Wow. Hi. Anyone still there? Has it really been four days since I last posted?
Is there anything you guys want to hear about? Because I’m blank for ideas. I know – today is officially declared Question Day. I’ll be like the NYPL Reference Desk, only prettier and less accurate. Everyone that reads this is mandated to ask me
something*.
C’mon. I dare you.
Ed Note: Due to not making this the world’s LONGEST blogpost and thus discouraging you lazy slobs from scrolling down far enough to ask your own, I’m moving the growing pH Q&A to the Extended Section.
You keep asking, I’ll keep answering.
*I’m not mandated to answer but damn if I won’t try throughout the day, I swear.
Okay, I’m done eating now. Here’s a rundown of things that have happened in the past two days because I have this manic need to document things I know that one day I will be too old to remember myself and will end up having to ask Stuart to recall for me:
1. We made a feast on Friday. Little did we know the trend would continue. Our weekend plans were somewhat manic, involving: going to Jason’s to work on a redesign/upgrade for pH (sorry, Jason), meeting with a woman about a thing, and going to the airport to pick my father up.
2. My father couldn’t fly in to Islip, so we’ve got the car for a few more days. Which is funny considering I don’t think Rhonda the Honda could go anywhere if she TRIED, seeing as how my self-serving neighbors have dumped about ten feet of cumulative snow around her lovely red edges, but that’s okay because I called 311 and the nice recorded man said that there’s no alternate side parking in effect until Thursday.
3. We watched: the first half of the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice (I am still berating Stuart for insisting we split up the Netflix delivery of the series), Truly Madly Deeply, Ruthless People, What About Bob, and a whole lot of useless news reporters standing in two feet of snow.
4. We ate – Oh My GOD this is going to be astounding: Rosemary foccacia, sausage parmesan risotto, herb-crusted chicken, flourless chocolate cake, a whole baguette, edam cheese, half a pound of salami, a few slices of mature Stilton (all Stuart), about thirty clementines (me), a homemade pizza, about ten cupcakes, cinnamon muffins, scrambled (me) and overeasy (stuart) eggs, bacon, countless pots of whole-leaf black tea with splenda (me) and milk (Stuart), countless pots of coffee, with cold (Stuart) and warm milk (me) and sugar (me), a robust bottle of Malbec, a sublime bottle of Syrah, two glasses of madeira (me) and a glass of Johnnie Walker Red (Stuart). Did I mention the thirty clementines?
5. During our afternoon nap/reading session, Stuart made me crack up for about 10 minutes JUST BY BREATHING IN AND EXHALING DEEPLY THROUGH HIS NOSE. For the record, he is still mystified as to why it was so bone-crackingly funny.
6. Kate sent me a text last night, reminding me of the conversation we had last year while walking single-file during a blizzard of this magnitude:
Kate: “You… dropped… a…. hairthing!”
Krissa: “It’s… just..a…barrette… I used to know. IT’S DEAD TO ME NOW.”
This made me really love Kate so much more than I already do which is a hell of a lot.
7. I finished reading Michael Chabon’s Final Solution, his slim new book. I was a little underwhelmed (or just whelmed?) because of course, nothing can really top K&C, but then I realized that I was seriously moved by a passage written from the point of view of an African Grey parrot and can I really be blase about a writer that can do that?
8. Stuart and I have really reconnected this weekend, after a somewhat stressful few weekday-weeks of a lot of work and a few misunderstandings. Most of this reconnection has been due to A. him completely supporting my madcap Nesting Instincts and B. me giving in to being a little messy and a little sloppy and not letting it become a burden on my self.
9. I really love him more than air.
and the final thing I need to remember about this blizzard weekend has been:
10. There’s really, truly, for the first time in my semi-nomadic and constantly hectic life … no place like home.
Thanks, Blizzard of Late January 2005. May all your future siblings bring me this much joy and peace.
Hour the Twenty-Fourth
Okay, the bakefest continues even as the snow abates. I think I may have crossed a marital line when I brought our ancient familial New York Times cookbook (1974) into the bed with us this morning.
Stuart, groggily: “What are you doing?”
Krissa: “Looking up muffin recipes.”
Sure enough, there are muffins in the oven. I just did something I’ve never done, too – I improvised. What, you thought this Type A Control Freak DOESN’T FOLLOW RECIPES ALL THE TIME EVERY TIME TO THE GODDAMNED LETTER? She does. But I wanted cinnamon sugar muffins, so I took the basic recipe and added brown sugar and nutmeg to the dry ingredients, and made a topping out of flour, melted butter, cinnamon, vanilla, and brown sugar.
They’re in the oven. The sun is shining and the snow is flying off the roofs of New York like we’re a snowglobe being shook by an excited toddler.
Viva Les Muffins! Viva Le Blizzard!
Hour the Thirteenth
I don’t think I’ve ever eaten as much or been as lazy for this long in my life. At around 9 o’clock, when the snow briefly slowed down, Stuart and I went outside to marvel at All The Things That Snow Can Pile Up On OMG Look At That Car! Then I purposely fell down a lot because it’s fun.
Stuart: “This is kind of weather you’ve got to bring a dog out into, so he can play.”
Krissa: (throwing her whole body into another snowbank) “WHEEEEE.”
Stuart: “And instead, I’ve got a WIFE I have to take outside in this kind of weather!”
Then we came inside, stripping down out of snow covered clothes outside our apartment door (don’t be pervs, we’ve got the whole top floor landing). After the shower and the respective glasses of whiskey and madeira to warm up, Stuart and I …. you guessed it… MADE MORE FOOD. A pizza, to be precise, with fresh tomato sauce and mozzarella.
MY GOD, DOES THE EATING AND DECADENCE NEVER END?
Well, I’m going to BED, so that should stop it for a few hours.
Maybe one more clementine…
Hour the Eighth
Seriously? Truly, Madly, Deeply is the saddest films in the history of EVER. It’s been a long time since I’ve sad on a couch and sobbed my little heart out and REALLY MEANT IT about a film.
Because, really, the most terrible thing you can imagine, when you’re in love, is losing the person you’re in love with. And ironically, I imagine I could make it through any hardship in the entire world with Stuart by my side, except the only thing I couldn’t do is lose him, because then he wouldn’t be there to comfort me.
OH LOOK AT ME I’VE GONE OFF CRYING AGAIN NOW. Big splashy tears all over the keyboard. I’m going to go whimper at Stuart until he brings me a clementine and makes me laugh by blowing raspberries on my tear-stained cheek. That oughta do it.
Hour the Sixth
Stuart and I woke up at noon after the feast and BBC marathon that was our evening. The snow outside was already almost an inch, and looking like it was staying for tea and cake.
So we cancelled today’s and tomorrow’s plans. We suited up and tucked our pants in our snowboots. We pulled gloves and hats out of the glove-and-hat bin, zipped and buttoned up our warmest coats, and went out to the grocery store like the rest of New York. We bought breads and cheeses and salami and bacon and milk and clementines (o, my darlin’!) and we skipped and slipped our way home. We’ve been reading, watching sappily romantic movies like Truly, Madly, Deeply (Alan Rickman, how I love thee!) and we’re pretty happy with our snow curfew.
Observe:
There’s Stuart, with his big fuckoff engineer boots. He thinks that hat makes him look like a robot. I think he’s wrong. But it’s a pity he’s wearing it, because it means you can’t see his adorably preppy haircut. Man I love that guy.
Here’s me, and that saucy look on my face actually means, “my eyelashes have frozen my eyes open! Cool!” I’m so tough. Especially in a cute white hood. TOUGH, I tell you.
… if you’re rushing home from work to slip into a pretty dress, but you’re not going out, because your husband has already started the rosemary foccacia and chopped the ingredients for your sausage and parmesan risotto, which will be served alongside a delicious herb-crusted chicken breast, all part of a dinner tied together with a decent bottle of bold Argentine Malbec, and after you’ve savoured all this you’re working together to make a flourless chocolate cake and finish the evening with some BBC Pride & Prejudice and a sweet Madeira, that pretty much means …
… you’ve got it made, baby. MADE.
This weekend, Stuart and I went to Boston. Now, those of you who have been following the plot long enough know that Boston and I do not have a very good relationship. I sneer at her skyline and I scoff at her “subway”. When I told my family that I was going to Boston with Stuart, my brother coughed on his drink and said, “Are you running a FEVER? You HATE Boston.” Boston itself, surely, has a sign somewhere that says, “Boston: Almost Everyone Loves It Here, Except Krissa.” Everyone knows this about me. Even the Bostonians I like know my feelings about Boston. I say all this in anticipation of all you damned Bostonians that are inevitably going to whine and complain in my comment box, after reading the ensuing post in which I am COMPLETELY IRRATIONAL AND LAUNCH SNARKY MISSIVES AT BOSTON FOR ALMOST NO REASON AT ALL. Please refrain. I know you love Boston. And I love you. But I don’t love Boston. OKAY?
Where was I?
Oh, right. Stuart and I went to Boston on Saturday. And Saturday in Boston, despite the frigid temperatures, was very pleasant. We had tea and beer atop the Hub with Bryan Adams and his charming girlfriend Sonia, who took time out of a family wedding weekend to welcome us to town. That was rocking cool of them and I totally am sort of in love with them forever now, and the Top of the Hub was wonderful. In New York, when you’re forty odd stories above the ground, you still feel like you’re surrounded by buildings, but in Boston, it seriously felt like we were IN THE SKY. With the exception of the Hancock building, it was like we could see clear to Canada. We spent an hour pointing out little churches and squares down at ground level, and it was really the charmingest thing EVER.
We even started making plans to return to Boston (!) in the summer, to see the swans at the Public Gardens and take a whale-watching tour from the Harbor. We loved Commonwealth Avenue and wondered what it must have been like at the turn of the century. Standing in the middle of the Public Gardens, looking west as the sun set over the statue of mumble mumble dude who fought for america WHEEE mumble mumble, Stuart even said, “I’m starting to see what the fuss is about Boston.” It was truly lovely. Pleasant.
Very pleasant, that is, until the very end. The very end was very far from very pleasant.
We got to Back Bay Station exactly four minutes after the 6:58 PM train left for Rhode Island. Yes, okay, we should have picked up a schedule when we arrived. But
1. they weren’t conveniently located anywhere and
2. in New York, where Big Boy Mass Transit lives, there’s always another train after a few minutes, thirty at the most.
Not so in “quaint”, “historical” Boston. We were told by the man working the counter (who, by the way, probably threw the first barrel of tea overboard, he was JUST THAT OLD) that we’d have to wait until 8:50 PM. It was seven o’clock and we’d have to wait until EIGHT FIFTY IN THE EVENING. ONE HOUR AND FIFTY MINUTES.
I wanted to cry. Then I wanted to be back in New York. “Just pretend that you’re in Penn Station,” I told my whimpering self, “it’s okay, you’re back where you belong, where they have TRAINS THAT RUN, you’re GOING TO MAKE IT, DAMNIT.” Sadly, wishes : horses :: beggars : ride.
So we exited Back Bay Station to try and find shelter. Two blocks away, fortuituously located on Stuart Street, there was a Starbucks, the Beacon of all Waiting Peoples. And this, dear readers, is what we found:
Finally, two chairs in a little corner with a little table. Finally, we could rest our cold and weary bones, after spending the day tramping from Back Bay to the Prudential across the Commons to Fanueil Hall down to State Street onto the T to Back Bay again. Finally, we could have a cup of tea and at least relax for forty minutes, until eight PM, when the cafe closed. It was so nice, it was like this:
Stuart opened his book and I just tucked my tired boot-clad feet under myself and felt warm for the first time in several hours. I’m already a great proponent of Starbucks as a convenient and effective business model that has a transparent and fair employee policy and a decent cup of coffee. But this open Starbucks, with couch-chairs (rare!) and a strong cup of tea made me want to SERIOUSLY MARRY STARBUCKS FOREVER. As I regained feeling in my ears and toes, I started composing an Ode to Starbucks. It went like this:
“O, Starbucks, in times of crises and hurt feet, in times of desperate need for JUST ANY CUP OF COFFEE, in times of confusion about where to meet your friends, in times of-”
“Excuse me,” the college-age barista jerked me out of my ode to his employer. “We’re closing in ten minutes.”
“WHAT? It says 8PM on the door.”
“Yeah, well, we’re a little slow, so we’re allowed to close up and leave.”
Asdkjfhsakfjnsadkjf?!?!? was pretty much all my brain could muster. That translates roughly into WHAT THE FUCK YOU STUPID STINKING COFFEE-SERVING KRISSA-HATING BASTARDFACE HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME ARGH SMASHY SMASHY SOB.
Now, there are two points I need to clarify.
1. It wasn’t that slow. Someone had come in every five minutes and there were exactly three of the five tables with customers at them, still drinking their Starbucks Brand beverages. And
2. Don’t give me that Poor Employee Crap. I worked at Starbucks too, and we had really slow nights where there was NOBODY in the store and just two or three people smoking their tenth cigarette at the tables outside and we STILL couldn’t close the store thirty minutes early because we felt like leaving. On the Fourth of July, our manager told us that if we made NO SALES for TWENTY MINUTES, then we could go. It didn’t happen. I know what it’s like to want to close up and go home, I truly do. That doesn’t mean you do it when there are Customers Who Are Cold And Barely Like Boston As It Is.
But I was too tired and disoriented and cold to disagree with this guy, even though later, I realized what complete and utter bollocks that was and should have insisted that he allow us to remain there until eight. Instead, I whimpered and sniffled and made this face a lot:
We stumbled out into the icy air at 7:35, still with over an hour to kill on the increasingly Mean Streets of Boston. I don’t say “MEAN” in the sense of “STOLE MY LUNCH MONEY”. I say “MEAN” in the sense of “WHERE ARE ALL THE GODDAMNED COFFEESHOPS AND DELI COUNTERS AND BOOKSTORES”. For about eight minutes, we stood there trying to figure out why we’d come here at all and if we could teleport ourselves back to civilization New York. And then we decided to shiver our way to the Prudential Center and hope to God that the Barnes and Noble was more humane than the Starbucks. And by “humane”, I mean, “OPEN TO A REASONABLE TIME OF NIGHT LIKE ELEVEN.”
On the way there, I started to get really irrational, even for me, and I’m the girl that won’t eat broccoli because it looks like little trees. I swore that if the Barnes and Noble was closed, I’d never come to Boston ever again and I completely meant it (even more than I mean it when I swear that I love you bitches but if you trash me on my comments for getting mad at Boston I WILL TOTALLY CUT YOU). Luckily for us (and for Boston, and for not getting flamed on my blog for swearing off Boston), it was totally open and full of things like BOOKS and WARMTH and we sat in the bookstore cafe, elated by our victory over freezing temperatures and surly baristas. We stayed there until 8:30, reading travel guides to Prague and Terry Pratchett books (and now we can even go BACK to Boston in the summer for swans and whales and more quaint lovely streets because I didn’t have to swear OFF Boston because of one stupid train and one stupid barista but seriously next time we’re picking up a train schedule and bringing a portable 24-hour diner with us).
As we left the store to return to Back Bay and get back to Rhode Island, I said, “Boston has redeemed itself a little,” but then Stuart pointed out that by that, I really meant “Barnes and Noble still rocks my face off as always” but also with a tinge of sadness because I also really meant “this is the first time that Starbucks has failed me and I don’t like it when Starbucks fails me because they have Caramel Apple Ciders and that bitch I knew in college who hated Starbucks will be right, the same close-minded brat who coincidentally was from BOSTON”.
As we rode the clanking wheezing commuter train out of the Capital of the Revolution, we both still felt a little like this, but it was mostly for dramatic effect SO PLEASE DO NOT ATTACK ME I’M MOSTLY KIDDING ABOUT THE BOSTON-HATING:
In all seriousness, it was a wonderful day in a lovely city. It wasn’t Boston’s fault that we got kicked out of Starbucks into the freezing cold. That was the barista’s fault, who didn’t get a tip THANK YOU VERY MUCH.
But I’m telling you man, while cobblestone streets and quaint winding alleys are all well and good, Boston could stand to learn a thing or two about TRAINS. See also, RUNNING THEM. SEE ALSO, NEW YORK.
I’m just saying, is all.
This morning, the Autoblography Hiboux alarm clock went off at 6:58. It still felt like night in our bed under the window, but we only snoozed once and then I stumbled to the front window of the apartment. My parents lent us Ronda the Honda for two weeks, so that we could take two short weekend trips home while they’re in Florida. That means I have to play the dance of the Alternate Side Parking Rules. But this morning, I saw a spot. Right in front of my house. On the legal side of the street. If you know anything about parking in New York, you will know the the angels sang in my foggy brain and cried, HOLY SHIT IT’S A MIRACLE. Except maybe not the “holy shit” part, that’s sort of blasphemous.
“OHMYGOD I’m GOING there’s a SPOT in FRONT of the HOUSE be right BACK,” I yelled over my shoulder as I raced out the door in my PJs and my house-slippers and a parka. I practically magicked the car to the opposite side of the street, not even bothering to wipe the side windows clear and just rolling them down, instead. I think Stuart was STILL in the bathroom when I came upstairs, flushed and triumphant from my parking victory.
“Can I wear these pants?” I asked a few minutes later as we dressed for warmth and flexibility. “What about this shirt?” “Are you wearing a hat?”
In the kitchen, I poured a glass of water and ate three slices of banana. “Don’t gulp the water,” Stuart warned. He took the house key off his keychain and slipped it in his pocket. I stood on the landing, with my foot on the railing, stretching out my pesky right hamstring. We went downstairs.
Outside, we felt the moisture of a dense fog, settling around us. It felt good, though – sort of warming in a strange way. And then we did something completely unprecedented, for me. At 7:25 in the morning, we started jogging slowly up the street. For the record, while Stuart goes a few times a week, this is the first time I’ve gone running in about three years.
For the next 25 minutes, we jogged slowly most of the way to Astoria Park, and lapped the track once before I got tired. It was hard to admit that after a 10 minute run and one lap, I was already a little spent, but there I am, jogging with Stuart, it’s not like I have to impress him into liking me. So he asked, and I admitted, yeah, the strain was starting to set in.
“There’s no need to push yourself so that you fear coming out again in a few days,” he assured me as we slowed to a brisk walk near the tennis courts and I felt my lungs STOP hurting. I took his hand quickly, because I really appreciate the encouragement. I appreciate that while I don’t believe I’ll truly start running regularly, Stuart does. But I didn’t really believe I’d quit smoking, either, and it’s been a month. And he knew I would. So maybe I really will become a runner. It’s been one of those lifelong dreams that I’ve started and stopped about twenty times. But this is a different time, and a different place. And I’ve quit smoking. Which sort of makes me feel like I can do anything.
When we got home, Stuart made a pot of strong black tea and I cut bananas for two bowls of Rice Krispies. It was only 8:05. We settled down to watch the Today show and have breakfast. While I showered, Stuart kept me company in the bathroom. I got dressed and finished my tea, and kissed him on the landing like we do every morning.
Since we’ve been married, Stuart and I have done a lot of awesome, decadent, indulgent, wonderful things together – from trying new restaurants to putting up a Christmas Tree to walking over the Brooklyn bridge and hanging out at Barnes and Noble. This morning, we did something that seems the opposite of glamorous or decadent. Like this post, it was simple, without frills or excitement. We woke up. We ran. We talked. We made breakfast together, showered and dressed, and kissed goodbye. Simple.
But really, it was one of the best mornings of my life. And I can’t wait to do it again.
Right now, a newcomer to my office wouldn’t believe that there’s actually a sprawling mass of buildings outside my window on a normal day.
And while I do love looking out on the concrete sea of southern Manhattan and the steel glimmer of the Hudson Bay on those sunny afternoons, I also cherish my foggy days. It’s peaceful, and sort of empty. It feels like I’m up in the clouds. Come to think of it, at roughly seven hundred feet above ground level, I almost am.
Hi, Zeus!
Forty three stories above midtown, I just heard a WUMPH sort of noise from …. somewhere. Outside? Elsewhere in the building? I immediately scanned the city and her buildings (as you do on the 43rd floor) for smoke, peering through the dense fog to see if that WUMPH had an immediate and terrifying explanation. Because, you know, a WUMPH is a muffled BOOM, as I explained to Stuart when I heard the noise.
But then I realized exactly what it sounded like. It sounded exactly like a metric ton of solid concrete being dropped on an enormous marshmallow. That is exactly what the WUMPH sounded like.
Poor Staypuft. The terrorists have him where they want him. But will he talk?
Little irks me more than people who adopt nationalities to suit whimsy. You know, “oh, my great-grandmother was part French, so, ooh la la!” My grandmother was Belgian, my grandfather was Irish, my mother was raised European in Brasil, and my father was raised Greek in Egypt, and I was raised Mutt in Africa. I don’t have any need to go poaching new countries. I can barely answer to the ones I’ve got. It’s certainly not fair of me to attempt to wear a new culture by marriage. How many countries does one girl need?
But I can’t help it lately – I’ve got a crush on England.
Perhaps this isn’t too surprising. Perhaps, it’s to be expected. I’m trying not to use too many of the British terms for things because I get yelled at by well-meaning friends who think I’m being a snob (actually for the record, I’m attempting to preserve Stuart’s lovely Britishisms so that he doesn’t lose them by being surrounded by American slang).
And I’m not going to turn into one of those people who pretends to know more about Britain than everyone else. I certainly don’t. I wouldn’t know where to put Leeds on a map, I’ve never been to Manchester, I’ve only just learned about the tragic hilarity that is Milton Keynes, and I can’t even tell where one word in Welsh ends and other begins. Can anyone, come to think of it?
But in little fits and spurts, England is seeping into my life. Mostly through tea. Here’s the thing. I thought I knew tea. My mom drinks about two cups every day. Tetley’s, or Twining’s, are the only teas in our house. I’ve dabbled with loose leaf, preferably a nice strong Ceylon Orange Pekoe. I’m even a purist – I don’t consider fruit and green teas to be real tea. If it isn’t black, I don’t drink it. Alright, I don’t take it with milk and no matter how much I assimilate my married culture, I never will. But seriously. I thought I knew tea.
Then we got the Brown Betty. My mother spotted it in a store and, knowing that my old teapot was hopelessly chipped and seeing its English heritage, slipped it under the tree for us. The first thing I did with it was drop the box it was packed in and break the lid. The second thing I did was burst into tears, promptly followed by a careful session with Crazy Glue. The lid is whole again, with a touch more personality than before.
People of England, why didn’t you convince me much earlier that tea brewed in a teapot far exceeds the cup by Imperial miles?! Did you have to wait until I married one of your menfolk to let me in on this? TEA! In a TEAPOT! It’s strong. It’s hot. It can practically defend itself against the Hun, it’s so packed with moral rigidity and quiet strength. It’s, easily, the best goddamned cup of tea I’ve ever had. These days, if you squeeze me hard enough, well-brewed black tea would leak out.
The other thing I’m soaking up lately has been England’s books. Not that I’d been completely in the dark about good English authors, mind. I’ve read your Hardys, your Austens, your Doyles. But marriage has brought me a new angle on old Blighty. Partly thanks to Stuart, I’ve been consuming a less Manor House and Vicar version of English literature. From the tongue-in-cheek hilarity of Terry Pratchett to the smooth snideness of Evelyn Waugh, over to the modern wit and brilliance of Stephen Fry and David Mitchell. And of course, as my crash course for my culture-in-law, Iowa’s favourite Brit – Bill Bryson.
And the films! The Lavender Hill Mob! The Italian Job! OH MY GOD THE BLACKADDERS. We’re even watching House, on Fox, just because it stars the impeccable Hugh Laurie. Stuart’s anxiously waiting to drag me into Red Dwarf, into Dr. Who, and more Ealing comedies. And I’m not protesting.
I think I owe Britain, and England, a thank you card. Not only have those green and pleasant lands brought me a wonderful funny and intelligent husband, who seems to know his way around any subject on God’s green earth (he can make a curry and fly a glider, I mean, COME ON), but I’m getting the lion’s share of one of the greatest cultures in the world.
Plus, a few weeks ago, I was talking about the ownership of Calais and I seriously said “we”. (Although I’ll always pronounce it cal-LEH instead of CAL-lay.)
So rule Britannia and pass the Brown Betty, I guess. And if there’s a culture consumption limit, I suppose I can trade in Belgium.
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