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As I walked to the subway for my first day of work this morning (new temp job: glad, not excited) carrying my lunch, I reflected on my history of bringing lunch places, and it occurred to me that in sixth grade I was in something called Lunch Chorus. You know how certain things from your childhood seem perfectly normal while you're living them, and then you look back on them years later and go, did that really happen?
Lunch Chorus was for the kids who wanted to be in chorus but had orchestra, band, or something else going on eighth period that prevented them from doing so. These kids, myself among them, ate their lunch during chorus.
Now, from sixth grade on I very rarely had a lunch period. I barely remember what my high school cafeteria looks like. Eating lunch during class was my norm. But to be not only allowed but encouraged to eat your lunch during chorus? Whose idea was this?
That thought prompted me to get songs I sang in Lunch Chorus stuck in my head for the rest of my commute: "By the Waters of Babylon," "Wonderful Wonderful Copenhagen," and perhaps most unfortunately, "Hands Up!"
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TRIZZAY - Nobody wants swastika brownies.
Except perhaps the Nazis. - The bottom is where the truth is.
Inspired by Sharon's unevenly-buttoned shirt, obvious from the bottom but not the collar. - Everything sounds better sexy-voiced.
I think this one came from Sharon's brother, Noah. - Glaciers happen.
Nothing can be said about this, other than that it is true. - Meg Ryan driving off a cliff is all the emotions.
What the cinema of the 80s and 90s has taught us. - Andrew + Bethany = Anthony
Sharon worked out this equation on her own. - Girls can spot a Diane Von Furstenberg shopping bag a mile away.
I brought home a Gap shopping bag that was, unbeknownst to me, decorated with DVF branding. It was beknownst to my excited female roommates. - Half-marathoners don't hang up their towels.
This was on the board after Sharon and Bethany's completion of a half-marathon. No need to inquire. - Don't bring a yellow pepper into this house and expect it not to get eaten.
Fair warning. - Squeegee rhymes with itself.
"It rhymes with itself," was one of Molly's Taboo clues for "Squeegee."
These truisms mostly confined themselves to the month of April, and covered a variety of topics including baking, dressing oneself, diction, earth science, film drama, math, fashion brand marketing, runner's etiquette, vegetable etiquette, and linguistics. Featured truesmiths include myself, Bethany, Sharon, Molly, Noah, Lindsay, and possibly Brian and Rachel. And the wisdom continues. Check out #s 431-433 on Twitter. Tags: wisdoms and truisms
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 Highbridge Tower (as I now know it to be called) is a familiar sight to me. I pass it every time I'm coming home via the George Washington Bridge. It marks roughly 15 minutes until I'm home (barring traffic), yet by the time I get home I've always forgotten about it. It's the same with the color of the lights on the Empire State Building. I always say to myself, I'm going to look up what the colors mean when I get home, and I never do. One of the many ways in which people with smart phones have an advantage I don't. The world, knowing I'll never get it together to investigate Highbridge Tower unless it intervenes, arranged for me to be near it today with time to kill. I had a (temp) job interview at Yeshiva University today. The interview ended at 3:45, and I didn't need to be at band rehearsal until 6:30, so I went in search of it. My search took me into Highbridge park, which is basically a path through the woods leading down to the East River. It wasn't the nicest day for a walk, but I allowed myself to be guided by whim. Whim took me by a strange woman doing something strange. I made eye contact but kept walking. Something about the jaunt through the woods made me feel like I was in a Legend of Zelda game, so I had the theme music in my head for most of it. The trees were tall and thick, so I couldn't see the tower to follow it. Eventually, the path took me back to where I parked my car. It was a long trip down and a longer one back up, so I was exhausted. I was also still in my shirt and tie from the interview. I considered giving up and changing (I had spare clothes in my car for the rehearsal later), but I still had plenty of time. I walked down Amsterdam Avenue and continued my search. The further I walked into Washington Heights, the more it became clear I was a white man in a shirt and tie surrounded by black teenagers. One man loudly said, "Looks like an undercover cop," as he walked by me. I took off my tie. From Amsterdam Avenue, it was easy to follow the tower. Unfortunately, my search was ultimately fruitless. There was a locked gate blocking entrance to the grounds that house the tower. When I got home, I came upon this page which implies (datelessly) that the tower is closed to the public. Hopefully it will reopen at some point while I'm working at Yeshiva.
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I had a very productive day today until lunchtime. And by that I suppose I mean I had a very productive hour before lunch. At 11:30, when it was time to move the car for street sweeping, I decided to kill two birds with one stone and run some errands. My first stop was the dry-cleaners where I dropped off the massive mound of clothes from QUO and LGBAC concerts, interviews, and temp jobs. Then, since I was now holding an empty tote bag, I decided to take it food shopping. Among other things, I bought all the fixins for a yummy bologna sandwich (well, almost all the fixins, ::foreshadowing::). Then I took my car in for a quick repair during which the ice cream I bought at the supermarket only melted a little. As soon as the groceries were put away, I began making my sandwich. After the bologna slices were laid on the bread in my preferred orientation, I opened the refrigerator to find mustard. I didn't pick up any mustard at the supermarket because I assumed (incorrectly) that we had some. The fridge was packed so I looked around for a while before giving up and checking in the cabinets for a fresh bottle. All I found was a small, unopened jar of spicy brown mustard (I prefer French's yellow for a bologna sandwich), so I spread that on. Untrue to form, I waited until after applying the mustard to my sandwich to smell it to make sure it was good. It looked fine, and it smelled okay, but vaguely unlike mustard, just enough to be worrisome. I took a little taste, and then another little taste to be sure, and it was also vaguely, worrisomely, unlike mustard. Then I found the sell-by date. It was not from this decade. Naturally, I flew into a rage. I'd ruined a perfectly good sandwich, and now I had to make a special trip back to the supermarket if I wanted to make another one. Angry at the mustard (which did nothing more than sit there for four years being its harmless, spicy brown self), I threw it at the garbage can, aiming at the lid, expecting the lid to swing back and allow the mustard entrance. I underestimated the fullness of the garbage can, whose lid did not budge, causing the mustard to fall to its demise on my kitchen floor. Thankfully, only the lid broke, skittering across the floor and leaving a small smudge of mustard for me to clean up. Bad things come in threes (no French's, expired mustard, floor demise), so I'm taking my chances and heading to the supermarket for round two. Wish me luck. Tags: mustard
Current Location: United States, New York, Astoria
Current Mood: mustard
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#1 - The free latteI had some time to kill between work and band rehearsal on Monday, so I stopped into a Starbucks. It just so happened their cash register wasn't working, so the customer in front of me and I got our drinks for free (we also got apologies, which was odd). Everyone who came in after me was told that the system was down and they couldn't serve beverages at this time. I'm not sure why they wouldn't just take cash, but a free latte is fine with me. #2 - The last trip in the elevatorWhen I got to work yesterday morning, the elevator bank wasn't working, so they were ferrying people up and down in the freight elevator. Once I got into the office, I was informed that the freight elevator was no longer being used for that purpose, and people were to use the stairs until further notice. By the time I was ready for lunch, all the elevators were working again and I was able to go get myself street noodles from Room Service. #3 - Two credit cardsOn Monday morning, while subwaying into work, I got a call from my credit card company's fraud department alerting me that my credit card had been cancelled and a new one would be overnighted to me. They said I would need to be home to sign for it or it would not be delivered. I didn't know the address of the office where I was temping, so I told them I'd call them back later. It was lunch time before I had the opportunity to call. The following day, I received my credit card at the office. I called and activated it immediately. When I arrived home, I saw that there was a similar overnight UPS envelope waiting for me, also containing an identical credit card inside. I don't suppose two credit cards are better than one, but it's nice that they really wanted to make sure I got it.
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My roommates and I had a few friends over for Easter/Passover this evening. We'll start with what flopped and finish with what went well. On a whim I decided to make chocolate-covered matzos for dessert. My original plan was to simply melt chocolate chips in a saucepan and spread the melted chocolate on bits of matzo, but then I decided to check the Internet for an actual recipe. I found this, which was a bit involved, but doable, I felt. This recipe went haywire in the following ways: - Before the brown sugar/butter mixture thickened to the point described in the recipe, it burned, so it was neither the optimal texture nor the optimal state of non-burnedness.
- I brilliantly decided to dispose of the excess BOILING brown sugar/butter mixture by pouring it into a plastic cup which I would then toss in the garbage. Of course, the cup melted and made a big mess (I have made this very mistake before with leftover fry oil).
- Despite diligently checking the matzo in the oven, the chocolate burned, and at this point there was nothing to do but give up.
Part of the point of this get-together was to share my family's traditions with my friends. For previous gatherings such as this, I've made a turkey, but that's gotten overdone so my roommate roasted a chicken. Concerned that it wouldn't yield enough food, I decided to make a brisket. My sister does the family's recipe and does it well, but I was concerned about the availability of the oven so I looked up this slow cooker brisket recipe. It was very different from my family's recipe (more of a red sauce as opposed to my family's brown), but it sounded good. I included elements from my sister's recipe including the way she seasons the beef and adding sautéed onions. The brisket came out good, but in some ways disappointingly different from the brisket I know and love: - Both Tracee and the recipe said to cut the brisket against the grain to avoid shredding it. This did not work at all. Cutting it perpendicular to the grain only caused worse shredding than simply letting it fall apart naturally.
- Despite the fact that the brisket couldn't hold itself together, it was somewhat tough.
Finally, we come to the injuries. My hands currently display four blemishes: two I got in advance of cooking and two that were the direct result of cooking. I never escape unscathed: - On Friday evening as I was walking into my sister's in-laws' building for the first seder, a knuckle banged against the sharp, metal doorjamb and broke the skin.
- On Saturday morning, as I prepared my first Kosher-for-Passover breakfast, I got a paper cut opening the box of Carnation.
- While cooking, I went to throw out a box in the paper recycling bin and got stuck by a discarded aluminum foil box (the metal teeth used to cut the foil).
- While attempting to determine whether the chicken was done, my finger leaned against the hot roasting pan and left a burn mark. Startled, I threw the fork I was holding and it landed in the pan where it stayed until we served dinner.
Among the things that did work out well were the chicken (which Bethany prepared but I roasted), the matzo ball soup, the appetizers (matzoh, Charoset, Alouette, pickles), everything everyone else made, dessert, the amount of food for the amount of people, the general flow of the evening, and the fun and games afterward. It was a good mix of people. I am also happy to report that the apartment is clean, mostly. All the dishes are washed and the surfaces wiped down. The floors will be a project for tomorrow. I think I'll go to sleep or something.
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I never did my own laundry until I got to college. I remember being woefully unprepared and having to bring my mom down to the laundry room in my dorm so she could show me how to do it. I also remember the embarrassment two weeks later of saying something to my roommate that revealed to him that I'd never done laundry before, cementing his image of me as a privileged Jewish boy from Long Island. I think the pivotal comment was "Oh look, everything's stuck to the sides!" My laundry trial by fire was pretty frustrating. When I would remove my clothes from the dryer to find that some of them were still wet, defying the laws of science as I understood them, I would barely stifle a scream (later, when I lived in an apartment with its own washer and dryer, I wouldn't stifle it). Also frustrating was the discovery of white bleach marks on certain articles of clothing: one of the hazards of using a public laundry machine, I suppose. When I was an RA in the same complex the following year (one known for being the complex all the rich snotty kids ended up in), I was astounded by the amount of residents paying for an expensive laundry pick up and delivery service appropriately called "Lazy Bones." I felt laundry was a challenge we must all suffer head on. Nowadays, I have three options: - Doing my laundry in the laundromat: The most time-consuming option, I've found myself doing this most often since my days are fairly open. I actually enjoy the captivity of the laundromat, giving me an excuse to do nothing but read or crossword puzzles. Bleach stains seem not to be an issue anymore (I guess this laundromat is better maintained than my dorm laundry room) and to stave off the frustration of wet clothes at the end of the drying cycle, I test the load by putting my hands in the socks and the pockets of jeans. Still frustrating is folding (a chore that you can't even read during), but I've discovered a quiet pleasure in matching and balling socks. I can't believe I'm writing this journal entry.
- Laundromat drop-off and pick-up service: Though I scoffed at the snotty kids who did this in the dorm, I'm an adult and my time is precious. Having them do it costs twice as much as doing it myself, and it does nothing to deplete the growing mound of quarters in my change dish, but it saves me from the abject agony of folding.
- Bringing it home: If I can time it right, I'll bring my laundry with me when visiting my parents. Because my parents' washer and dryer take so long, and I sometimes have to compete with my sister for them, I'm usually up into the night doing laundry. But you can't beat the price.
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A few weeks ago, a white car appeared in the driveway of my apartment building. The first time I saw it there I minded my own business, hoping it would be gone in a few days since the driveway is a convenient place to store my car while the street is being swept.
A week went by and the car remained. I spend a lot of time in this house, and occasionally I look out the window, and the car was always there. It's like the owner didn't drive it at all. It was getting on my nerves, but I have no claim to the driveway, so no cause for complaint.
One day my landlord called me while I wasn't at home and asked if this white car in the driveway belonged to me. I told him it wasn't mine, but it had been there for at least a week. When I saw him a few days later, I asked if he found out who the car belonged to. He said it was the first floor resident's, and it's okay for them to park there since the garage isn't being used.
Oh really? That would have been interesting for me to know for years. I could have just treated the driveway like my own personal parking spot instead of only using it when absolutely necessary.
Last night, I arrived home to find that the white car was gone! I parked my car in the driveway and left it there until this evening when I drove to band rehearsal. When I arrived home tonight, the driveway was still empty. It is my parking spot now, yay.
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I had McDonald's for lunch today at around 4pm. At around 5pm, I emptied a cargo van full of percussion into an elevator, and then into a rehearsal studio. I started feeling ill during the schlepping, and now, 7 hours later, I feel just as ill. The headache's gone, but I still feel queasy. I blame the combination of McDonald's and exertion. Even when I don't have such a strong reaction as this, McDonald's always leaves me feeling nasty, sometimes starting even before I've finished it, and lasting an hour or so. I recognize that this is an addiction. Please help me stop eating McDonald's. Most people I talk to nowadays don't eat McDonald's. Some are even shocked and disgusted when I casually mention that I do. I hear a lot of, "I can't remember the last time I ate McDonald's, or even fast food." So I know this is something people do, the whole not eating McDonald's thing, and I'd like to join you. It's going to be hard for you to help me, since most of the time I am alone when I go to McDonald's, and I rarely encounter anyone I know on the way. You can help by choosing a random day of the month (set yourself an Outlook reminder or put it on your Google calendar) to call me around lunchtime and tell me not to eat McDonald's. I promise you won't be putting the idea in my head; it's already there. You'll simply be shaming me into not doing it, which is exactly what I need. If you choose the same day as someone else, I'll let you know, and you can pick a different day. Feel free to do this weekly if you like. The easy part will be stopping me from going to McDonald's when you're with me. I promise not to put up a fight, but if I break that promise, you will have to be strong. You may not be able to physically prevent me from going to McDonald's, but I am very susceptible to yelling. If I don't thank you right then, I will thank you later. Or now. Consider this my thank you in advance. Thank you. Tags: portfolio
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Saturday night was QUO's benefit night at the Big Apple Ranch. Toward the end of the night, they do a big circle dance called the barn dance. There is an outer circle and an inner circle. Each person in the inner circle faces someone in the outer circle and they are partners for the next fifteen seconds or so. After they go through the routine, the inner circle takes four steps back, claps, and four steps forward toward the person to the left of their original partner. They then do the routine with this new partner and so on. The barn dance goes on for about three songs and by the time you're done you've made it about 75% of the way around the circle (depending how many people there are). The barn dance is a little like speed dating (or like I imagine speed dating to be), in that you meet a whole bunch of different people in a short period of time. I'd done the barn dance before, and I was in a happy mood, so I felt comfortable having a 15-second conversation with my transient partners. I danced with one girl who looked like Marcia Gay Harden, and had the following conversation: Me: Has anyone ever told you you look like Marcia Gay Harden? Her: No. Me: Do you know who Marcia Gay Harden is? Her: No. [four steps back, clap] A few partners later, I was dancing with a girl who looked like Diane Keaton, and had the following conversation: Me: Has anyone ever told you you look like Diane Keaton? Her #2: Yes! Me: Oh good! Tags: portfolio
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Tonight, I made the recipe I wrote about shopping for in this post. It turned out well, but I could have saved myself a little heartache if I'd remembered the essential ingredient in all cooking adventures: a glass of wine. I started by making the peach chutney, which was easy enough. When I was chopping the onion, the knife went into my thumb which slowed me down a little and angered me a lot. There was stamping and screaming and cursing. Fortunately, no one was home (in my apartment, but I do hope I annoyed some of our loud neighbors). Once I recovered from that debacle, I was pleased to see that all of the ingredients fit into Bethany's small blender. When I was finished, it was a horrible shade of green, and smelled nothing like peach, but I'd followed the directions and at that point I didn't care. By the time I was on to the pakoras themselves, Bethany and Sharon were home to quell a second tantrum in formation. After combining all of the batter ingredients to the letter of the law, it was the consistency of dough, not pancake batter as the recipe promised. I was ready to give up, but Bethany suggested I keep adding more of the liquid ingredients until it was the right consistency. This ended up working out in more ways than one, because I'd bought twice as much salmon as the recipe required, and the batter was able to accommodate all of the salmon. The frying process was nerve-wracking as usual, but everyone loved the pakoras in the end. I'd also bought boneless chicken breasts and some butter chicken simmer sauce, but by the time the pakoras were ready I was through, and our guests had arrived anyway. The pakoras and chutney paired with Bethany's crock pot vegetable soup were more than sufficient. There was leftover soup for Bethany to take to work tomorrow, and leftover chutney that Sharon and Brian actually fought over. I was happy to let either of them have it. Oddly, the peach chutney tasted to me like bananas. 
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