ack

With the CSA program, we've been eating at home much more than before. I try and plan the week for at least five home-cooked meals. Really, why spend extra money going out when I can cook something better? Last night's dinner at Aki Japanese Fusion Restaurant made me want to cook dinner at home even more.

autumnal celebrations

The menu:


Spicy roasted chickpeas
Hot spinach, artichoke and crab dip
Sun dried tomato hummus
Blueberry vanilla goat cheese
Assorted crudités and crackers
Spiced (& spiked) mulled cider


Brown sugar and mustard glazed turkey
Tofurky with bing cherries and caramelized onions
Pan & vegan gravies
Roasted asparagus
Sweet potato spoon bread
Kale gratin
Chestnut, sausage, & apple dressing
Cream glazed dinner rolls


Pumpkin pie with cranberry-lavender whipped cream
Apple frangipane gallette

the best laid plans... are eaten

11.15 CSA pick-up: Japanese sweet potatoes, turban squash, collard greens, chrysanthemum greens, green leaf lettuce, broccoli, napa cabbage, radishes, carrots, spinach

Much to my chagrin, it's holiday time. Though I'm not sure I'll ever understand how 72 hours of holiday morphs into a full two months of "holiday season," I suppose I should be grateful because it gives me ample reason to design celebratory meals. Magically, I can get away with serving multiple courses, keeping the family eating all day long.

boxstep bloodsucker

A quick lunch at Fat Salmon gave me a quick break from eating meals from the coffee table this week. We didn't order nearly enough to warrant a true review of the Washington Square sushi bar, but I can't say they've ever disappointed me. For this visit, I danced with a vampire - proving titles can be far more exciting than they appear on the plate. Light and refreshing with cucumber and asparagus inside, topped with chopped salmon and tuna in a sweet chili sauce. A safe bet, not much more than that. 

Dancing Vampire? 

faux cheese can be fab

Open mouth, insert foot. After talking it up that I get serious in the kitchen, the very next posting is in praise of a restaurant. Yes, I have tofu marinating for a delicious Asian meal (I have lots of CSA cabbage to get through), but tonight I wanted my favorite Philadelphian pizza.


In a city that is chock-full of pizza joints, the standout is Blackbird Pizzeria. I'm certainly not a vegan and the last animal product I'd willingly give up is cheese. Somehow, at Blackbird, the fact that the cheese is not animal derived is far from being a worry. The crust is thin and chewy in the right places, sauce isn't overpowering, and the toppings are artfully chosen. The flavor combinations make for some of the best specialty pies I've ever had. 

Taking a bite out of this slice of veggie supreme was paramount to photography.

box full of magic

I like to cook.
Foodie? Perhaps. But not that elitist restaurant foodie that doesn't actually spend time in his own kitchen. I get down and dirty, making things from scratch - after traveling to multiple markets to gather my ingredients. It is seemingly impossible to find everything I need in one place.


My newest secret?
Membership to a local CSA. Every Tuesday I have the privilege of picking up a stunning assortment of local, organic produce from Lancaster Farm Fresh Cooperative. How can you say no to supporting local farms, eating healthy, and saving money? Each week's share breaks down to less than $30.

We're still living off that massive 6lb cabbage. 

surprisingly productive day - thanks speed!

Well, not really. We ran out of Sudafed last night, so I can't quite credit pseudoephedrine with my spurt of productivity this evening. I can justly blame my craving for bad Chinese delivery on this cold. I hope I wouldn't consume a quart of various Asian soups otherwise.

What the malady has provided me with is the time to finish two books and further cement my place in the world as evil book reviewer.

Excuse me, I must go sneeze.

Swedish isn't my thing, unless it's fish.

And even then, I prefer the Aqua Life. Those elusive tasty fuckers.
[Thank you computer-powers-that-be, for informing me that previous sentence may be a fragment. I choose to be fragmentary, I'm sorry if that warrants a dotted green line.] 
This is not going to turn into a commentary on how we're judged by everyone, and evidently everything, now. 


Instead I'll tell you that I've judged Wedge + Fig to be a fantastic place to grab lunch or dinner in Old City. Though if they tell you that a piece of cake is enormous, listen. Still order it and eat the entire thing, but don't be flabbergasted when it comes out of their little kitchen looking like it couldn't possibly have been housed in such a small space. 


Something that competes [slightly] with enormous slices of strawberry-filled coconut cake: Winning books for free!!! Publishers have been unwittingly giving me free books for review and y'all are lucky enough to be exposed to my unbridled opinions. 


This publisher was nice enough to send me the prequel (reviewed below) and a t-shirt along with the novel I had originally requested. Unfortunately for them, I'm not quite so cheap...



The American Girl by Monika Fagerholm
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

It isn't very often you encounter a book with dedications and acknowledgments from a translator. Perhaps on some classical works when Ovid or Virgil didn't opt to thank their publicists, you get a fill-the-space dedication from a contemporary scholar. But really, the emphasis on translator should have been the first sign. The translator thanking the author for answering her questions should have been the second.

Not to say that The American Girl was a bad book. There was certainly no lack of story and a dynamic style in the telling. It was just impossible to follow. It was just so translated. I can't help but feel I'm missing out on something. 

In a linear storytelling, it would have taken the space of a short story. With the jump arounds, backtracks, revisiting, and flat-out repetition, the book clocked in at nearly 500 pages. I'm not shy of large-scale novels. I'm not afraid of creative literary structure. I am wary of manuscripts that could have benefited from some cuts. Tailored a bit this could have been a very intriguing story. I'd even venture to say that a screen adaptation would be wickedly popular. Cutting this down to screenplay size would certainly allow the reader/viewer to stick with the story and cut down on the overwhelming number of circles it travels in. 

Ultimately, I'll chalk it up to lost in translation - a solid story hidden in some confusing text



Disclosure: The above book was provided to me by Other Press through the Goodreads First Reads program. The opinions are all my own.

I get the impression all was not well in Giverny.

I waited a few days to review Claude & Camille to get some pictures of the Monet paintings I get to see on my way to the bathroom at work. The Philadelphia Museum of Art has several beautiful pieces, including a new acquisition (Path on the Island of Saint Martin, 1881) that's not to be missed. Unfortunately, they're missed because I can't find the cord to upload photos from my camera. Yes, weeks later and I still am feeling the ramifications of moving.
Instead, be contented with my discontent:


Claude & Camille: A Novel of Monet by Stephanie Cowell
My rating: 2 of 5 stars


I'm quite surprised by the glowing reviews this novel has received. Either I'm missing something, or I know too much. My intuition is telling me that this is again an instance when ignorance is bliss. If you begin this book thinking of waterlilies and pastels, I can see how it'd be pleasant. La di da, fine art, love story, struggling artist, burgeoning career, shades of violet... yeah. And I suppose if you're content with shallow happy things, you could leave it be. I however, am not one of those shiny happy people. Having spent too much time in dark rooms, studying slide after slide of paintings, and coming to the conclusion that artists hardly are so one-dimensional.


While I understand that it's impossible to keep a story such as Claude & Camille historically accurate with the lack of biographical information on the two; I don't understand why an author would take on such a project if they weren't willing to push the limits. For instance, Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter takes fictionalized biography to a new level. Weaving through history, Grahame-Smith is still able to make an interesting and engaging story. Not so much the story for Stephanie Cowell. Instead it reads as if she was trying so hard to not piss off any of the Impressionists' estates that she punched out a bland love story not worthy of being published in hardcover. As a starving artist from an abusive household, frequently evicted, forced to flee during wartime, I can't accept that life for Claude and Camille was so simple. "I love you"s aren't so easily solicited during times of heightened stress, even less so once another woman moves into the household. This leads me to believe not only does Cowell not understand art, but anything about love as well.

comebacks, resurrections, and general hoodwinkery

Life being the tricky thing it is, decides once again to beguile me. Just as I feel the need to reinvigorate this blog, my MacBook so decides it's a good day to try out a Potter-esque obliviate spell on any input-able text boxes. I stand by my assertion that Apple products are best showcased in white, even if I am borrowing the black MacBook we have here at home. [I'm sorry, but iPods, iPhones, MacBooks, and the like should all be in gleaming Apple white. This matte black is suited MAC products, which is probably why I'm confused.] I've never been one with much motivation, so this is a pernicious attempt on the part of technology to silence my ramblings.

That being noted, I'm back. With my best intentions to keep up appearances. Imbued with a new sense of hope for the world (thank you, 2011 Reading Challenge on Goodreads!), my digressive sermons have returned. And returned in a better apartment with stunning views, which in turn create great spaces to read - and review books like Stiff.

Reminder: I need a pedicure. Forget clean underwear in case I die, my toes need to look good.

Squeamishness be damned, indeed. While I generally try and avoid the topics of death and cadavers, Stiff certainly gets beyond the stigma and gives the nitty gritty that we're all inherently curious about. Death is one of the few guarantees we all share, a great equalizer that is unavoidable. While a few of us probably gave thought to postmortem plans during a Six Feet Under marathon, contacting locally family owned funeral parlors and hastily filling out pre-needs, I'd venture to say the majority of us haven't seriously considered death-long plans (which really turn out to be longer-lasting than any life-long plans we may pride ourselves on). Hell, I'm guilty of not even checking the organ donor box (can't say I recall ever seeing it on any driver's license application, but it's a failure of my own for not asking). 

Roach thoroughly investigates all manners of cadaverdom, in a way that seems not like a presentation of options that should be given by Michael C Hall, but more so like a well-rounded 300 page answer to a child's query of "What happens to us when we die?" And have no doubt - I mean that in a very good way. 

Having also read Spook, I already have a fondness for Mary Roach, who has a voice that both smartly and graciously deals with the toughest of topics. That being said, I'm still not sure what to do with myself when I die... If you're one of the few who have heard my grand plans for a green burial on a preserve in California, don't fret. It appears that I have new options to be an eco-friendly cadaver! Freeze-dried Brittany fertilizer wouldn't be so bad, but it does mean someone's got to stick around and water me from time to time. Here's to hoping I can finally grow some Mr. Stripey tomatoes...

reading the air kind of sucked

Anyone who knows me is aware of the voraciousness of my book appetite. Fiction, non-fiction, academic, to trashy - I want to read it all. Inevitably, this leads to reading both the good and bad. In an effort to keep you abreast of all the words wandering before my eyes, enjoy one of my reviews from my online library.

A title more apt than I'd originally assumed. 

Infrequently do you find so many stories within stories all woven together to make something short of a convoluted mess. I would refrain from saying the novel was confusing, as I read it in entirety and feel as though I grasp the author's intent. The parallel of Jonas' search for a life in New York City with his wife and his father's search for asylum loosely match up; though not as seamlessly as the midwestern journey the three characters share (Jonas alone, his mother and father together). 

While Mengestu writes with well thought prose and a voice that is to be appreciated, the story would benefit from further character exploration. Four strong individuals exist in the book, but due to the desire to keep the "true story" mysterious, the connection and ability to feel any sympathy for them is lost. 

Just as Jonas feels disappointment in the lack of explanatory contents in the box he receives after his father's death, I too feel as though I've been cheated from knowing someone that Mengestu is keeping hidden away.

anomalous escapades

Or perhaps not so anomalous after all. It is entirely possible that the status quo is not the typical representation. I frequently maintain that I have an uneventful, quiet life, but there are days like today that make me just not so sure. 


In summary, I helped evacuate one of the largest museums in the world because Frank Gehry is building an underground annex while someone was showing my boyfriend their jolly roger studded thong. Yeah, I know. Right?


Obviously, the first question begging to be asked is: Why in the Warhol is Gehry designing an underground building?! 
For this I have no answer. As I shuffled around in the 4 square foot area I call work, my paw clutching my precious [Frank Gehry Morph pendant], I pondered this very question to no avail. If you figure it out, please enlighten me.


Turns out the evacuation was a mistake. A detonation for the aforementioned annex tripped an alarm, causing security to have a mild panic, resulting in a knee-jerk reflex to get everyone the hell out. It was completely unnecessary, but a welcome break in an otherwise quiet afternoon. 


The thong happening isn't my story. Nor was it my thong. Suffice it to say, my boyfriend is such a portentous persona that everyone wants to show him their goods. 


In pedestrian findings, and I mean in the ambulatory sort - not jejune blahness, take a moment to enjoy these fine points from around the city. 

flower show at Macy's - thanks Dr. Ivey!

proof I was radiant way before that was big in Japan

if it weren't for the Big Book of Sex Toys, little Oliver wouldn't be around for Mommy and Daddy to read to

finally - a sign in Chinatown that's I can read

Life is good.

lie - sold en masse

Sometimes it's just convenient to pass the buck. Blame someone else for shortcomings, mistakes, lost socks in the laundry. Oftentimes reassigning culpability leads to guilt - I mean, you didn't really want everyone to think the dog licked the icing off that cupcake, did you?
This time I feel no remorse, no guilt.


I blame Daylight Savings.


I keep forgetting it's Sunday. I'm completely convinced it's Monday. There can be no other explanation than the unbalancing due to this lie we all so passively accept.
The unsettling feeling doesn't end there either.


Last night I began Jean Hanff Koreltitz's Admission and was sure it was non-fiction. Yeah, I suppose the subscript of "A Novel" should have been a clue to the fictitious nature, but somehow that didn't register. For this too I blame Daylight Savings. Brilliant as I am, it couldn't have been my mistake - it must have been that we're conditioned to accept misinformation. The clock reads 2:02am on March 13th? Lie. It's really 3:02am.


The one thing we all count on (literally) and plan our lives by is jumbled, befuddled, tumbled, and rumpled. And obviously the consequences are much more severe that anticipated - it takes more than just a minor mussing to muddle my mind like mint in a mojito.


But really, what should have we expected? This whole charade was dreamed up by a man who wanted more time to collect bugs. Not to mention, the first practitioners were the Central Powers of WWI. Certainly a wonderful role model for major societal decisions.


So you, DST, you are to blame for my lost socks, my missing quarters, and my confused double takes at the calendar. Happy hour may be a bit brighter now, but otherwise, my nontraditional Arizona has it right.

something fishy going on

There are some solid benefits to living a block down from one of the best fish markets in the city. Fresh tuna darker than rubies, glistening monkfish, anything swimming/crawling/squiggling through worldwide waters. Certainly more sea-life than I'd ever seen in Tucson. 

Combine this wealth of omega-3s with an intense desire for some real mexican food from the southwest and you've got a recipe for dinner.

Citrus marinated fish tacos

¾ lb tilapia

2 oranges

2 limes

cilantro

¼ c mayonnaise

2 c shredded cabbage

salt

cayenne pepper

ground cumin

crushed red pepper

sliced avocado

queso fresco

corn tortillas

1. Juice the oranges and limes, reserving ¼ of the liquids for later use. In a shallow baking dish, marinate tilapia in citrus juices and handful of torn cilantro. Liberally add salt and crushed red pepper, top with spent citrus rinds. Let sit for at least 30 minutes.

2. Meanwhile, combine reserved citrus juices with mayonnaise, salt, cayenne, and cumin, to taste. Add chopped cilantro (about ¼ cup) and cabbage.

3. Preheat large skillet (or grill pan). Cook tilapia until opaque, about 2-3 minutes on each side. Remove from pan and break into pieces.

4. Assemble tacos with fish, avocado, queso fresco, and cabbage on warmed tortillas. 

to the birthday boy

Expatriate
The appropriateness of Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day is eerily applicable today as I feel far removed from the revelries at home in the desert. Today marks the 22nd birthday of my little brother, a day sure to be filled with liquor, mexican food, and good music. In an attempt to be close in spirit, I spent way too much money on a 6-pack of Corona. [Over $15 ffs!]

So cheers to you, Brandon. 

I hope you have an amazing 23rd year and that you'll come see us in Philadelphia soon. Miss you, kiddo.

need to eat more soy

I don't claim to be many things. Not many things at all. In fact, I frequently abjure self-portraiture opting to retain an undefinable aura... or I just keep to myself because I'm a Molly Ringwald type wallflower. 


Living in a big city, after a move from a big-little city, brings change. From that change brings a new sense of awareness.
Case in point: I live with three boys. Even with a quart of soy milk in the fridge and some tofu from the Vietnamese place on Washington, estrogen is the underdog in this house. Granted, one of the males is a neutered dog, so it's not quite out of balance as I'm making it out to be, but still. 

He might not have balls, but that doesn't make him any less of a man.

Generally, it's enjoyable. They're entertaining. I learn about angry nerds, new video games, and other ridiculous pop culture reportage. Things I would otherwise be completely left out of the loop. Boys, I genuinely appreciate these contributions to my knowledge stores. 


Thank you for demonstrating the latest RPGs. 
Thank you for sharing your gratifying Japanese rice/mayo concoctions. [Trust me, there's nothing better at 2am than a steamy bowl of sticky rice, piled like Mt. Fuji, with rivulets of kewpie mayo, sriracha, and eel sauce, sprinkled with that fish-food-like rice topping.]
Thank you for forcing me to learn where all the trash cans in the neighborhood are. [Cleaning up after your pooch is harder than it should be when there exist no receptacles in a 3 block radius.]


I am glad to be the recipient of such testosterone-laden philanthropy. I embrace the responsibility of moving the toilet seat to a more usable position. I can deal with dodging karate chops in the hallway and stepping on chewed-on tennis balls in the middle of the night.


Nonetheless, there's a dearth of femininity around these parts. Having spent the last year as a single woman living alone, there must have been a point when I forgot how the other half lives. Evidently, for the male lifeform, it is not necessary to have any counter space in the bathroom. I've never contemplated the complexity of toothpaste storage before - it was never an issue.


Which demonstrates my point precisely. Though I've never characterized myself as exceedingly feminine, or of the high-maintenance persuasion, I suppose I am. Reluctant to point out life differences based on gender, they're out there. 


And that's ok.


I pee sitting down.
I need room to stash hair products.
I require a mirror to leave the house.


And that's ok.


Embracing femininity isn't a weakness. It's not giving in to vanity or a reduction to materialism. In this household, it's part of a balance. Inasmuch as I have learned from the boys I'm shacked up with, I like to think they're learning from me. [If nothing else, I know they're bogarting my hairspray.] 


And if I find things get too out of balance, I'll just make them eat a ton of soy.

math, food, and musings

It's Pi Day.
Happens to be Steak & Blowjob Day, too. Which makes fabulous, though heavily caloric, dinner plans. For next year, I propose instead of pi pie, a celebration on Euclidean geometries with 3.14159 scoops of ice cream on a cone. (Although most documentation has been lost, Euclid was one of the first mathematicians to develop conic sections.) Though pie is a beautiful thing, ask anyone who's had my Thanksgiving feasts, it seems a too-simple answer to the Pi day comestibles.


As for the other half of today's holiday happenings, I can't entirely buy-in because of my pragmatic view of Valentine's Day. The tit-for-tat attitude that because chocolates were exchanged on February 14th, cow products and sexual favors are due a month later, seems asinine. If you weren't able to swindle a steak dinner and some good sex on Valentine's, chances are you aren't getting any ass today either.


I'm content with my part in today's jovialities, as it gave me a fanciful quest to roam about the city, but someone else should be concerned with not getting their fair share. Unbeknownst to him, the clock has struck midnight and I'm about to curl up like a pumpkin in bed. Hopefully he's battened on the epicurean steak sandwich (with balsamic caramel baby carrots and roasted garlic/shallot smashed potatoes) and is surfeited with such delicacies. 


More on my wanderings about town tomorrow...

from chaos comes order

Or not.


Starting a blog is one of those things you feel you need to prepare for, map out, come guns a'blazing with a plan of attack. I, however, am not one to get those marvelous beginnings from my head as I drift to sleep actually on to paper. It's in those sleep-filled moments that ideas come rushing and appear to be filled with brilliance - hooks to gather an audience, mindful insights that the world can relate to, and well-metered prose that makes life seem to be more interesting than I find it to be at 10am as I contemplate a mess of laundry on the floor. Granted, there's the distinct possibility that these bursts of insight only have the appearance of greatness because they are the progeny of a time of ill-equipped faculties. 


In any case, this is the jump of the hurdle. Welcome to my theogony. The cast of characters remain the same, albeit with an apropos guise: Chaos reigns supreme in a world full of transition, Gaia slowly appears as new territories are explored, Tartaros is laying claim to some of the clothes that seem to never make it back from the laundromat, and Eros has shot me in the ass with an elephantine arrow. For those not versed in Hesiod, in summary, all is well in my world. There's a beautiful new city to explore, a home to build, and an unparalleled partner to share in my exploits.

I took that cappuccino down like a Moira smacking a giant - a job well done, but a bit messy.

With that mess out of the way, I hope that you will join me too as I galavant through this new universe. Not only will you be endlessly amused (come on, you know you're waiting for my updated gigantomachy!), but chances are I'll share some treats too. After all, this is be peculinary and some peculiar(ly delicious) edibles will be debuted. 


My name is Brittany and you know you want (to follow) me.