bikes, music, late night conversations on many porches, torrential downpours, cicadas, coffee by the pint.

The beer of Texas, baby.

It has felt right to be anywhere but here lately. “Home is home, though it be homely.”

Austin part two had me feeling rather saavy, recognizing the good places to go and a few key street names and cardinal directions. We were there for two days and it passed quickly, a little blurry around the edges. L and I set a whole head-nodding bar dancing when we heard the call of our homeland mariachi and had to dance, the dj transitioned into some bad ass old school funk and soul and the crowd joined in, uninhibited and sweaty. New-old friends abounded, I lost my yellow scarf and red lipstick.

Heading north to Knoxville to pick up a stand up bass, we got as far as Arkansas before stopping in Carlisle, AK and got a $30 motel for the night. At first, they gave us the wrong room, the woman said it was bare bones but when we walked in the beds were stripped, the furniture was a wreck, there was an empty box of brownies on the desk and a strange piece of metal with wires coming out of it sitting on one of the beds. Dead cockroaches littered the floor. I say, “I think there’s been a mistake.” We get another room, which is decent, and fumigate it with juniper. I get ice from the gas station for free because it’s three a.m. and the cashier is chainsmoking outside with her mechanic friends. In the morning, a woman comes by and opens the door, hollering inside, “Is Keesha in here? Hey Keesha, you in there!?” We leave early.

My view for 2,785 miles (more or less).

Pigeon Forge, TN was terrifying. It’s built of miniature golf courses, dinner theaters re-enacting the crucifixion of jesus and “pancake houses.” The bass rested just outside of this tourist trap at Peter’s uncle’s house. We stayed until about 2am, chatting with him and his partner about their catering business and the best and worst of the clients. Bridge tournaments being the most grueling (the attendees are extremely old, one year a man had a heart attack in the middle of a round and the table next to him asked if they could have a time extension due to the interruption), and the black baptist ladies being the best (in spite of their insistence to “lay hands” on the staff). When we were there, he was in the midst of planning a lunch lady convention. I drank an intense cup of coffee and drove the last stretch to Lydia and Peter’s place, outside of Boone, NC.

The house in the hills.

My desert claustrophobia kicked in a touch as the roads got more and more narrow, more densely populated with trees, vines, roots, moss, green, green, green. The sun was coming up when we pulled into their driveway and the fog was rolling down the sides of mountains, gathering in valleys. I felt like I was in a dream.

It was a strange contrast, Austin to Boone, the ad hoc craziness of city to the meditative quiet of the hills. We slept, read, the sound of banjo, bass, guitar, and trumpet moved through the house in the afternoons and the doors were always open. We cooked incredible meals and watched fireflies at night. Occasionally, we drank a bottle of vodka and woke up in the morning with a bloody thumb from strumming too enthusiastically. The latter part was probably just me.

We waited for Peter to finish his small town jury duty responsibilities before leaving town again (after that much needed rest) and descend into Carrboro, NC, where the two of them had met. I can’t say enough about the magic of Carrboro. That’s all that needs to be said, I suppose. It’s a town on the verge of something amazing. It’s in the air, in the way people talk, in the way strangers magnetize to instruments and start singing together in shameless raucous joy. It’s fucking awesome. And full of mosquitoes.

On a Saturday, we stumbled upon the most incredible music festival of all time. I’m usually not such a fan of “festivals” as they connote barren, dusty, sun-scorched fields filled with overly intoxicated people crying, puking, screaming, and generally doing anything but listening to music, but this was different. It was TRK Fest, an annual music event put on by Trekky Records, a local independent label. It was on a biodiesel farm next to a pond. The crowd was extremely diverse, all really happy to be there, we were all wearing these huge stupid smiles the entire time. Jumping through sprinklers. Listening to incredible music. Buying cheap beer and on donation and sprawled on blankets in the grass with all sorts of cool friends. Every couple of hours, we led a skinny dipping enclave to the pond. Wandered through sunflower fields. Danced. Melted in the sun. http://www.trekkyrecords.com/index2.html.

Then we went to the sea. The Atlantic is warm, extra salty (or so it seemed to my inexperienced sea-sampling tongue), and intimidating as any ocean is. We made sangria from peaches and pine needles and sassafras. Cut our hair on the porch. Bought shrimp from the side of the road and tried to ignore the neighbors’ parrot, which kept squacking “What the fuck?” and laughing like a human.

A three hour drive to the airport at 8am deposited me in Raleigh on the 17th in time to catch my noon flight to Albuquerque (eventually–RDU/2 hr flight, LAG/3hr layover/3hr flight, ATL/1hr layover/3hr flight, then ABQ). Opting for the cheapest flight is not necessarily the best idea.

Sitting at the kitchen table on a Tuesday, the wind blowing like crazy outside my window and the light breaking through the clouds I could not be more indifferent to this place I currently call home. I mean, it’s Albuquerque. Police sirens sound more like birds to me everyday. I can see the sky. I know where everything is. Sometimes I feel like I know who everyone is. I love it. I hate it. I love it. I hate it.

I debate it.

Map of my adventures:

View Larger Map

Whatever Will Be

Where to even begin? Summer is in effect. Please remain anywhere but in your seat until the turbulence has subsided. You know what I mean? Right?

El Paso

A few weeks ago one of my many elderly aunts passed away and my parents invited me to go with them to the funeral while my brother stayed home to care for the yappie pets and be a teenage boy. It was actually a really good experience. I don’t want to underscore the funeral aspect of it, but that’s the nice thing about “natural” and “elderly” deaths. There is less a sense of mourning, and more a sense of rememberance. Although I was born in Albuquerque, my family moved to El Paso when I was two and stayed there for about three years. While that seems extremely trivial in the bigger timeline of my life, I have a surprising number of memories from that short period.

If Albuquerque is hard to “get” El Paso is nearly impossible to find any fondness for. It’s dirty, sprawling, crime addled, dusty, potentially toxic, and lacking in any kind of culture/art/music scene. Yes, those are sweeping generalizations and no, I can’t be held accountable for them. Here’s the part that has charm: stone walls everywhere, urban decay, Juarez on the horizon, yuccas and palmtrees, a visual quality (particularly the light) that’s reminiscent of a 70’s b-movie. Oh, and the dirt, sprawl, crime, and toxicity.

A photo essay of sorts follows.

Fired

Prior to leaving for El Paso the horrible horrible Diner fired my hardworking ass for something that wasn’t even my fault. Yeah, yeah, they all say that. But seriously, I was hired to be fired. I was vindicated in a small way after talk of The Incident grew to the point of catching managements attention. They “invited” me back, I declined in a rather civil way. No thanks. I’m looking around for other jobs. I appreciate the offer. Please wrap your empty position and lost respect in that ugly teal uniform and shove it. Good day.

Other

The joy of being unemployed and out of school is the freedom to participate in whatever other hobbies you claim to have during the busier phases of your life. For me, it boils down to my side garden, painting, writing, reading, and doing the dishes. I added a new bed to the garden 10 x 2 feet or so, it’s going to be filled with brown eyed susans, arugula, and herbs. My cosmos, lobelias, and marigolds are very happy in their respective locations, and the raised bed is filled with gladiolas, anemones, carrots, sad lettuces, parsley, morning glories and the craziest looking onion blossoms at the end of 3-5 foot tubular stalks. The other joy and occasional problem with being unemployed and having very little to worry about during the semester is that I’m prone to enjoying myself too much. Meaning, going out for one drink is a lot more likely to end in six or eight drinks, and probably not sleeping until six or eight in the morning. And all the good stuff that goes along with that, of course.

Restless

Perhaps part of the excess can be attributed to the fact that I’ve spent the past couple of months adrift in a slightly foggy haze of restlessness. Stagnancy. It mostly goes hand in hand with trudging through the mollassesy part of school–I’m about half way done, but I feel like I’ve been in school forever. Most importantly, I’ll have periods of time where I become hyper-aware of the fact that in an ideal world, regardless of how badly I want a degree, I really want to be doing bad ass things a lot more. Why haven’t I been to more countries? Why haven’t I gone sky diving or lived in a treehouse? Why am I not amazing myself more often? It’s not as though I’m unappreciative of how things are, I just want to make myself uncomfortable enough about the situation that I still question it from time to time. Nothing is set in stone. Change, inquisitiveness, nuance–all incredibly important.

In order to shake some of the malcontent out of my hair I’m using my ultimate plane ticket to go to Austin for the week before returning to a very hard core job search. I’ll have even less money then I do now, but it should also help me put some perspective into the situation–the job, it matters and all, but hey, I just found $50 my past self hid from my present self…which means something, I guess.

Everything is okay.

Of course this brief update doesn’t come remotely close to reflecting the mood of the season or how intensely things have actually been going, but I doubt that’s the point of this process anyway. Que sera, sera.

Waffle Wednesday Crashes and Burns

Okay, so it didn’t really crash. Or burn. It just fell short of the super surreal outrageous event we wanted it to be. That’s Lenore and I up there, donning our Waffle Wednesday Wear–bathrobes, pajama pants (mine tucked into terrorist cowboy boots you can’t quite see), and the aaforefeatured waffle iron. Being chewed on, of course.

Tell me this isn’t brilliant. Waffles at The Bar, okay, the taproom, micropub, Chama, whatever you will call it.  Cooked to order. On the spot. With beer (our sign proclaimed “Try it out with the stout!”). For Free. And yet, I used a mere can of whip cream and one pitcher of batter. I mean, come on, it’s breakfast at a bar. Two of the finest things in life perfectly married in convenience. Sigh. On a side note, pictures of Chama will one day make it up here.

Oh well, there’s always next time. Of course, we’re staying far away this week. The Wailers are playing next door at The Sunshine. I imagine when the show is over there will be a munchie swarm like none other. I don’t wanna be in the path of that shit. Bankrupt me and call me Sally.

I will not be discouraged that this is both a novel and near-fool-proof idea.

Amen.

Spring Things

Carrots from my tiny garden. Planted last summer.

Disclaimer: I may be more than a little obsessed with seasonal changes. I blame everything on them, I mention the changes daily, I get giddy and depressed and angry and ecstatic about them all in one go.

This spring hasn’t hit as hard as most, though I do feel like I’ve been sick for months, and have dealt with a lot of things this winter/spring that have changed my perspective on all sorts of things dramatically. As with most things in life that are initially tumultuous and unpleasant, the end result has been positive. It’s all just come back to enjoying the moment, worrying about the future just enough to stay excited about it.

66 Diner, Albuquerque, NM (from www.1001arabian.net)

New Job. Finally broke down about going back into the restaurant industry and L was kind enough to set me up with a job at the diner. Once you get over the initial absurdity of being a themed-diner-soda-jerk, the place is really not bad. The people are cool, and it’s a smooth-running business.

The Soda Fountain (from www.thelope.com)

Just today the photographer for Albuquerque the Magazine came to my apartment to take pictures of my refrigerator. Yes. My refrigerator. I agreed to be interviewed about it, because truth be told, I’m crazy about it. It features a SWIVEL produce drawer, hello. It’s an old Coldspot from the 70’s (maybe earlier?). Me and my fridge will be in the May 2009 issue www.abqthemag.com.

I sent out manuscripts on the nineteenth. Five in the mail, three online. It’s story I felt fairly good about. I wrestled with the ending for months and eventually decided that I prefer ambiguity over having things spelled out. It’s kind of like walking into a strangers living room. If the place is all decked out in cherub statues and gawdy floral prints, it’s easy to think “Damn. This place is a nightmare.” If you go into a living room with bare walls, a coffee table, a couch, you might say to yourself “This place could use some color.” There’s still something wrong with the living room, but at least you can pick out what it is, go to the hardware store and buy some paint.

After spring break, classes seem to shift into a lehtargic sort of overdrive. Think late night trucker. He’s going for the long haul, and yet, can barely keep his eyes open. That’s me, hopefully not driving over the guard rail. My brother graduates from highschool this May. He sometimes feels imaginary to me, in the sense that we haven’t actually talked in months. He keeps me on the surface these days, restricted to anecdotes and short term plans. That’s how siblings are though. They get to be the friends you don’t talk to for years but still love. It’s the trade off for being able to punch them and stuff.

Waffle Wednesday at the bar tomorrow night. Pictures to follow? Until then, a soothing image of feasting bumblebees (from summer 2008, northern New Mexico).

Okonomiyaki !

I’ve been especially slackerly lately. Maybe in the near future, there will be a highly emotional and philosophical spilling of the evils of Spring and excess, but until then, I must sing the praises of the COOLEST, EASIEST, way to use up almost anything in the produce drawer. Okonomiyaki is similar to a fritatta, or latke, or, as the post it was derived from (http://www.101cookbooks.com/archives/japanese-pizza-recipe.html) describes it, Japanese Pizza. I loosely followed the recipe (mostly for the proportions of flour to egg to vegetable), and made the following alterations according to what I had on hand:

1 cup leeks

1/2 cup cabbage

1 cup chard

1 grated carrot

2 eggs

1 cup flour

splash of rice vinegar

pinch of salt

You basically just smash it all together into a hot skillet for about 3-4 minutes on each side and then flip it…this part is very important: WITH A PLATE. I made the mistake of using a cast iron (as usual) which was virtually impossible to hold with hand…so that was interesting. I recommend using a lighter weight frying-device.

To Garnish:

I used toasted sunflower seeds, cilantro, and green onions.

I made a sauce with: 1/2 yogurt, 1/2 mayo, 1 tsp wasabi powder, finely chopped green onion.

And of  course went crazy with soy sauce, because I’m madly addicted to the salty beast. OH! I bet some sesame oil would be divine too.

Apparently the traditional way to garnish it is with some sort of dashi-esque sauce, super sweet Japanese style mayo (?), and bonito flakes.

The possibilities are endless.

Fake Spring/Real Spring

Some of my neighbor’s daffodils found their way onto my coffee table! Don’t ask how…Doesn’t that light just make you want to yawn?

Spring may be here. March 7th is dayight savings time. The 20th is officially the start of Spring. Here in Albuquerque the highs have been above 60 degrees for quite some time and the wind has been picking up. I just got over a terrible virus/cold thing that only lasted about 12 hours…it’s the exhaustion-reverb that kicks your ass. So very tired. Want to curl up and sleep in the weirdest places tired. I’ll be walking along, and feel my body yearn to angle towards the ground, in sunny patches, like a cat. I stop myself, naturally.

It will get cold again.

Until then, we’ll all pretend it’s summer. Downtown, things have been summer-busy. L and I have been going out way too often considering we’re in the middle of the semester and strapped for cash, but it’s hard to resist the pull of going out, piloting your bicycle through dusky neighborhoods full of barbecue smoke and  into the nearest watering hole. Sitting on porches at sunset. Soaking in the kindness of everyone who is finally willing to go outside and absorb some vitamin-D. It’s nice. In spite of my recovering condition, we’re going out DANCING tomorrow. Eep.

It will get cold again.

Until then, people will keep digging up their old garden beds and trying to plant flowers, tomatoes, squash. When the bizarre cold snap hits in April it will all die. Better to be unmotivated and just enjoy the warm days and brain-splitting allergies while they last.

Cheers.

The Incredible Edible…Quiche.

It’s hard to make quiche look pretty…

After scoring a couple of bountiful dollar bags of co-op produce the other day (broccolli, yellow squash, and tons of sweet potatoes!) I was excited to make dinner around my cheap find…I was not excited to be met with my own lack of imagination. Everyone does this, has that one “flavor” that is patently theirs. It’s how people get so sick of their own cooking. I looked at the taunting bags of produce, daring me to make yet another vaguely-ethnic-vegetable-mush and eventually had to say no. No, tonight, we’re going to revisit my good friend The Quiche.

Everything can go in a quiche–you’d be hard pressed to find any savory combination that wouldn’t work. I found my favorite quiche recipe in “The Enchanted Broccoli Forest” by Mollie Katzen. A beautiful hand-illustrated cookbook with “healthy” feel-good recipes from the 70’s. If you don’t own it, it’s a classic, and you must. I’m not going to transcribe it directly, because seriously, it’s so easy I haven’t had to refer to the actual recipe in years. It goes a little something like this (apologies in advance for the weird recipe composition):

PREHEAT oven to 425 degrees. PREP TIME about 20 minutes. COOK TIME about 30-50 minutes.

CRUST

1 cup flour

1 tsp salt

1/2 cup well-chilled butter (go a bit shy on this)

1/4 cup ice water

Mix salt and flour. Take the cold butter and cube into small chunks. Add cubed butter to flour, and using your hands*, forks, or a pastry blender, mash the butter into the flour until the mixture develops a pretty homogenous “cornmeal-like” crumb. Slowly (by the tbs), add the ice water, mixing before each new addition. Add until the dough holds together on its own. Gather dough up into a ball, smash flat between two sheets of wax paper and place in fridge to chill and rest for at least 15 minutes.

*If you use your hands, make sure they’re not tooooo warm. The idea is to blend the butter and flour together without MELDING them together (hence the super-chilled butter being slowly incorporated).

FILLING, the substance

2-3 cups your choice of vegetables and/or meats

spices and salt to taste

olive oil for sauteeing

For this part, almost any variety of vegetables, meats, and spices will work. The idea here is to just pre-cook whatever combinations of the aforementioned items you wanna have in the quiche. I usually do veggie quiche, and in that case, just sautee everything in one pot. For the quiche I made the other night, I sauteed onion, brocolli, squash, and…dun…dun…dun….grain sausage*! Don’t forget to salt and season to your liking. The egg-part will have salt too, so take it easy.

*So good…it’s a bit on the expensive side, but I prefer it for the sake of not wondering what I’m having difficulty chewing…I use this brand: http://www.fieldroast.com/products.htm.

BACK TO THE CRUST

While the veggies are sauteeing, take the chilled crust out of the fridge, and just like you would with any pie crust, roll ‘er out onto a lightly floured surface (between 1/8 and 1/4 of an inch thick). Place in pie pan (or you can try the nifty cast-iron method I have pictured above…which made the cooking process go a lot quicker, I think).

FILLING, the egg

4 eggs

1 cup milk

salt and pepper to taste

In a medium sized bowl, break 4 eggs. Add one  cup of milk (any kind will do–though I’m sure die hard quiche makers would consider this laughable. A lot of recipes call for cream, but I get a good quiche from even using…rice milk…I know, blasphemy). Add about a tsp. salt and some ground pepper. Beat until fluffy, but still very much liquid.

THE ASSEMBLY (and the cheese)

1/4 cup cheese, grated. Sometimes more.

Now that you have all of the parts ready to go, it’s just a matter of putting them together. One of the more subtle and important steps of a good quiche is when and where you add the cheese. Any kind will do, though something meltier is probably better suited. You could always mix a meltier cheese with a harder more flavorful cheese too…Grate about a 1/4 cup of cheese (or more) and sprinkle on top of the crust. This provides a barrier against all the liquid in a sense, and makes the bottom part of the crust more chewy and delicious.

On top of the cheese, add the vegetables. Spread them out evenly, and make sure the vegetable filling is just loosely sitting on top of the crust and cheese (not packed down). You only want the vegetable mixture to come about a centimeter below the rim of the pie pan.

Now just pour the egg/milk mixture on top of all of the filling. Bake quiche anywhere from 30-50 minutes depending on the oven/pan/egg to filling ratio. Check periodically. You’re just looking for the middle to be set (not too jiggly or liquid). Let cool for 5-10 minutes before serving.

NICE SIDES

I generally pair this with a side salad and sometimes (especially if I’m making it for breakfast) fried potatoes. Being winter here and all,  I made a side of braised greens, onions, and potatoes. Goes nicely with beer, wine, coffee, (really–what doesn’t?) or by its lonesome. If you were doing it for a brunch thing, obviously, some fruit (strawberries, melon) and mimosas would make it very happy.

Quiche forth.

Cannibalism, Lingerie, and Red Wine.

homemade vday card: matches, corks, paint, toxic glue, mod podge, dictionary pages.

I know it’s a kitschy “holiday.” Loathed by many, used as fodder for the relationship guilt-engine by others, polluting aisles of just about any store you walk into with garish pink, red, and white fuzzy, lacy, and silky…whatevers. But done right, it’s a good excuse for lusty intoxication and paint-spackled hands.

This year, X and I decided to throw a “Cannibal! The Musical” Valentines Day Party. The theme? Serial Killer/Lingerie. The menu? Homemade pizza and lots lots lots lots lots of red wine and whiskey. We didn’t really think anyone would show, but slowly, the masses trickled in. I mean–who can deny the pleasures of all of those things combined?

Originally, months ago, we’d been wanting to have a “Cannibal! The Musical party.” Then came along the miraculous “Artisan Bread in 5 Minutes a Day” Recipe, http://splendidtable.publicradio.org/recipes/accompaniments_fiveminute.shtml, which fed a separately gestating idea to have a homemade pizza dinner party. Somehow the blood/wine/marinara thing flowed into the word VISCERAL which should describe any good Valentines shindig, and thus, a celebration was born.

Obviously, debauchery ensued. A very good fake holiday, if you ask me.

The night before, X and I decided to go do out alone with the money we saved by not going to the sold out Andrew Bird show that same night. We got all purty and dressed up and walked over to Slate Street Cafe for wine and appetizers. We ordered their delicious Portabella Fries (battered and fried strips of portabella mushrooms served with a chile-infused ketchup) and a Bruschetta plate (we chose the fontina/wild mushroom, goat cheese/roasted red peppers, and maytag bleu cheese/spinach/balsamic varieties). Everything was delicious, and came out remarkably fast since we missed the rush.

I’m going to steal what we drank directly from X’s twitter account: “A glass of each–sooo good–Benm arco Malbec 2006 and Chateau la Grange Clinet Premieres Cote de  Bordeaux 2005.” Damn…that’s all that can be said. Good wine is something else completely…We also picked up a bottle for home of Spanish wine, Atteca, an old vine wine of Garnacha grapes (2007). It was similarly divine and a very affordable buy at $17.00, considering how awesome it was.

So, yes, Valentines Day can be a bitch. An angry, commercialized, depressing, tacky bitch…but that’s only because you’re doing it wrong. All wrong. It’s the same thing as the Fourth of July in my book…yeah, it can be an embarassingly hollow holiday, you just have to focus on the fact that it features beer, fireworks, apple pie and train hopping hobos! The old school points. The finer points. The cannibalistic, red wine, lingerie, eating, dancing, and muira pauma bark points…so to speak. http://www.mountainroseherbs.com/learn/muira_puama.php.

below: interactive 6-pack siding vday card, “Undress a Bawdy Vixen” — lift tissue paper curtain and XXX brown paper strip  to reveal a temptress of the 1800’s exposing her….nether regions…heh. Yeah, I have way too much time on my hands this semester.