Tuesday, January 27, 2009

My new favorite food



I first got this stuff at a cheese shop in Newburyport. Tried it with some creamy and crumbly cheese that had a bite to it. Loved it. Then tried it on pork chops. Mmmm. Chicken? Green beans? Yes and Yes. English muffins? Yes, again. This is good stuff. You can get it in Star Market on Morrissey Blvd. but Newburyport is much more fun.

Monday, January 26, 2009

Soup, ehh (part 4)

First failure from James McNair book. His fault? Mine? Probably a combination. This was Garlic Soup with Herbs or Herbed Garlic Soup. It sounded pretty good. 40 gloves of garlic, cream. But this was a little too watery and bland (yeah, I know, bland. It defies logic, right?). I only made half a batch so didn't feel too bad when I threw it out after the first bowl. Even the pictures didn't come out that good.

Friday, January 23, 2009

Manhattan #2

With apologies to Forest at 52 Martinis, this manhattan was procured at repeat visit to Marliave. We had already agreed to celebrate the inauguration there. This particular manhattan was made with Gentleman Jim. Stronger than rye, but doesn't have that bite on the first sip or two that Maker's Mark has. I wasn't jumping up and down about the level of service I got; not at all like the first visit. What are you going to do? Return on Monday nights or not go back are the two options we came up with. I got the mussels. Decent enough, the broth was a bit bland, the bread was good.





For a little color, here's the picture of my friend's Bombay Sapphire cosmo.













Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Mr. MacDonald is a Liar or How I Became a Feminist

Winter, 1970

I get to school and all the cheerleaders have pants on. What's going on here?

There was an announcement over the loud speaker last night after school let out for the day that girls would be allowed to wear pants to school during the winter months.

Lot of good this announcement did most of us. We are talking New England here - we are all running around in the miniest of mini-skirts during snow blizzards, freezing rains, wind chills below zero. That's right, back in the olden days, girls had to wear skirts or dresses to school all year long. The cheerleaders just happened to have practice yesterday afternoon and got the news before anyone else.

Let's get one thing straight right from the start. These weren't dungarees. These weren't khakis. These were adorable pants suits in bright hues. Matching pants and jackets or vests.

We were tracked in those days - college bound kids all in the same classes; shop kids in others. So there was not much interaction except with your own groups. But word started to spread after home room let out for first period. Everyone sees the cheerleaders walking between classes. A couple of the tough girls are wearing pants too. They had detention the night before so heard the announcement.

There doesn't seem to be much of a reaction from teachers; at least not any we are aware of immediately. Nothing from Mrs. Collins, my 9th grade homeroom and French teacher. She who put a boy of 13 or 14 in a corner for some infraction of her own personal set of rules has no comment.

Fourth period is Science with Mr. MacDonald. It's also lunch period. I sat in the first seat of the last row, Carol beside me and Jeannie behind me. Cheerleaders in pants. Mr. MacDonald rolled his chair from behind his desk and into his usual spot, in front of and between Carol and me. Today was no different, he leaned back in the chair and started pontificating on … who knows what.

The classroom was unbelievable hot. That was probably not that unusual. There were radiators in every class and they either worked too well or not at all. What was unusual was that he didn't have the windows open to counter balance the heat pouring out of the radiators.

Mr. MacDonald always sent one of the boys across the street to get his lunch from the sub shop. Always boys. Apparently girls could not be trusted to cross the street, could not be trusted with money. Could not be trusted, period.

So today, he asks, “Which one of the boys are going to get my lunch today?”

We all know he’s going to pick who he wants from among the boys and no one ever raises their hands.

“How about Lisa?”

She’s the head cheerleader. She’s in pants. Lisa is out of her chair, up the aisle and across the front of the room, grabbing the money from his hand and out the door before he even realizes that his plan backfired. She’s not humiliated; she is thrilled to be the center of attention and to get out of school if only for 10 minutes.

He tries to cover, leaning even further back in his chair. “It’s so comfortable in here.”

"What a liar." Wow, under my breath but still out of my mouth. Me. Straight As, never says boo to anyone.

“Did you just call me a liar?”

Not a pause of even one second.

“What you said was a lie.”

“Detention,” then continues along with the class as if nothing had happened.

Lunch and two more periods until the end of the day. At 2:30, the cheerleaders get told in homeroom that they have detention too.

They didn’t get the form giving consent to wear pants signed by their parents. Doesn’t matter that we all knew that there was no form last night. One of the business ed. girls (read Future Secretaries of America), worked in the office during lunch period. By the time last period arrived, she had successfully broken through all lines of communication between groups and let it be known that she copied the form that day during her work-study in the office.

So it’s me, most of the cheerleaders and a couple of boys who had gotten detention for one reason or another in Mrs. Collin’s room at 2:31.

This was the first time any of the girls had gotten detention so when it seemed like it was just sitting in the room for an hour, we were all a little relieved.

Again, because of the wonders of the alphabet, I’m in the first seat of the last row, Carol next to me, Jeannie behind me.

And what is the magical pull of this space in front of Carol and me. That’s where Mrs. Collins and Mr. Madden, the other French teacher, set up their tea and crumpets at 2:30 just like they do every morning at 10:30.

Two classrooms of 30 kids each sitting there for 10-15 minutes waiting for the teachers to drink tea and stuff their faces. The door is open between the classrooms so Mr. Madden can hear if anything untoward is going on in his class.

I’m told to go stand in the hall. I suffer out there for a few minutes and then hear the clicking of her heels as she makes her way across the wooden floor to the door.

While most likely of normal height, I was a small girl and she seemed like a giant. Older woman, dyed black frizzy hair. Big nose. Big through the hips. She lisps and spits when she talks (do I need to remind you of my seat in the classroom and the favored location from which to teach?).

I think I must have gone into some kind of a trance. I don’t remember being asked what happened. I don’t remember being asked for any explanation for what I had said. Most likely I wasn’t asked. Mr. MacDonald's version of the incident was enough.

I don’t remember anything she said until she told me I had to apologize to Mr. MacDonald. I burst into tears.

She went back into the classroom and left me out there. I remember sitting on the stairs. Mr. MacDonald’s room was one floor directly above Mrs. Collins’.

I know I wasn’t crying when I got to his room. Just him. Behind his desk. I have to walk all the way from the door in the back of the room to the front where the desk is.

“Mrs. Collins sent me up here to apologize.”

Silence. I not going to cry.

“Is that all?”

“Mrs. Collins sent me up here to apologize.” Still, not crying.

“Are you going to?”

Silence. I look up and for one brief moment hold eye contact.

“I guess not.”

“Get back to detention.”

That was it, no yelling, no screaming, no nothing. “Get back to detention?”

I went back down the stairs to Mrs. Collins’ room; I went back to my first seat, last row. I went back to being a straight A student (well, Mr. MacDonald did give me a D in deportment for that quarter but you’re not going to hold that against me, are you?). But I never really went back; the jig was up.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Blasts from the past, circa 1970

Editor's note: I think you're going to have to double click on the images to really be able to read them.

High school musical this was not. Inside Agitator was by far the best title we came up with for our earnest rantings against The Man. Principals, vice principals, guidance counselors, teachers (with one notable exception and a few lesser exceptions) - all kept blaming our activities on outside agitators. You know, those hippies from Harvard Square. We didn't know any hippies from Harvard Square. Sure, you could buy pot from them if you got really desperate but after getting ripped off one or two times, you learned to plan consumption of what you bought from your regular source better.

Give us some credit. We were the Committee of Concerned Students. We were the Somerville/Medford Student Alliance. We were Inside Agitators, we were the women of the New Dawn.

Why I hate bowling

Someday you'll look back on all this and laugh. I don't know how you feel when someone says that to you, but I just roll my eyes. I can't remember one single time when I looked back on something and found it funny when I didn't find it funny the first time. I don't remember anyone ever telling me that I would laugh about bowling, but that is just the kind of thing that the grown-ups I knew would have said if they had known what was going on.

I have probably only bowled about half a dozen times in my entire life so hate is probably too strong a word. Disdain, horror, I don't know; but it's certainly not amusement.

When I was in junior high school, some girls whose clique I wanted to belong to went bowling on Saturday afternoons. These were the same girls who, a few years later, would vote to have "Color My World" as the theme song to the prom instead of "Stairway to Heaven." I was not as discriminating in those days as I am now, so I started to go bowling.

The first week I was invited was a disaster and I never even made it to the bowling alley. I went to the girl's house who had invited me and she had already left. Her mother made her call me when she got home and apologize. The next week the girl and her mother picked me up and drove us to the bowling alley. With a beginning like that, was it any wonder that I didn't enjoy it.

What I did enjoy was making a pest of myself to my older sister. She was in high school and used to go out and do things. I wasn't sure just what it was she was doing; but I knew that whatever it was, was being done behind my parents' backs. This knowledge enabled me to blackmail her into agreeing to take me with her. "I'm going to tell Mom and Dad" had considerable weight in those days.

What a rush. Whatever she was doing must have been pretty good if she would rather take me along than to give it up. I was convinced I had made the leap into adulthood and lost all interest in bowling.

I was incensed to learn, after harassing my sister for two or three weeks, that agreeing to do something and actually doing it were not the same thing. Some of her excuses were more plausible than others. It seemed reasonable that our parents would be suspicious if there was any unnatural show of affection on either of our parts. But I grew more impatient as the days and weeks passed.

During lunch one Saturday afternoon, my mom asked, "Are you going skating with your sister this afternoon?"

This was it. I didn't think she was going ice-skating.

"Yeah, I'm going."

One look at my sister told me I was right.

When we got outside, we started walking towards the skating rink with our skates slung over our shoulders, one skate in front, the other in back. She told me that I had better just do what she did and not say anything to anybody when we got where we were going.

By the time we approached and then passed the skating rink, I was uncontrollable. I wanted to know everything. Of course, all I got was icy silence.

"Look, I told you, I didn't want to take you, so you better just shut up."

We were past my junior high school and on the way up the hill to the high school. I had never been this far on my own without my parents. We arrived at an older three-story house surrounded by a chain link fence and a big yard. The house was kind of run down and the light brown paint was peeling. We walked up the three steps to the porch and my sister rang the bell.

A woman's voice called out, "Come in."

My sister opened the door. I saw a stairway immediately in front of us. The kitchen was on the left. I caught a glimpse of a woman sitting at the table. My sister stepped to the right towards the parlor. Coat, hat and clanking skates were one unit as they were dropped in the corner by the door. Then she headed back towards the kitchen. I could have been her shadow.

The woman sitting at the table had long, wavy blonde hair held in a loose bun with a barrette. She had on a man's T-shirt and a faded pair of jeans. No bra, that was obvious. I had never seen anyone without a bra. I had never seen anyone like her at all.

"This is my sister. I had to take her."

So much for my leap into adulthood. I had been reduced to a babysitter's charge in a matter of seconds. My eyes hit the floor.

"Why don't you both sit down and I'll make some tea."

She got up and moved some papers that she had been working on to one side of the table and cleared places for us. She went to the sink, filled a kettle with water and put it on the stove.

I could only muster up enough courage to look around after she went into the pantry. There weren't just papers on the table. There were newspapers stacked against one wall, books against another. Posters were tacked up everywhere, most contained announcements for meetings or rallies. I picked up a bright blue pamphlet with black ink drawings and I recognized my sister's artwork. I looked at it, then at her.

"Well," she said, still with those hard eyes.

"Nothing. I'm just looking."

The woman came back with the tea. The cups were old, but she had given us saucers; something my mother never did.

This was the first of many visits to this house. We would usually tell our parents that we were going ice skating or to play tennis. But those excuses had a drawback. Just how grown-up do you think you can be when you are lugging ice skates around. Bowling was the answer to all our problems, nothing to carry. Why we never said we were going to the library is beyond me. If there were ever two more unathletic girls than my sister and me, I have yet to discover them. We were intellectual types. Of course, we didn't know that then, we were just two girls who wore glasses.

Friday, January 16, 2009

Vice Presidential Handlers Lure Cheney Into Traveling Crate

From The Onion (http://www.theonion.com/content/index)

WASHINGTON—A team of nine specially trained handlers have successfully lured outgoing vice president Dick Cheney into a reinforced steel traveling crate in order to transport him back to his permanent enclosure in Casper, WY, official sources reported Monday. "He's a smart one. Once he sees the crate, he gets pretty nippy, but we've learned a few tricks over the years," chief VP wrangler Ted Irving breathlessly said while applying pressure to a deep gash on his forearm. "If we break a rabbit's legs and throw it in there, he will eventually go in to finish it off. Doesn't work with dead rabbits, though. Cheney only eats what he kills." Irving said that the latest vice presidential relocation went much more smoothly than September's diplomatic trip to Georgia, which was delayed for several hours after Cheney mauled three secret service agents and escaped inside the White House walls.

Please just stop saying this. It's really annoying.

Bush declared again last night (as have countless others in the past and they will most likely continue to do so) that the nation has become safer under his watch, proved by the fact that America has not suffered another terrorist attack.

OK, granted no one has attacked us since 09/11 but no one attacked since Pearl Harbor either...until you got into office.

I've got one of my own little fantasy life going on, thanks. I don't need to participate in Bush et al's.

Thursday, January 8, 2009

Soup, mmm (part 3)



How can you go wrong with a big old pot of chicken stock? You can't. And really there's nothing simpler (OK, opening a can is simpler, but come on; this is really simple and the result is so much more satisfying).

Save a couple of carcasses and/or any chicken bones with some meat still left on them. Freeze them until you have enough.

Throw them in a big pot.

Cut up and add two or three stalks of celery, two or three carrots, an onion (all depending on how many chicken pieces you have and how big your pot is).

Add a bayleaf and spices (standards, of course, are salt and pepper, but I also add whatever else is sitting around (basil, rosemary, this batch was thyme).

Add enough water to cover the ingredients.

Bring to a boil.

Lower heat and cover.

Lift cover occassionally to skim off any foam.

Cook for 1/5-2 hours.

Drain stock into containers. I usually refrigerate overnight and skim fat off. Freeze some of it and make something with the rest in the next day or two.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

The more things change, the more they stay the same

It struck me while seeing Milk this weekend that no matter how far we get with a progressive agenda (gay rights, abortion rights, blah, blah, blah), we just have to keep fighting the same freaking battles over and over again.


Sean Penn has always been one of my favorite actors and I will watch just about anything that he's in. Yup, even saw the movie he was in with Madonna.


I don't know how many liberties were taken with the facts (the tape recording sessions at the end - yeah probably some there which I don't necessarily think enhanced the movie). But, and this is without having seen most of what will get nominated for awards this year, he should get something. Could just be me and my silly girlish ways, but I couldn't take my eyes off him - even when James Franco was on screen. I think Penn's is an all out charming performance. Part of this has to do with the facts. Milk was, by all accounts, a charmer. But there are all kinds of opposing things going on in this movie and Penn can carry all of them. The flashback at the end of the movie reshowing his first night with Scott, James Franco's character, which occurs during a phone call with Scott on what is presumably the last night off his life. Scott tells him that he is proud of him. The flashback goes back to their night together when Harvey laments that at 40 he still hasn't done anything he was proud of - sniff, sniff (and that's not meant facetiously). Almost makes me want to start doing something again. Almost.


I also saw Conversations from the Pit with Henry Rollins (how much do you love Netflix!). This was recorded in Australia sometime after - OK, I don't say Bush's re-election since I do not think he was ever elected - November 2004 (Garrison Keiller calls him the "Current Occupant" (http://www.salon.com/opinion/keillor/2009/01/07/self_esteem/)). Also a long time fan of Rollins - spoken word only; I was never a head banger - and while I haven't exactly lost friends over this, I do get the rolling-of-the-eyes-here-she-goes-again look when I try to convince people of his talent and this is on the first attempt. Couple of things about this movie that really stuck out:


He thinks you can really tell if people think something is funny when they laugh without making any noise. Yup, I have that reaction but I also snort. Literally, snort. Maybe it is a good thing that I don't ask anyone to go to his concerts or watch his movies with me. So unladylike.


He doesn't think you have to agree to disagree either. It is our duty and responsibility to speak up and call people out on their crap.


No matter how old and tired you are, you still have to summon the strength to give people the finger.