Instead of writing a long sappy post that would make you either squeal or vomit depending on your romantic predelictions, I’ve changed pH’s dress and further banned myself from mentioning my relationship with Stuart or my newly-minted marriage. Consider today’s layout change my junkie fix with romance and don’t you dare complain or I’ll post one of those doozies you’re all so sick of.
Instead, today’s pH is going to be an ode to non romantic love. Stay tuned. And pass me that box of Godiva.
Archives for the month of: February, 2005
In our continuing quest for two decent nighttables that will hold all of our books and mugs and eyeglasses and lamps and alarm clocks, Stuart and I stopped in to a place called Furniture Market on Astoria Boulevard, right where it makes a V with Newtown Avenue. After twenty minutes of looking at the major, useful pieces of furniture and not finding those shabby-chic bedstands of our very dreams, we got a little punchdrunk on knick knacks, tschotkes, and thing-a-ma-whatsits. Oh, and the who-za-ma-doodles.
I poked through the old Vivitars, Kodak Instamatics, and camera brands long since defunct. We saw an ashtray shaped like a coffin and I “oohed” over a swinging mahogany bassinet, just to mentally appease a Jen that wasn’t there. Stuart spotted a 1980′s gaming system I’ve never even heard of. There was a cassette tape of Lawrence Welk Sings The Classics, stuck among the wall-eyed dolls and dingy plush toys. It was a little creepy.
I picked up a device that looked like a cross between an old fashioned hospital blood pressure machine and something you’d use to home your robot.
Krissa: “Do we NEED this?”
Stuart: “What IS it?”
Krissa: “Look at this stuff… isn’t it neat?”
Stuart: “Oh NO you don’t.”
I kept humming it, all through the store.
There’s something about second-hand furniture stores. Is it because each item, no matter how useless or hideous, once had a history with someone? There are canes hanging from the ceiling that other old Astorians had used to hobble down the street, walking slowly in front of another young woman like me. There are telephones that, in the mid-70′s, were the height of modernity. There are coffee service sets that births were announced over, neighbors were gossiped about, and hard decisions were made. It’s history, living in objects that are asking for another chance at life.
And then there’s the bargain scavenger in all of us. Especially those of us with a shopping gene. I found myself digging through the accessories, training my well-accustomed eye, hoping to spot a gem that surely, the old proprietors couldn’t possibly know the value of, like perhaps an old Gucci handbag, or a vintage Mary Quant hat, or even something from the heyday of the great New York department stores, like Bonwit and Teller or Sealfon’s. We, those hardened shoppers, charge forward on the assumption that our lexicon of intrinsic value is more finely-tuned than the guy that slaps the pricetag on some box of purses or hats or shoes. Sometimes it works. This box didn’t even have a gem, much less an outrageously lowly-priced gem.
The other funny thing about furniture adoption stores is the books they use to decorate the shelves and sometimes bring in a penny or two. A valuable thing to know about books is: just because the spine is old doesn’t make it a classic.
“Think Smarter, Speak Better?” Stuart read aloud, as his curly head cocks sideways in the universal language of shelf-scanning. I ran my finger along the spines of about twenty attractively-packaged and vintage Reader’s Digest Books. Charmingly old. Just as bad as they were when new.
It reminds me of that scene in The Birdcage where the books on their remodeled apartment shelves are all old and smart-looking, and up close they’re just old Nancy Drew mysteries.
When we finally stolled into the late afternoon sunshine, I’d forgotten what we went in there for in the first place. Oh, right. Nighttables. Still, there was something refreshing about the clutter of tattered armchairs, splintering formica-topped modernist dressers, tables piled high with somewhat desperate china and lamps and popcorn machines, and the ugly paintings leaning against every available wall. If nothing else, it makes the entrance into our neat, well-appointed apartment feel even more like coming home. It felt good to look at the things we own, the things we chose and cherish.
Things that, in a few decades, will serve as someone else’s second hand junk.
I’m going to write down everything that’s been going on. In a very Dear Diary blogpost sort of way. Bear with me. If I don’t do it this way, I won’t blog, and I know you want me to blog, don’t you?
This week has been all food and rushing, until last night. On Saturday, in the beautiful warm afternoon, Stuart and I took a nice long run along the East River that finished with us deciding to have comfort food for dinner – baked beans, cheese on toast, introducing Stuart to the glory of tater tots, and cheap beer. Our superbowl watching happened down in Brooklyn with the Tribe, and while it was good to see everyone, I felt so out-of-sorts that night as to almost be unreal. I didn’t even feel like the person in my body, much less someone anyone would want to talk to. All I wanted to do was curl up on the couch with friends and be quiet, but superbowls and funny commercials and great friends did warm the tiny corner of my soul that wasn’t given over to moribund whining.
My father’s birthday was Wednesday night, his sixty-fifth. For all my dad and I quarreled when I was a sullen loud-mouthed teen (and we did, with such memorable interactions as “money doesn’t grow on trees” and “DUH”), he’s one of my favourite people in the world. For someone that so many people percieve as intimidatingly quiet or abrupt, my dad is one of the most easily-pleased, humble people. Him and my mom arrived at 5:45, and Stuart and I had just started cooking the dinner I’d been obsessively planning for three solid days. Even though I was running around like a maniac trying to make this perfect dinner for him, and Mom was calmly and efficiently trying to help Stuart help me (who was already trying to calmly and efficiently help me, the saint)… Dad just sat down and turned on the Simpson’s. He enjoyed the meal, even though he has a long-standing dislike of mashed potatoes which I’d forgotten about when I’d planned a menu of herb-butter roasted chicken and marscapone and vermouth-roasted-garlic mashed potatoes. That’s my dad. He’s the best.
So, incidentally, is my mother. You wouldn’t even believe what she did but I left the photographic evidence at home so I’ll have to just tell you – she made tons and tons of Ball Jars full of my favourite sauces and fillings for casseroles and pasta dishes, and put labels on them that say “Mom’s Own!” and the cooking/preparing instructions. It’s almost unbelievable – there are about twenty in our freezer right now. She just amazes me with her kindness and helpfulness and the wonderful thing is, she does it all to make OUR lives easier.
And then Thursday came around, and I was in a great mood all day because work was progressing quickly and we had a decadent evening of Fawlty Towers and Nothing Else Especially Not Cleaning Or Cooking planned, and then I found out about Mike. Which was surreal and terrible and shocking and it’s still making me sad at little intervals of the day but mostly, it made me rush home to Stuart and hug him really hard at random points almost all evening, because life really is so very precious. How very special are we, for just a moment, to be part of life’s eternal rhyme.
And so tonight, after mentioning that Mike had seen the movie at one of my favourite theatres in New York, Stuart asked me if I wanted to go on a proper date, with a proper gentleman, to a romantic movie. Alas, it’s not at the same theatre as Mike saw it at. But it’s in one of my favourite New York neighborhoods, and there’ll be a stop at Dylan’s Candy Bar for some yogurt covered pretzels that my date will buy for me, and we’ll share a popcorn, and it makes me think, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
So this weekend, with Jen moving and another Saturday run planned and Deb’s engagement party and brunch with the PWSWM and a FreshDirect delivery … this weekend is just going to be about life. Life, and love.
Have a wonderful day, all of you. And hug your loved ones a lot.
I’m not sure why I’m even posting this. Perhaps because blogging is the medium that brought some of these people into my life, so blogging is what I do when life takes one away. I had the honor to drink and laugh with Mike Wolf at this July’s BABB, and to email infrequently with him. He passed away suddenly yesterday. When I found out, I just stared at my computer screen because inside the box in front of me, it’s both startlingly surreal and then, heartbreakingly real. Unreal when I see his last bouncy, funny, just-like-Mike post, and then heartbreaking when I think about Lady Crumpet, Daniella, Ken, and Paul, and everyone else that knew him better than I did and love him very much.
I guess I have to tear myself away from the computer now, stop staring blankly at the screen wondering what the HELL, what it MEANS, what my puny heart and hands can do to help. I guess I should go home now.
Mike will most certainly, most deservedly, most achingly be missed.
It doesn’t really matter WHY I burst into tears at my office (because believe me, before you start leaving sympathetic comments, you have no idea HOW many times a month I burst into tears at my office) but what matters is that I crawled under my desk and leaned on my ancient G3 tower to cry in peace, and I think I encountered half a sandwich under there that had morphed into some POWERFUL OVERLOAD OF THE BENT PAPERCLIPS AND PEN CAPS and I swear it was blinking menacingly at me while scuttling sideways in the shadows, AMASSING ITS REJECTED OFFICE SUPPLY MINIONS, and while I wanted to get a good cry out of the whole thing, I was a little too afraid, so I bucked up and stopped my nancy-pants whimpering and here I am, in the freedom of daylight and logic and sandwiches that don’t become sentient and plot your grisly demise.
I know there’s a moral here but I’m seriously at a loss as to what it is.
See:
As a society, we recognize that the decision of whether and whom to marry is life-transforming. It is a unique expression of a private bond and profound love between a couple, and a life dream shared by many in our culture. It is also society’s most significant public proclamation of commitment to another person for life.
With marriage comes not only legal and financial benefits, but also the supportive community of family and friends who witness and celebrate a couple’s
devotion to one another, at the time of their wedding, and through the anniversaries that follow. Simply put, marriage is viewed by society as the utmost expression of a couple’s commitment and love. Plaintiffs may now seek this ultimate expression through a civil marriage.
See Also:
It is hereby ADJUDGED and DECLARED that the words “husband”, “wife”, groom” and “bride”, as they appear in the relevant sections of the Domestic
Relations Law are and shall be construed to mean “spouse”, and all personal pronouns, as they appear in the relevant sections of the Domestic Relations Law, are and shall be construed to apply equally to either men or women; it is further ORDERED that defendant [City Clerk Victor Robles] is permanently enjoined from denying a marriage license to any couple, solely on the ground that the two
persons in that couple are of the same sex.
See also:
Lambda Legal‘s site for their indepth press release on today’s monumental Hernandez v. Robles ruling, and more importantly, to download Judge Doris Ling-Cohan’s full decision and read every single word.
“Simply put,” she said. Simply put, indeed. Bravo, Your Honor.
Are you trying to up your snob quotient? Is there just not enough savoury pie in your life? Do you need a really good reason to buy that lovely Le Creuset pie dish? Do you not know what to serve at brunch, which is not quite breakfast, not quite lunch, but comes with cantaloupe?
Then it’s high time I revealed my Fabulous Quiche Recipe. I’d link to the site except I have absolutely no recollection where I got it, and the recipe card is long vanished from my collection. So I shall have to recite it from memory, with my own flair for distracting commentary provided free of charge. Ladies? Gentlemen? Start your mixers.
For the filling, you’ll need:
3 large eggs
10-12 fl. oz. of Whole Evaporated Milk (depends on the can size)
1 medium onion
roughly 1/2 pound of thick-cut bacon (about 10 strips)
2 cups of swiss cheese (shred it yourself, don’t buy the shredded bag)
For the crust, you’ll need:
Betty Crocker pie crust mix* and a dash of brandy.
*I’m serious. Look, you can make yourself a whole complicated pie crust from scratch, if you want. Roll it, freeze it, etc etc. But the thing about this quiche is, it’s the kind of thing you effortlessly whip up in the morning, almost without planning it. So my suggestion is, use the Betty Crocker pie crust mix. Instead of the 1/3 cup of water, make that half-water, half-brandy. That makes the crust flakier. And instead of roller-pinning it out, just mush it together with your hands (in a BOWL, you dirty thing) and tear off little chunks, laying it in the pie dish piece by piece. Make sure it’s seamless, but puckered and uneven. This gives a crunchier, flakier bottom. That pie crust, by the way, comes all the way to the RIM of the pie dish and then some.
To make the perfect quiche, you should probably have gone out carousing to some snappy club the night before, but a romantic jet trip to Paris won’t be ignored. Whatever you did last night, make sure it was smashingly fun. Then proceed to:
1. Wake up a little earlier than you normally would on a Sunday. Slide your arm/leg out from under/over the delectable young charmer you usually sleep with/have just slept with for the first time (legal note: delectable young charmer not guaranteed with quiche). Make sure they don’t wake up, but leave a glass of orange juice and about ten Advil on their night table. Chances are, they’ll need it.
2. Enjoy your early-morning walk to the store. Yes, we know that early morning for you means “any time before 3″. Enjoy it anyway. You’re young(ish), have a full set of working appendages, and your clever brain. Plus, some random girl on the internet in New York loves you enough to share her ultra-special quiche recipe with you.
3. Pick up all the necessary ingredients and pay for it in the legal tender of your nation. We at pH do not condone shoplifting for quiche.
4. When you get home, first and foremost prepare the pie crust. See above for reasons you shouldn’t be too adventurous and make it from scratch. When the pie dish has been properly lined with pie crust, set that aside and preheat your oven to 375.
5. Chop the onion finely. If you have one, give it a quick run in the food processor. You don’t want them too big – the word “diced” isn’t out of place here. Dice the onions. While you’re at it, slice the rashes of bacon into roughly 2 inch pieces, and grate out two cups of swiss cheese on a LARGE shred-setting on your grater. Now your ingredients are all chopped/diced/grated and in neat little bowls. That is, if you cook as systematically as we do here at pH. Which we heartily recommend that you do. This is called “being prepared”, and you’ll find any good girl scout knows how.
6. Throw the bacon into a non-stick frying pan on medium-high heat and pour yourself some coffee or tea. Feel free to substitute “coffee” or “tea” with “whiskey” or “champagne”. When the bacon is starting to make its own grease, throw the onions in there with it. Turn to medium heat, until the onions have browned and the bacon is ALMOST crispy. That’ll be about 5-7 minutes, in which you…
7. Crack three eggs in a bowl, and beat them, adding the shaken-before-opened evaporated milk. Here’s where you can salt-and-pepper your quiche. We at pH, being snobs of the highest order, rather insist you use fresh-grated pepper and grated sea salt. But we’ll politely look the other way if you don’t. Set this mix aside. You’ll want to give it another quick whisk before adding it to the quiche.
8. When the bacon and onions are suitably browned and near-crispy, take them off the heat. Now comes the quiche-making part. You’re going to put down about half the cheese, at the bottom of the pie dish. Now you’re going to add about half the bacon/onions (LIFT them out of the frying pan with a spatula or holed-spoon, don’t put the grease in your quiche). Repeat again with the rest of the cheese, then the rest of the bacon. This way everything is nice and even. Gently pour the egg/milk mixture over the bacon/cheese, and slowly slide into the oven. Don’t spill it everywhere or Mommie Dearest will yell at you, “THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS.”
9. Bake for roughly an hour, or until the surface is nicely browned and a toothpick comes out clean. The top of your quiche should feel spongy and it should smell fantastic.
10. Serve to your delectable bed-mate and a gaggle of your dear friends, some of whom you may have met last night and are sleeping on your couch. A handful of suggested side dishes, which can be whipped up while the quiche bakes, your hangover dissipates, and your friends arrive/wake up: rosemary and olive-oil roasted baby red potatoes, cous-cous or pine-nut rice, a walnut arugula salad, or steamed broccoli covered in parmesan. At different brunches, we at pH have served our marvellous quiche with ALL these sides, to delightful acclaim and praise.
There. Quiche, in ten easy steps. Last of all, DO NOT FORGET THE ALCOHOL. For what is brunch without alcohol? It’s like New York without Woody Allen, an England without her Queen, Japan without her geishas. We suggest anything that can be made in pitchers: strong bloody mary for winter, a nice fruity sangria for summer. For a slightly more refined alcoholic accompaniment, may we also suggest Bellinis or Kir Royales.
So who’s making a quiche this weekend, then?
So, Biscuit made me do one of those chain-letter list things? Where you write down names of people you know, and song titles, and then the email explains which match up with which. It’s supposed to be all “eerie” and “true” but it doesn’t work if you’re an idiot, like me, and you put down silly songs. Case in point? My “unworkable relationship” song was ISTANBUL, by They Might Be Giants, and my personal philosophy song was Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard.
Well, you’re supposed to wish for something before you reveal the matches to yourself, and I’m cunning like a fox (that’s just been made Professor of Cunning at Oxford University) when it comes to stupid chain letters, so I decided to wish for something really retarded. Like a chinchilla. Chinchillas are retarded. So I wished for one, so that I wouldn’t get bamboozled into forwarding this crap to twenty five people just in case I DID get a million dollars, right?
Well, it turns out, the email chain letter PROVIDED for people like me. It said, if I don’t forward it, I’ll get the OPPOSITE of my wish.
Which has left me rolling in the aisles for about ten minutes, trying to imagine what the goddamned OPPOSITE of a CHINCHILLA is.
A bear? A wooly mammoth? A really ugly guy with pimples all over his face and a penchant for serial murder?
Anything else ENORMOUS AND/OR UNCUTE!?
I’m sort of terrified now.
IF
i wasn’t spending all day every day flipping between my phone, my email, my contact list, my rolodex, and thirty pages of notes on 100 different people while trying to not accidentally stab myself in the eye with the pencil I keep precariously tucking behind my ear
AND IF
that didn’t make it impossible to hold a coherent thought beyond the 30 second phone conversations and repetitive email exchanges I’ve been having with 100 different people
AND IF
I had anything interesting to say to you at all about anything that wasn’t related to 100 photographers and collectors and writers and agents and studio execs and editors and their egos
THEN
I’d blog
BUT
I’m not one of those awesome people (I’m looking at you, Jen) that can be busy at work and still find a way to blog
WHICH
doesn’t bode well for my blogging continuity if I ever do anything serious like go back to school or have a baby
SO
I’m not entirely sure why you’re here
BUT
I’m sure as hell glad you are
AND
you can say hi and tell me that I’m crap for putting so many blank lines in a post as to make it look REAL
BUT
you’d win far more favor in my heart by offering me another job cookies.
