For all my loyal readers still out there, I greet you with the warmest of hellos on this chilly November evening. You may think that I have drifted off into the abyss of canned soup and frozen dinners since I last wrote, but I assure you, I have been eating and drinking well – very well. Now that I think about it, October and November 2010 might even be recorded as the two months I’ve checked more Portland restaurants and bars off my wish list than any other since I moved here. What superb dining indeed. But for those of you who may be concerned with my cholesterol level due to my latest food escapades (foie gras and steak tartare, however palatable they may be, cannot possibly be good for the heart), I have also spent an equal amount of time at the gym as to debunk any truth to “a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.” But anyway, it’s been a busy few weeks, and surely you’ve noticed that my postings in the last couple of months have dwindled to an almost unspeakable infrequency. I’ve noticed too, and I’m not happy about it.
On the eve of the most beloved food-centered holiday of the entire year, I find it rather poetic and maybe even a little ironic to announce that clatter is taking a sabbatical. If we stick strictly to its definition, a sabbatical only comes every seventh year, as a time for one – usually a college professor - to study or travel for a period of time. Considering that I am neither a professor nor have any official plans to travel or study and clatter has only been around since March of this year, I am using this term very loosely. Even so, I have decided to use this holiday season to bake up a storm, recapture my inspiration, cure writer's block, and pursue those visions of sugar plums dancing in my head - without feeling an ounce of guilt for abandoning clatter in the process.
Please don’t cry! Please don’t despair! I won’t be gone for long. Think of this departure as the Von Trapp children singing "So Long, Farewell". Leisel, Kurt, Brigetta, and the rest of the clan may be saying words like adieu and auf wiedersehen, but as you and I both know, that scene hardly marks the end of the movie. I might not have Nazis to dodge or the Alps to cross, but clatter’s story too is far from being over.
For now, I ask only one thing of you: to have a truly rich and blessed holiday season in the presence of your closest friends and family. Don’t hold back when it comes to gulping down eggnog in a reindeer glass, dishing yourself a second (or third) piece of pumpkin pie, fitting in one final run before the lifts close, or pretending you’re excited about receiving yet another pair of socks from your grandma. Just remember: as long as you’re doing it in the holiday spirit, you’re doing it right.
Well, this is my exit. I flit, I float, I fleetly flee, I fly….. Check back with clatter in the new year, as I hope to feel rejuvenated and with my distractions quelled, enthusiastically ready to begin clatter’s next chapter. Until then my dearest readers, climb every mountain, and I’ll catch ya on the flip side.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Pie-partisanship
Could it be the answer to all the troubles in American politics? Happy Election Day from clatter!
I've never considered myself much of a political buff, but I've been excited today. While my newly found obsession with The West Wing is probably somewhat to blame for recently spurring my enthusiasm in the political process, I assure you that the brilliance of that show (or my crush on Rob Lowe?) is not the only reason. Not only does today mark the ever-so-important midterm elections and define 218 as the magic number, it finally puts an end to what could arguably be a season of the most annoying political commercials in television history. Tonight (and tomorrow and maybe nine months from now) there will be winners and losers, victorious empowerment and disappointing defeat, but right now, at this very moment as I write, so much of America's future remains utterly unpredictable. There is something, however, on Election Day that is an absolute guarantee: good ol' fashioned drama, evoking emotions of all sorts. I for one can always get excited about that.
I took a jaunt during my lunch break today to turn in my ballot at the Multnomah County Elections Headquarters, and I’ll admit that I felt a bit emotional myself. I experienced one of those cheesy, yet completely heartfelt "It's a privilege to be an American" moments. As I watched a KOIN 6 news guy get out of his studio van to cover the story and observed some of my fellow Portlanders line up at the polls, I was moved with a certain sense of patriotism. I may have even heard The West Wing theme music faintly playing in the background.
Like any holiday suggests, the presence of food is a necessity in order to properly celebrate. Election Day is not exactly a holiday known for its food, but why shouldn't it be? If you were to poll a handful of Americans right now, I'd bet that the majority would choose to eat while they watch the results trickle in. Even a higher percentage of those Americans would want comforting food that make them feel warm, safe, or nostalgic for a simpler time. So what kind of food should be eaten on Election Day? Foods that are red, white, and blue in color? Cleverly named foods like hot wings and freedom fries? What is the one food that defines democracy? I really have no idea, but what I had in mind to celebrate “Decision 2010” tonight is not only quintessentially American, but it's also very much in season. My fellow Americans, the clatter kitchen voted to make an apple pie.
In the name of freedom and all things delectable, I elected to skip spinning class tonight in order to fully celebrate. There are few things in life I enjoy more than 1) baking and 2) watching drama unfold. And tonight was the perfect night to engage in both at the same time. Burning calories might be beneficial, but I figured I'd be sweating enough as it is between the heat of the oven and the tight governor race between Chris Dudley and John Kitzhaber that I could easily justify my gym absence.
For the pie itself, I considered using my mother’s crust recipe, but then decided I would consult Martha Stewart’s Cooking School and try her pâte brisée instead. This recipe involves butter - lots of butter - so I knew it had to be a winner. I used a variety of apples and got to work, strategically creating a workspace in the kitchen that faced the television in the other room. Turns out there’s something strangely relaxing about peeling and coring apples as the Democratic House comes apart at the seams…uh, not that you should interpret that statement as an official clatter political stance.
Now that I’m sitting on my couch, clicking away on the keyboard while simultaneously captivated by the Congress scoreboard on the television screen and shoving fresh, home-baked apple pie à la mode in my mouth, I'm feeling extremely blessed - not only to be a person who can make a decent pie, but more importantly, to be an American. Too often I think we take that for granted. So with that said, clatter thanks you for voting. Here's to the voice of the people...to the very last bite.
I've never considered myself much of a political buff, but I've been excited today. While my newly found obsession with The West Wing is probably somewhat to blame for recently spurring my enthusiasm in the political process, I assure you that the brilliance of that show (or my crush on Rob Lowe?) is not the only reason. Not only does today mark the ever-so-important midterm elections and define 218 as the magic number, it finally puts an end to what could arguably be a season of the most annoying political commercials in television history. Tonight (and tomorrow and maybe nine months from now) there will be winners and losers, victorious empowerment and disappointing defeat, but right now, at this very moment as I write, so much of America's future remains utterly unpredictable. There is something, however, on Election Day that is an absolute guarantee: good ol' fashioned drama, evoking emotions of all sorts. I for one can always get excited about that.
I took a jaunt during my lunch break today to turn in my ballot at the Multnomah County Elections Headquarters, and I’ll admit that I felt a bit emotional myself. I experienced one of those cheesy, yet completely heartfelt "It's a privilege to be an American" moments. As I watched a KOIN 6 news guy get out of his studio van to cover the story and observed some of my fellow Portlanders line up at the polls, I was moved with a certain sense of patriotism. I may have even heard The West Wing theme music faintly playing in the background.
Like any holiday suggests, the presence of food is a necessity in order to properly celebrate. Election Day is not exactly a holiday known for its food, but why shouldn't it be? If you were to poll a handful of Americans right now, I'd bet that the majority would choose to eat while they watch the results trickle in. Even a higher percentage of those Americans would want comforting food that make them feel warm, safe, or nostalgic for a simpler time. So what kind of food should be eaten on Election Day? Foods that are red, white, and blue in color? Cleverly named foods like hot wings and freedom fries? What is the one food that defines democracy? I really have no idea, but what I had in mind to celebrate “Decision 2010” tonight is not only quintessentially American, but it's also very much in season. My fellow Americans, the clatter kitchen voted to make an apple pie.
In the name of freedom and all things delectable, I elected to skip spinning class tonight in order to fully celebrate. There are few things in life I enjoy more than 1) baking and 2) watching drama unfold. And tonight was the perfect night to engage in both at the same time. Burning calories might be beneficial, but I figured I'd be sweating enough as it is between the heat of the oven and the tight governor race between Chris Dudley and John Kitzhaber that I could easily justify my gym absence.
For the pie itself, I considered using my mother’s crust recipe, but then decided I would consult Martha Stewart’s Cooking School and try her pâte brisée instead. This recipe involves butter - lots of butter - so I knew it had to be a winner. I used a variety of apples and got to work, strategically creating a workspace in the kitchen that faced the television in the other room. Turns out there’s something strangely relaxing about peeling and coring apples as the Democratic House comes apart at the seams…uh, not that you should interpret that statement as an official clatter political stance.
Now that I’m sitting on my couch, clicking away on the keyboard while simultaneously captivated by the Congress scoreboard on the television screen and shoving fresh, home-baked apple pie à la mode in my mouth, I'm feeling extremely blessed - not only to be a person who can make a decent pie, but more importantly, to be an American. Too often I think we take that for granted. So with that said, clatter thanks you for voting. Here's to the voice of the people...to the very last bite.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
If you're going to San Francisco...
I might not have worn some flowers in my hair while visiting the Bay Area last weekend, but I did spot a surprisingly high number of flower shops around the city. Not only can I not get that song out of my head, I can't seem to get the coolness of the city off my mind either. While I'll always highly praise Portland to anyone who will listen (and even those who don't care to), my time in SF jeopardized my inclination to call Portland the most hip city on the west coast. Tempted to stay indefinitely, sadly I had to return home on Monday morning, but even so, I think I may have “left my heart in San Francisco.” Well, maybe it wasn't my heart, but I feel like I left something there. Oh who am I kidding, it's probably just the loads of cash spent on bridge tolls, BART tickets, and uh, maybe a little shopping at H&M.
There were so many great aspects of the weekend trip with my brother and sister, but I’ll try to keep my gushing to a minimum. Because this is clatter’s first official travel edition, I’ve even included a few photos to kick it up a notch – just don’t get used to it. Here's a brief(ish) rundown of the trip:
Highlights:
ϕ Observing and experiencing firsthand many of the redeeming qualities of Oakland. (Seriously, stop scoffing – the East Bay is far from being all ghetto!) This included, but is not limited to, the banh mi sandwiches we ate from a Vietnamese hole-in-the-wall in downtown Oakland. Nothing beats a $2.75 sub for lunch, and no, Subway's $5 footlong does NOT count – especially considering how annoying that jingle is. The well-known banh mi is something that I’ve been wanting to try for a while (apparently a food cart in Portland makes a damn good one), so this Oakland treat was the perfect introduction. BBQ pork, cilantro, shredded carrots, pickled something (??), and some kind of sauce (??), all on a crusty roll…mmmmm. The mystery ingredients contained in the sandwich left me curious, but not as much as the highly questionable meats and gelatin-like items being sold at the place as well. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss.
ϕ Viewing the Golden Gate Bridge from every angle known to man (and taking all obligatory photos at each and every one). This included driving through tourist-crazed Sausalito and making fun of all those tourists on their Blazing Saddles rented bikes, trying to make it across the bridge and up through the hills. Instead of bikes, we relied on our trusty ’97 Honda Civic and headed up to North Vista Pointe for incredible views of the Golden Gate above on the bluff. Unfortunately for us, by the time we made it up there, the fog had rolled in just enough to block out any remarkable photo ops. So instead, my sister took a series of pictures of my brother and me chowing down on burritos purchased earlier in the day in a quaint Marin County town called Larkspur. Who needs incredible views of the Golden Gate when you’ve got a delicious carne asada burrito right in front of you?
ϕ Making homemade pizza at my brother’s apartment. Even though there are tons of restaurants in the Bay area that we could have tried, we just couldn’t not cook together one night (as the famous line in our family goes, “It’s who we are, it’s what we do”). I whipped up some pizza dough and we used fresh broccolini and a mixed variety of tomatoes purchased at the farmers market earlier that day and other ingredients from the Berkeley Bowl (my new favorite grocery store). It wouldn't be family cooking without a little competition, so my sister and I battled for "best grilled pizza", although we put our brother in charge of the actual grilling part (he’s a man after all – it’s what they do). We ended up making four different pizzas, grilling two and baking two. I’d like to think that I won the competition, mostly because we made fun of my sister’s looking a little too similar to a Pizza Hut personal pizza (but trust me, it tasted much too good to be Pizza Hut). We tried taking photos of our creations, but the lighting was just not ideal. But here’s one to whet the palate:
I’d wager to say that this evening in the confines of my brother’s OBK (that’s another family term for "one butt kitchen") provided the most fun and the most laughs of the whole weekend.
Other Honorable Mentions:
ϕ Taking the tour of Alcatraz. Most people enjoy the fantastic views of the city from the bay on the boat ride to tour Alcatraz, like this one:
But for me, I could only gawk at this couple sitting directly ahead of and facing us, both on the way to The Rock and on the way back.
My brother and sister didn't think they were anyone special, but I could have sworn they're famous – only I couldn't place them (still can’t). My obsession with unearthing their identities eventually led to my brother taking incognito paparazzi photos. He did this brilliantly, acting as if he were examining his camera lenses at the most opportune of times: just as the woman fed the man yoga chips (case in point for her being famous: only an anorexic Hollywood actress would eat something like that). Anyone able to identify said couple will be awarded by clatter with a year's supply of Yoga Chips.
ϕ Visiting the Berkeley Farmers Market. clatter got much inspiration while perusing the market, especially from the interesting, highly unusual products (I should have been taking notes because now I don't remember anything). The assortment of tomatoes really was impressive, although for my sister and me, we were more focused on getting our brother to ask out the cute girl handing out strawberry samples. How difficult could it possibly be to walk up to the girl and say, "I'll take one basket of strawberries and your number"? Much to his sisters' chagrin, he didn't seize the moment.
ϕ Making the pilgrimage to the Peet's Coffee original store. As a former Peetnik (or is it that I'm a Peetnik for life?), making the journey to the motherland - where all the magic began - on Vine St. in Berkeley was a particularly special moment for me. So much so that we had to document it for posterity.
Lowlights:
ϕ Realizing how out of shape I really am as we climbed the streets of the city in order to reach Coit Tower. It didn’t help to be in the presence of a guy who recently rode his bike from Portland to San Francisco. How do I compete with that? I soon forgot my shortcomings though, because the stunning views of the city and the bay from the tower’s edge had me strategizing how I can one day afford one of the homes we spotted at the top. I’m still working on it.
ϕ Discussions of deadly earthquakes and massive destruction while driving across the Bay Bridge. Not cool.
ϕ Nearly being burned alive while baking pizza. While taking a pizza out of the oven using a dish towel, I failed to protect my entire hand from the incredible heat, causing an ever-so-dramatic dropping of the pan to the bottom of the oven, directly over the burners. I screamed a few expletives and froze (now I know how I react in a state of emergency). While I could have single-handedly (literally, I almost lost a hand in the crisis) ruined the pizza night for us all, my brother rushed in for the rescue, grabbing an oven mitt (oh, is that what I’m supposed to use to protect my hands from third-degree burns?) and procured the pan from the bottom of the oven. Cheers to my brother the hero!
Whew! Well, I think that just about does it for my not-so-brief recap of a great weekend in the Bay area. Until next time, this is your clatter traveler, signing off.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Not All Zombies Are Evil
With most kids returning to school this week, it’s no big surprise that I began to reminisce about my days as a student. I know I make it sound like it’s been forever – and maybe it hasn’t been, since I graduated from law school just last year, but that’s not really what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about the early years of schooling – elementary school. I remember being so excited about taking that annual trip to the store for school supplies – a new package of number two pencils, Pee Chees, wide-ruled spiral notebooks (picking out the right color was always such a tough decision), or even a TRAPPER KEEPER (come on kids of the ‘80s, you know what I’m talking about). But getting new school supplies only begins to describe that excitement of a start of the new school year – I loved to flaunt a brand new backpack and the well-debated first day of school outfit. Of course I also dreaded those annoying first day of school pictures taken in the backyard or in front of the school bus (my mother can vouch that I’m whining to this day about those awful boy haircuts I sported in elementary school.) But oh those glorious school bus days...
I still have nightmares about scary bus driver Peggy, with her intimidating presence and incessant use of the word “tolerate”. I remember she went through a phase where she punished the students by taping off the last three rows of the bus - imagine the riots that followed! Those last few rows were the best place to goof off (or set a firecracker off from. The neighborhood kid would probably deny to this day that he did it. The 20+ year investigation is still pending). We also loved the back of the bus to maximize the bounce factor whenever it would hit a speed bump. (Such adventures to be had on the bus explains why I had a hard time as a young student understanding why Rosa Parks was upset when she was asked to sit in the back of the bus.) But anyway, let’s switch gears now and reflect on the ever-treasured school cafeteria.
While most days in the cafeteria left the kids less than thrilled about their meal prospects (who can possibly get excited about “Mystery Meat Friday”?), there was one menu item that had the kids (including me) dancing in the milk line: the CHEESE ZOMBIE. I don’t know how it got its name or if this is something that was conceived in the Vancouver School District, but none of that really matters – what matters is to express how delicious it really was. The zombie held the essence of a grilled cheese sandwich, but instead of that crispy outside layer, it had a soft, thick, white bread outside, baked until golden. It would be cut into oversized squares, and that thick layer of melted cheese would ooze out each side with every bite. But it’s not just the zombie itself that made those days it was served in the cafeteria the most desired – that bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup completed the meal. A warm, melted cheese sandwich dipped in cream of tomato? Someone please tell me that isn’t the ultimate comfort food!
Circa 1991 may have been the last time I ate a cheese zombie, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t dreamt of the day when I could do it again. While I’ve considered doing lunch out at Harney Elementary, I thought that maybe I could try making it at home instead. My sister came across the recipe a while back for the beloved cheese zombie, and I figured there wasn’t a better time to try it out than during the first week that most schools are back in session.
I have no idea where the recipe came from (it stated it came from “memory”, which in and of itself made me a little nervous), but I figured a simple recipe of flour and other typical yeast bread ingredients couldn’t possibly yield anything horrible. I cut the recipe into a more suitable amount for my household and got to work. As I rolled out the dough for the zombie, I felt the strong urge to tuck my hair behind a hairnet. But then again, no one puts the cool in the hairnet like a lunch lady and to even pretend to be one of them would surely prove to be futile.
You probably already know this about me, but I’m going to say it again: I love cheese (see "A Love Note" post for reiteration purposes). I never thought I’d do this, but in order to complete this clatter “back to school” challenge, I sought out velvetta in the grocery store. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t search for it discreetly - I was even prepared to rearrange other items in my basket to hide it and do the self-checkout. But sadly, the velvetta was nowhere to be found except in the “singles” form (who wants to bet TSTSNBN carries it?), so I decided I needed to change my strategy: I would put my own adult spin on the zombie and use a combo of Tillamook’s extra sharp cheddar and pepper jack instead.
As the sheet of zombies baked in the oven, I reheated my tomato soup on the stove. But here’s the thing: I didn’t use Campbell’s tomato soup. I had made Ina’s roasted tomato basil soup a few days ago and thought this would be a lovely addition. Ok, I know you’re thinking – how would Allison possibly relive those fond memories of her childhood if she’s ruining the very heart of this concept? I understand your concern, and here’s my response to it: throughout my process of reinventing the cherished cheese zombie lunch, I came to a startling realization. There is nothing I could ever do that would bring back the perfection once created in that school cafeteria and served on a plastic tray. And it’s even possible that this lunch menu is only exemplary in hindsight, but there are just some things in life that shouldn’t be messed with – and the cheese zombie happens to be one of them. Life is all about avoiding regrets, and if I tarnished those very memories of the cheese zombie by trying to replicate it exactly and fall short, how could I ever forgive myself!? (Probably through expensive, intense years of therapy.) For the record, however, I’ll have you know that my adult version wasn’t too shabby – in fact it was quite scrumptious… even without a hairnet!
I still have nightmares about scary bus driver Peggy, with her intimidating presence and incessant use of the word “tolerate”. I remember she went through a phase where she punished the students by taping off the last three rows of the bus - imagine the riots that followed! Those last few rows were the best place to goof off (or set a firecracker off from. The neighborhood kid would probably deny to this day that he did it. The 20+ year investigation is still pending). We also loved the back of the bus to maximize the bounce factor whenever it would hit a speed bump. (Such adventures to be had on the bus explains why I had a hard time as a young student understanding why Rosa Parks was upset when she was asked to sit in the back of the bus.) But anyway, let’s switch gears now and reflect on the ever-treasured school cafeteria.
While most days in the cafeteria left the kids less than thrilled about their meal prospects (who can possibly get excited about “Mystery Meat Friday”?), there was one menu item that had the kids (including me) dancing in the milk line: the CHEESE ZOMBIE. I don’t know how it got its name or if this is something that was conceived in the Vancouver School District, but none of that really matters – what matters is to express how delicious it really was. The zombie held the essence of a grilled cheese sandwich, but instead of that crispy outside layer, it had a soft, thick, white bread outside, baked until golden. It would be cut into oversized squares, and that thick layer of melted cheese would ooze out each side with every bite. But it’s not just the zombie itself that made those days it was served in the cafeteria the most desired – that bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup completed the meal. A warm, melted cheese sandwich dipped in cream of tomato? Someone please tell me that isn’t the ultimate comfort food!
Circa 1991 may have been the last time I ate a cheese zombie, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t dreamt of the day when I could do it again. While I’ve considered doing lunch out at Harney Elementary, I thought that maybe I could try making it at home instead. My sister came across the recipe a while back for the beloved cheese zombie, and I figured there wasn’t a better time to try it out than during the first week that most schools are back in session.
I have no idea where the recipe came from (it stated it came from “memory”, which in and of itself made me a little nervous), but I figured a simple recipe of flour and other typical yeast bread ingredients couldn’t possibly yield anything horrible. I cut the recipe into a more suitable amount for my household and got to work. As I rolled out the dough for the zombie, I felt the strong urge to tuck my hair behind a hairnet. But then again, no one puts the cool in the hairnet like a lunch lady and to even pretend to be one of them would surely prove to be futile.
You probably already know this about me, but I’m going to say it again: I love cheese (see "A Love Note" post for reiteration purposes). I never thought I’d do this, but in order to complete this clatter “back to school” challenge, I sought out velvetta in the grocery store. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t search for it discreetly - I was even prepared to rearrange other items in my basket to hide it and do the self-checkout. But sadly, the velvetta was nowhere to be found except in the “singles” form (who wants to bet TSTSNBN carries it?), so I decided I needed to change my strategy: I would put my own adult spin on the zombie and use a combo of Tillamook’s extra sharp cheddar and pepper jack instead.
As the sheet of zombies baked in the oven, I reheated my tomato soup on the stove. But here’s the thing: I didn’t use Campbell’s tomato soup. I had made Ina’s roasted tomato basil soup a few days ago and thought this would be a lovely addition. Ok, I know you’re thinking – how would Allison possibly relive those fond memories of her childhood if she’s ruining the very heart of this concept? I understand your concern, and here’s my response to it: throughout my process of reinventing the cherished cheese zombie lunch, I came to a startling realization. There is nothing I could ever do that would bring back the perfection once created in that school cafeteria and served on a plastic tray. And it’s even possible that this lunch menu is only exemplary in hindsight, but there are just some things in life that shouldn’t be messed with – and the cheese zombie happens to be one of them. Life is all about avoiding regrets, and if I tarnished those very memories of the cheese zombie by trying to replicate it exactly and fall short, how could I ever forgive myself!? (Probably through expensive, intense years of therapy.) For the record, however, I’ll have you know that my adult version wasn’t too shabby – in fact it was quite scrumptious… even without a hairnet!
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