Growing up is hard to do

In theory I should never have trouble convincing myself that I'm a grown-up. I've completed over 20 years of schooling, I hold down a full-time job, I pay my own bills, and I live on my own. But sometimes I have to remind myself that I am an adult and not just a nine-year-old trapped in a 28-year-old's body. My bouts of uncontrolled excitement at the very sight of Skittles/Mike ‘n Ikes/SweetTarts/Jolly Ranchers/other sources of candy that pay for my dentist's country club dues, Berenstain Bears books, Full House reruns, and roller coasters are examples of some of those times.

Even if I act my age most of the time, I still haven’t managed to alter my response to brussels sprouts: "Ewwwwww. Grody!*" Until tonight, there would have been a likely possibility that the very presence of brussels sprouts could evoke the most irrational of responses from me: kicking, screaming, sticking out my tongue, rolling my eyes, scrunching up my face, and if you were lucky enough to get one in my mouth, you better believe that I’d plug my nose until I was done chewing and swallowing.

Of course I wouldn’t actually react in any of those ways (except maybe plugging my nose – that trick really works in blocking out taste), but admittedly brussels sprouts did sorta freak me out until tonight. Maybe not to the point that mushrooms freak me out, but I was still wary. Interestingly enough, my opinion of the sprouts had been based only on peer and societal pressure and not because my mother force fed them to me as a child (that is, unless I have merely repressed such memories and they will only surface via hypnosis). The same cannot be said of the mushroom, as the trauma of my first experience of eating one still haunts me today.

Earlier this week, I decided that the mature thing to do as both an adult and a person who prides herself in her open-mindedness and interest in food would be to put these preconceived notions about the brussels sprout to the test. I figured the only way I could fairly provide such vehement criticism of this baby cabbage would be to prepare some myself and make a reasonable assessment through taste-testing. Since my latest obsession is roasted seasonal vegetables, I decided to add a handful of brussel sprouts to my assortment of carrots, turnips, and red onion on a baking sheet; I roasted red beets separately wrapped tightly in aluminum foil. I drizzled the veggies with olive oil and liberally dusted them with kosher salt, pepper, and herbs de Province. After roasting at 425 degrees for about 45 minutes, the moment of truth had arrived.

Crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, the roasted sprouts were good…at least at first. As I allowed the flavor to permeate my mouth, I realized that whiny kids who refuse to eat them may be on to something. It certainly wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever eaten - I didn’t have any kicking or screaming responses to speak of – but those sprouts were far from one of the best things to ever pass my lips. As for the other vegetables, I couldn’t get enough of those and ate them eagerly, but there was something about the bitterness of the sprouts that left, well, a bitter taste in my mouth. Even so, I’m not about to close the door on them. But it should also be noted that I’m never going to force my kids to eat them (my future children now have that in writing) – that is, unless I teach them the plugged nose trick first.

Well, now that I’ve got the brussels sprouts situation straightened out, I think I’m going to stay up late tonight and watch an R-rated movie and eat spoonfuls of pumpkin ice cream straight out of the carton, just because I can. Sometimes being a grown-up is the best!


*Grody was a favorite word of mine in the early ‘90s. I probably picked it up from an episode of Full House.

Instant Gratification

I've been reluctant to report on something that I've become a fan of because frankly, I feel a little ashamed by it. Then again, what’s a blog if not an avenue to expose all my deepest and darkest secrets to the world?

It all started when I went to Starbucks. Duh duh duh.

I had tragically run out of coffee beans and needed my usual morning jolt to get me through the day. The Starbucks up the street from my apartment was the obvious choice because I’d still be able to get my java and make it to work early enough as to avoid putting my boss into a tizzy. Whenever I buy coffee in the morning (which isn’t very often), I usually keep it simple with an Americano or a drip. But something about that morning’s crisp October air had me thinking one thing: pumpkin spice latte. I have a number of friends who are obsessed with this drink; as far as they’re concerned, autumn hasn’t arrived until Starbucks puts this seasonal beverage on the menu. To them, it only becomes socially acceptable to start playing Christmas music once the red Starbucks cups hit the stores.

I’m not one of those people – I don’t let Starbucks dictate the seasons. In fact, I don’t let Starbucks take any hold on me whatsoever. Well, except that as much as I would love to blame it on my Peets’ heritage and consider myself the ultimate anti-Starbuck, here’s the thing: sometimes I like Starbucks. And on that particular morning, I liked it for an even more despicable reason than pumpkin spice lattes or red holiday cups.

As I stood in line to order, a barista carrying a tray approached me and asked if I’d like to try a sample of their mocha VIA Ready Brew coffee, a.k.a. INSTANT COFFEE. If anything’s got a stigma in the world of coffee, it’s instant coffee. That’s not even real coffee, is it? Well, turns out this is, and with the subtle sweetener added to it, VIA was surprisingly delicious. I felt a little guilty for enjoying the sample, but then it got worse: the barista at the register told me my drink would be free if I bought a box of VIA Ready Brew, containing six individual packets of coffee. I quickly did the math in my head. Hey, I thought, this isn’t such a bad deal. If each cup of coffee tasted like the one I just had, it would totally be worth it; it might be good to get out of my afternoon, pick-me-up tea and Jolly Rancher rut.

Once I accepted the barista’s offer, I felt as if I had just made a deal with the devil. My God, had I sent Alfred Peet rolling in his grave? This wasn’t just Starbucks coffee I was purchasing, this was Starbucks instant coffee. What happened to me!? Had my love for good coffee lost its luster? Quite possibly. On second thought, is it so bad to have such an intense "I want coffee, and I want it now" response that I'm willing to let my snootiness fall to the wayside every now and again? I don’t think it is. Now that I've got a stash in the top drawer of my office desk, coffee is just seconds away whenever I’m feeling my sharp legal mind waning. That’s definitely something my clients would appreciate.

Before I close, please allow me to divulge one more thing in the interest of full disclosure: I’m writing this at Starbucks! I might only be here because the internet isn’t being installed in my apartment until tomorrow. I could also be here because I’ve given up on my neighbors for good people watching. But none of that matters now – the damage is done. Whatever way I look at it though, I’m quite sure that I’m in a better place than the poor soul sitting at the table next to me. She’s got stress written across her brow as she pores over financial statements on her ThinkPad, which is under the guise of a MacBook. Hey lady, your Apple sticker ain’t foolin’ me! Well, maybe I’m not fooling anyone either. I’m enjoying my tall extra hot decaf soy latte, the tunes of James Taylor, and the wind-blown leaves outside the window of this corner table just as much as any regular Starbucks schmuck might. Not only that, I took much pleasure in pouring myself a sample of the caramel VIA (I hadn’t tried that flavor yet!) as I handed the kind barista my credit card. I also grabbed a $1 off coupon for my next VIA purchase. The display adjacent to the pastry case might be so big that I feel like it’s screaming at me, but it appears that Starbucks advertising the pants off of this product might be working, even on the likes of people like me. Now if only they’d put some of that effort in turning up the heat in this place – my fingers have turned to icicles.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

(Due to technical difficulties, among other excuses, clatter has been unable to post until now. While this is not a particularly timely piece, I would still like to apologize for leaving you hanging for two weeks. Please take comfort in the fact that the problem has been rectified. I thank you for your patience.)

When I moved into my apartment complex seven months ago, I had visions of Melrose Place. Perhaps not as dramatic, with the expected backstabbing, illicit love affairs, and occasional dead body in the pool, but I was still hoping for a little something to spice up the home life. Like in every family, every neighbor has his or her secrets. I have aspired to pick up on some nuggets around the complex, not by doing anything illegal of course, but by just keeping my eyes and ears open. Despite my fervent efforts, however, it appears I have come up severely short: there has been zero drama, no good material, no brow raisers, no crazy stories. What I think might be the most disappointing part about all of this is that the cast of characters has such potential. As I see it, it’s practically a crime not to capitalize on what could be something so shamefully delicious, a person would only crack under the pressures of a lie detector test to admit watching it (bonus points for anyone who got that Seinfeld reference). I know very little about my neighbors, but please consider some of our characters:

-The onsite managers. They are a very nice married couple in their 20s who are always at their tenants’ beck and call. He, an extremely talkative guy who swears he has ADD despite what his doctors tell him, holds down multiple jobs and wears a bluetooth constantly. I’ve struck up conversations with him not realizing he was already talking to someone else, which can be a little awkward. She is a nanny and wants to set me up with her brother. They’re such good people, they must have a dark side.

-The cute doctor downstairs. I suspect he’s the bad boy in disguise – one who may have excellent bedside manner, but he just isn’t quite what meets the eye. On occasion, he has been spotted lurking about the complex, smoking a cigarette. One night while walking past his kitchen window, I noticed an obscene amount of beer bottles on his counter. I’ll take this to mean he has a serious drinking problem, because he's more interesting that way.

-The Passat-driving guy who lives across the hall. He walks with a certain spring in his step, but his face reads, “I’ll only acknowledge that you’re my neighbor with a slight nod because I’m too cool to talk to you.” He whistles in the shower (get your mind out of the gutter - I only know this because he sometimes leaves his bathroom window open). He also places his shoes in such perfect order outside his front door that I’m convinced he must have some form of obsessive compulsive disorder. I’m sure the doc downstairs would concur.

-The wacky, “your music is too loud” nurse below me. Sadly this 35ish year old, orthopedic shoe-wearing woman recently moved out, being replaced by an older woman. I think the nurse would have made one great character, even in spite her horrible taste in fashion - she just seemed so...bizarre. I know nothing about the new lady, but she’s got to have issues. Major issues.

-The gym fanatic. She’s young, she’s hot, and she’s got that certain look that has the guys (the cute doctor, no doubt) doing the head-to-toe stare down. I’m sure she wears something other than spandex and tank tops, but I have yet to see it.

-The quiet girl across the courtyard. She’s a pretty, tall brunette, but I’ve never heard her speak a word. I assume she’s the craziest of them all because she looks so darn normal.

-The girl in the upstairs apartment who spends a lot of time in her kitchen.

Hm, “the girl in the upstairs apartment who spends a lot of time in her kitchen”…. That girl is the author of this blog, right? Wrong. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve noticed that a 20-something year old girl in the apartment across the courtyard that mirrors mine is often in her kitchen when I’m in mine, which as you may have suspected by this point, is quite often. One rainy Sunday afternoon recently, I was in my kitchen per usual, baking a batch of chewy white chocolate chip cookies and simmering ragu bolognese on the stove. Glancing out my window, I saw my neighbor in her kitchen, busy at work on something. I didn’t think much of it until I returned to my kitchen hours later to check on the ragu and heard chopping from my window. There she was again, still working on something. I’ll admit that for a split second I actually questioned whether what I was witnessing was merely my own reflection in the window…until I realized how ridiculous that was.

My curious mind began to run amok: What the heck was she doing in there all day? What was she making? Was she a better cook than me? Would it be possible to have an Iron Chef-like competition from our respective kitchens? Watching her busy in her kitchen, I suddenly began to feel threatened (and maybe slightly creepy) – was my neighbor trying to dethrone me as "the girl in the complex who spends the most time in the kitchen"? Of course I have no way of knowing if I have really logged the most hours amongst my neighbors, but I’d venture to guess that I have indeed earned that status. Either way, once those initial competitive feelings subsided, I decided I mostly just wanted to know what my fellow neighbor was up to. In true Nancy Drew form, I soon found myself with my nose against the open window, hoping to get a whiff of whatever was cooking across the way; I figured that with both of our kitchen windows open, my keen sense of smell might come through for me. Was that sauteed onions? Sniff sniff. Hm maybe some roasted tomatoes? Then my ears perked up as some pans clattered and then the girl uttered the word “salsa” and then “marinara sauce” to her male guest. Ah ha, that’s it! She was spending all day in the kitchen because she probably had a vat of summer tomatoes! Maybe Nancy really can solve mysteries without the help of Bess and George (and she might disagree, but I always thought Ned was kind of worthless.)

Unearthing what my neighbors are cooking in their kitchens may not be the kind of drama that I’ve been hoping for, and perhaps my living arrangement hasn’t quite lived up to my wild expectations of Melrose Place meets Grey’s Anatomy (the complex's close proximity to the hospital makes this an obvious choice), with small doses of Ally McBeal, Top Chef, and Veronica Mars thrown in to make my own role more prevalent. But even so, here’s the good news: I’ve still got five months left on the lease. There’s plenty of time for things to heat up….in or out of the kitchen.