Friday, April 19, 2013

Dear Friends,

Today I drove past the most beautiful cherry trees in full bloom on Boston’s first 70 degree day. Outside I could smell the ground opening up, and buds this morning were tiny leaves by this afternoon, coaxed to life by the warm, humid air.

For the first time today I have turned off all media. The near silence I hear out my windows is almost exactly the same as it has been all day: cars drive by in the same approximate rhythm, a few live things click and murmur. But the silence of the day was a million-strong urban area holding its collective breath while a 1000-law-enforcement manhunt for a terrorist took place a few miles away. The silence of tonight is dumbfounded, grateful, prayerful, tearful, healthily skeptical relief that it is over. It is over, right?

The Onion, Jezebel have covered the humorous take on a week seemingly extra burdened with negative events. Scores of bloggers, journalists, pundits, and commentators more eloquent and generally emotional than I, will take on the sincere humanity heart string stories. Which leaves me with the only angle I can even hope to do well, reporting my own maladjusted, slightly media-numbed thoughts and feelings.

This week, and I suspect this day more than Monday, changed my life. I am certain of it. And in three years or so I might be able to begin to tell you how.

Even in the present tense, I swear I can hear this day being written into history. I am surprised to find this feeling is uncomfortable.

There is a real and tangible story here that is absolutely necessary: Unidentified humans intentionally murder, maim, and terrorize other humans. Perpetrator humans are identified. Perpetrator humans are (through no small effort) secured (and killed). This is an important and concrete (and disruptive and nerve-wracking), and relatively ‘black-and-white’ set of events, that conducts most of us from ‘How did this happen?’ to ‘Good, now this won’t happen again.’

And yet there are (probably, actually) a million other stories that are both far more real, and far more ‘grey’ because they are of the people who lived them.

Events like this -yes, this is Boston’s first time at the party, but we are regrettably not a unique guest- really make the ‘grey’ in life stand out to me. And they make me cringe at how poor we are at dealing with and making room for: a diversity of expressions of fear, grief, joy relief; the reality that conflicting emotions can exist in one person; alternate, differing, surprising opinions and beliefs; complicated.

I am deeply and unequivocally grateful to the multi-force groups that found and captured the living suspect. I wonder why I didn’t see more women.

I appreciated the media coverage by Boston’s two main NPR outlets. I believed what they reported, and believed in the challenges of clear, factual reporting when every citizen with a social media account is a journalist. I didn’t want their reassurance that their news was pure. I wanted to be left to judge that for myself. I still waited to believe everything they said until it had been verified by multiple sources, and when possible, by a government/law enforcement briefing.

I turned off most coverage of the suspects’ biographies. I do not need to know where someone went to high school to remind me that they are human. Every person living on this earth so far was born of woman, seeded by man (okay I’m certain  of >99.9% of them on that last part). There is no other way to get here. Thus these brothers are made of blood and bone, like the rest of us, and their loss -that is their decision to do awful, awful things- is the first tragedy in this story. I disagree with those who believe no one should say anything good things about the suspects. What if good was a part of their lives? Human beings are complicated.

I am glad to be safe, and that my loved ones are safe, and that tomorrow I can feel a little bit different walking through the world. But, I wonder when I will sleep. I wonder when these days will settle into my biography, and not seem like something I read about somewhere. I wonder if anything that was a priority before 128 hours ago, will ever seem more important than the lessons I still can’t articulate, that I learned in these days.

There’s only one way to find out.

 

 

 

Friday April, 12, 2013

Dear Friends,

I am spent. I have known the pleasures of the most joyful, fulfilling company this week. I have loosened my anxious grip on the guard rail of my life and had time to realize that I am not falling. I have given everything I have to those that I care about and they have returned to me kindness, and adoration, and laughter. But they cannot return the hours of sleep, and thus I am brief. With gratitude, and an ardent wish that everyone has community in their lives that feels as rich as mine does to me, I bid you goodnight!

Friday, April 4, 2013

Dear Friends,

Happy evening. I hope you are in a moment of pleasure, in company or alone as so suits you tonight. I am at home. Alone. Conflicted. The good kind. A few good choices, but a desire not to choose. Yet, I have rested as much as I could in this last quarter of the day or so. I am restored to a point that will make sleep a challenge. It will take more stimulation and activity to tire me out and let me genuinely sleep. Jumping jacks? Dancing around my kitchen? Push-ups? Or do I get in the car, face the cold and people, and take the always offered hand, a bar stool at a favored joint. A favored joint is closer to me now. Temptation.

Eating and drinking will not tire me out and may indeed worsen my sleep, but to rally. To rally for more people when my work days are simply infested with them…but the people I meet may be good for me. Useful, kind, welcome, diverting, expanding. Or there may be the silence of being alone in a crowd, pillowed by humanity, but not involved in it. Stalemate. Impasse. Inertia. No option sways, nor deters. As a friend’s relative used to malaprop ‘Six on one hand, Baker’s dozen.’

I am going to do the dishes. I’ll be standing. My chore for years, the warm water will soak my hands in a way that comfortingly draws me back through every era of my life. Physically stirring, will mentally stir me. Perhaps I will plan an outfit. Perhaps the suggestive whisper of ‘gin’ will become a more demanding chant. Perhaps, I will caffeinate and Blitzkreig the work I want to be done that I don’t want to do. “Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps” wrote Osvaldo Farrés and Joe Davis.

Good night and good luck!

Love,

Alli

Meat Collective

Is not an avant-garde German noise band. Nor a male strip joint. But it may in fact be the best thing that ever happened to you (and me).

I’ve been on here before about all the themes in this post -Portland Meat Collective, butchery, meat, Kickstarter, and meat Kickstarters specifically. I hope my redundancy suggests how important I think this topic is, and isn’t just culinary bombast.

The Portland Meat Collective is a hands-on meat knowledge epicenter (my words not theirs) in Portland, Oregon. It is the ultimate and most honest farm to table experience an eater could have. Local farmers slaughter animals pre-purchased by class participants, who gather and learn-by-doing to butcher the animal and make the best of all of it. Classes are led by chefs, local butchers, and sometimes the farmers themselves. Students get to take home the meat they bought, and cut, and in some instances met on the farm. It is the way eating was. It is the way (I believe)  eating should be.

Luckily Camas Davis, founder of the Portland Meat Collective doesn’t think the rest of the country needs to look on in wordless, drooling jealousy. She wants to educate, enable, and empower other local meat faithful to establish such a collective in their hometowns. So she is running a Kickstarter campaign to fund: an educational pilot program in two cities, a new website, and educational materials to spread the gospel and help others make this inspired, important, community resource come true.

So put your money where your meat goes! Yes, I am asking you to donate to this Kickstarter campaign. Nothing much, just skip a latte tomorrow and kick in a fiver, or give the buck it all adds up! I’m going a hunnert because I believe in real meat that much. It has to be done. But more than your donation, please start down that awesome road of convincing your friends that this is important. Get people talking about where their meat came from at your next meal. Get friends thinking about whether or not they could eat a being they once knew. And, no joke, if any Boston area readers are thinking we should start our own meat collective, by all means let me know. I’m ready when you are.

P.S: I have no connection with The Portland Meat Collective, Camas Davis or Kickstarter. I am just a local, clean, humane meat zealot.

Friday, March 29, 2013

Dear Friends,

This is how it started for me, blogging. In college I used to write my friends, near and far, an update about my life on Fridays. Writing was therapeutic for me (still is), and the (relative) impersonality of email prevented outcomes I did not want, like me bursting into tears on the phone, or simply spending more hours than I already did on the phone.

Several blogs later I was on vox.com (RIP) and I started the same way. Notes about my life meant for the friends I know and those I haven’t met yet. I’ve been having trouble blogging lately. I started a private blog to write only to myself. That worked for about a week and a half. I started a Tumblr account that is laying beautifully fallow. The words have been coming out on paper (a perfectly good place for them I might add), but I needed to make some peace with a live, 0nce-exclusively-food-oriented, blog here. So I am beginning at the beginning, which I often do when I don’t know where else to start. Maybe it will stick.

My life this week: It is a blessing to be on vacation. Thanks to Passover and Easter I am not due back at my favourite worst new nightmare until Wednesday, April 3rd. Unfortunately it has been on my mind a lot today and I am wrestling with the strategies to make it better. Making it better seems like it will mean paying attention to it and that is probably my biggest complaint. I don’t want to give my time and attention to my tasks at that place. I know things could be a lot worse, but currently that job is what makes my blood pressure rise and makes me drop things, stub my toes etc. whenever I think about it. In a wonderful combination of all of the above, while trying to think through ‘the work problem’ this morning I dropped the small ceramic bowl of dry granola I was holding directly on my toe. After the initial pain wore off, it was actually pretty funny.

And that dichotomy is the theme of this week. I’m sad. I am deeply, darkly, dankly, dourly, fatiguingly, achingly, consistently (hyperbolically) sad. I HATE my job. Hate it. I want to make it stand on a stool in the center of a room while I throw blunt, heavy, objects at it. I want it to slip into a coma so that I get paid, but don’t have to go to work. I want it to evaporate. I almost want time travel so I just don’t have to live through the last 55 days of it. I want to shove it into a closet and have it get trapped in Narnia. I want it to go away and never bother me or speak my name again. And feeling like that so much of the time really drags me down. It makes me sad.

Yet, my little, cooky, optimistic streak is still beating in there. Alive and treading water, beckoning me to jump on in, forget about my worries, chillax. The coexistence of these two emotions is hard for me contain. All optimism feels like an absolute sham. All darkness is not true, not helpful, and a damn bummer. I love these breadcrumbs of ridiculousness, frivolity, celebration, and excitement. I wouldn’t want it any other…scratch that, more ease and joy will be incredibly welcome when they arrive.

I have never been particularly confident in my little spiritual arc reactor. I am delighted to find that it glows as diligently as my creative, often convoluted, and far outnumbering braziers of emotional pain. And I guess I’m where I was, and where I have been, and where -if I’m lucky- I will be every day of a complex life birthed at every turn by my own choices: Suck it up and deal. Sometimes it’s a seafood feast and champagne, sometimes it’s gravel. Sometimes when you pan that gravel you find a little piece of gold.

No better, but maybe a tiny bit bolder. Happy Friday!

Love,

Alli

Tofu Cocoa Molé

“Wait aren’t you the woman who just told us all to go to a meat conference?!”

Why, yes. Yes, I am. I am also a woman with a job that requires de facto vegetarianism at lunch during the work week. I may have mentioned recently that my current cooking muse is whatever is in my refrigerator/cupboard. I am not someone who finds foods and then stocks up on her favorites. Instead I prefer to have a constantly inspiring (read: changing) pantry based on ingredients I need for particular recipes. There are few things I try never to be completely out of: fresh fruit, fat, the Allium family, sea salt, tri-colored peppercorns, gluten-free pasta, brown rice, popcorn. Lack of one of those is grounds for an immediate trip to the grocery store. But otherwise, when I decide to cook, I look around at what I have, and let it spark my imagination.

I made a lazy lady’s ragú recently so I had some Muir Glen Fire Roasted whole tomatoes left over and I decided to make them in a molé. I started with David Lebovitz’s recipe because it was the amount of complication I thought I could handle.

Mol-ish Adapted from David Lebovitz

1-ounce dried ancho dried chiles
1/3 cup slivered blanched almonds
1 small onion, chopped
5 Muir Glen fire roasted whole tomatoes and sauce
1/4 cup dried blueberries
1 tablespoon toasted, salted pepitas
4 cloves garlic, smashed with a knife blade
1/2 teaspoon each: cinnamon, dried oregano, powdered cumin, ground coriander

1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
3/4 teaspoon salt, or to taste
freshly ground pepper
1 cup water  or chicken or other broth (and more as needed).
3 Tablespoons unsweetened (non-Dutched) cocoa

Soak the chiles and the blueberries (together) in the chicken broth (or water) for 30 minutes. Keep them submerged by putting a lightweight bowl on top

Heat a skillet to medium-low. Add a neutral vegetable oil (safflower or other), cook onions and almonds in skillet until clear. Add 2 cloves of the garlic, saute about a minute more. Add all the spices, salt, pepper, and cocoa powder to the skillet. Cook, stirring frequently for 1-2 minutes. The spices should smell toasted. Do not let them burn.

Take the stems and the seeds out of the chiles. Rough chop them. Reserve the broth or soaking water.

*Purée the chiles and the blueberries with 1/4 C of the broth. Add in the spice mixture and the other 2 cloves of raw garlic. Purée until smooth. Add a little more broth/water if necessary. Add the tomatoes. Purée. Taste. Adjust (see below). If the molé is not pourable add more broth/soaking water and blend until it is a smooth, easy pouring (if thick) liquid.

Adjusting: You should be able to taste almost every element in the molé. With a background of pleasant whole-mouth heat. Both the chiles and the raw garlic add kick. The blueberries (or raisins or dates) add sweetness. The almonds (or almond butter) add an unmistakable almond-ness. The chocolate adds a rich, chalky, somewhat charred flavor.

Do not add too much sweetness. It is too hard to counter if you go too far. Do not add more heat until you have let it sit for a day. Do not add salt again until you are using it in a dish, then season the whole dish.

Otherwise add whatever note you feel is missing.

*I have a very hardy, but old, and rather small blender so I did this in many small batches.  Doing this in a bowl or pot with an immersion blender would also work (after you have puréed the spices and the chiles).

As noted, I put this on tofu that I drained then compressed for about 20 minutes to drain it some more (elevated a small cutting board to drain into the sink, placed the tofu on it, placed another small cutting board on top with a 6 inch cast iron skillet as a weight), then froze and defrosted. I let it sit in the molé overnight. If you eliminate the chicken broth this recipe is vegan.

Gingerbread and other disasters

I was recently on February vacation (The second best perk of being a teacher!) It was a pleasant week and I managed to resume cooking a bit. On Monday I awoke with a sudden fever to make gingerbread. This is a forgiving quick bread with lots of variations. The dark color is appealing, and if you do it right the ginger flavor is very rich. I made this more complicated than it needs to be, so please consult (or ignore) all the notes at the end.  You could make a half batch of this everyday for a week until you found the right ginger/spice/sweetness ratio for your taste. Just keep the dry/wet ratio approximately the same. Also this is secretly 4 “recipes” in one: Gingerbread, simple syrup, ginger simple syrup, crystallized (aka candied) ginger.

P.S. In my excitement I knocked over my measuring cup of molasses and ginger syrup (smooth move slick!). Upside #1: my floor is an order of magnitude cleaner. Upside #2 though it was sticky, at least I didn’t spill molasses on a city!  Remember, molasses is both tasty and dangerous. Respect.

Ingredients:

(1-2 ounces Very Fresh Ginger, Brown or White Sugar, Water)*

1.5 C Flour

1/4 C cornmeal (You can leave out the cornmeal and the oatmeal and  replace them w/flour)

1/2 C oatmeal

1/2 C molasses

1/2 C ginger simple syrup*

1 stick (1/2 C) butter melted

1/8 tsp nutmeg

1/4 tsp cinnamon

1/4 tsp allspice

pinch finely ground pepper

1/4 C (or more to taste) chopped candied ginger* (optional)

1/4 tsp salt

1 tsp baking soda

hot water

Optional: up to 1/2 C of coarsely ground nuts; 1 ounce shaved dark chocolate (super dark to semi-sweet)

Making It:

Preheat oven to 350 F. Grease and flour, or parchment an 8 x 8 square pan or a 9 x 5 loaf pan, or a 9 inch cake round.

*Peel ginger: Ginger is easily peeled with a spoon. Slice it very thin, or into 1/8 to 1/4 inch match sticks (a couple of ounces will do nicely)

*Make Simple Syrup: is 1:1 sugar to water (in this case 1/2 each). Melt sugar in water over low heat until dissolved.

*Make Ginger Simple Syrup: Allow simple syrup (above) to boil. Add chopped or sliced ginger let simmer for 10 to 30 minutes (longer = softer ginger). Strain into a bowl or measuring cup, reserving the syrup. Lay ginger out in a single layer on parchment, wax paper or a greased cookie sheet. Allow to cool. Sugar will crystallize on the ginger as it is cooling. When it is cool dice it up.

Make (the @!#*!) gingerbread (already!): Measure the dry ingredients into the bowl and stir with a fork to mix. Add the wet ingredients in quick succession, adding the hot water last. Chuck in the nuts and the diced candied ginger if it’s not in there yet. Stir quickly, just long enough to mix thoroughly (make sure there are not pockets of unmixed flour at the bottom of the bowl, and no lumps). Pour it into a pan and bake.

The flat pans will take around 35 minutes, the loaf pan may take up to an hour. Check at 25 minutes for spring back. When it springs back, check with a knife or toothpick for internal doneness.

When you take it out of the oven, cut around the sides but let it rest in the pan for five minutes before turning it out on a cooling rack. Let it cool as long as you possibly can before cutting.

Notes:

I made this with gluten-free flour and added the other grains for texture. Not quite good enough, as gluten-free but I think the oatmeal will be great in a gluten version.

You could also soak the oatmeal in the hot water to modify the texture.

For a richer, more cakey (and slightly less crusty) version you might try making it with hot milk.

The First New England Meat Conference March 22-23

I have written this post twice already and it’s just not working. Third time. Charm? Maybe not, but at least I will be direct and succinct.

On Friday and Saturday March 22nd and 23rd New England will host its first meat conference!

The New England Meat conference will be held in Concord New Hampshire. It has been organized by a host of New England stakeholders in organic and sustainable farming. It will feature 26 educational sessions and a party appropriately called, the Meat Ball, with live music, dancing, local meats and eats, and awards.

I believe that any meat-eater should understand where their meat comes from and how it gets to them. I believe that local, pastured meat is safer and more flavorful, and I think that farming should be a viable and sustainable component of a functioning local economy. The meat available to consumers is largely controlled by the Farm Bill (in many indirect ways), and the laws around slaughter and meat processing.  I would love to see the slaughter and processing rules changed so more local, pastured, humanely treated, additive free meat could be available to more people, awareness would grow, production would go up (moderately, sustainably), and prices would come down (a little) and everyone from the cow, to the farmer, to all your friends at the cookout could be well taken care of, supported, and healthy.

While this conference isn’t designed to change policy it is a way to get believers in safe, healthy, local meat together to meet their farmer, and understand the journey of an animal to your plate. That is just the kind of environment and inspiration that sparks positive change and progress. So if you have an inkling, go check it out. You’ll be a better eater for it!

Cold Days – Jim Butcher

I like to read for several reasons: to increase my vocabulary, to be entertained, to relate to someone, to learn something, to try to solve the crime, to be told an affecting story. I mostly read Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files novels because I relate to Harry (yes, weird, I know); there is always humor; there are often plot twists that keep me guessing; and every few books or so there are some moments of thought-provoking philosophy that really stay with me. As the series has gone on, I admit I am usually hoping for more of the latter with each book. Yet, as with any good old friend, I am never disappointed with our time together, even if we did not have any new revelations. Such was the case with this one.

Cold Days, the latest in the series, came out in November 2012. If you are unfamiliar with the series The Dresden Files are a series of Urban Fantasy thrillers. The protagonist is a wizard who lives and works in modern-day Chicago. Friends and foes include the standard retinue of vampires, werewolves, and faeries, but Butcher is a wonderful student of mythology digging up, rearranging, and creating, new creatures and beings to fit the plot and tenor of the tale. Butcher’s strengths are drawing his characters and worlds very well and very consistently; a great facility animating the machinations of the truly power-hungry; and a great imagination, appetite, and wit with action and violence.

The sad news about Cold Days is that there is not much new here. The risk of deepening our understanding of the same characters book after book -even if the cast is large- is a redundancy. This is a particular hazard of all novels of this sort because so much of the plot (and plotting) is about good versus evil. Some characters really have no depth because their power largely comes from their singlemindedness and there is just not much to tell there. This book. suffers from that problem.

However, the good news about Cold Days is that it featured one of my favorite characters, Demonreach, and provided some substantive new details about it. And I also really liked one of the journeys Harry took through the Nevernever. In those scenes and one of the themes of this ‘case,’ I saw a little bit of that philosophizing I like. To me Butcher was talking about how little we see of what gets done to keep us safe. He made it a little easier for me to get a tiny mental handhold on the consciousness that a war is going on, feeling and fearing the horror of it, and respecting its…if not its necessity, than its inevitability. To me he also seemed to be hinting at a darkness that has fallen on the U.S. since 9/11, and the recession. In spite of positive changes, it is clear that much is badly fractured between us as a citizenry, and for some this is a poison that leads to other tragedies.

Cold Days won’t make the top of my Dresden list, but just as with James Bond or Ethan Hunt, I will always show up to see what my favorite action hero (wizard is doing next)!

In case you care my Dresden Favorites are: Dead Beat, White Night, Proven Guilty, Blood Rites, Summer Knight, Small Favor

Orange Supremes: Almost Guiltless Guilty Pleasure

Fiber is good for you. I am lucky to have pretty strong, healthy teeth. And yet, I find that not having to chew all the membrane that comes with orange segments lets me better focus on their sweetness and texture. Enter orange supremes.

Supremes can be made of any citrus fruit. Use a knife to cut away the rind (and the ‘back’ of the membrane). Use same knife to cut ON BOTH SIDES of the membrane separating each segment. Voilà! Membrane free orange (grapefruit, lemon, lime, etc.) segment. If you have ever been to an even moderately fancy restaurant and had a salad with citrus on it, you have had supremes. When you are out at brunch and they give you the steak knife for the brûléed grape fruit, you are doing the same thing  the hard way.

Supremes are lovely because you can see the grain and texture of the individual plump pulp of citrus. Supremes taste better because, as I mentioned before, without all that membrane you can concentrate more on the lusciousness, and less on not choking when the juiciness gets ahead of the chewing of said membrane.

There is a ‘technique’ to supremes. I learned it in a knife skills course I took a year or so ago. I think it qualifies as a technique because it does elevate the product. However, meaning no disrespect to the canon, standards, and ideology of culinaria, you could easily backwards engineer this one with logic and observation. That said, the gift of learning this ‘technique’ is that now I remember to use it when I want to eat an orange.

The small amount of guilt comes from the following. It’s wasteful. Everything you cut away to create a supreme is edible. And my passion FOR food is matched only by my passion AGAINST food waste. There are ways to avoid this. Zest your orange before you supreme it. Use the ends in mulled wine or cider, make candies peel or marmalade, etc. Further, the more you practice, the better you get, and the less you cut away. True masters of this technique produce extremely plump, symmetric supremes and waste very little pulp. So, go forth! Supreme your fruit and eat it too!

Photo instruction via Pen&Fork (linked above) and video instruction by updowngroupfood here. Use the sharpest knife you are comfortable with. Remember to cut on BOTH SIDES of EVERY membrane.

Peace.

 

The overlooked classism of normal hardships

Earlier this year several cities declared health emergencies because of the concerns about the flu. Flu infection rates did reach epidemic numbers, but the rationale for these health emergencies (as it is with weather emergencies) is often to make funds available and enact certain laws that only apply during emergencies (think parking bans or quarantine).

In the case of the flu the primary issue was one of income. Low-wage workers are the most likely NOT to have insurance, and thus NOT to have gotten a flu shot. Yet, because of living in a financially precarious situation, low-wage workers are most likely to go to work when they might not be well because they cannot afford to miss out on a day’s pay. Because low-wage workers may not receive other regular health care, and/or may not be able to eat well because of food insecurity or living in a food dessert low-income their flu may be more severe. And because low-wage workers are out in the work force while ill, they become vectors for the disease. A health emergency allows the city to buy vaccine and offer it free of charge to anyone who needs it. More vaccine = (theoretically) higher immunity = fewer sick people thus fewer people to spread the virus = the entire community stays well.

We can argue about whether or not the horse was out of the barn when the health emergency was declared this year. We can also argue about the safety and utility of vaccines, but that’s not actually the point of this post.

I am writing this post from home because a powerful snowstorm is in progress over New England. I do not have to go to work today because many city and school administrators all over the region still remember a storm that snuck up on us 5 years ago when many children and families did not get home from school or work for 5 or 6 HOURS after dismissal. Yet, I was able to get up and go to an open, fully staffed grocery store this morning, and I have read several posts about restaurants planning to remain open through the storm (To be fair, I have also read plenty of posts from restaurants predicting or planning to close on account of the storm).I don’t want to get on a high horse about staying off the roads, and I don’t have a soap box speech about income inequality. However, routine hardships, like bad weather, provide very clear examples of the unrelenting pressure of poverty. People working an 8 hour day may find getting home difficult, slow and unsafe. Yet, many of those people may not really have felt like they had a choice. If working today makes the difference for eating next week, or keeping the heat on, or paying the rent, a slower more treacherous commute might start to look like a reasonable trade-off. But what a terrible decision to have to make. To weigh your safety against your monetary value.There are lots (and lots) of different viewpoints to take on work and foul weather. For example, emergency services staff, military, road crews, doctors and allied health workers are all in the same boat. Though in most of those cases compensation and choice are very different. And when I see the enthusiastic trumpeting of special storm menus and treats to tempt the local diner in for a meal, I truly believe that there are many chefs and food industry staff who are just as glad to be cooking, serving, bartending come snow, locusts or apocalypse. I just don’t want to lose sight of –under my warm blankets, jigsaw puzzles, and cups of hot chocolate– the fact that on a day like today some people are choosing to risk their safety to work, because the other choice is no income, or no heat or no food for their children, or their education, etc., and that sucks. And I don’t know if that person helped me find the candles, rung me up, or is cooking at one of my favorite restaurants tonight. So today, perhaps more than any other day, have a care for those who serve you: a large tip, genuine appreciation, and friendly conversation. It goes a long way on any day, but on a day when someone made a difficult choice so you can have a latte, honor where they might be coming from while you’re sipping your treat.

Thank your friends. Teach your phone incorrect words.

Okay, maybe that second part isn’t the best idea but both were part of what made my morning much better than baseline.

Thank your friends. Yes, that’s an imperative. But, not in a bossy way. More of a ‘The hills are alive with the sound of music’ twirling in a meadow sort of evangelism. I give this advice, because this morning I almost didn’t thank my friends. And when it crossed my mind and I internally shrugged and said ‘Nah’ I stopped to think about why I wouldn’t. There was not one good reason on that list, so ‘wouldn’t’ turned a 180 and became ‘did.’

I went to dinner last night with a friend and his wife. He was my first roommate when I moved to Boston 6 years ago. He was a companion and a witness during a big transition in my life, and I think may long be a friend because of this accidental significance. His wife is lovely. I met her in the early stages of their relationship. Possibly, I have some of the same accidental significance to them. The evening out was his idea and it was a unique experience (a tour of the Bully Boy distillery followed by dinner at La Morra). It was a simple and pleasant excursion from a normal Thursday night. The company was fine. The conversation rangy and mostly only important for the moment. To have one hour like this in your life is a blessing.

When I woke this morning, I thought, I should send them a thank you email. Then I thought: They know I had fun! Nobody needs another email. Clutter in the inbox. But then I thought, you never know. You never know when that silly little email will be the bright light on a cloudy day. So why not be in the habit of putting gratitude out whenever you feel it. Thank the air that you breathe if the spirit moves you. Or the radio station (like I did this morning) for playing your favorite song.  And definitely thank anyone and everyone who blesses your life whether for a moment or an eternity.

In other news. I am a mediocre textista. My phone is kind enough to learn the words I misspell in my haste. And I keep letting it. I was no great shakes with my old Nokia and my thumbs, but I actually make more mistakes with my virtual qwerty and I can either get mad, or let it be funny. And since the Auto Correct I will be damning is chock-full of words I mistakenly added, that can’t be anything but funny.

Whatever has made today so beautiful, I am grateful. May it last.

10 minutes

Good morning. I’m sorry. Where have I been? In. A quiet place. It’s divine. There is no screaming, no yelling, nor even the persistent hypersonic hum of electronic devices. It starts, if I’m lucky, on Friday nights and I am ripped cruelly out of it first period Monday. It makes me sad all day, being torn away from a place where I all I have to be is aware of living.

But that’s why you haven’t seen me. I have barely been going out. I have been liking it that way, though the internal hourglasses on contacts with some friends have are long drained and the empty bulb is a cold, glaring, guilt-inducing eye. I’m sorry. I needed to put me before everything for a while. I haven’t entirely shaken that off, but I need to put family before everything for a spell, and then hungrily, I suspect I will return to me for a while.

You. Are splendid. I am lucky to have you. You are a treat. You are a wonder. You are a piece of me and when I neglect you or  lose you I feel it. Even so. There are times when you are no comfort at all. When your presence is a pressure rather than a relief. And, you’ll forgive me? Rather than tell you that one time out of a million that you are not what I need, I just hush. Retreat. Go on a quest for my peace and when I return to you I am better. I can love you more. I know you want to help. It is simple. Love me silently.

Arctic Monkeys Suck it and See [Album Review]

The Arctic Monkeys are a modern English rock band from outside Sheffield, UK. I am not alone among Americans who didn’t discover them until “Fluorescent Adolescent” got some air play here in 2007. I have been a fan ever since, and was lucky enough to see them live at Lupo’s in Providence, RI in 2008.

They are clear admirers (and emulators) of the 70′s British Punk sound, but I find their music to be more of a refresher of the genre than a throwback. What characterizes their canon for me is: very clean guitar work, clever song construction, and great lyrics. Suck it and See was Arctic Monkeys’ fourth studio album, released in 2011. It has a softer feel than the other three, lots of guitar effects are used and there is a dreamy California rock vibe to many of the songs.

The first lyrics of the album are “I’ve been feeling foolish. You should try it.” I can think of few phrases that would draw me in faster. I am instantly curious as to why the singer/song protagonist feels foolish, and I love the twist of (sarcastically or earnestly) recommending the sensation. Indeed “Thunderstorms,” goes on to deliver some of the best lyrics on the album.

“Black Treacle” (track 2) has some great musical moments in it but to me the song feels like it was finished but not perfected. The match of lyrics and melodic line in the chorus feels clumsy. “Brick by Brick” and “The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala” are easily the best and most satisfying tracks. They could have thought again about placing two songs with moments of ‘oooh aaah’ background vocals back to back, but both songs are so unique, creative, and strong that the pairing is okay. Atmospheric and transporting both demand to be listened to repeatedly.

Yet, my favorite song on the album is “Don’t Sit Down ‘Cause I’ve Moved Your Chair” (track 5). Though this song is hardly characteristic of the Arctic Monkeys I think it is a bit of litmus test. If you like this song you will like the rest of what they put out. The reverb and repetitive baseline will either grab you (pleasantly) by the gut, or drive you screaming from the room. The lyrics, hint at “Superstition” but with far less gravity, and include line after line of silly adage mash-ups in this heavy, minor driving, tune that builds and builds with layers of dissonance. It is a joy to listen to, particularly at volume.

Here I must admit to being a 7 track wonder. I often do my album discovery while driving and 7 tracks covers my commute to almost anywhere local. Though my CD player starts where I left off, I often back track to a favorite, and in this way the first half of the album has gotten more ear time than the second. Still there are two notables from those last five tracks. “Piledriver Waltz” is a wonderful bit of storytelling, and here the slight lyric/melody mismatch doesn’t bother me as much. Also the title track “Suck it and See” has, perhaps, the best lyric in the bunch: “That’s not a skirt, girl, that’s a sawn-off shotgun. And I can only hope you’ve got it aimed at me.”

Suck it and See  is satisfying, listenable, and not a bad entry point for new fans. It could easily be the soundtrack to 40-ish minutes of a small party or a scene unfolding across the street, or whatever is dancing behind your eyes as you lie in the dark. It also holds up track to track as an album, another thing I like about Arctic Monkeys. Each album has a specific sound, and clear thought has gone into what tracks go on it. Check them out.

Hairballs

The irony of this post is that I have been thinking about it for several days. The only thing I am absolutely certain of is the title. For which I offer these this small consolation (though I doubt they will lower anyone’s disgust): I do not myself have actual hairballs.

Hairballs are disgusting. If you have a cat, depending on breed and diet, hairballs can be a relatively frequent occurrence. Regardless of frequency hairballs are always disgusting. They are ugly. They are often left/found in places/at times that are an unpleasant surprise. They are made of things that none of us want to think about. And the process of bringing up a hairball looks and sounds awful. Yet…

Hairballs are the result of a natural, and necessary cat grooming process. And if cats didn’t cough up hairballs, in the very worst case, the result could be life-threatening. Hairballs: can’t live with them, can’t live without them.

Hairballs are my current metaphor for my writing. I have intentionally been putting pen to paper since I was eleven. Though folks I might even believe have declared me ‘a good writer,’ I have never done anything with my love for words.

I did not really make resolutions this New Year. Rather, I guess I made one: show don’t tell. A little less conversation, a little more action. If something is important to me, I have to put my time and my energy where my intention is. And something in me wants to write.

So I am writing. I am keeping a journal with an intensity unmatched since my adolescence. And I keep writing posts for this blog. This year-and-change old unfocused, repeatedly reinvented, former food blog. Some of what I write comes out just as I imagined. Most of what I write just comes out. I rarely edit beyond spell check, and my goals with every post are: to find the words that most accurately express my brain pickings of that moment, and write through all my hang-ups to achieve on-demand, creative fluency.  Because I believe that (if it is anywhere) my idea, my ‘oh I want to write about that!’ is on the other side of that fluency. And I want to get there any see what it is.

So I write about anything. I write about everything. I mostly write about how I feel being a single, child-free, adult in career limbo in a bad economy, working through old and current life issues. I am told one can’t be good at writing about anything and writing about everything. I believe that one needs voice and vision and drafts and revision and structure and design and a goal, or a message, to write a really good piece. But I’m still writing posts.

Writing is a muscle. To write, one must write. Ballerinas plié, writers write. I am not even writing yet. I am still getting out the hairballs.

So this is apology, explanation, and thank you to anyone who reads at all, and especially to anyone who reads still. Thank you for reading my hairballs.