Bring on the Funny

My thesis, which is about the spoken and unspoken experiences that I inherited from my paternal side, uses humor to explore the horrible things that happened to my grandparents and father during and after World War II. The humor is integral because my grandfather relied on jokes to deflect topics that he didn't want to deal with and as a coping mechanism for his enormous losses. I think that this reliance on humor is something that I inherited from him.

Anyway, today I spent some time reading Jewish humor books. Partly it is for research, partly to procrastinate because I have no ideas at the moment. I thought I'd share one:

Sadie says to her husband, "Moshe, I'm fed up with frozen chicken. Please buy for me a live chicken for a change. Then I can make for us a lovely meal."

So Moshe goes to the market and buys the chicken. On his way back, he sees that Funny Girl is showing at the movies. He calls Sadie on a pay phone. "Sadie," he says, "They're showing Funny Girl at the movies. I think I'll see it before I come home."

"OK," replies Sadie, "but what about the chicken?"

"I'll take it inside with me," Moshe answers.

Moshe stuffs the chicken down his trousers and goes in to see the film. Unfortunately, part way through the movie, the chicken pokes its head out. Two women are sitting next to Moshe and one turns to the other and whispers, "There's a man next to me with his shmeckle hanging out of his pants."

Her friend says, "Why be shocked? If you've seen one, you've seen them all. Just watch the movie."

"But this one's different. It's eating my popcorn."

OK, this joke totally cracked me up because it is so weird and random. I can almost hear my grandfather telling it. (He really liked dirty jokes, just like I do.)

15 Years is Very Good, But Expensive

If Husband and I had saved ten cents for every day we've been together, it would have paid for our ridiculous blow out celebration. Fortunately, the amount of change that Husband stashed away in his parking meter bank more than covered it. (Incidentally, now that he's got everything counted and sorted in wrappers for the bank, the bag he plans to transport the coins in weighs more than 60 pounds!)

We kicked off our anniversary date by signing our wills, power of attorney documents, and health care proxies. It was very romantic. Yeah.

After the business of love was done, we went to the cozy Bookmarks Lounge on the top of the Library Hotel for a drink. I threw all caution to the wind and ordered an insanely expensive hot apple toddy, which I quickly realized that I could barely drink because it was more alcohol than cider. But the sips I had warmed me up on a rainy night, and I tried not to feel guilty about wasting money, so all was well. Husband enjoyed his overpriced glass of Chardonnay.

We took the bus up to Daniel. A few of my friends have celebrated anniversaries there, so I thought it might be nice for us. We left with extremely full bellies and an empty wallet. When I made the reservation, I mentioned that it was our anniversary, so they printed us little copies of the the menu that said happy anniversary as souvenirs. This is good, as I could not understand our French waiter, so I had no idea what we ate. Plus there was a lot of it, so I doubt I'd remember it all anyway. We did the eight course chef's tasting menu. Here's what we indulged in:

Course One
Mosaic of capon, foie gras, and celery root with pickled daikon, Satur Farms mache, and pear confit

Duo of duck foie gras terrine with figs, raisin chutney, spinach, and daikon salad

Course Two
Meyer lemon royale with sea urchin, North Star caviar, Barron Point oyster, finger lime and tapioca vinaigrette

Vodka-beet cured hamachi loin with walnuts and lettuce wrapped tartare with North Star caviar

Course Three
Duo of Florida frog legs and fricasse with kamut berries and black garlic, and "lollipop" with spinach, mushrooms, crispy shallots

Katafi crusted Maine lobster with broccoli mousseline, ricotta salata, lemon-pine nute gremolata, and sweet harissa sauce

Course Four
Bacon Wrapped montail fish with Maine lobster, green lentil ragout, tahoon cress

Slow baked striped bass with creamy endive, black truffle arancini, and perigueux sauce

Course Five
Roasted Liberty Farms duck breast with watermelon radish, spinach subric, cara cara orange, sauce "Bigarrade"

Course Six
Duo of dry aged black Angus beef - red wine braised short rib with porcini marmalade and seared rib eye with chestnut-potato gnocchi and swiss chard

Elysian Fields Farm lamb loin with braised radicchio tardivo, confit fennel, crispy polenta, and Sicilian olives

Courses Seven and Eight, but really more like Seven through Eleven
Desserts were little things made from fruits and chocolate (an apple tart, a spiced pear thing on semolina cake under a chocolate flake with warm chocolate sauce, peanut butter chocolate cake) with small blobs of ice cream (including smoked vanilla, which was repulsive), followed by a special plate of dessert for our anniversary, followed by warm mini Madelines, followed by four types of little chocolate truffles. We also had tea and coffee. In addition to the menus, we got a box of warm Madelines to take home for breakfast.

So, it was amazing overall. For the most part, I behaved myself. (I considered stashing the left over Madelines in a sandwich bag that I had left over from lunch, but restrained myself.) I will say that I do not like frog legs - the consistency made me gag, but I did not spit them out. I just smiled and switched plates with Husband. I also killed a moth while we were there, and spilled all sorts of things on the table. The service was crazy attentive. Every time I made a mess, a guy came over with a napkin and covered it up, which was sort of embarrassing. The bread guy also came five times, and I consumed four pieces of raisin walnut bread, which was the best bread I have ever tasted, along with the most delicious creamy butter on the planet. Today, I am still a little full...

Ground Rules

Some time ago, I mentioned that when I was bored at a staff meeting in ye olden days, I decided to figure out which letter I would pick if I was forced to eat foods that only began with one letter for the rest of my life. After listing foods under each letter of the alphabet, I determined that C was the best option for me. Two main reasons: cheese and chocolate. Two secondary reasons: cookies and cake. S was a close second.

The problem with my system was that the rules were too loose. If someone picked S, would seafood count? How about sauteed mushrooms? Very tricky.

I gave this more thought this weekend when I said that if I could only eat one food for the rest of my life, it would be bureks. My friend's husband pointed out that bureks don't start with a C. Although I could have pointed out that this is a different challenge, I said I could eat cheese bureks, which are the best kind anyway.

This morning on the subway I refine the criteria to avoid cheating. The way it works is that if someone asks you what you are eating, and the answer makes sense, then it counts. For example, if someone chose F as her food, then went into a restaurant that had a fish special, she could order it if there was just one fish dish. It won't matter if it's salmon, cod, or trout. Her companion would say, "Hey, what are you getting?" and she'd say, "The fish." But no one goes into a restaurant and orders seafood. (Well, unless it is a seafood platter, so there's even wiggle room there.) If the category is too broad, it doesn't count. Specific brand names are OK, though. So I chose M and ate a Mars Bar, that would be OK, even if generically speaking it is a candy bar. (Which brings me back to why C is still the best option.)

Those are my rules, and I'm sticking to them!

Chopped Liver

At work on Friday, someone turned to one of my co-workers and said that she was the only person in the development department who was not sick. "Congratulations," he said.

"Hey, what am I, chopped liver?" I shouted from across the room.

He blushed. "Oh, sorry. But really, why chopped liver? Have you ever eaten it? It's delicious! I don't understand that phrase at all."

"It's true that chopped liver is good," my other co-worker cut in. "But you know how when you have a party and you put out chopped liver, chips and dip, crudites, and crackers and cheese?* At the end of the night, the only thing that is still left is the chopped liver."

Chopped liver may be fabulous, but it is still less popular than other items. There's a stigma to it. I thought that is the greatest explanation for the "What am I, chopped liver?" expression ever.

*My answer is no, I do not know any parties in which people put out chopped liver, but I guess I do not hang out with the right crowd.

Reading the Label

On my way to my bookclub this evening, I stopped at a Russian grocery store to pick up some treats. After browsing all the various candies, breads, crackers, cookies, and other baked goods, I settled on a package of what I thought were meringue cookies covered with chocolate. When I went to pay, I thought it would be fun to buy some candy, too. I picked up a package on the counter.

"What's this?" I asked the cashier.

"Oh, this is for something like make your stomach better digest," she said, struggling with her English.

"OK, I'll try them."

I paid and as I walked to my friend's apartment, I opened the yellow packaging. Instead of a chocolate bar or oat bar, I discovered four individually wrapped chewy chocolate bites. As I was chewing the third one, I realized it reminded a little bit of the chocolate calcium chews I used to eat years ago. Then I stopped dead in my tracks. Didn't she say that these were for digestions? OH MY GOD. WHAT IF I JUST ATE THREE CHOCOLATE LAXATIVES?!?! Well, it could be an interesting book club, I decided.

Fortunately, I had not shit my pants or my friend's sofa or stunk up her bathroom by the time our bookclub ended. However, I discovered that the cookies were some strange fruity marshmallow. It was deliciously over sweet, like the relief I felt at not crapping myself. But lesson learned: don't fuck around when you can't read labels!

NYC Marathon

Today is the New York City Marathon. In honor of the event, in which I am qualified to participate in any way, shape, or form, I carbo loaded yesterday. This involved eating three large, frosted Halloween cookies over the course of the day. I also ate some roasted corn purchased at a farm stand in eastern Long Island. Then I consumed many at least seven Tootsie Rolls and one Tootsie Pop, five mini Kit Kats, and one mini Twizzlers. At lunch I downed a lobster roll in an amazing buttery brioche roll, accompanied by salty chips and fresh guacamole. Capping off my day of marathon prep, I ate a bagel with cream cheese and matzo ball soup for dinner.

When I arose this morning, basking in my free extra hour of sleep, I was ready to hit the treadmill. The plan was to run as far as I could in 35 minutes. The gym had the marathon on TV. Although the women ran at double my plodding pace (a 5:47 mile versus my 11:00 one), I felt like I matched them stride for stride as they streaked across the TV. Since I had no sinus meltdown, shoulder pain, or intestinal cramps during my run, I felt like a champion. Wooooo hooo!

Now I'm pondering the upcoming year. I'll be 35 years old at the end of December. When I was in third grade, I had to be rushed to the emergency room after I ran the 880 dash at school and was the first girl to finish, coming in third overall. Twenty years ago, I could barely walk a mile in 30 minutes. At the age of 25 and in the best shape I'll ever be in, I could run a 9:13 mile. So it's been a spotty record, but I'm proud of it. I think I'd like to run a race sometime in 2010 to celebrate my birthday. Not a marathon, but maybe a 10k or 15k. Anyone want to join me? We can plod along together (or you can leave me in your dust if you run faster. I won't be offended.)

Happy Halloween

This Frankenstein cookie tastes as good as it looks. (Seriously, it was a good Halloween treat. I ate three of them.)

Mmmrrrgggaahhh (scary monster noise)! And don't forget to set your clocks back!

Who are the people in your neighborhood?

I really love my neighborhood. Husband and I relocated to the Upper West Side from Greenwich Village begrudgingly upon graduating from NYU, but once we were here, we realized that we belonged. Not even our first apartment, an illegally sublet, 200 square foot former maid's quarters with no stove or oven, deterred us. We rented it because I wanted to live near Fordham Law School, which I was set to attend, and it was the best thing we could afford. (Seriously.) Law school lasted less than three days, but we stayed in the apartment for three years.

Once we decided to move on, we knew we wanted to live in the West 70s. Eventually the plan was to buy a place, and our residency on West 72nd above a photo studio (which decorated the basement garbage room with old wedding portraits - how hilarious is that, assuming you are not in the photo?), message parlor/day spa, and car service dispatching center lasted a little over two years. Not long after we moved in, we saw a news report about a cold case in our building. A dominatrix linked to Marv Alberthad been murdered there in 1997. (Her case is still unsolved, as far as I know.) I'm making it sound crappy, but it was a good place to live, although loud due to heavy traffic.

When it came time to buy a place, Husband's parameters were between W. 70th and W 75th Streets and Columbus and West End Avenues. This is a five block radius, which is absolutely ludicrous given our limited budget, but so it goes. When I made an appointment to see an apartment one block outside his guidelines, he spazzed a bit, but it was the best place we saw in our price range by far, and eventually we signed the mortgage papers and moved in. Now, almost seven years later, we still love our home and the neighborhood.

Here's why: There are lots of places to eat. My favorite restaurants include S'mac(a macaroni and cheese joint), Fred's, Harry's Burritos, Kefi, and Earthen Oven. Diners also abound. And three top bakeries: Crumbs, Magnolia, and Levain (greatest peanut butter chip chocolate cookie ever, butit has like a full day's worth of calories in it) are all within a few blocks, too.

There's culture. The JCC Manhattan has tons of free and cheap events for the public. The classic Beacon Theater was recently refurbished, and features everything from Bob Weir (who played last night, so the sidewalk was full of old hippies) to Tyler Perry productions. Right about the Beacon Theater is the Hotel Beacon, which recently underwent its own huge renovation. When my parents and bubbe came for my book party last August, I tried to get them a room there, but it was booked. (My sister and brother-in-law stayed with us, so there was no more room.) Chaos ensued. I think I also tried On the Ave and The Lucerne, but they were too expensive or booked or both. I can't remember, and I'm off the topic now. Sorry... My neighborhood also has two large movie theaters, and, oh - Lincoln Center.

There's shopping. Besides Fairway, the best grocery store ever, there are two Whole Foods stores within a mile of my apartment. A Trader Joe's is coming soon to a corner near me. And I am "treated" to an ever expanding array of retail chains, like Bed, Bath & Beyond and Loehman's, which is both a blessing and a curse.

Great public transportation. Many subway and bus lines. I can pretty much get anywhere I need to be conveniently and for $2.25, no driving required. Yay!

Anyway, I've rambled long enough. If you ever want to visit, I should one day, before hell freezes over, have my stupid new queen size sofa bed with memory foam mattress that we ordered in August. Don't forget - the BlogHer conference will be in NYC in August 2010! It's a great opportunity to hang with me in my neighborhood. I might even have the damn couch by then.

This is a TravelingMom dedicated post

Quote of the Month

Yes, I know it is early in October, but it would be very hard to beat out this excellent wisdom, as gleaned from my friend Dr. H's Facebook feed:

"Mustard don't change the word"
--significant other of a patient in response to her concerns that his sandwich was dripping onto the open Bible in his lap

The Fast Fast

Sundown on Sunday (doesn't that sound lovely - how alliterate or onomatopoeic or whatever literary term) marked the start of Yom Kipur, the most serious Jewish holiday. Observers are supposed to spend all day begging God for forgiveness, giving him one last reason to inscribe their names in the Book of Life for another year.* The need to focus on atonement is so intense that fasting is required.

Even when I was a believer of sorts (as opposed to just a cultural Jew), I never fasted. Children, pregnant/breastfeeding women, and people with health conditions are exempt from starving themselves for 24 hours to show repentance. I gave up on the whole traditional God thing my freshman year of high school, when I learned that the story of Moses coincidentally appeared in Jewish liturgy when the Jews were slaves in Babylonia, and lo and behold, there was a Babylonian myth about a baby in a basket leading people out of bondage. Hence, I never had to fast.

Yesterday, though, I arose from a night of much needed beauty rest and discovered that my usual morning appetite was not present. Well, I thought, maybe I'll see what it is like to fast. It'll be some type spiritual cleansing. (I'd already failed to fully observe the dietary rules of Yom Kipur by eating a large chocolate bar well after the holiday began on Sunday night.)

My fast lasted about 17 hours. I slept through eight of them, which is almost half, so I suppose that helps. Putting 1% milk in my tea around 4:15 probably means I cheated, but whatever. At 5 pm, when I wolfed down a cheese stick. For dinner, I rapidly absorbed a double cheeseburger (milk with meat - how kosher!) and cheese fries, which made me feel rather ill. Later, I ate more chocolate.

Although I totally kept with my concept that foods that begin with the letter "c" are the best, I think it is a day I'll not repeat soon. Stomach is not so happy this morning.

*Now that I think about it, how awful is that? If someone then dies over the course of the year, is it their fault because they did not atone enough? How blame the victim!

A Revelation on this Historic Date, 09/09/09

Just as on 08/08/08, 07/07/07, 06/06/06, and so forth, I expect nothing epic to happen today. However, I did pass a fruit and veggie vendor on the street who sold figs for the rock bottom price of $2.50 per box. The grocery store a few blocks away is $3.99 a box, at best. I bought two.

As I inhaled the unwashed fruit while walking home, I realized that the perfect meal is figs that are overripe, almost to the point of rotting, and blue cheese. I could eat that every day. Unfortunately, figs do not start with the letter "c." A few years ago while bored, I calculated that if I could only eat foods that begin with one letter, "c" was the best option. It includes chocolate, cake, cookies, cheese, and a host of other things that I enjoy. (I think "s" was a close runner-up.)

My 09/09/09 revelation about figs throws everything into question. My only hope is cheating, as Calimyrna figs start with "c," but really, my love is Black Mission figs. So it goes. At least I can eat the Calimyrna figs with cheese.

Where Can I Get a Pair of Michael Pollan's Rose-Colored Glasses?

I agree with the basic tenet of Michael Pollan's writing about food: what is mass consumed in Western culture is full of chemicals, leads to unsustainable farming practices, and is bad for everyone's (and I include the earth as everyone) health in the long run. My (organic, grass-fed) beef is with his analysis of how people ate in the past, and what we can do today.

Over at BlogHer, I address the gender absurdity he ignores. (In a sustainable, farm-raised nutshell, he says that people spend less time cooking wholesome foods at home because women have jobs, and does not ask the pivotal question: why don't men pitch in now that women have less time? Instead, it is the fault of feminism for rushing women out of the kitchen. Sigh. I suppose you can say feminism also failed in convincing men to do "women's work," like cooking, so the lack of time spent cooking is therefore also the fault of feminism.)

The other problem with Pollan is how he looks at the past. I read In Defense of Food for my book club, and we all thought it was condescending bunk. He claims that we should go back to cooking and shopping the way that our great-grandmothers did. This idealized notion of home cooking assumes that our great-grandmothers didn't work 14 hour days at shirt-waist factories, were not bent over fields doing sharecropping, or otherwise occupied in a struggle to earn some sort of income for their families. Further, it assumes that people had access to fresh fruits and vegetables. Photos that I have seen of cities from a century ago tend to depict vendors standing in the street with raw sewage at their feet. Of course, that assumes that my great-grandmother even had the money to buy fresh items - the reason that the Federal Poverty Level is based on the cost of a basket of food is because food was the biggest expense in a family budget in Ye Goode Olde Dayes.*

My guess is that my great-grandmother did not spend hours cooking after she arrived home from the sweatshop as a young woman; she was just glad when people in her household had anything to eat. In fact, back in Pollan's Ye Goode Olde Dayes, the infant mortality rate was much higher and people died (for a lot of reasons) younger than our diabetes-infested society members do today. One of these reasons is that poor people (who make up a lot of the population) had limited access to nutritious foods.

Pollan wants to return to a past that never existed for many people. Without acknowledging why affordable, fresh food and nutritious has always been a problem in some way or another, he prescribes solutions that are ridiculous. Spending more time preparing healthy, delicious food at home is a good goal, but how can we achieve it when fresh food remains unaffordable to so many, as it always has? (Seriously, when I was at McDonald's last week, I got a small meal for less than $4 - I can't eat for even close to that at my local farmers' market.) How can we change the industrial farming practices that Pollan so rightly abhors as stripping plants, animals, and the earth of its nutrients, and make sure that people can afford to buy what is produced? How can we re-direct farm subsidies that go toward harmful practices to get better, affordable food? How do we help people find the time to cook, and make sure it is an enjoyable way to spend time so people will choose to cook?

Blaming feminism and ignoring the realities of the past is easy. But it won't solve anything.

*Today, the cost of housing is by far the largest line item.

Speaking of Licking...

On Saturday, I discovered that Del Monte made Daniel Craig-sicles on Britain. According to The Daily Mail, the frozen treats were available from June 1 to June 7. Curses! (I am incredibly impressed at the artistry that went into the popsicles - they really look like Daniel Craig in Casino Royale!)

Anyhow, that afternoon, Husband and I went to David Farmland with Alex Elliot, her husband, and their two kids. I am as impressed by Davis Farmland as I am by the Craig-sicles. The animals were all very well-behaved (including the human ones also visiting) and I enjoyed petting goats, sheep, and calves.

One calf, in particular, really seemed to like me and would not stop licking me, including my butt as I bent down to pet another calf:





She even licked my armpit, which was more than enough for me - I finally left the calf pen. I bet that calf would also have enjoyed a Daniel Craig-sicle, though.

The $6 Eggs-periment

Hypothesis: Eggs from grass-fed organic chickens taste much better than eggs from grain-fed organic chickens.

My book club chose In Defense of Food by Michael Pollan for our May discussion. We all hated it. The tone was condescending at best, pedantic at worst. (Sort of like that last sentence...) All of his recommendations are impossible to implement unless the reader lives near a farm and has the ability to spend vast sums of money on micro-organic food.

However, I did decide to try one of his ideas: eat eggs laid by chickens that were fed grass instead of feed. He reports that the yolks are orange rather than yellow, and that the eggs taste better. I scoured the organic section of my grocery store, but no luck. All the cartons boasted that the chickens ate vegetarian feed. Pollan said that feeding chickens grain does not count.

Then last weekend, Dr. P and I passed by a farmer's market. The first vendor's sign said that they used only organic feed. Strike. The second (and only other egg vendor) had no sign.

"What do you feed your chickens?" I asked.

He pointed to a bowl of mixed greens. "Whatever we don't sell here, we feed the birds."

I didn't know if lettuce counted as grass, but decided to try the eggs anyway. They were $6 for a dozen. I gritted my teeth as I shelled it out.

"Damn, those better be the best eggs ever," Dr. P muttered.

The next day, we set up our eggs-periment. Dr. P made two of the eggs-pensive eggs for each of us, sunny side up. Then, since we are scientists, she made one of the organic grain-fed eggs in the same manner as a control. We dug in.

"Well, I taste no difference," I sighed.

"Me neither. That's good then, since you won't be tempted to buy $6 eggs again."

I've subsequently used scrambled eight more of the eggs. Interestingly, I think they do taste better, although I didn't make a control scrambled egg. Even so, I don't think the green-fed eggs are so much better than the other organic eggs that I will bankrupt myself buying them.

Conclusion: Bullshit.

Free Cheesecake!

"Shavuot* starts tonight," my friend Sara reminded me in an email on Thursday afternoon. "The JCC has a free, all night program (and free cheesecake**) so I'll probably be there for a good chunk of the night/early morning."

"Free cheesecake?!?!" I emailed back. "I am SO there!"

"What about the rest of the schedule? There are at least two programs that you would like, I bet: one on Hannah Arendt and Lucy Dawidowicz, and one on similarities between gospel music and the melodies of traditional Jewish prayers."

"Yeah, those sound good."

I looked up the official event schedule, which ran from 10 pm to 5 am, in accordance with an ancient practice in which people stay up all night at a tikkun (study session). The two sessions Sara proposed ran until 12:15. At 12:30, there were two movies I wanted to see, and a session on "Laughter Yoga." Following that, I was interested in the Alexander Technique workshop. This assumed that I could stay awake that long (which I ultimately decided I could not).

Anyway, I given that this was a free event serving free cheesecake, I should have known that the place would be packed. The line to get into the JCC snaked around the corner when I arrived at 9:50. This made me laugh a lot.

Once I got in, I made a beeline for the food table, only to find it empty. At least Sara happened to be standing there. She explained that the cheesecake would not be broken out until 11:00. My stomach rumbled. (This could have been due to the hunger brought on by the idea of free food or an ominous warning, given what I ate over the course of the rest of the day, to let the free cheesecake go or else.)

Sara and I went to the serious session on Arendt, Dawidowicz, "New York Intellectuals," Yiddish culture, Holocaust interpretation, and everything else under the sun. 40 out of the 60 minutes of the session were fascinating, so I thought that was good. Then it was time for cheesecake. I valiantly fought my way to the tables and grabbed slices for both of us, losing Sara in the process.

We met up again at the gospel session. It was taught by this half-Jewish, half-African American, all awesome woman. Her voice was incredible. When she sang "Wade in the Water" and "Eyes on the Prize," I felt every hair on my arms rise to attention. Unfortunately, she concluded with a group sing-a-long, and I am tone deaf. Still, it was cool singing a spiritual in the JCC, and lots of fun overall.

Now, I make good on my promise to go to bed. As they say, hag sameach!*** May a free cheesecake come your way today.

*Shavuot is holiday celebrating the revelation of the Torah to Moses at Mt. Sinai.
**Basically, no one was kosher before Moses got the laws, so when he came back down, no one could cook meat in their pans because the pans weren't yet made kosher since no kosher law existed until then. So everyone ate dairy products until they got their pans blessed or whatever it is that was required. Hence the cheesecake.
***Happy holiday!

Sexual Eating

Lately, I can't keep my hands off the tasty treats, thanks to emotional eating. However, it seems that Mars candy company thinks that women eat chocolate to satisfy sexual urges. Their first new product in 20 years is called the Fling, and it is described as a slim chocolate finger that brings guilt-free pleasure to the ladies.

I compare the Fling to Nestle's Yorkie and Cadbury's Mr. Big over at BlogHer. While many temptations cause my "mouth" to "water," not all satisfy my "hunger" equally.

Ice Cream Sandwiches

When the alarm interrupted my slumber on Friday morning, I was hosting a fundraiser for birth control in Washington, DC. The train to DC left without me, but somehow I managed to get there on time. The catering was entirely ice cream sandwiches and ice cream filled bonbons. I hoovered down little ice cream sandwiches made with the mini chocolate chip cookies that come in those 100 Calorie Packs with chocolate ice cream, I ingested the traditional chocolate rectangle cookies with vanilla, and I inhaled peanut butter cookie ice cream sandwiches with strawberry ice cream. These were chased by the bonbons.

My western omelet sucked extra hard and was a sign of the day to come. I needed a drink more than ever, and I don't even like alcohol. When I finally arrived home, the weight of a crate of granola bars stooped me over. "Mercy!" I cried and ate a Soy Joy bar. It was no ice cream sandwich, but good enough.

If diabetes doesn't eventually kill me, the South Beach cravings will. Tomorrow, I'm not even going to resist. I'm already tasting the pie and cookies. In the meantime, I wonder what I will eat in my sleep tonight.

The "C" Word

Sunday was not a relaxing day. I spent a good portion of the day ensconced in the kitchen engaging in the "c" word. That's right, I cooked.

There is almost no chore I hate more than cooking. I'd rather do laundry, vacuum, mop, change Tycho the Giant Rabbit's litter, and wash the dishes than cook. Cooking stresses me. There's measuring things and timing them, and if I fuck up, then I wasted untold dollars worth of food and still have nothing to eat. I know that many people enjoy cooking and find it relaxing and fun, but II think they are insane, especially if they share all that good food with me when I've done nothing but watch them toil and slave. When it comes to preparing food for myself, I am very happy with toasting an multi-grain English muffin and smearing some non-salmonella organic peanut butter (made at my local grocery store) on it. Yum. I even cook eggs for myself without hating it too much. That's my limit.

I found myself sweating it up in the kitchen on Sunday because I decided to try the South Beach Diet. In November 2006, I was diagnosed with insulin resistance and told to control my carbs to prevent diabetes. Since my dad and bubbe have type 2 diabetes, and I would prefer to avoid the disease for as long as possible, I followed a strict diet for a month, then fell off the wagon and ate poorly for two years or so. This led not only to me looking like I shoplift turkeys in my work pants, but also probably to a worsened prediabetic stage, if that makes any sense.

Overall, South Beach seems fairly easy to follow and is a good way to control carbs. I thought I would try some of the recipes, and of course I forgot that I didn't have some of the ingredients (like shredded cheese), so I spent 30 minutes chopping pieces of string cheese into cheese shreds so that my crustless veggie quiche cups would come out. Then I made balsamic vinaigrette, but the need for a jar led me to open a jar of salsa in the fridge that had bubbly mold. Finally, I sauteed some chicken in olive oil, added onions, garlic, and chicken broth, and worried that the chicken was not cooked enough.

Tonight, mahi mahi with garlic made in the broiler. I think that any weight loss from this diet will be from all the work I am doing to fucking make something to eat. Jesus, I don't know how people do this all the time for their families!

Enjoying California: A Pictorial with Rambling Commentary

Despite my unfortunate mislabeling of the previous post as "fun trips that are not fun any more" rather than "fun trips," I am having a great time on my jaunt through the sunny (albeit not overly warm) state of California.

Here Liz and I are outside the Museum of Jurassic Technology:

(I got my ridiculously fashionable coat on sale at Esprit during the snowstorm that prevented me from visiting Alex a few weekends ago. While shopping, '80s music was playing over the sound system and I felt like I was in junior high all over again - the setting and sounds were the same, although to be fair, I didn't shop at Esprit back in the day, as it was out of my price range, but I am majorly digressing here. The point is, the coat is cute and now too tight because I've eaten an enormous quantity of marzipan and other baked goods while on my trip.)

On my birthday (Saturday), we drive up to see Suebob. She showed us around her town and treated us to the yummiest tacos and guacamole ever. Her house is adorable, and I loved meeting Goldie, her sweet golden retriever. (Husband was not tormented by Goldie, so no worries.)

Then Husband and I headed to Santa Barbara, where we stayed at an overpriced hotel by the ocean. I decadently ate lobster tail for dinner. For dessert, Husband and I picked up marzipan petit fours from The Andersen, a Danish bakery, and ate it once the stupid hotel found a room for us with working heat. Luxury hotel my ass...


On Sunday, we started out bright and early and hit the little town of Solvang, which was founded by Danish immigrants who were sick of midwestern winters. The town remains 60% Danish, and is full of cheesy architecture that I loved. We bought more marzipan pastries from Olsen's, which displayed a ginormous gingerbread house:

From there, we drove up the road to a lavender farm that Liz recommended. It was heavenly, which of course means that we departed the sublime and descended into the grotesque. We made a pit stop at the world famous Madonna Inn (featuring a waterfall in the men's restroom as well as loads of pink decorations and ornate insanity around the hotel) on the way to San Luis Obispo, where we had to check out Bubble Gum Alley:


Then it was on to Hearst Castle, which was probably the most obscene place I ever visited. It is very nice that the man was generous to his guests, but damn. It is hard to say an ill word about the gorgeous indoor swimming pool, which had thousands of pieces of Venetian glass tile glowing under the water.

After a long day, what better way to relax than to spend the night in a spacious, heated yurt? (Maybe something with a bathro


Once we unpacked, we sat on the porch and gazed at the gajillions of stars in the sky. It was incredible! In the morning, I took this photo of our lodgings:


If it had a bathroom, it would have been perfect... Oh well. It was still a worthwhile experience. Husband and I hiked two short trails in two different state parks for breathtaking views of nature:



Winding up our sightseeing journey at Winchester Mystery House, designed by Mrs. Winchester (inheritor of the Winchester Rifle Co. fortune) to confuse the spirits of the people killed by Winchester rifles. Featuring doors that open into walls (or sheer drops, as seen below ), stairs that end at ceilings, and mysterious nooks and crannies, it was quite a contrast to Hearst Castle.


Last, but not least, Husband and I landed in Count Mockula's delightful home, where her sweetie cooked us a yummy meal, her adorable baby entertained us, and we savored after dinner hot chocolate before heading off to our (free) hotel, from which I am blogging right now while attempting to keep my eyes open. We'll see Kara and her family again tomorrow (and Suebob, too!), then head to San Francisco for a few days.

Good times!!! (Pictures can be made bigger by clicking on them. And thanks for bearing with this loooooong post.)

Yesterday

My last day as a 32 year old began with a three mile run at the hotel gym. From there, Husband and I headed over to Culver City to meet Liz and tour the Museum of Jurassic Technology. I read about the museum several years ago on Roadside America, and I though that there would be no better way to spend a few hours before turning 33 than finally visiting it.

Oh.Dear.God. The museum was probably the nuttiest, creepiest, and weirdest place I have ever been. I almost felt guilty for asking Liz to join us. I'll sum it up by saying that at one point I was certain that the exhibits were actually created by people who sat around thinking up fake exhibits they could develop from scratch, but I subsequently realized that it was all real. The exhibits ranged from deranged letters sent to scientists at Mt. Wilson Observatory to oil portraits of the dogs who went into space with Russian cosmonauts. There was also a display of disintegrating die, an exhibit on superstitions in a pitch black room, holographic images of various things, a section on items from trailer parks, ethnographic studies of cat's cradles, and a room dedicated to the singer M. Delani. The museum was approximately 2 degrees. This made the free tea and cookies served in a cute Russian-esque room (the tea was even made in a samovar!) extra enticing, which made me worry a little bit about cyanide poisining. Perhaps our stuffed bodies would be part of a future exhibit?

After the museum, we stopped into the Center for Interpretative Land Use, which was totally awesome. All of my urban planning nerd friends would love it. There was a wonderful slide show on the Trans-Alaska pipeline. The Center was also very well heated, which was critical to thawing out our feet.

Husband and I parted ways with Liz, and headed into Hollywood to meet my friend Norma, a former co-worker, and her husband for dinner and a night of comedy. On the way, we made a quick stop at La Brea Tar Pits. I was most impressessed with the vending machines. Not only did they take credit cards, but a 20 ounce bottle of pop was only a dollar. One dollar!!! That's the best deal I've gotten in ages. A 12 ounce can of Diet Coke runs me a buck in NYC, and here I got a 20 oz. bottle! I'm certain that this was the best tasting Coke Zero that ever graced my lips. Bargains are so refreshing.

Anyway, we wandered around Hollywood a bit before dinner at Loteria. Norma had described the restaurant to me as the "newest, freshest, and bestest" Mexican cuisine in the city, and it lived up to its promise. The meal was delicious, the company was fantastic, and the comedy at the Improv was side splitting. It was great seeing Norma and meeting her hubby. They put together an excellent evening.

Today, after breakfast at IHOP (just as exciting to me as Loteria), we are meeting up with the always wonderful Red Stapler for continued good times. I can't wait.

Happy birthday to me!

Slipper When Wet

"Watch out when you go in the shower," my mom said to my sister on Saturday morning. "The tub is slippery."

"Duh! That's how tubs are!"

"No, really. The cleaning people came and removed five inches of soap scum, so it's extra slippery."

That said, I had a very nice visit today. My nuclear unit took in the latest movie starring my long lost twin Adrien Brody, Cadillac Records, which I enjoyed. Lots of food for thought. Then I obtained a new white turtleneck for a mere $7, which I will use to replace the stained one I've had since junior high.

For dinner, we celebrated my birthday at Red Lobster, which was a special treat for me. (Sometimes I just want to promote osmosis my eating salty cheddar biscuits. Ha ha - no really, my peach-bourbon BBQ shrimp and scallops were good.) Afterward, we had cake at home. Usually I love yellow cake with fudge icing from Jewel, the local grocery chain, but the cake I picked out wasn't so moist and the frosting detached from the cake in clumps. I took the opportunity to interview my grandma and bubbe about their families, though, and that was nice for the most part.

Assuming the weather is agreeable (it's supposed to rain), I'm heading back to my own ten inches of soap scum this evening, and I'm sad that it went by so fast, although I look forward to seeing Husband. And I got an upgrade on the flight back, so that will be nice.

Flashback: January 30, 2007

From the CUSS archives. I swear I was way funnier in the past.

When I arrived home this afternoon from my first meeting as a magazine intern (!), I rushed to the kitchen for a snack. An apple with cheese is on my approved low-carb, anti-diabetes diet, and I grabbed an apple up greedily and smeared low fat spreadable cheese on it. Really, it was not the apple but the cheese that excited me so. I realized at that moment that if someone offered me shit with cheese on it, I might actually consider eating it, depending on the type of cheese. That is how much I love cheese. (Or a sign of how disturbed I am.)

Reflecting on shit-covered cheese reminded me of my last shower at my parents’ house. The water in Chicago is ridiculously hard, although it is not well water. (It’s fresh from Lake Michigan, although until modern plumbing solved some serious pollution issues, the water pumped from the lake was actually full of shit and disgusting.) Thus I always need conditioner for my hair when I am at my folks’, whereas I never use it in New York. I noticed that they had a bottle of Herbal Essences conditioner, so I dumped some on my head without really smelling it first. Herbal Essences is supposed to be so good that commercials portray sexy women having orgasmic experiences in the shower, hence I figured it would smell good.

I don’t know what was wrong with their Herbal Essences, but it had the essence of an animal with a flower-based diet that shit on my head. I was not pleased, although perhaps if it had cheese in it, I may have nibbled at it.

Thanksgiving

With all that is going on in the world lately (and always, I suppose), it seems harder than ever to focus on the positive things in life at Thanksgiving. But maybe that's the point: it's a time to think about what is good and to ponder what one can do to make those good things go further.

Of course, as I typed this, I managed to gouge a large chunk of skin out of my kneecap. (Perhaps a reminder that I am better at cynical sarcasm and righteous indignity rather than sincerity?) So, I'm cutting my Thanksgiving post short to mop up the blood oozing out of my knee.

Hope you have a great day!

Resisting Urges

I discovered an individually wrapped string cheese in my backpack. It's been in there for about a week, I think. I seriously considered eating it for a second or two, as cheese is really damn expensive these days and I hate waste, but then I noticed that the hermetically sealed package reads, "KEEP REFRIGERATED." Better judgment prevailed.

Good Old Fashioned Fun

Tavern Night at the Queens County Farm Museum was fantastic! Husband and I were seated in the part of the farmhouse built in the 1770s. We shared a table with three other people. Two of them have attended the event for the past 14 years. The other woman was also a tyro. We talked about international affairs, travel, things to do in New York (I think they should have written Off the Beaten (Subway) Track instead of me!), and the newbie's family.

More important, the food was great. It was cooked in the fireplace/hearth in the room in cauldrons, iron spits, and copper pots. The fire kept the room toasty, and along with candles, served as the only source of lighting. I was fearful that there would be no bathroom in order to maintain authenticity, but fortunately no chamber pots or outhouses were required.

At the bar, I ordered a whipped syllabus. The drink is concocted with cream, egg whites, white wine, sugar, lemon juice, and lemon zest, then topped with meringue, nutmeg, and cinnamon. It was fabulous! Husband and I shared a hot buttered rum, which literally consisted of hot rum and a huge wad of butter that the bartender threw in. Husband also imbibed something called an orange shrub, which was insanely potent. One of the volunteers at the event (dressed in colonial garb, of course) told us that a cherry shrub is made by fermenting cherries in whiskey for three weeks, so I think that the orange shrub must be similar.

As for the fare, the menu consisted of:
- Fresh bread with freshly churned butter
- Pickled artichokes and cucumbers
- Black olives
- Cream of peanut soup (tasted like melted peanut butter - yum!)
- Roast beef with a brown sugar glaze
- Chicken fricassee
- King's Arms sweet potatoes (amazing)
- Maced green beans (pretty yummy)
- Cinnamon flop (a fantastic gooey cinnamon cake)
- Apricot fool (some sort of flavored whipped cream - delish)

Next year, we want to bring our in-laws. Husband and I think that Mother-in-Law, a former history teacher whose favorite musical is 1776, will love it.

Daylight Savings Time Ramblings

If you live in the United States, don't forget to set the clocks back and hour at 2 am. The nice thing about this is that you can screw up really badly at 1 am, then go back in time one hour and do it over. Sort of like Groundhog Day but not really, since it is only an hour not a full day, and the people who were affected by the screw up are going to remember that you screwed up. So unless you can also erase memories or no one witnesses the screw up, maybe one should not think of Daylight Savings Time as an opportunity to screw up and go back in time to fix it.

When I was growing up, my mom always wished that Daylight Savings Time would come after Halloween so that it wouldn't get dark so early and kids would have more time to Trick or Treat when it is light. She finally got her wish, although about 25 years too late to affect her children. Oh well. She's a civic-minded person sometimes, so I'm sure she is happy for my friends who have kids and all the others out there who benefit from the change.

I did not go Trick or Treating this year, but I wore my dirndl to two Halloween events. The tailoring helped me breathe, although the tailor made it way too big on top, which pisses me off. (I forgot to mention that when I picked up the dirndl from the shop on Tuesday, I noticed that someone had dropped off a new suit jacket with a $1,299 price tag. That's when I realized how out of place the dirndl was in the shop, and I laughed and laughed.) At one party, I ate chocolate with bacon bits in it. Surprisingly delicious - smoky and salty perfectly offset by sweet. At the other, I ate more chocolate and my friend from school told me my fortune, then one of her friends cast a one-word spell that involved lighting a piece of paper on fire in her palm. It would have been great if the tailor made the waistline a little too big as opposed to the bust. Harumph.

Hot (Chocolate) Job!

When I stepped out of the subway station for my job interview yesterday morning, I felt a rush of excitement. The job is located downtown, which is easy to get to, and full of interesting places to grab a bite. One of the things I miss about my last job is being downtown. (OK, this is the only thing that I miss except for the people.)

Hence I already was tingling when I noticed the cafe next door to the potential job's office building. I stopped. "Oh, I can't take this job no matter what," I sighed. A sandwich board announced that hot chocolate made with Leonidas Belgian chocolates is the house specialty. To make it, they pour steamed milk over the chocolates in the "traditional" manner. Several flavors, like chocolate mint, chocolate orange peel, cinnamon, and chocolate raspberry, are on the menu. At $4.50 for a small, and god knows how many calories (as if melted chocolate in whole milk is not unhealthy enough, each purchase comes with a piece of chocolate, perhaps to help people justify the price to themselves), I can't afford to deal with such temptation four or five days per week.

Gathering my resolve, I went upstairs and had what I think was a good interview. As I left, I mentioned that I might treat myself to a hot chocolate downstairs. "Oh, those are amazing," the receptionist swooned. "Expensive, but worth it as a treat." She had tried the plain chocolate, but was curious about the chocolate mint. I said I would try it, and promised to email her with my thoughts. Minutes later, I was $4.88 poorer and burning my tongue on the creamiest, mintiest hot chocolate that I'd ever ingested.

Oh, I so hope that I get this job.

The Danger of Eating Too Many Cupcakes

In fewer than 12 hours, I consumed approximately four cupcakes on Thursday and Friday. I believe that the enormous amount of buttercream frosting that I absorbed in that short time frame negatively impacted my ability to think. It is a little known fact (because I just made it up) that large amounts of frosting can clog the brain's pathways, causing a cupcake abuser to harp on an irrational fear that the selection on an unqualified running mate (and this is from the crazy conservative Murdoch-owned rag, The NY Post!) would guarantee a Republican victory in November. (In reality, this victory is ensured by rampant cheating by tampering with voting machines, providing an inadequate number of machines in Democratic strongholds, and disqualifying voters for arbitrary reasons.)

Fortunately, once I ingested some protein and broke up the frosting block, I realized my silliness. While I visit my friend in DC this weekend, I will be sure to eat properly so that this does not happen again. Very important lesson learned.

Eco Chic or Homeless? And Life Repeats Itself

Whenever I visit my parents, I slip into a sweatshirt I bought at Venture (a Wal-Mart-type chain store in Chicago) in 1990. It has six little lessons about saving the planet with Peanuts characters doing their part. As we prepared to leave for the Taste of Chicago yesterday morning, my sister worried that it would be chilly downtown and she didn't have a jacket.

"You can wear my sweatshirt," I offered.

Dana wrinkled her nose. "No way! That thing is hideous!"

"What? What do you mean? This shirt is awesome! It's about the environment!"

Husband and Dana sighed, and tag team trashed my sweatshirt. "It's filthy," Husband said, pointing out 18 years of accumulated stains.

"It was cool in 1990," Dana sneered.

"You look homeless in it!" they said and nodded at each other.

"It's eco chic!" I insisted.

We decided to take a picture and let the blogosphere decide:

What do you think?

Regardless, Dana left the sweatshirt behind, and it turned out that she didn't need it anyway, as it was warm and sunny. Perfect weather for sharing copious amounts of food at the Taste. This included: cumin-dusted fries with mango chutney; mascarpone gelato; a banana and pork dumpling (Husband loved it; I nearly puked); breakfast pizza; regular pizza; and frozen toffee cheesecake dipped in chocolate on a stick.

After we had our fill, we went to visit Bubbe at her apartment. From there, it was birthday dinner at the Olive Garden for Granny. (Happy 85th!!!) My aunt present Husband with an early 32nd birthday present. She randomly bought him a red teddy bear named Husband, put it is a plastic skull that yelled, "Trick or Treat!" when you pop the cranium, and presented it to him. Unfortunately, he had to give the skull back.

Independence Day was capped off with a musical. My favorite musical, which I think I first saw 16 years ago and dozens of times until it closed in June 2000, is "Co-Ed Prison Sluts." It re-opened yesterday for a limited run, so I felt very fortunate to catch it. Dana and her hubby are as big fans as I, so we sang along and generally had a great time despite a slightly shaky cast.

Ah, reliving the 1990s!

Mars, A Frozen Block of Chocolate, Caramel, and Nugut

As I tossed and turned in the wee hours of the morning, I felt the powerful gravitational pull of Mars. Mars being the British chocolate bar that has been sitting in my freezer since April or so. I was saving it as a reward for whenever I had a final answer regarding my two MFA applications, but I have my period, insomnia, and a low level of self-control at this moment. Plus, (in theory, anyway)I am so damn close to the end at this point, why bother resisting? When Mars softly called my name from the freezer, I heeded its cry.

The problem with a candy bar that resided in a freezer for two months is that it is essentially a concrete block. Sure, it is a delicious concrete slab, but I nearly broke my front teeth when I bit into it. (A word of advice: let frozen candy bars melt down a wee bit before attempting to eat them.) The caramel was particularly challenging to consume, as it somehow managed to be both hard and chewy at the same time. I sort of slobbered all over the bar and wrapper as I ate it, partly thinking that my hot saliva would melt its tundra-crust, and partly because it took so long to slice off a piece with my choppers that saliva gushed out during the process. (A second word of advice: do not share a frozen candy bar unless you are really close with that person.)

It was good. I still didn't fall into a peaceful sleep after eating it, but it did quell some sort of deep hunger. When I woke up, I didn't remember my late night snack until I opened the freezer to grab the chicken-apple breakfast sausage and noticed an empty space where Mars lived for so long. Then I thought that by eating it, maybe instead of making Mohammed come to the mountain, I'd make the mountain come to Mohammed. I doubt it, but it would be nice if my year-long MFA process (I decided to apply last year around this time) would come to some conclusion. To be continued...

Like Raw Tuna

A few months ago, I went to a nice-ish restaurant near my apartment. I ordered a fresh tuna burger, rare.

"Like it might swim away," I joked to the waiter.

He looked down at me. "That is called 'black and blue,'" he sniffed.

Well, excuse me and my lack of knowledge regarding fancy foods. When I think black and blue, I think of what my right knee and elbow look like right now. (Perhaps I should not have run two miles and then spent 20 minutes on the elliptical machine after my little accident, but I didn't drag my ass to the gym just to go home and it only stung a little at the time....) However, a nice frozen tuna steak would be great to put on the injury at this moment.

There's No Place Like Home, or Surrender Dorothy!

Taking off for the fourth weekend in a row (which is fun, but exhausting), and heading over to my parents' house in Chicago this afternoon. The Reisman clan shall be celebrating Bubbe's 85th birthday party on Sunday at a Russian restaurant. My dad ordered two bottles of vodka for the event.

"Only the cousins will drink it," he told me on the phone on Tuesday, "and this way they'll still be able to stand up straight when the leave." I could sense his satisfaction.

"Except that if they have only two bottles of vodka, they won't even be tipsy," I noted. These relatives drink a lot of vodka at celebrations; their tolerance level probably exceeds what would kill a normal person.

Other weekend activities include seeing my friend Rachel, her partner, and their adorable daughter on Friday; going to the new Indiana Jones flick on Saturday afternoon (so excited!!! And unlike NYC, theaters in Chicago actually have matinée prices, so it was a bargain to pre-buy tickets); and eating grotesque quantities of BBQ shipped overnight from Neely's Interstate BBQ in Memphis. (When we went on a family outing to Graceland last year, Neely's was the highlight of the trip. It was probably the best meal I've ever eaten.)

Plenty of hijinks to follow.

Mmmm... Sucker!

"Hey, can I eat that chocolate Tootsie Pop?" I asked Julie.

"Yeah, sure," she said nonchalantly.

"You sure it's good?" I asked and bent down to pick it up off the floor, just to the side of her dining table.

"Yeah, of course!" she bristled.

I inspected it closely. It was fully wrapped, so why not? I pulled the waxy paper off the lollipop and stuck it in my mouth. Mmmm... chocolatey.

The door to Julie's apartment opened, and her boyfriend Bill appeared. He looked at me. "What are you eating?" A horrified look crossed his face. "That was on the floor.

"Oh, don't worry," I nodded. "It was wrapped."

"No, that's been on the floor for like six months!"

"Don't lie!" Julie snapped. "It was on a plate on the floor. It was only on the floor for the last 24 hours."

I contemplated it. Even if it was old, it was still wrapped, and it tasted OK. I shrugged. After all, a sucker is a sucker.

People Make My Eyes Bleed, But Goats Rock

Seriously, I love me some crazies. Who would I mock if there were no nutters around?

On a more cheerful note, I bought some goat milk yogurt at the grocery store this afternoon. It comes in all kinds of interesting flavors, and I chose apricot mango over cranberry orange for my first. The anticipation is killing me. As a Capricorn, it could be like a homecoming of sorts. Or something. In the meantime, I've reviewed three different flavors of sheep's milk yogurt, and Count Mockula wrote about some awesome yogurts, too, at Live Active Cultures.

In Defense of Gefilte Fish

Stop making those retching noises! One of my favorite things about Jewish holidays is the opportunity to indulge in gefilte fish. I realize that I am the only person below the age of 50 who enjoys this delicacy, but that is because my generation generally was forced to eat gefilte fish from a can or jar. That is truly nasty, vile, and disgusting shit, and it has as much to do with gefilte fish as potted meat food product does with steak.

In truth, gefilte fish resembles pate more than an actual fish. It is a ball of ground up whitefish, carp, and/or pike, mixed with salt, pepper, and onions. The recipe deviates a bit depending on which part of Eastern European it is made. Some people add sugar, others add beets, and still others might throw in some ground carrots and parsnip. Whichever derivation is used, the resulting fish ball should be sweet, and not covered in gelatinous goop. (This is exactly where the foul canned or jarred fish goes very, very wrong.)

Back in the olden days, when I was a young girl growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, we spent all the Jewish holidays at my grandparents' apartment. My bubbe cooked for days on end to prepare the feasts. Since I was lucky and only was served homemade gefilte fish, I never understood why people thumbed their noses at the humble dish. Then I got out to New York and was served something from a jar. If someone was unfortunate enough to believe that this was what the dish was supposed to taste like, hatred of gefilte fish made total sense.

At my in-law's Passover dinner on Saturday, they served gefilte fish freshly made at the fish counter of the local grocery store. (At least I think that is where my mother-in-law said it came from; she may have said a Jewish deli.) It was moist, sweet, and free of gelatinous goop. Delicious!

Get Your Popemobile Off My Highway!

Important things are occurring tomorrow. Passover begins at sundown, and we'll be heading to Husband's parents' house for what counts as a Seder in our lax Haggadahs: recite the Four Questions, sing Dayanu, then chow down. Mother-in-Law doesn't even bother getting desserts that are kosher for Passover. Wisely, she believes that if you are going to eat dessert, it should taste good.

Prior to my Passover eating fest, I will attend a baby shower in Yonkers. Yonkers is a city just north of the City. It is the 4th largest city in New York State, but since it lives in the shadow of New York City, it gets shit on a lot as a suburb. (Sort of like Newark, but Newark is even more screwed because it is in New Jersey, but that's another story.) Most likely I will eat a lot of yummy foods at the shower.

The problem is that two leaders of institutions of evil will make it difficult to get to the baby shower, and then to Long Island. It seems that the Pope and Dick Cheney will be visiting some seminary that is just off the Cross County Parkway, thus forcing the highway to possibly close. We need this highway to get there. There is one alternative, but no one wants to read my rants about the Cross Bronx Expressway, which was built by Robert Moses and killed communities in the Bronx. (Cheney and the Pope belong on the Cross Bronx, believe me.)

Hopefully, we'll get where we need to go. (By "we," I mean Husband, who is going to drive me to shower and run amok at Costco for about an hour, then pick me up again.) What also concerns me is how low energy Tycho, my 13 lb. rabbit, is today. I think he is depressed that the Pope is in town. He heard a rumor that a distant relative of his, the Easter Bunny (perhaps you heard of him?), was molested by a priest. He's not down with the excuses that the Pope made that these incidents are the fault of a permissive American culture. Can't say I blame him.

Even My Sentences are Running!

There's a Mars bar waiting for me on my kitchen counter. It's been waiting patiently for me since I brought it back with me from London on March 23. I decided that I would eat it when I know whether or not I will be attending an MFA program in the fall. The Mars bar is getting lonely.

I'd like to know what is going on for the fall, and to eat this delicious, chocolatey, caramel treat. (British Mars bars kick the asses of the American version. They are more like a super extra smooth and tasty 3 Musketeers, which is my favorite American mass market candy bra. Mars bars are even better than 3 Musketeers.) However, somehow between my eating trip to London, my non-stop snacking thanks to anxiety, and my lax attendance at the gym (coupled with lazy workouts when I did manage to roll myself there), I am not fitting into my clothes very well. As in, pants are mad tight, and shirts clearly highlight my pot belly.

This all brings me to The Biggest Loser, which is an oddly compelling reality show about extremely overweight people trying to lose weight. Last week, the first time I tuned in this entire season (although there were only 3 left - better late than never!), people were sobbing their eyes out when they had to vote someone out for merely gaining a pound. (He lost over 100!) It was touching and weirdly inspiring. Not as inspiring as when Alex came to visit me recently, got me to run outside for the first time in forever, and then invited me to take part in a team triathlon with her (I'll run, she'll swim, and her friend will bike - playing on all our strengths), but uplifting enough for me to write a run-on sentence.

Fun in the Sun

At the early hour of 10:45 PM on Friday, I met the train carrying my dear friend Alex at Penn Station. We stopped off on the way to my apartment to pick up some baked goods at the new Upper West Side Magnolia Bakery outpost, then chatted with Husband while stuffing yellow cake (chocolate frosting for Alex; pink frosting for me - in both cases, the cake was merely adequate) down our gullets. Husband packed it in around 12:30 AM, and Alex and I continued our conversation until 2:00. This is the latest night I have had in months.

Saturday morning was bright and sunny. Alex and I set out in a freezing wind to have brunch at a restaurant highly recommended by Sara. We were excited for our Meyer Lemon pancakes (Alex) and eggs and grits (me), but when the food finally came (worst.service.ever), they shorted Alex a pancake and my food was only OK. Still, it was a heavy meal, and we decided to walk it off in Central Park. Originally, we planned to run, but thought it was too cold to go out without coats. We were wrong, but enjoyed our 6 mile hike in the bright (albeit sort of cold) sunshine.

The evening was capped off at a party at sister-in-law's (SIL) 30th birthday party, in which a sommelier came to their apartment and told amusing stories about wine. The stories (and cheese and amazing cakes shaped like a wine bottle with SIL's name on it, a small cheese, and marzipan grapes) were the highlight of the evening for your teetotaling blog host. As usual, I ate too much and ended the evening with bad gas.

As there was more coldish sun today, Alex and I set out to run the reservoir in Central Park. We had a lot of fun, and it made me feel great. I haven't run in ages, thanks to sinus issues, the sea urchin spines in my feet, and general laziness. (It also made me miss Dr. P, who used to be my running partner when she lived in New York.) I resolved to start running regularly again.

And that's that.

And I Thought I Am Tall

Recently, I discovered that my brother-in-law's wife is shorter than I am. This discovery engendered a minor identity crisis because I have always been the shortest person in my in-law family. All these years, I thought I was short, but really, I am a tall short person. How distressing to live with such self-delusion for so long!

Anyway, while on holiday with my sister and her husband, I encountered two objects that made me feel slightly better about my situation.


This literal giant was housed near the giant penis armor of Henry VIII. (That made me feel small, too, by the way. Maybe I should pay more attention to all those spam emails I receive with offers to help me grow my penis larger...) Even with my hiking shoes, my head only floats a bit above the 5 foot mark.


Further, when a chocolate rabbit at Herrod's is about my height, what's to complain about? If Dana were not leaning in to take a bite, I think they'd be about the same height. I could literally eat my height (if not weight) in chocolate. Yum.

The Picture Says It All

After losing my planned post for BlogHer yesterday, which was infuriating (I re-wrote it and posted it today), my fucking piece of shit laptop lost an article that I worked on for almost four hours this most delightful afternoon. This was partially my fault, as I forgot to save it as another document after I downloaded it, but I did save it about 400 times while I worked on it, so I'm not sure why it never showed up in the temp file.


That pretty much sums up my feelings on the matter. As for the restaurant, I am curious who would eat at a place with such a name. Fascinating.

Come for the Reservation, Stay for the Food

Although Husband and I are fortunate to have a very nice life thanks to Husband's chosen profession (which he adores), it's the little things that remind me that I will never truly "make it." While I was eating my microwave breakfast burrito, I noticed a blurb on the front of yesterday's New York Times Dining Out section. It read, "The selling of reservations irks restaurants."

For a second, I stared blankly. What the hell did that mean? Then I realized that it meant that people who scored reservations at choice, top rated restaurants actually find others willing to pay good money to buy their reservation and go eat an expensive, albeit probably excellent, meal.

Shit. I barely ever go to places that require reservations, and only call in advance if I am going out with a large group of family and/or friends. I've never wanted to go somewhere that requires me to call, months in advance, a phone number that will be busy all day. I like good food fine enough, but hand me a plate of mac and cheese, and I'm just as happy. People are weird.

Feeling Like a Dinosaur

Husband's off to Europe for work. It's very quiet in here, except for the episode of Myth Busters that is blaring from the TV to cover up how quiet it is in here. I'd rank the effectiveness of the TV-blaring strategy as low right now.

I have a stomach ache that could kill a large animal. In fact, it makes me wonder if the dinosaurs did not become extinct because they all ate Uighur (pronounced "way-wooer")* food for a late lunch, then chased it down with an early vegetarian Indian dinner. They had very little brains, after all, as apparently do I.

*Uighurs are "a Muslim Turkic group who historically served as guides along the ancient trade routes," according to Robert Sietsma's Village Voice review of Cafe Kashkar, the restaurant at which I consumed the potentially fatal late lunch. It's in Brighton Beach, a community of Russians and other Eastern Europeans in Brooklyn. I was in the neighborhood with my new bestest friend Roger, who heroically filled in as a photographer for my book at the last minute after my friend Stef got food poisoning. (She did not get food poisoning from Cafe Kashkar, though.)

Uighur cuisine is tasty stuff, but also greasier than my hair when I haven't washed it in three days, which I haven't, but that's another story. I knew I was in for imminent future bad times as I shoveled the slick foods down my gullet, and for no good reason decided to make matters worse by meeting Dr. H for dinner and ordering deliciously rich Indian food (vegetable korma and paneer makhani - mmmmmmm). Assuming I do not explode, I will consider this a lesson learned.

Yogurt Review #3 - The Greek Gods Do Poseidon Proud

While I think it is good to review yogurt and pudding on CUSS, it occurred to me that some food snobs might not want to read a yogurt review on a blog that has "Snatch" in the title. I've been rejected from ad networks and syndication before because of my blog title, and I decided not to compromise CUSS. Hence, from now on, yogurt and pudding reviews will appear at Live Active Cultures, which I hope will evolve into a group blog. (HINT, HINT...)

Just in case you don't feel like clicking over there for today's thoughts on The Greek Gods plain nonfat yogurt, I thought I would share an image with you from the company's website:


They named the yogurt Poseidon, and put up a big wacky image full of pictures of the yogurt cup and the nutrition info. How can you now want to know more about what a yogurt named for Poseidon tastes like?

Yogurt Review #2 (Lifeway Strawberry Lassi)

Lassis are yogurt drinks popular (for very good reason) in India. While I was there, I drank at least four every day. (I wish I was exaggerating. Fortunately, our hotels had all you can eat breakfast buffets with pitchers of lassis, so I refilled my glass multiple times. Then I usually ordered a lassi with dinner, too.) Generally, they come in three traditional flavors: salty (aka "gross"), sweet, and mango. Lassis also tend to be sort of high in fat and calories in addition to flavor (and cost more in the US than India), so I try not to consume them to often.

At Whole Foods, I was excited to find a small packaged lassi in the dairy case from Lifeway.

The only flavor in stock was strawberry, and the 8 oz. carton had only 174 calories and 2 grams of fat, so I was psyched. Even better, the drink contains 30% of the RDA for calcium. The drink even has 3 grams of fiber to slightly off set the high level of carbs found in flavored yogurt. Excellent. I forgot how much it cost, but I think it was $1.29, which is somewhat reasonable. (I need to pay more attention to these things if I am going to seriously review yogurt, I know.)

Ah, sounds good so far, but how does it taste? I was very pleased. The strawberry was just sweet enough, but not overpowering. I like lassis because they have a sourish yogurty taste that is not overwhelming, but just a perfect balance with the sweet. Lifeway surprisingly got that down. Yumminess. I hope that I can find the mango flavor, too.

I wish they were also organic, but I suppose they'd cost more than $1.29 if they were. The verdict: I'll be stocking up on these babies!

Yogurt Review #1 (Siggi's Icelandic Style Skyr)

For a special treat, I spent a gazillion dollars on siggi's Icelandic style skyr strained non-fat yogurt at Whole Foods. I read a little blurb about it in New York Magazine a few weeks ago, and when confronted with the 6 oz container of pomegranate & passion fruit, I decided to give it a whirl. It is as good as Greek yogurt, although I'm not sure better. The flavor was not nearly as sweet as I prefer. Still, it is nice and thick. Since it was a couple of bucks and not exactly nirvana, I probably won't buy it again, but I'm still glad I indulged.

I've never been interested in food blogging per se, but my obsession with yogurt makes me think that I should have a recurring yogurt review section on CUSS. My local grocery store has an amazingly extensive selection of yogurts, so I'll be able to sample and write up many different kinds. I'm partially inspired by The London Review of Breakfasts, which is hilarious and informative (something CUSS strives for but seldom achieves) and Cupcakes Take the Cake.

If there is any doubt in your mind that yogurt reviews belong on a blog about unshaved snatch, I point out that yogurt is an excellent cure for yeast infections, although personally I have never understood how that works. (Do you eat the yogurt, or put it in your crotch? If you put it in your crotch, how do you properly clean it out? That sounds very messy.)

The Proof is in the Pudding

My obsession with viscous dairy products continues. My friend informed me that she tried a sheep milk yogurt this weekend, and as a result, she understood why people like yogurt. I already did my grocery shopping for the week, but next time I am at the store I will indulge in the miracle product she described.

At the store, I gave in to my desire for pudding. However, I accidentally threw tapioca pudding into my basket instead of rice pudding. I like tapioca, and as I ate a little container of it last night, I realized that it had been eons since I last consumed some. I can't remember if all tapioca is essentially vanilla pudding with some tapioca pearls thrown in it, or if the kind I bought is not true tapioca. I vaguely remember the tapioca pudding that my mom bought at the chef's kitchen counter at Jewel or Dominick's as being more tapioca intensive.

On a non-dairy train of thought, lately I've been receiving comments on a post I wrote about the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) and their insulting ad campaign comparing fur to female pubic hair (i.e. - its revolting and morally wrong to wear). The ad ran in London, where my friend Mara lives, and when she sent me a picture of it, she noted, "We love the fact that PETA thought to illustrate the fact that the only thing worse than killing poor little animals to appease the fashion gods is having an unshaved snatch. I guess that makes all of your disciples no better than those people who club little baby seals to death, or eat tuna that is not dolphin friendly. . . . ." The two comments I recently received more or less told me that I am an idiot to find the ad offensive because one needs to do shocking things to save the lives of innocent animals, no matter what the human social cost is. I am not a supporter of fur,* but ads and comments like that make me not take the anti-fur cause seriously. It is never OK to use one animal to promote another one. Sorry, Charlie, but the proof is in the pudding that PETA sucks.

*Coincidentally, I did have an eye rolling conversation last night on the phone with my bubbe in which she discussed how cold it was in Chicago and how she could still go out despite the frigid air because of her mink coat. Then she said that her mink coat was usually too warm to wear and so she bought another warm coat on sale for $73 (from $200) so now she could attend her alderman's party for senior citizens no matter how cold it was. Man, you gotta love the lack of logic there.

Periods, and Anger, and Cookies - Oh My!

It's true that my food cravings are worse when I'm on the rag or about to be hanging with Aunt Flo. This is probably why I've wanting pudding so badly for the last four days. Also, I suspect it is why I became utterly enraged at something someone wrote on Friday. Usually, I'd probably be angry about it, but not fixate on the statement to the point where I could not focus on anything else.

While I was sputtering about on Friday, I noticed that I was ravenously hungry. Suddenly, it dawned on me that being really angry seems to make need to eat. It probably explains why I ate non-stop for the last year or so that I worked at my former employer. I was furious all the time. It apparently takes a lot of energy to sustain that level of anger. Who woulda thunk?

Regardless of my level of fury, I ate an enormous quantity of junk this weekend. Breakfast was cookies and a granola bar. While in Pennsylvania with Steph, I had an afternoon lunch tea. Then meatballs at Ikea. Then breakfast for dinner at Cracker Barrel. (For the record, the grits at Cracker Barrel are probably made from the same recipe as the gruel fed to Oliver Twist, but damn if the blackberry cobbler is not the tastiest confection this side of the Mason Dixon line.) When I got home, I had a cookie "midnight snack." All I ate on Sunday morning were cookies and string cheese.

Anyway, I was completely amused on Sunday afternoon on my way back from the gym when I saw the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile parked in front of the Jewish Community Center. I ran to get my camera, but by the time I got back outside, it was pulling away.Still, I think it is pretty funny to see the Weinermobile cruising up the streets of Manhattan. Hot dogs. Yum....

Deep, Dark Secret #423: Uncontrollable Cravings

Food and eating are often on my mind. I hate cooking, but I love food. All kinds of food, from cheese grits at Waffle House to fancy fish at Le Bernadin, are equally valued by my mostly undiscriminating taste buds. From street food to gourmet, all I require to enjoy what I am eating is that it be yummy.

Thus when Suebob wrote up an observation she made at work about food and eating, I was aghast at the situation. To wit:

I was at an all-day work meeting and a box of See's Candy was being passed around.

The woman next to me carefully selected a piece and took a bite.

"Oh, my God, that's good!" she moaned.

She then put the other half of the piece on a napkin, where it stayed until the meeting was over 4 hours later.

She never ate the other half.

I don't get this at all. First off, just reading the post made me want.chocolate.right.now. My salivary glands went into overdrive. All I could think about was what kind of filling the piece of candy had. (I don't know why I assumed it did, but there you go - strawberry creme? caramel? coconut? I'm generally not so crazy about coconut, but sometimes it hits the right note...)

Next, just as most of the other people who left comments on the post did, I wondered who the hell takes a bite of a piece of candy, exclaims how magnificent it is, and doesn't finish it? I don't even take bites of chocolates like that. I shove the whole thing in my mouth, and if it is not good for some bizarre reason, I spit it out because I am infantile. Then I grab another one. And if it was good, I have to fight with myself not to eat more than one. (Or two. Or three.)

Now I will admit something completely repulsive, which may or may not distract you from the morally vacuous admission I will make next. To avoid eating too much of something good at home, I often throw a portion of the food away. However, there are times when I want it back so badly that I actually retrieve it from the trash. I'm not so depraved as to do so if there are nasty things in the garbage, but if the item I want is on the top of the pile, maybe on a clean-ish napkin, I may find myself eating it. Seriously.

Anyway, as I was eating dinner last night (an Amy's Organic Indian tofu and spinach wrap - yum!), I read the day's newspaper. An article in The New York TImes reported on a current case against a guy who is accused of brutally beating his stepdaughter to death a few years ago. The whole thing is a horrific tragedy, and it shook the city to its roots when it happened. So I'm reading this sad article and it mentions that it has commonly been reported that the guy beat the girl to death for eating a yogurt without his permission, but in fact, the snack item that triggered her murder was probably a container of Jell-O pudding. Immediately, I intensely craved pudding. Chocolate, vanilla, tapioca, rice pudding. The desire to eat pudding haunted me for the rest of the night.

Sick, isn't it? Cravings are scary. It's a good thing I never plan to be pregnant. I can't imagine what those types of cravings would do to me, given my current level of patheticness.

Something's Rotten in the State of the Union of My Refrigerator

Did anyone bother watching Bush's State of the Union address last night? I can barely bring myself to think about it. The rancid stench emanating from anything that fool says just turns my stomach.

Speaking of rot and turning stomachs, there are few things that I hate more than wasting food. The fact that fresh veggies go bad so quickly is one of my primary reasons to avoid buying them, or so I tell myself. On Wednesday I bought some chopped bell peppers and forgot to eat most of them until today. They were slightly slimy, but I couldn't bear the thought of throwing them out and wasting $2.49, so I dipped a few in hummus and nibbled away. Husband hates when I do things like this, noting that we can afford higher quality food, but I'm pretty sure they were just on the verge of going bad, so why not eat?

While I slurped down the peppers, I justified my actions by noting that at least I don't serve bad food to guests. The chance of a run-in with something long beyond its expiration date is a real risk when dining with my aunt. When you ask her for some ice to put over the spot where the mold on your bread just punched you in the face, she becomes indignant. "It's fine!" she'll hiss at you. "See? The swelling is going down already."

Sometimes I wonder if I am really my aunt's kid, and she gave me to my parents to raise. My aunt insists that my 20 year old cousin is just like me. This means that I feel sorta bad for the poor kid, as I am quite a spazz, but she's a good writer and a passionate advocate. I hope that I'm like her (or vice versa).

Sunday Blahs

It's Sunday. That means I am tired for no good reason and under-motivated. However, it is also my assigned day to post at BlogHer, so I wrote up a rambling essay on how child care workers are completely screwed by our dysfunctional American society that needs women to work but insists that they are bad mothers if they work.

On another note of American dysfunction, I received a nice letter yesterday from my unsurance company with a detailed explanation of why they rejected my bilateral breast MRI. It turns out that my doctor is a lazy son of a bitch who neglected to submit very basic information such as: the age of my first menstrual period, my age at first live birth, the number of previous breast biopsies including the pathology and my ethnicity. Perhaps this information would make no difference at all, but it certainly is not hard to submit. There are 45 days in which this information can be submitted for consideration. I shall call the unsurance company myself tomorrow. Then I will search for a new doctor. Bah.

Otherwise, Husband and I had a delightful Saturday. We visited Dianne and her precocious daughter and fun husband for the day. Steph also joined us for good eating at a hibachi grill place and two rounds of bowling. We raced back to the City to join Dr. H for her 30th birthday bash, which was fun. (Dianne's birthday was this past Thursday, so happy belated birthday to her!)

Maybe my lethargy is explained by a Diet Coke, cake, cookie, and Jelly Belly hangover? My hard partying ways are catching up to me...

Deliciously Stupid

Because I was told at the end of 2006 that I have a slightly elevated insulin level that at some point could lead to diabetes if I am not careful now, I'm again trying to lower my carb intake. (I didn't do a very good job of this most of last year.) This means eating more animal flesh products than I used to. I like animal flesh products for the most part, although my mysterious digestive ailment often does not approve of the higher levels of fat many meats have over, say, cereal, so this is one reason among many that I failed to make drastic changes in my diet last year.

Anyway, I bought some low fat apple chicken breakfast sausage for lunch. As I opened the package and read the preparation instructions, it struck me as odd that one serving is three sausages, but microwave heating directions were provided for two, four, six, or eight sausages. And we wonder why Americans have trouble with portion control? Sigh.

Hang Loose

This morning, Husband and I headed over to the legendary farmers market at the base of Diamond Head crater. We saw Al and Elizabeth and her family, and I ate three of those donut-things-that-are-popular-in-New-Orleans-that-I-can't-spell with lilikoi sauce, which is some very yummy sweet-tart thing that I've been enjoying while here. (Husband had two little mushroom and mozzarella risotto cakes from the same booth.) Husband and I also enjoyed Ewa sweet corn on the cob with butter and garlic powder. Yeah, it is a pretty strange combination, but delicious. We then browsed around the market for a while, and I bought sweet potato mochi (a sweet gloopy rice ball thing), sugar free lilikoi jam, and honey soap.

Powered up from our nutritionally devoid breakfast, Husband and I headed for the hike up Diamond Head. The hike is 0.8 miles each way, climbs over 500 feet, and involves dirt and stone trails and over 170 steps where the climb is too steep for a trail. I was nervous, but determined to not miss out on the views. Despite my gimpy limping, wee made it up, soaked in the views, and were back at the parking lot in about 70 minutes. My foot hurt a little, but I am so glad that I made it. Although I got some blisters from walking on my toes more than usual, it also gives me hope that I can do another hike.

After Diamond Head, we hit the beach outside our hotel. It was the first time we've seen the sun in three days, which was perfect. The waves were very fun to jump. However, the water was a bit cold and my foot started getting numb, so we only lasted 30 minutes before heading back inside for a nap then lunch. Now Husband is watching the Giants-Pats game while I rest my sea-urchin-and-blister-encrusted feet.

Tomorrow: Pearl Harbor and hopefully a hike up another crater.

It's My Birthday, Too!

It is still Dec. 26 in Hawaii, where I am blogging from, so it isn't technically my 32nd birthday yet, but I was born in the 'burbs of Chicago, not Hawaii, and it's the 27th there. Yay my parents for having me.

My friend Elizabeth grew up in Hawaii and is in town with her husband Al (my friend from college), so we shall be spending the day with them. Elizabeth suggested driving up to the North Shore, which is sort of ironic because the suburban area I grew up in is also known as the North Shore but instead of being a winter surfing mecca, my North Shore is a frozen tundra. First we will eat breakfast at the super cool hotel that Husband and I are staying at (for free courtesy of his hotel points). The Royal Hawaiian was built in 1927 and is known as The Pink Palace. Everything is pink - towels, sheets, etc. It's very cool. I love historic places. Anyway, it is supposed to have an amazing albeit pricey breakfast buffet, but we're going out on a limb for my birthday.

Otherwise, I have been sort of quiet since I can't walk too much since I was viciously attack by a sea urchin on Christmas Eve after falling off a rock while preparing to snorkel. Husband and I arrived in O'ahu yesterday and had a delicious and delightful Christmas dinner with Elizabeth's charming and cultured family. Today we went to the Aloha Swap Meet, a fun flea market outside Aloha Stadium. After that, we headed to the Hawaiian Medical Heritage Center at The Queen's Medical Center to check out a small exhibit. Since we are weirdos, we decided that it would be fun to eat at the hospital cafeteria and buy t-shirts from the gift shop. After that, we went to a laundromat.

Hope that everyone is having a fun and sea urchin-free holiday!