More Salt, Please!

Id Rules, Ego Drools

2009-09-07T12:58:00.004-05:00

Just got back from Vegas, and it was so much fun I have about 5 pictures to show for the entire time I was there. That about says it all, doesn't it?

With the day I've had...

2009-08-27T14:12:00.008-05:00

I could sure use a scotch. A butterscotch cookie, that is. The weather in Chicago has been woefully bad: gray, rainy and unseasonably cool. Because of this, I feel completely justified in turning on the oven to bake. The camera doesn't do the sugar & salt crusted coat of these cookies justice. I am not one to eat cookies for breakfast, but this morning I woke up to drizzle, so the decision was really made for me.

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

2009-08-25T13:11:00.010-05:00

I'd like to think this to be true, especially since I've been gone for quite some time. I spent my summer blogging for work - you can check that blog out here - reading a mountainous selection of Teen/YA novels for class, and just generally trying to stay out of trouble.

I fainted in the bathroom, which earned me a major black eye and a little vacation in the hospital (I'm fine, everyone!), and I baked some tasty treats, like Gourmet's Raspberry Buttermilk Cake (which I made with mixed berries instead) and Red Velvet Cupcakes.

Black Eye

Cake

Red Velvets

So here I am, armed with a freshly minted Master's Degree in Library and Information Science, a new found appreciation for my physical health, and a recipe for Salty-Sweet Butter Pecan Cookies that I cannot wait to try out. Now let's try to make this a more regular thing!

Summer Sundays

2009-06-16T07:39:00.003-05:00

The best thing about a summer Sunday is that you can walk around with your best friend until you get hungry, go get another friend and drink margaritas & eat fajitas on a patio until you're stuffed, then go walk to a park where you can slip into a food coma on a park bench together, sometimes chatting, sometimes just staring at the other people who all appear to be doing the same thing (except for that group of unsavory characters huddled around a chess game in the shade, who knows what they're doing?). And as if that weren't enough, you can spend your evening on the porch, shooting the breeze in short sleeves & bare feet while drinking gin & Italian soda cocktails out of plastic cups while you wait for the charcoal to heat up.

Spanish Holiday

2009-06-09T15:07:00.004-05:00

What was my 2 week vacation in Spain and the Mediterranean like? In a word, glorious. In 2 more words, delicious & sunny. See for yourself.

A Little Help from my Friends

2009-05-12T07:59:00.005-05:00

I wish you could see the dashboard page for this blog. Actually, I take that back. I'm glad that you cannot see it, because I would be mortified if you knew how many half-baked ideas were languishing there waiting to see if I validate them with a swift strike to the "publish" button or send them into oblivion to be read by none by hitting "delete" - notice I say nothing about that which is painfully obvious, that those I publish may never be read either.

But I have to put something here. I mean, that is the point of this whole thing. I am a fan of lists. My desk is always littered with a half-dozen of them on a variety of topics: there is your usual shopping list, but along with that one there might be a list of recipes I'm wanting to try, and maybe a "things I need" list (these are usually amusing as they can include things like "staples" and "summer dresses"). These lists keep me in line, and I'm the sort of person who very much needs to be kept in line as I am quite easily distracted by anything I find to be even remotely interesting, and I am interested in many things. A friend of mine said that he does much of his best learning through such distractions, and I like the think that I do, too. But back to my lists.

There is also always a to-do list, and "update blog" is always on it. So I'm taking care of that list with another one, inspired by Molly Wizenberg's latest post on her fantastic blog, Orangette. It appeals to both my love of lists, list-making, and my love of food, which is flagging a bit these days. Perhaps I've just overstimulated my taste buds, but my palate is suffering from a case of ennui so intense that it is beginning to remind me of a cast of characters from a French new wave film. Nothing is really appealing to me these days, and I just have little interest in what I put in my mouth. I'm hoping this list helps.

Crap I Like to Eat (idea borrowed from Orangette)

- pumpernickel toast with butter & sour cherry preserves
- banh mi sandwiches
- scrambled eggs with bacon, cheddar & apple slices on sesame bagel
- 2% Fage Greek yogurt with honey & blackberries
- tamago sushi
- cold apples
- chickpea salad with quinoa
- peanut butter or Red Leicester on stoneground wheat crackers
- Hitachino Pale Ale with wasabi Belgian frites

(I think it worked. I'm hungry now.)

The Perfect Friday

2009-05-08T22:54:00.004-05:00

I don't know about you, but Friday does not always spell "fun day" for me. I don't have a conventional 9 to 5, so I spend about half of the Saturdays in any given month working. On such weeks, I almost dread Friday, not because I don't like my job, but because I don't like having plans. Period. I'm very much a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of girl, and knowing that I have something that I just. absolutely. must. do. tends to fill me with dread. Maybe this is because I like to fancy myself a bit of a romantic, but if I had to choose between something wonderful and expected or something wonderful and unexpected, I would have to go with the latter. That said, I also like routine. I wake up, without the help of an alarm, rooster, or any other noisemaker, at the same tim every single day, give or take 20 minutes. I eat a variation of the same thing for breakfast, and I run between 20-25 miles a week without fail. What I'm getting at is that I'm maybe a little difficult ("complex" would be a nicer way of saying it...). I want to be surprised, but only if it is part of my schedule. So a good day is really a balance of the two, and today was one of them: a perfect mix of the ordinary and the exceptional.

I managed to get coffee on my way to work this morning, and it was a great day - the kind where you think, I cannot believe I actually get paid to do this! I love this! Do they know how much I love this, because if they did surely they wouldn't pay me for it. Then, I had an extraordinarily good time with Yvonne and Jessica at Handlebar, one of our usual haunts. I ordered the vegetarian gyros plate off the specials menu and was pleasantly surprised. Then Jessica and I walked down to my favorite used bookstore, where I found not one, but two of Ruth Reichl's books and an old Edna Lewis tome that I've been hunting for for some time now. After parting I wandered back down North Avenue - the same stretch that I find myself navigating all too often - but the uncommonly pleasant weather made it, well, pleasurable. And I found my way home to make these cookies. It seems like everyone has been talking about them, and so I won't say anything more about them except that the 36 hours I must wait to bake them will surely be among the longest in my life, which is fine by me. If today was any indication, this is going to be a weekend worth savoring.

Produce Anxiety

2009-04-28T07:20:00.012-05:00

I suffer from what a friend and I refer to as "produce anxiety." I buy beautiful bunches of leafy greens and pounds of pears only to watch a few inevitably wither because a single human just cannot consume them all in time. It depresses me, and even worse than that, it makes me feel awful because not only am I wasting food (and money), but also because the spoilage is entirely my fault. I don't love them enough to save them. Conversely, I have never let a loaf of pumpernickel, no matter how big, go to waste. I will happily eat it toasted for breakfast with butter and jam, with turkey, avocado and bacon for lunch, and because I love it so, toasted again for dinner with an egg and some arugula laying on top, while the rest of the bitter bunch withers in the crisper. I don't blame it; I'd be bitter, too.

Photo courtesy of The Bitten Word

As I type this I am eating a post-run bowl of cereal and contemplating the fresh loaf of pumpernickel atop the microwave. Not only do I suffer from produce anxiety, but I am afflicted with starchlust, too. But that is a whole other post.

Coming Around

2009-04-21T17:53:00.013-05:00

I know it has been quite a long time, but I can explain. Really, I can. You see, I've been working on another blog for a course on technology and libraries and twittering my days away. I have also been hard at work in the library, and to that end have now moved on to the reference desk. So I've been immersed in business and have not felt like relating just how many evenings I call several bowls of cereal and a handful of nuts a dinner, or how many weekends the most socialization I get is trading emails with some friends saddled with equally daunting piles of homework.

Lest you think I am a complete square though, I assure you that I have gotten out a bit. This past Saturday was the kind of day that is so beautiful from start to finish that it just begs to be written down, if only to remind you that such days do exist on all those other days that are not nearly so perfect.

I went for a run at 7:30 am in a mere pair of shorts and a long-sleeved shirt. Anyone who has endured all that winter (and early spring) wrought upon Chicago knows that such a feat has not been possible outdoors for the past six months, if not more. Then there was the library trivia competition. Who knew that knowing so much about the Wu Tang Clan and alcoholic beverages would come in handy? We took the prize, and I actually enjoyed myself. As if this weren't enough I went shopping and walked around in the sun for a few hours, and then enjoyed the most exciting, delicious dinner I've had in ages: Urban Belly's pork belly ramen & duck dumplings. An overall mind blowingly delicious dinner bookended by drinks at Orbit Room with friends. Ever since leaving dinner I've been plotting my next trip.

Such a beautiful day would have to be tempered with 3 consecutive days of endless gray and rain. I'm keeping myself busy with adjusting to life in the reference department, gloating over our trivia team win & eating copious amounts of GMO corn product in the form of Cap'n Crunch. I'll try to start keeping myself busy here more often. Until then, chow chow.

On Being Virtuous...

2009-03-14T20:29:00.007-05:00

On of my favorite words in the English language is "virtue." I like what it does to my mouth when I say it. Try saying it while looking at yourself in the mirror. Teeth meet lower lip, almost biting, and then both lips plump out, curling at the corners as the second syllable drops, following the accented first down the rabbit hole. The sensuous shape the mouth must take to form it belies its true meaning, and this is one of life's greatest pleasures. Feeling like you're getting away with something wonderfully bad, when in fact you are doing quite the opposite. Why all this talk of virtue, you ask. Perhaps you have to eat the salad to really get it.

I'm not talking about the obligation salad we all eat from time to time. You know, the one you feel you "should" eat after Thanksgiving-style feasting. Who hasn't thought after a brownie binge or a beer-soaked weekend that a salad or two is in order to balance the nutritional (or lack thereof) damage one has done? This kind of thinking has led what can be the most delicious, satisfying and nutritious of meals to be often maligned as the dietary equivalent of penance, and who likes that? Not I. If I've learned anything in the past 25 years, it is that sinning is fun, and atoning for it is not. But a few years ago, when I started running and also taking better care of myself in general, I realized that eating the amount of vegetables that one really should eat in a single day is difficult if you're not mixing a few together, so I returned to salads as a viable option and have not looked back since. Once you discover the world beyond the dreary supermarket bagged salads, you discover that a salad is really something wonderful unto itself. So delicious, so good for you, so exactly what I think of when I think of a salad. I've banished those sad sacks of iceberg lettuce chips with red cabbage and shredded carrots to the trash bin, and I'm sticking with this one right here.

(Let me preface this by saying that a recipe for a salad is absurd. A well-formed recipe is like poetry in its meter and balance, all measured notes and wide margins, and what follows here is more of a casual suggestion than a measured reflection after hours of contemplation. But as the salad I ate for dinner several times this past weekend was a thing of epic beauty, and it really deserves to be shared.)

Sarah's Sunny Saturday Salad:

arugula, as much as you can get your hands on
celery
snap peas
garbanzo beans
sweet corn
feta cheese
avocado
grape tomatoes
broccoli
shredded rotisserie chicken

1. cut up as much or as little of the above ingredients as you want
2. toss them with whatever dressing you have on hand, or make your own
3. eat

Large salads such as this one are also excellent remedies for produce anxiety: that nervous feeling you get when you overbuy fresh fruits and vegetables and feel compelled to eat as many of them as possible before they begin to rot in the crisper. I suffer from it on a near daily basis as I find the tables of leafy greens and voluptuous berries at County Fair to be completely entrancing, and as a result often go home with just too much.

Rainy Days and Brown Bananas

2009-03-11T20:55:00.006-05:00

This past weekend it rained, and rained, and rained. At times it felt as though all of Chicago may very well just float right into Lake Michigan on a swirling rapid under stormy skies. And so, because I couldn't very well stay in bed forever, I did the next best thing. I went into the kitchen and got to poking around. Taking inventory, I found myself confronted with three overripe bananas and a fresh tin of tea leaves. I looked outside just to confirm that it was indeed still raining (it was), and then back to the bananas. They were sitting on the counter, speckled as robin's eggs, and before I knew it I found myself mashing them with wild abandon while walnuts toasted in the oven. Today, I thought, is the perfect excuse for banana bread.

I love bread, but I love cake even more. The only thing better is the kind of cake that tries to pass itself off as bread by referring to itself by some more lowly title, such as a "loaf." Banana bread is guilty of this. It bakes snugly in a glass Pyrex loaf pan, and requires neither the sort of pomp, nor the circumstance typically associated with what we call "cake," no sugary frosting piled high, no birthday or college graduation. It is the kind of cake (or, excuse me, loaf) that you make just because. It is the kind of cake to which Marie Antoinette was doubtlessly referring when she uttered those now infamous lines. Homely, unadorned and best when accompanied by coffee or strong black tea, these are my favorite cakes. They do not require a list of rare ingredients that must be prepared just so over the course of 48 hours, which is just fine by me as I never get the timing right. Rather, they require simple household items, such as bananas and walnuts. They can be whipped up on the spot when the urge hits, which it often does on rainy days, and ready to eat in a few hours.

I'm still holding out for the sunshine. I long for the days when the light stretches towards 9pm and fat slices of watermelon or chocolate chip ice cream cones pass for dinner, but until then I'll be making the most out of the dreary days and brown bananas, which is to say that I will be making cake.

A Toast to Toast

2009-03-02T19:38:00.015-06:00

My mother is a woman of strange appetites. She will gladly forgo what my father terms "real food" for the likes of marmalade smeared toast. The type of bread is largely immaterial, though in our house it is always fresh and from a real bakery (not a plastic bag), as is the marmalade, although she does favor my father's homemade version above all others. She takes her toast quite crispy, so much so that you can often hear her eating, even if you cannot see her. Happily covered in crumbs and holding a mug of Early Gray, this is how I know my mother.

So as her daughter, it is perhaps not hugely surprising that I too love this simplest of meals. I, like my father, do not really consider it a meal unless there is something savory (and time consuming) at the center: rosemary roast chicken, linguine ala vongole, but I have also been known to skip the fussy from time to time in favor of the simple pleasure of a good piece or two of toast. But unlike my mother, I require a pat of butter before I can even think about the jam, and it is always apricot, if I can. If I cannot, then it is sour cherry or blackberry, but rarely strawberry and never grape, lest you think I am content to have it any which way.

Perhaps I am trying to make a real meal out of it, in which case you can forget the preserves as there is no protein there. Rather, it must be peanut butter, grainy and natural, with a light sprinkle of salt and maybe an apple to cleanse the palate. Whole grain breads really make the best toast as they are naturally denser than refined ones, and so offer a nice chew after an audible bite, but if the mood is right and the butter is cold, I'll gladly toast a thick, airy slice of Tuscan pane until it is nice and gold.

The toast can be elevated to what even my father would consider a real meal simply by sliding a single egg cooked over easy on top or using two pieces for a sandwich of turkey and an assortment of vegetables, sliced thin and stacked high. But this is often too much effort for my mother, and some days I am inclined to agree with her.

There are times when the toaster calls and I find myself sitting in my mother's chair, tapping my knife against the top of a jelly jar, waiting for dinner to pop up.

And then there were crumbs...

2009-02-27T22:14:00.003-06:00

I'm forcing myself to write tonight, because it is good for me and my soul to occasionally do things I don't want to do. So despite having toiled all day on various other blogs, all for professional or scholarly assignments, this post is the glistening cherry atop a garbage heap sundae. As I mentioned, I spent the better part of today slaving away at various projects that I have been putting off all week, but which could be denied no longer. And so I found myself rising early and after a lengthy time at the gym running and lifting and stretching, I ended up planted in front of my MacBook and a pile of papers.

Now is perhaps as good a time as any to inform you that I suffer from a sort of oppositional behavior disorder. Though undiagnosed I can attest to its terrible existence, one which has plagued generations in my family. We may be naturally inclined to do something, perhaps we even like to do it, but the moment we are told by someone that we must, we become indignant and refuse. It takes nothing less than threats on pain of death to make us do that which we are told, and even then, when faced with the firing squad, we give a withering glance and drag our feet in the opposite direction. So I spent much of the day with my laptop and my papers. I had been planning on baking the vanilla-cardamom pound cake from the March issue of Gourmet, but when confronted with the sad reality that I just could not afford the time to do so, I accepted my sad fate.

Instead I whiled away the afternoon and early evening hours shuffling between my computer and the kitchen cabinets. A habit I developed in college of nervously picking at whatever is handy and edible, preferably something crunchy, when attempting to write. I used to just keep a box of Wheat Thins by the computer, but then I realized that by moving the snacks as far away as possible I was also providing myself with the opportunity to move around a bit. I could almost fool myself into thinking that I'd successfully escaped my duties for the five or ten minutes I would spend crunching away on a stack of saltines spread with strawberry jam or pita chips dipped in hummus. Today I was confronted with a Tupperware container of chicken salad, a loaf of crusty sourdough (perfect for toasting) and a bag of crudites. So I crunched and munched my way through the day. My angst at having to do something having subsided as the pile of work to be done dwindled. Don't believe me? Just follow the trail of breadcrumbs to my clean desk.

2/15/09: first sign of the apocalypse

2009-02-15T14:10:00.003-06:00

Starbucks is launching an instant coffee in a supposed attempt to "shake off" its reputation as a purveyor of high priced coffee. There are so many things wrong with this. Number one, there is nothing wrong with high priced coffee as long as it it worth the asking price. Proof of this, anyone who has ever had a cup of Intelligentsia or who has had the even greater luxury of enjoying a latte or au lait at one of its coffee shops knows that sometimes you really do get what you pay for. Number two, well, there is no number two. Why don't Starbucks focus on changing its reputation by actually freaking changing!? Lower your goddamned prices a bit and maybe the money will roll right in, I'm not a marketing major, but this just seems to make sense to me. You could charge zero dollars for instant coffee, and I still wouldn't buy it. Conversely, I think Intelligentsia could charge $5 for a cappuccino, and I'd unflinchingly fork it over. There is a lesson here Starbucks, and the lesson is not only that I am a sucker for a good cuppa.

Photo courtesy of irrational cat @ flickr.com

2/14/09: i love you

2009-02-14T07:27:00.007-06:00

Love is about acceptance. It is about loving the ugliest, nastiest sides of someone or something even more than you love that which is inherently beautiful and precious. Love enables you to overlook the fact that your lover is a kleptomaniac, ex-heroin addict who pisses in the kitchen sink without removing the dishes first. And why shouldn't you? Everyone needs someone to love. So, in honor of that inconvenient, can't-take-you-home-to-mom-and-dad kind of relationship that we have all found ourselves in at one time or another, I've decided to honor my such love with the following open letter because I'm not going to hide it anymore.

Dear onions,

I don't care how stinky you are or how stinky you make me. Those people on the treadmill next to me who object to my shallot-scented sweat can just move. Since you came into my life, nothing have been the same. It seems as though you came out of nowhere. First you were there on cheeseburgers, raw, white and mildly sweet - so subtle I almost didn't notice you. But you became bolder as time went on. You showed up again in a pool of olive oil atop a mound of hummus in a kebab joint. This time you wore red, wanting to be noticed, and you were. I began to seek you out in supermarkets and on menus. I began to notice you everywhere. You were in sandwiches and salads, Mediterranean and Asian alike, delicately biting back with every mouthful. I became entranced by your pungency. I found myself eschewing gum after meals, wanting to savor those lingering notes you left in my mouth. I'd crawl into bed smelling so strongly of you that I could not even lie as to where I'd been and what I'd been eating. You were a secret that I could not keep. I tried to quit you. I thought it would make things easier. For a while I didn't even miss you at all, but like all the great loves in history, ours could only be ignored for so long.

You were there tonight in your red dress in my soothing cucumber salad. And then again, floating in perfect little green circles atop a steaming bowl of noodles, I saw you. Even after the strawberry cheesecake, it was you I could still taste, still feel slowly burning a small hole in my esophagus. Love hurts, but I can take it. Every meal with you is better than the last, and I look forward to a lifetime of meals together.

I love you, onions. I don't care if no one else does, and I don't care who knows it.

Always,
Sarah

2/11/09: the power seat

2009-02-11T22:11:00.006-06:00

The power seat, as it is commonly known, is the seat in the room from where you can see all (or almost all) of the action coming and going. Typically it is in the farthest corner with all windows, doors, halls, and other passages of entry/exit visible to whomever is seated there. In my family however, the power seat was where my grandmother sat.

She had one in every room where she had a presence. In the basement it was a leather office chair, very luxe - the kind you might find in Ted Turner's home office - with a matching foot rest. In the kitchen it was the chair in the middle of the table, ironically this seat actually put her at a complete disadvantage in traditional terms of "power seats" as it put her with her back to 2 windows and a door. In the dining room it was at the far end of the table, one of the two table heads, and it was a true power seat that gave her reign over everything going on in the dining room as well as the adjacent front room. Her personal effects were arranged (read: cluttered) around each one of these spots, and included but were not limited to an open pack of cigarettes, at least 2 lighters, at least 2 ashtrays (one of which was always overflowing), a stack of mystery novels, a book of hours, a daybook/journal of some sort, at least 5 pens, at least about 100 scraps of paper with various scribblings, a large tea-stained mug, a damp, limp Tetley's tea bag, and toast crumbs. I always thought that this was just sloppy and lazy of her, an opinion I doubtlessly cultivated from having overheard my fastidious father's criticisms of her. Who needed to have all of their worldly possessions strewn about within an 18 inch diameter of a single spot? She couldn't get up to get another cigarette or her book of hours or a pen to scribble down some new book title to look up at the library?

I thought of my grandmother today when, sitting in my usual spot on my bed - the one where I do much of my typing, reading and thinking - I found myself leaning over to grab some hand lotion, and I realized that most of what I use and need is no further than an arm's length from where I was seated. It is my own power seat of sorts. Aside from the lotion, I have my cell phone and laptop, as well as the chargers for both, nail clippers, 2 books that I am currently reading and this month's issue of Saveur, Bon Appetit, Gourmet, Elle and Women's Healthall at the ready. There is also usually a bottle of water or two, my day planner, and my purse, which in and of itself contains all the essentials of life, at least of my life. It seems as though I have unknowingly created my own power seat of sorts, and I'm not that surprised. This is not the first of her bad habits that I've acquired, and although some, like smoking, I gave up a while ago, others such as this one are so deeply ingrained in my being that I doubt I will ever give them up. And I'm fine with that - because I'm just lazy.

2/10/09: less snark, more sweet

2009-02-10T12:45:00.003-06:00

I came home from dinner with Yvon last night to find that my flour order from King Arthur's had come in, so tonight I will be baking a sbrisolona (Italian crumbly cake) from Gina DePalma's brilliant Dolce Italiano. I've tried several different recipes from her book, and they've all been spectacular and homey at the same time. Everything I have made has come out delicious. Each new recipe is exciting, and yet they all taste very familiar in the best way possible. Thus far my favorites have been her hazelnut cookies and the zucchini bundt cake with a lemon glaze, but as the cake I'm preparing tonight is a dense, crumbly (and plain) almond and cinnamon cake that sounds perfect when paired with black coffee, I think I will have a new favorite soon.

2/7/09: putting out a wildfire

2009-02-07T20:13:00.002-06:00

What a glorious February day it is when you can leave the floor-length down coats and 12-ply cashmere wraps at home. I ventured out in a blazer and cardigan on this 55 degree day to do some shopping with my mother. After doing some serious damage in what is surely record time within 10 minutes of entering Lord & Taylor, we spent much of the afternoon popping from shop to shop, acquiring various goods, including some knee-high flat black boots of which my mother was not overly fond. The conversation went something like as follows:

Mom: ::giving stern, slightly judgemental look::
Me: You don't like them.
Mom: ::pressing lips together:: Well, they're not my style, no.
Me: You don't like them.
Mom: ::sighing with resignation:: No.
Me: Why not? Too much?
Mom: ::wheels turning:: No, I don't know.
Me: They make me look like the gestapo, don't they?
Mom: Yes.
Me: I'm buying them anyway.

This back and forth burns 400 cals an hour easily, so we stopped by Wildfire where there was a 45 min. wait for lunch. We smartly put our names down and then wandered over to Williams-Sonoma where we had a discussion about some roasting pans (I decided not to purchase, then immediately regretted my decision) and past Burberry where I pretended I didn't want to go in because at that point I lacked the restraint necessary for such an endeavor. Passing up a $120 French roasting pan is one thing, pretending that I am content to just browse in Burberry is something else entirely. Luckily, we were just heading back to the restaurant to wait it out on a bench when our buzzer went off, at which point I burst into an Olympics-qualifying sprint towards the doors.

Once seated we waited, and waited, and waited for a server to materialize. When he finally did he seemed shocked that we were ready to order, and therefore wholly unprepared. I don't know who needs more than 15 mins. to peruse a 2-page lunch menu. Illiterates and vegans, maybe? (Hoping that we looked like neither, now that I think about it...) Anyway, I had decided upon the char-crusted Turkey burger with white cheddar cheese, shredded lettuce, tomato, grilled red onion, mayo and mustard because, um it sounds friggin' delicious. [Side note: I like the white cheddar, as opposed to yellow cheddar, as if the white makes it somehow more virtuous to rubes who do not understand the basic principles of Cheddar cheese.]

I should have known that things would stop going my way eventually. The buttery black leather Michael Kors jacket I found for a little over a third of the ticket price in L&T that fit perfectly and was exactly what I'd been looking for, that was the universe throwing me a bone, sure. But sometimes the universe also says, "You know what, you've had enough. Time to stop getting what you want and start getting real," and it decided to get real at lunch time. No turkey burgers left. It was 2 pm. On a Saturday. In February. How many turkey burgers could they have sold? Did the National Coalition of Turkey Lovers have their annual luncheon there at noon the previous day? Had Oprah declared them to be one of her favorite things? I could not believe it. I would have left right then had my mother not inhaled the onion roll he had set down on the table and already placed her order. While I ate my second-choice meal, I wondered just how I could find out who had been the recipient of the last turkey burger that day, but then I reasoned that I wouldn't know what to do with the information if I got it. Hunt the person down? Ask them if they enjoyed it? Was it worth it? Would I have been able to handle the answer to any or all of these - doubtfully. I would have looked insane.

In hindsight, not getting that burger may have been the best thing for me. It is still early February, and there are still two months of solid winter ahead. Enjoying days like today are great, but it is best done with the knowledge that the next day there may be snow, freezing rain, below zero windchills and no turkey burgers, so get used to it. I couldn't help but thinking that - while chewing my not turkey burger - had I known Wildfire was going to run out of what I wanted, I would have definitely gone into Burberry.

2/4/09: sweet and savory home chicago

2009-02-04T20:02:00.005-06:00

As a born and bred Chicagoan, I have never felt anything other than complete pride in my city and my roots. For the same reason that my neighbor takes his '67 Caddie convertible for a spin the first warm day of spring, I love when people come to Chicago for the first time and revel in amazement at the glory of the place that I call home. I'll be honest, it feels good to flaunt just how good you have it. Watching Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations: Chicago episode tonight, I could not stop the warm fuzzies from coming over me - to say nothing of the excruciating hunger. Normally when watching his show I wince (when he is forced - out of politeness - to eat the warthog rectum in Namibia), I drool (in the instance of entire Osaka show), and I start calculating how much it would cost me to book a flight, hotel, and eat everything that he is eating (again, Osaka, as well as Tokyo, Hong Kong, Singapore, Puebla, etc.). Watching this episode made me just want to jump into my car, grab some friends and drive around filling my car and my stomach with the tastes and smells of home.

I was glad that the "youz guyz," "Da Bears" kitsch factor was absent, because although the stereotypes exist with good reason (ahem, Mayor Daley) we don't all walk around dropping double negatives while swigging Old Style and sporting Ditka 'staches. I was thrilled to see that he went all over, and the South and North Sides were paid equal attention. He went to Hot Doug's, an old favorite, while managing to also go to L20, a place that I've been dying to go and will eventually, when doing so will not force me to choose between a delicious meal and paying my car insurance and Visa bill. And yet, he didn't get them all, probably because there are so many. I didn't see him eat a single beef sandwich, which was probably for the best because if he had gone to anywhere other than Pop's on 103rd and Kedzie I would never be able to watch his show again, nor did he step foot inside a single Bacci's (even though the only real one is on Chicago and Western), nor did he even mention Kuma's Corner (probably because a wait for the bar is just ridiculous - I need to eat immediately before going to ensure I won't try to eat one of the other guests), Handlebar (an old reliable favorite, never boring, never old), or any of the 30 or 40 other seriously decent food spots around. It got me thinking about where I go and for what.

Bourdain remarked at Chicagoans' willingness to drive all over the city for their favorites, saying that he was surprised, and I was too. I was surprised because it is completely true, and I'm glad I am not the only one. I will happily drive a solid 40 minutes north to Lawrence and Western for a two chicken taco dinner at Garcia's because the light, almost fluffy refried beans and grilled to a crispy, yet juicy perfect chicken is consistently superb. I've mentioned my utilization of any excuse to visit Tweet for their hashbrowns, their pancakes, their...anything. The vegan french toast at Pick Me Up is still as good as it was in high school, as is their grilled cheese and tomato on 7-grain with pasta salad, and the nostalgia factor ensures that it is never out of the rotation for long - even during baseball season when the Cubs fans make navigating the sidewalks an exercise in patience. The list goes on and on.

You know what I ate for dinner tonight? Two clementines, a winter strawberry (they look like summer strawberries, only they have no flavor whatsoever) and a bowl of Wheat Chex and Total with milk. At least it was 2% and organic, so I still have some dignity intact. Tomorrow, I have a dentist appointment and wouldn't you know that Pop's is just down the block. It'll keep me going until that first warm day...

2/2/09: dropping the ball

2009-02-02T20:19:00.004-06:00

I've done it and so close to the beginning. Weekend was consumed by class and work, so nothing new to report, just salty business such as headaches and sore throats and cupcake shops being closed when they should be open. My attention span is such that I can only make a list.

Top 5 Reasons Why I Am Salty Today:
1. 6 more weeks of winter
2. More was closed and the cupcakes at the Goddess had an awful cake to frosting ratio, so no chocolate cupcake for me
3. Showered at the gym (the water pressure made me feel like maybe I was showering in a converted outhouse somewhere in the middle of Montana - this is Chicago, what is the goddamned problem?)
4. Sore throat, body aches, could I be getting sick again?
5. Because I feel like it

In other news, Twitter is taking over my life in 140 characters or less.

1/28/09: ordering fail

2009-01-28T19:29:00.009-06:00

Today Jessica and I had "brunch" at Tweet. I use quotes as the notion of brunch on a Wednesday seems ludicrous, especially considering that she was heading to work immediately after, and I had already eaten breakfast hours earlier. To give you an idea of just how good this place is, I have been there three times this month alone and it is on the complete opposite end of the city from where I live. In fact, it is so north of me that the only time I can actually imagine it being on my way somewhere is if I was headed to Canada. I have willingly waited as long as two hours for a table there, and I am someone who loses it if a web page doesn't load fast enough. I've waited elbow-to-elbow with strangers and smiled the entire time. It is just that good.

The food there is incredible. They elevate the humble hash brown, an often overlooked menu item thrown on a plate with some eggs almost as an afterthought, to such heights that myself and my friends have found ourselves ordering eggs just so we can get the 'browns. Crisply golden on the outside and creamy smooth on the inside, they remind you just how much you really can do with a potato, some butter, and a skillet. If the food were not enough - which it is by the way, I would eat there if Noriega was my server - everyone who works there is unbelievably good-natured and completely genuine about it. Not even a trace of mood elevators in their grins. Really, I would eat there every day if I could, really.

Because I love it so, and because I am prone to fits of anger, I was understandably irritated when the two women at the table next to us butchered their order, insulted their waiter, and continued to breathe in the vicinity of me without a hint of shame. One of the women, who was wearing boots that looked as though she had killed two small, fluffy dogs and stuffed her ~~hooves~~ feet into their mouths, proceeded to order an American cheese and green pepper omelette with "very little cheese, un poquito cheese," sausage links, and tomatoes instead of hash browns. I was so horrified by her order that I missed what her friend ordered, until I heard her also choose tomatoes over hash browns. Tomatoes, winter tomatoes, winter tomatoes in Chicago. Pale red rocks with no flavor over buttery, golden tuberous roots. American cheese, which isn't even technically cheese as the only way you're getting any kind of bacteria present is if you unwrap a slice and let it ride around on the CTA for a few stops, very little of it (that I can somewhat understand as the less the better, but preferably none, ever), with green peppers. I really have to admit that I am just not a green pepper fan. Unless they have been sauteed in olive oil with maybe an onion and definitely some garlic and are about to be heaped onto a roll with some Italian sausage, I just don't never developed a taste for them. So maybe she likes them. Fine, but still, with American cheese? In an omelette? With a side of starchy, shitty tomatoes and some sausage links? That is prison food. People eat that when forced as some sort of punishment. They do not elect to do so because it. is. just. gross.

Now let me get back to the un poquito... As I'm sure you can surmise, the waiter with the unfortunate task of taking their disgusting order was Latino, and of course, despite his greeting them in perfect (if accented) English was not enough of an indicator to them that he understood English. So to make it perfectly clear that she did not want a lot of ~~processed orange goop~~ American cheese, she decided to repeat "a little" in his mother tongue, because that was clearly the only way she could be confident that she would not end up with demasiado queso. Justice was clearly served when she received her eggs with "too much cheese" - I'm curious as to what she meant by "a little." Did she want them to just break off a 1-inch corner and toss it into the whole mess? Maybe if her English had been better...

I was only glad that I had devoured the better part of my French toast by then, because otherwise I don't know that I would've been able to enjoy it the same. If you want to go to a fine restaurant and take advantage of the "make your own omelette" option on the menu, go ahead, but if you want to abuse the privilege by ordering a repulsive combination of bad ingredients, next time might I recommend Denny's?

1/26/09: "A quarter of a century, makes a girl think"

2009-01-26T21:58:00.012-06:00

I turn 25 tomorrow, and I spent the better half of the evening in the kitchen baking Golden Cupcakes from Nick Maglieri's The Modern Baker and some chocolate buttercream frosting from memory for the event. Initially I felt a bit pathetic making my own birthday cake (or cupcakes, in this instance), but then again, I don't really know anyone who bakes as well as I do, and I'd rather not eat crap on my birthday. I feel weird enough about turning 25 without having to suffer the additional insult of eating a bland, box-mix cake smeared with trans-fat laden frosting that has a 25-year shelf life. When you're a kid, people bake you birthday cakes, cookies, and those bizarre pseudo-ice cream cone cupcakes that were never very good, despite being an adorable idea (Cake inside a cup cone? Talk about a starch-on-starch-fest...), but as an adult, you end baking for others on your 'special day.' As if any of us needed yet another reason to fear, loathe, and despise aging. Not only are you one year closer to death, but you're required to bake for it.

What is it I have against birthday celebrations? First of all, we all had to be born to be here. This seems obvious, but the fuss that many make out of their birthdays would indicate otherwise. Birthdays are like cell phones and STDs, you know your friends all have one, so why make a big deal about it? And what a way to make someone feel like shit if no one is there to make a big deal. Or worse, there are people to make a big deal about it, but they don't. Birthdays are a veritable minefield for all involved.

It isn't any easier for those whose birthday it is not either. They often feel compelled to buy a gift or drop money on dinner or some drinks, anything to show that 'yes, I'm acknowledging today you were born by spending money on things I wouldn't normally, like 76 red balloons, one for every year you've been in my life,' or some such thing. Maybe they don't have the money, or maybe they're under a deadline and should really spend the night at home working, or maybe they just really don't like the birthday person that much, but to say so would really make things difficult as they just made the final payment on that timeshare they're splitting in the Poconos. So they suck it up, buy a bag of chips and some cologne at Walgreen's, and spend the evening staring at the clock wondering how early they can leave without looking like they don't care. I'd rather spare my friends the agony, not because I'm wholly selfless, but because if I am ever called out on re-gifting some gently worn socks and cutting out of their birthday parties hours early, I can at least say, well, I didn't make a fuss over mine, so what's the big deal?

1/22/09: recessionista, or: how i stopped worrying and learned how to love the economic downturn

2009-01-22T12:46:00.028-06:00

One of the many blessings of working in the public sector is that, in times of financial crisis such as this, the free services rendered become even hotter commodities, thus making my job even more relevant than usual. People can no longer afford to drop $25 on the new hardcover best sellers that they'll tear through in a few days and then lend to various friends and colleagues until it is inevitably lost/irreparably damaged/stolen by one of said individuals. Additionally, those New Year's resolution titles (diet books, new-age spiritual lit, anything endorsed by Oprah), those sought out with the best of intentions, but ultimately tossed to the wayside when the stark realization that only you can make yourself stop eating carbs/smoking/having alcohol-fueled sex with strangers becomes clear, well you can forget them. Even with a 30% off coupon from Borders it is hardly worth the cash, especially when you decide you'd rather lose a limb than have to give up eating carbs/smoking/having alcohol-fueled sex with strangers. So, after accepting the fact that we are all human, and thus deeply flawed, they come to the library where they can borrow for free, at least until they inevitably lose/irreparably damage/steal the book, and we hunt them down and make them pay. Anyway, this demand keeps me in a job, which is fabulous because apart from the obvious (and somewhat obnoxious, I admit it) fulfillment I get from working at something I love and feel is hugely important for civilized society, I also get paid. Then I take that check to Bloomingdales, or Nordstrom, or any of the other high-end retail outlets being hard hit by the recession, and I buy myself something nice and on sale.

There have been many purchases of this nature lately because what so many news sources are saying is largely true: now is a wonderful to be able to shop, provided that you can afford to do so, and since I have a job and am fortunate enough to be far, far, far too poor to be taken down by Bernie Madoff's ponzi scheme or any of those other Wall Street shenanigans, I can. Oh and the sales are unbelievable, just shy of pornographically indecent, really. Recent purchases include wool tights from Mark Shale at 40% off the original price, a See by Chloe bag big enough to live in (should it ever come to that) for 1/3 of the tag, and a sequined silk shift from French Connection that, okay maybe wasn't quite the deal it could have been, but was beautiful enough that I was able to look the other way. None can compare, however, to the raison d'etre of this piece: the chestnut, Frye belted harness boots.

Purchased at a fraction of their cost from the friendliest of shoe hawkers at Nordstrom (honestly, their staff is nicer to me than my own mother sometimes, which, as anyone who has ever met my mother knows, is really saying something), they've left my feet only when at the gym, in the shower, or asleep in bed. They are the perfect boot. The perfect height (mid-calf), the perfect color (a deep, rich brown), the perfect mate to the skinny jeans that, again, only leave my body when I'm doing the three aforementioned activities. These are boots that are worthy of poetry. There is not a single item in my closet or either of my dressers that would not look absolutely perfect with them, and it isn't necessarily because of the boots themselves, but the way I feel when I am in them. Although I've yet to really take the following theory to the bank, I'm quite sure that they make me about 15% better than normal at almost anything while wearing them (in fact, I bet I could finally do an 8 minute mile if I could just manage to smuggle them past the gym attendants), and that is wherein their great charm lies. They are that one perfect piece, or in this case two perfect pieces, that imbues the wearer with a sense of power. A kind of primal sense of security that only comes when we are at our most honest, our most comfortable. Everyone has something like it, and yet everyone's is different for them. Anything and everything from a t-shirt to a suit, the specific nature of the article itself is almost immaterial, although finding out what someone's favorite look is will tell you something about them, much in the same way that his or her favorite bands/foods/books will. Even those who claim to care little or not at all for fashion or clothing have a piece or several pieces that they would snatch first if they woke up to find their homes burning down. Is this materialistic? Absolutely, but materialism is not inherently wrong or evil. Rampant, runaway consumerism is an ugly, ugly thing, but carefully constructing an outward representation of who we are inside is not only human nature, it is an art. Should we be able to practice that art by taking advantage of one of the few, if not the only, perks of an unfortunate economic climate, then all the better.

And so, though I continue to be horrified by the news of both our national and global economies, it is tempered with the knowledge that what goes up must come down and inevitably go up again. People will go back to buying the books they lose from Borders, rather than the library, and I will inevitably step away from the sales counter, but when I do, I'll be wearing my boots.

1/21/09: hope is the new black

2009-01-21T08:26:00.004-06:00

I celebrated neither the traditional, Western New Year that began on January 1st of this year, nor will I the Chinese (and Vietnamese) NY on January 26th. My new year, and the new year for so many people around the world, began yesterday with the inauguration of Barack Hussein Obama as the 44th President of the United States of America.

Inspired by this opportunity for renewed hope and life, I find myself emboldened and encouraged to do something I've been contemplating for quite some time: publish my thoughts, words, ramblings, lists, photos, etc. As I move forward I find myself collecting these things like, forgive the crude simile, a dust bunny, forever accumulating more varietal scraps as it rolls around on the ground. Sometimes what it pick up is just more dust and dirt, and other times it is more precious than that, but it is all part of the same tumbleweed.

Happy New Year, everyone.