So, my op-ed for The Courant (reprinted below) is getting some good play!
Check THIS out. And THIS (even though this forum is a little wierd. But, I'll take what I can get!).
Cool, eh?
Thursday, September 18, 2008
A Published Piece
Ladies and Gents, I am officially a published author. Ok, I sent in an op-ed piece to The Hartford Courant and they decided to print it and paid me a couple of bucks. So sure, I employ a loose definition of "published". But, it is a small sort of accomplishment, of which I am quite proud. So, in the spirit of shameless self-promotion, here is the piece:
Not One Or The Other
FRESH TALK
September 17, 2008
On the night Barack Obama accepted the nomination for president from the Democratic Party, though I have a strict aversion to television news in general, I sat in my parents' living room absorbing the overwhelming emotion, excitement and patriotism of the convention.
My father flipped from station to station, taking in as much political commentary as possible. My son danced along to Stevie Wonder's "Signed, Sealed, Delivered." My mother shushed me when I dared speak over Al Gore. It was a truly American scene.
I could not help but cringe, however, each time a news anchor welcomed the audience back to the program, informing us once again what we would soon witness: Obama was about to become the "first black Democratic nominee for president of the United States." And, they said it a lot. I was shocked that all of these programs were so blatantly and unapologetically inaccurate.
Barack Obama is not black. He is not white. He is biracial.
The daughter of a black father (he would not want me to use the term "African American") and white mother, I have consistently felt the societal pressure to choose sides.
As a child I recall the lonely feeling of my yellow No.2 pencil filling in the box next to "Other" on a standardized test, long before choosing multiple races was allowed. I persevered through years of mixed-race nicknames, the feeling of never looking quite like my friends and knowing when someone I had just met was studying my face for some sort of explanation.
I have become a seasoned pro at brushing off the always inappropriate question, "What are you?"
But I have never, not once, identified with one race over the other, nor have I ever described myself in that way. To the contrary, to me, I am neither. I am biracial, a group entirely unto itself, a completely separate entity. The world may see my background as two colors combined but still individual of each other, marbleized. To me I am a wholly new hue, the product of blending of those colors into one that no longer specifically resembles either.
Referring to Sen. Obama as black not only completely ignores his maternal heritage, but is also simply an incomplete and incorrect description.
Customers would certainly be unsatisfied if, when purchasing sandpaper, they asked only for sand, or just paper. Neither of these products would solve customers' needs, because they had not described the product in its entirety.
Those same customers (hungry after a clearly frustrating shopping experience) should not order a peanut butter sandwich and then, upon its arrival, question its lack of jelly. As a consumer it is counterproductive to describe something by only half of what it is. As a journalist, it is reporting only half of the story.
On the 45th anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr.'s famed speech, and on the brink of one of the most historically significant events of the decade, I don't begrudge the media its right to use the most sensational terms in its reporting. It isn't surprising that much of the focus of Sen. Obama's nomination is on the racial boundaries he is breaking.
But as I watched the event unfold, I wished only that broadcasters had given the senator the most respectful, proper and accurate introduction. Barack Obama is the first biracial nominee for president. As a biracial American, I could not be more proud.
(In case you don't believe me, here is the article on The Courant website. It's ok, I wouldn't believe me either.
Not One Or The Other
FRESH TALK
September 17, 2008
On the night Barack Obama accepted the nomination for president from the Democratic Party, though I have a strict aversion to television news in general, I sat in my parents' living room absorbing the overwhelming emotion, excitement and patriotism of the convention.
My father flipped from station to station, taking in as much political commentary as possible. My son danced along to Stevie Wonder's "Signed, Sealed, Delivered." My mother shushed me when I dared speak over Al Gore. It was a truly American scene.
I could not help but cringe, however, each time a news anchor welcomed the audience back to the program, informing us once again what we would soon witness: Obama was about to become the "first black Democratic nominee for president of the United States." And, they said it a lot. I was shocked that all of these programs were so blatantly and unapologetically inaccurate.
Barack Obama is not black. He is not white. He is biracial.
The daughter of a black father (he would not want me to use the term "African American") and white mother, I have consistently felt the societal pressure to choose sides.
As a child I recall the lonely feeling of my yellow No.2 pencil filling in the box next to "Other" on a standardized test, long before choosing multiple races was allowed. I persevered through years of mixed-race nicknames, the feeling of never looking quite like my friends and knowing when someone I had just met was studying my face for some sort of explanation.
I have become a seasoned pro at brushing off the always inappropriate question, "What are you?"
But I have never, not once, identified with one race over the other, nor have I ever described myself in that way. To the contrary, to me, I am neither. I am biracial, a group entirely unto itself, a completely separate entity. The world may see my background as two colors combined but still individual of each other, marbleized. To me I am a wholly new hue, the product of blending of those colors into one that no longer specifically resembles either.
Referring to Sen. Obama as black not only completely ignores his maternal heritage, but is also simply an incomplete and incorrect description.
Customers would certainly be unsatisfied if, when purchasing sandpaper, they asked only for sand, or just paper. Neither of these products would solve customers' needs, because they had not described the product in its entirety.
Those same customers (hungry after a clearly frustrating shopping experience) should not order a peanut butter sandwich and then, upon its arrival, question its lack of jelly. As a consumer it is counterproductive to describe something by only half of what it is. As a journalist, it is reporting only half of the story.
On the 45th anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr.'s famed speech, and on the brink of one of the most historically significant events of the decade, I don't begrudge the media its right to use the most sensational terms in its reporting. It isn't surprising that much of the focus of Sen. Obama's nomination is on the racial boundaries he is breaking.
But as I watched the event unfold, I wished only that broadcasters had given the senator the most respectful, proper and accurate introduction. Barack Obama is the first biracial nominee for president. As a biracial American, I could not be more proud.
(In case you don't believe me, here is the article on The Courant website. It's ok, I wouldn't believe me either.
Monday, September 15, 2008
On Being Named "Rachel Frances Gary"
(Disclaimer: I have recently joined a writing workshop on "the memoir," a genre I thought would be particularly applicable in the "blog world," so I will be posting some of my work for class. Some will be workshopped, some not. This should be interesting.)
I’m pretty sure I hated my name for the majority of my adolescent life. It is not a strikingly awful name by any means, certainly not one worth hating. But it is one’s obligation to, by the age of 13, swear to abhor for all eternity anything one’s parents have ever done, said, or given them. I strictly adhered to these guidelines.
I remember being young and believing that all truly feminine first names end in “a”; Isabella, Anastasia, Ariela. The women that owned these names were tall, beautiful, and elegant. They always wore dresses. These names seemed to require something equally as lovely, if not more so, to follow; an exotic middle name, perhaps, or even more fitting, some sort of grand title:
“… Princess Duchess of the Kingdom of …,”
“… Prima Ballerina,”
“…Goddess Divine.”
I would sit on the floor of my living room and watch with envy the short, ponytailed girls of the US Women’s Gymnastics Team prance around a blue plastic mat, occasionally commenting on their lightness of foot, all the while secretly coveting their perfect names (and perfect ponytails).
I became convinced that a name like mine, one ending in a consonant, that is, described an awkward, tomboyish girl; one who all the boys wanted to ride bikes with but none yearned to kiss. The consonant cut short my name’s girlish potential, and subsequently, my own. I was sure my parents chose because, after two older sisters, my father desperately wanted me to be a boy. Or because, of course, they despised me and wanted me to live in misery. Which, at 13, I did.
I was given the first name in honor of a great-grandmother, whose picture I vividly recall. It was one of those black-and-white portrait shots, the kind in which no one is ever smiling. I always wondered why that was, deciding eventually that, in 1911, everyone was simply far more honest about life. “Shit sucks,” their expressions seemed to say, “And we’re not going to pretend that it doesn’t.” I looked at my namesake, a woman with a large round torso and hair pulled into a loose bun, her very serious husband standing tall and thin next to her, wearing a very serious mustache, and two very serious boys on her lap, and I felt a closeness to her. “Shit does suck,” I thought. “I know exactly how you feel.” I was clearly still 13.
It was not until the late 1990s, when a television show about six twenty-somethings in New York City grew hugely popular, that society forced me to reevaluate the implications of my name. The “Rachel” on the show was girly, funny, and sexy (but not overtly so). She was stylish, cool; so cool, in fact, that her revolutionary haircut would long remain her eponymous contribution to the era. Women everywhere went into salons asking for “The Rachel.” She was cute, and everyone knew her. Perhaps, I began to think, my name would not curse me to a life of endless social rejection and solitude after all, as I had previously believed. I hated my parents a little less, then.
They were not absolved, however, due to the severe un-coolness of my middle name. “Frances” is not a princess, or a ballerina. She’s not even a gymnast. Frances is the weird, bookish girl with glasses and mussed hair in the 5th grade. Frances is an old woman living in Florida, with big front teeth and a loud, Long Island accent; with stiff, teased white hair and ugly, pale, pastel plastic furniture. I had a great-aunt Frances. So, I knew.
This most horrendous choice of a name was surely concrete evidence of my parents’ plan to render me socially disabled, right? Yes, and I harbored great resentment until college, where seven girls in a class of thirteen had the middle name Marie. I felt original and anti-establishment to own a middle name that was not Marie, but whose true identity I refused to reveal. It gave me an aura of mystery, I thought. I thought it made me interesting.
I was named as such after a grandfather, Frank, on my father’s side and whom I have never met, though a black-and-white picture of him sits in my parents’ formal living room. He also looks quite serious though I suspect that, as an air force pilot circa 1932, this was somewhat required. Why couldn’t you have been named Paul, or George or…Lindsey?” I’d demand of the handsome photo, using the only attractive unisex name I could conjure. He did not respond.
And, as if matters could not get any worse, my last name is also a first name. Oh, the humiliation! The embarrassment! I’m not sure how or when the first-name-as-last-name phenomenon became the most tortuous of existences to inherit, but there was certainly no doubt in my mind that it was. Last names should be plain, unimportant, forgettable, I believed. Occupations as last names worked well in my mind: A friend’s sister was named Rachel Taylor. I thought this flowed quite nicely. Colors as last names were equally acceptable: black, white, green. When my own was quite often mistaken for “Gray,” I never corrected it. I lamented that I would have to marry a man with a great last name… Kennedy would do, or Rockefeller. I wasn’t horribly picky, and alliterations in names seemed to be typically ok, and even cute. I’d need a stage name, of course, were I to become a famous actress; no first-last named girl could ever make it in Hollywood. Perhaps I’d get rid of it altogether. Madonna had no last name, I’d reason. Neither did Princess Di.
I have recently come to terms with all of my names; even forgiven my parents their transgressions, especially once I learned that I was almost named Heather (dodged a bullet there!). I’ve even learned to embrace its dorky nature, as I now rather enjoy my own internal dorkiness. I’ve even met a boy with a more unfortunate name than my own, and we remain blissfully in love despite the high unlikelihood that either of us would ever find happiness, being named as we are. And as he sleeps next to me at night and I lie awake, I sometimes giggle quietly to myself about his moniker misfortune, and revel in that it is even more severe than my own. Poor, poor Darren.
I’m pretty sure I hated my name for the majority of my adolescent life. It is not a strikingly awful name by any means, certainly not one worth hating. But it is one’s obligation to, by the age of 13, swear to abhor for all eternity anything one’s parents have ever done, said, or given them. I strictly adhered to these guidelines.
I remember being young and believing that all truly feminine first names end in “a”; Isabella, Anastasia, Ariela. The women that owned these names were tall, beautiful, and elegant. They always wore dresses. These names seemed to require something equally as lovely, if not more so, to follow; an exotic middle name, perhaps, or even more fitting, some sort of grand title:
“… Princess Duchess of the Kingdom of …,”
“… Prima Ballerina,”
“…Goddess Divine.”
I would sit on the floor of my living room and watch with envy the short, ponytailed girls of the US Women’s Gymnastics Team prance around a blue plastic mat, occasionally commenting on their lightness of foot, all the while secretly coveting their perfect names (and perfect ponytails).
I became convinced that a name like mine, one ending in a consonant, that is, described an awkward, tomboyish girl; one who all the boys wanted to ride bikes with but none yearned to kiss. The consonant cut short my name’s girlish potential, and subsequently, my own. I was sure my parents chose because, after two older sisters, my father desperately wanted me to be a boy. Or because, of course, they despised me and wanted me to live in misery. Which, at 13, I did.
I was given the first name in honor of a great-grandmother, whose picture I vividly recall. It was one of those black-and-white portrait shots, the kind in which no one is ever smiling. I always wondered why that was, deciding eventually that, in 1911, everyone was simply far more honest about life. “Shit sucks,” their expressions seemed to say, “And we’re not going to pretend that it doesn’t.” I looked at my namesake, a woman with a large round torso and hair pulled into a loose bun, her very serious husband standing tall and thin next to her, wearing a very serious mustache, and two very serious boys on her lap, and I felt a closeness to her. “Shit does suck,” I thought. “I know exactly how you feel.” I was clearly still 13.
It was not until the late 1990s, when a television show about six twenty-somethings in New York City grew hugely popular, that society forced me to reevaluate the implications of my name. The “Rachel” on the show was girly, funny, and sexy (but not overtly so). She was stylish, cool; so cool, in fact, that her revolutionary haircut would long remain her eponymous contribution to the era. Women everywhere went into salons asking for “The Rachel.” She was cute, and everyone knew her. Perhaps, I began to think, my name would not curse me to a life of endless social rejection and solitude after all, as I had previously believed. I hated my parents a little less, then.
They were not absolved, however, due to the severe un-coolness of my middle name. “Frances” is not a princess, or a ballerina. She’s not even a gymnast. Frances is the weird, bookish girl with glasses and mussed hair in the 5th grade. Frances is an old woman living in Florida, with big front teeth and a loud, Long Island accent; with stiff, teased white hair and ugly, pale, pastel plastic furniture. I had a great-aunt Frances. So, I knew.
This most horrendous choice of a name was surely concrete evidence of my parents’ plan to render me socially disabled, right? Yes, and I harbored great resentment until college, where seven girls in a class of thirteen had the middle name Marie. I felt original and anti-establishment to own a middle name that was not Marie, but whose true identity I refused to reveal. It gave me an aura of mystery, I thought. I thought it made me interesting.
I was named as such after a grandfather, Frank, on my father’s side and whom I have never met, though a black-and-white picture of him sits in my parents’ formal living room. He also looks quite serious though I suspect that, as an air force pilot circa 1932, this was somewhat required. Why couldn’t you have been named Paul, or George or…Lindsey?” I’d demand of the handsome photo, using the only attractive unisex name I could conjure. He did not respond.
And, as if matters could not get any worse, my last name is also a first name. Oh, the humiliation! The embarrassment! I’m not sure how or when the first-name-as-last-name phenomenon became the most tortuous of existences to inherit, but there was certainly no doubt in my mind that it was. Last names should be plain, unimportant, forgettable, I believed. Occupations as last names worked well in my mind: A friend’s sister was named Rachel Taylor. I thought this flowed quite nicely. Colors as last names were equally acceptable: black, white, green. When my own was quite often mistaken for “Gray,” I never corrected it. I lamented that I would have to marry a man with a great last name… Kennedy would do, or Rockefeller. I wasn’t horribly picky, and alliterations in names seemed to be typically ok, and even cute. I’d need a stage name, of course, were I to become a famous actress; no first-last named girl could ever make it in Hollywood. Perhaps I’d get rid of it altogether. Madonna had no last name, I’d reason. Neither did Princess Di.
I have recently come to terms with all of my names; even forgiven my parents their transgressions, especially once I learned that I was almost named Heather (dodged a bullet there!). I’ve even learned to embrace its dorky nature, as I now rather enjoy my own internal dorkiness. I’ve even met a boy with a more unfortunate name than my own, and we remain blissfully in love despite the high unlikelihood that either of us would ever find happiness, being named as we are. And as he sleeps next to me at night and I lie awake, I sometimes giggle quietly to myself about his moniker misfortune, and revel in that it is even more severe than my own. Poor, poor Darren.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Weekend Away and a Kitchen Worth Cooking For
The boyfriend and I spent the weekend at the home of a friend so that he could enjoy some guy time ( a.k.a. video game zombie-ness) and I could enjoy the relaxing atmosphere of not being in our own home. So I sat by the pool in the sun listening to Frou Frou on the iPod and read Cooking Light magazine and munched popcorn all day Sunday, while the boyfriend and friends blew up other virtual dorks somewhere far enough away that I did not have to hear the bomb explosions and yells of “Ohhh, yah Tim yaaa!” ...which was just lovely. I also looked after the newest addition to our family, a praying mantis the boyfriend oh-so-excitedly caught and whom I like to call The Bugster. He lives in a washed-out plastic carwash jug with a couple handfuls of grass, 2 good-sized sticks and about a half-dozen other little buggies that are constantly frightened out of their minds while awaiting their inevitable devouring. I would imagine it is a little like being locked in a cell with Hannibal Lecter. A hot, plastic cell. With green shag carpeting. But, I digress.
The most satisfying and entertaining part of the weekend was, whith out a doubt, the kitchen. The house is huge, modern, and extremely well furnished...best of which is the kitchen. Living in the cramped apartment quarters that we do, the boyfriend and I (well, mostly I) hardly have enough counter space to house our few appliances, leaving little left over for any type of food prep. When concurrently occupying the space, we constantly step on each others toes or almost stab each other with random utensils (I only ACT like it’s an accident. Kidding.) And so, I always breathe a deep, deep breath when I enter Dave’s kitchen. Granite countertops line the longest wall and the huge island. A flattop convection stove sits neatly encased in the counter and, though I prefer the cook on an open flame and can never figure out exactly how to turn the damn thing on, it sure makes for easy clean up. Maple cabinets are filled with every container one can possibly imagine: plastic bowls, ceramic bowls, glass bowls of all shapes and sizes, cast iron pans and stainless steel pots and non-stick griddles, bundt pans and cupcake pans and spring form pans. Zesters and graters and a Kitchenaid standing mixer that I salivate about in my dreams. A coffee machine, and espresso machine, a double oven and so much, much more. It is the kitchen I have sex in, in my wildest fantasy. And so, when we visit, all I want to do is cook.
And cook I did. Saturday night felt like oatmeal-coconut cookies (some with chocolate chips, most without. I was vitoed on the chocolate chips). Sunday morning felt like lemon muffins with a lemon-zest glaze, and egg sandwiches. Of course, it being a bachelor’s home, the pickings in the refrigerator are slim to say the least. But, I make do. And soon I will learn to grocery shop on the way. But no matter what comes out of that kitchen, it is the experience of cooking with it that is truly worth it. And as I lounged by the pool and nibbled on what was probably my tenth lemon muffin (they were quite yummy), and the tiny kabooms of virtual hand grenades exploded somewhere in the distance, and the boyfriend was happy, and I was happy, it was a very perfect Sunday.
The most satisfying and entertaining part of the weekend was, whith out a doubt, the kitchen. The house is huge, modern, and extremely well furnished...best of which is the kitchen. Living in the cramped apartment quarters that we do, the boyfriend and I (well, mostly I) hardly have enough counter space to house our few appliances, leaving little left over for any type of food prep. When concurrently occupying the space, we constantly step on each others toes or almost stab each other with random utensils (I only ACT like it’s an accident. Kidding.) And so, I always breathe a deep, deep breath when I enter Dave’s kitchen. Granite countertops line the longest wall and the huge island. A flattop convection stove sits neatly encased in the counter and, though I prefer the cook on an open flame and can never figure out exactly how to turn the damn thing on, it sure makes for easy clean up. Maple cabinets are filled with every container one can possibly imagine: plastic bowls, ceramic bowls, glass bowls of all shapes and sizes, cast iron pans and stainless steel pots and non-stick griddles, bundt pans and cupcake pans and spring form pans. Zesters and graters and a Kitchenaid standing mixer that I salivate about in my dreams. A coffee machine, and espresso machine, a double oven and so much, much more. It is the kitchen I have sex in, in my wildest fantasy. And so, when we visit, all I want to do is cook.
And cook I did. Saturday night felt like oatmeal-coconut cookies (some with chocolate chips, most without. I was vitoed on the chocolate chips). Sunday morning felt like lemon muffins with a lemon-zest glaze, and egg sandwiches. Of course, it being a bachelor’s home, the pickings in the refrigerator are slim to say the least. But, I make do. And soon I will learn to grocery shop on the way. But no matter what comes out of that kitchen, it is the experience of cooking with it that is truly worth it. And as I lounged by the pool and nibbled on what was probably my tenth lemon muffin (they were quite yummy), and the tiny kabooms of virtual hand grenades exploded somewhere in the distance, and the boyfriend was happy, and I was happy, it was a very perfect Sunday.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
On Memorial Day
Memorial Day brought relaxation and pure enjoyment, all day long. And folks, in my life, this is a rarity. A typical free day equates to loads of laundry, grocery shopping, house cleaning and errand running. Holidays always equal cooking, cooking, cooking. However, after having worked 71 hours over the course of 4 days, I figured I deserved a break (I did, trust me). So the boyfriend and I treated ourselves to breakfast at our favorite (crazily overpriced and extremely slow) café, Brew Bakers. A Main Street, Middletown fixture (never been to Main Street, Middletown? Shocker.), Brew Bakers offers delicious and inventive salads and sandwiches, freshly-baked bagels and perfectly-brewed, exotic-flavored coffees. Brew Bakers has however, since its inception, suffered the poor reputation of incredibly slow service. I mean, SLOW. Recently purchased and placed under new management, I was hopeful this would soon change. Alas, the new owner of the establishment is a thin, manic, foreign woman with short dark hair and a heavy accent, and who bypasses the customer number system currently in place in favor of what she deems a much more efficient one: frantically running through the restaurant, asking anyone sitting down without food if they are waiting on the order she is holding in her hands. Usually customers of the take-out variety, the boyfriend and I often sit at the café counter waiting for our order and watch this display with much enjoyment…the slow service of the café, at the very least, comes with entertainment to pass the time. And so, we again found ourselves on a gorgeous Monday morning (I use the term “morning” loosely, unless you are one of the many who woke up at 12:30 p.m. as well) at a black wrought iron table under the bright purple awning on Main Street as the owner burst through the front doors depsperately searching for the orderers of a Tuscany Omelet Sandwich on a cheddar bagel (the boyfriend), and a Veggie Bomb Omelet Wrap (moi). I sipped a fantastic Coconut Iced Coffee and we shared a fruit salad, and it was a bright, warm afternoon, and it was just lovely.
We then hopped in the car for a ride over to our favorite hiking spot, and when we finally scaled our way to the top (The boyfriend scaled. I mostly crawled/scrambled.) he pulled two towels from his black backpack, and we lay on the warm rocks at the summit and sipped cool water, and looked over central Connecticut, green and lush and quiet, and the food filled our bellies and sun warmed our faces and our spirits. It was a moment that made me grateful for so many things, so many more than I have time to mention, and some I prefer to keep to myself. But I very much hope that they know that I am grateful for them.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
The Return of the Sandwich
The PB&J is back. Recently banished, they have made their way back into my life over the past week after a few long talks, some good crying (a lot on my end, a little on his) some new promises, a 5-page long email (didn’t know sandwiches could type, eh?) and a genuinely hopeful feeling. But let me be clear: that which I have allowed to return will not be the same as that which I once blindly enjoyed. No longer assembled as the typical closed sandwich, contents hidden from view, it is now presenting itself to me open-faced: two pieces of bread, one covered in peanut butter, the other with jelly, sticky surfaces fully exposed. In this formation, the sandwich reveals more to me than simply its innocently soft, chewy outer-shell and protective crusty barriers. In this formation, it is leaving visible its insides and flaws, the possible chunk of fruit in a smooth, bright red square, or crumbs littering an otherwise creamy peanut butter surface. This way it leaves itself vulnerable to the possibility of a lifetime of pure enjoyment, or the potential for destruction… a finger, greedily and thoughtlessly jamming itself through the sandwiches very core, removing the very basis of its gooey deliciousness, licking it away and forgetting it, leaving it inedible and disposable.
But in this formation, the sandwich is showing me that it trusts in my love for and protection of it. It believes that I will guard its soft center with all of my being and will never ever be that destructive force that once, so long ago, stuck a finger in and tore it apart. I may be a fool, too hungry to reject the sandwich's offerings that sound too yummy to be true. But for now, the sandwich that I love is giving itself to me entirely and openly, without inhibition, and I would be even more of a fool not to accept it.
(If this post made absolutely no sense to you, read my first-ever post: An Introduction and a Sandwich.)
But in this formation, the sandwich is showing me that it trusts in my love for and protection of it. It believes that I will guard its soft center with all of my being and will never ever be that destructive force that once, so long ago, stuck a finger in and tore it apart. I may be a fool, too hungry to reject the sandwich's offerings that sound too yummy to be true. But for now, the sandwich that I love is giving itself to me entirely and openly, without inhibition, and I would be even more of a fool not to accept it.
(If this post made absolutely no sense to you, read my first-ever post: An Introduction and a Sandwich.)
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Loss and Comforting Cookies
I ate a whole lot of Bolero Hazelnut cookies last night. A fairly unknown brand, these delicate, crispy wafers in the shape of even -rolled cigars filled with a smooth chocolate hazelnut cream are my absolute favorites. Strangely, they come in a cylindrical package that I have only ever seen in the Marshalls gift department, and only sporadically at that. Perhaps the only purpose created for this cookie was a host offering for a dinner party? An office holiday present? I'm not sure, but it is a travesty that these cookies are not more widely available. I am only in posession of mine as a Mother's Day present from my own mom (who can somehow always track down a can). I tingle when I taste them.
Apparently, however, I misuse these cookies. Obviously meant as a symbol of enjoyment and pleasure, I ate too many of these cookies last night because the boyfriend is no more. Yup, it's all over. I will spare you the gross details, but sadly there will be no reconciliation.
Apparently, however, I misuse these cookies. Obviously meant as a symbol of enjoyment and pleasure, I ate too many of these cookies last night because the boyfriend is no more. Yup, it's all over. I will spare you the gross details, but sadly there will be no reconciliation.
Do not fret, faithful readers (she said, wishfully). If anything, the boyfriend only hindered my culinary adventerousness. I am now free to nosh on calamari (even the tentacles) without inducing feigned up-chuck motions across the table, and treat myself to my favorite spicy noodles at my favorite Chinese-fusion restaurant (The boyfriend claimed all chinese food is too greasy. Psh. Why else would we want to eat it?).
I will miss, however, the pb&js (see my first-ever post: An Introduction and a Sandwich for an explanation). Very, very much. Of course, it is not just the sandwiches that I will miss. I guess most folks you meet in life that change it in someway come with those dishes you will always associate them with, and sometimes cry when you eat.
Luckily, though my cookies are my only comfort in this sad time, the person they remind me of is my mom. And there is no greater comfort in the world than that.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
A Welcome Visitor and A Good Feeling
I have been exercising willpower lately. Willpower is perhaps my weakest muscle, and I have recently taken to weight-training it. Many, many reps, several sets a day. At a light weight though, of course: I don’t want to build bulk. Long, lean willpower is what I am after.
My willpower has notoriously failed me in the past, consistently, and only when I need it the most. Not when I shouldn’t grab a single Hershey kiss out of the (evil and eternally filled) office candy basket. No, I am always strong enough to deny myself those 20 extra calories I can probably afford and the soothing effect the familiar milk chocolate can have on my most stressful of days. My willpower is lazy, and considers that a huge achievement. It is only when I am faced with a real, death-defying challenge, that my willpower runs and cowers in the corner like a puppy. It is when I am my hungriest, and find myself sitting at a restaurant table skimming through a menu of delicious-yet-sinful choices. Suddenly, I look around, and my willpower is nowhere to be found. The loveliest, fried, savory words jump from the pages and linger in the space between my upper lip and nose, and my taste buds and stomach become cohorts in convincing me that I can all but smell them. “Calamari!” my stomach cries. “Fried Zucchini!” “Fettucini Alfredo!” My willpower says nothing. A wrestling match inevitably ensues, in which my brain tries desperately to force my mischievous stomach into submission. The stomach absolutely always wins because, of course, the brain only functions at 10 percent of its capability (WHO decided brains were allowed to be the slacker organ?). Then, to my horror, the mouth, a helpless peon to the stomach, rambles off to a waiter a laundry list of terrible things I should not consume, which I, of course, will. As soon as they are placed in front of me. In their entireties.
What follows this display is an even more horrific one, I am afraid, as my brain and I spend the next 24 hours beating ourselves up for letting the stomach…well… beat us up (I try to comfort the brain, though it tends to be extremely emotional). The sadness is followed by denial (“Those french fries couldn’t have been that fatty. They were so skinny!”) and then anger (“Stupid stomach!”) and blame (“It was’s fault for ordering burritos first!”). And so goes the cycle of mourning ones willpower.
But lately, lately my willpower has felt less helpless. A few nights ago, out with a friend at an Italian-American restaurant with good food and terrible service, my stomach eyed a deliciously-described dish of seared scallops over almond and cauliflower gnocchi, in a brown butter and white wine sauce, and the battle began. And yet, when my mouth began to order, it was my brain speaking through it. “Spinach salad with grilled shrimp, please,” it said. No one was more shocked than the brain, who later confided that it had only won the fight with the aid of my suddenly appearing willpower. “Willpower?” I asked incredulously, “Where did HE come from?” My brain simply shrugged.
My willpower has shown its strength with increasingly frequency in the days since. In line at the movie theater concession counter, as the boyfriend ordered a humungo (that’s a technical term) popcorn with plenty of butter, and my stomach greedily anticipated our finding seats and subsequently snatching the entire bucket from his hands, my mouth ordered me a soft pretzel (which was, by the way, fantastic) and a diet coke. My brain, willpower and I thoroughly enjoyed the movie guilt-free, while I assume my stomach (though full and satisfied) sulked like a 6 year-old.
What is spawning this sudden spike in logic? Perhaps it is the onset of summer-like weather. Maybe it is my recently implemented exercise regime. I don’t know, nor do I care. What I do know is this: My confidence likes the willpower very much, and it is welcome to stay as long as it likes.
My willpower has notoriously failed me in the past, consistently, and only when I need it the most. Not when I shouldn’t grab a single Hershey kiss out of the (evil and eternally filled) office candy basket. No, I am always strong enough to deny myself those 20 extra calories I can probably afford and the soothing effect the familiar milk chocolate can have on my most stressful of days. My willpower is lazy, and considers that a huge achievement. It is only when I am faced with a real, death-defying challenge, that my willpower runs and cowers in the corner like a puppy. It is when I am my hungriest, and find myself sitting at a restaurant table skimming through a menu of delicious-yet-sinful choices. Suddenly, I look around, and my willpower is nowhere to be found. The loveliest, fried, savory words jump from the pages and linger in the space between my upper lip and nose, and my taste buds and stomach become cohorts in convincing me that I can all but smell them. “Calamari!” my stomach cries. “Fried Zucchini!” “Fettucini Alfredo!” My willpower says nothing. A wrestling match inevitably ensues, in which my brain tries desperately to force my mischievous stomach into submission. The stomach absolutely always wins because, of course, the brain only functions at 10 percent of its capability (WHO decided brains were allowed to be the slacker organ?). Then, to my horror, the mouth, a helpless peon to the stomach, rambles off to a waiter a laundry list of terrible things I should not consume, which I, of course, will. As soon as they are placed in front of me. In their entireties.
What follows this display is an even more horrific one, I am afraid, as my brain and I spend the next 24 hours beating ourselves up for letting the stomach…well… beat us up (I try to comfort the brain, though it tends to be extremely emotional). The sadness is followed by denial (“Those french fries couldn’t have been that fatty. They were so skinny!”) and then anger (“Stupid stomach!”) and blame (“It was
But lately, lately my willpower has felt less helpless. A few nights ago, out with a friend at an Italian-American restaurant with good food and terrible service, my stomach eyed a deliciously-described dish of seared scallops over almond and cauliflower gnocchi, in a brown butter and white wine sauce, and the battle began. And yet, when my mouth began to order, it was my brain speaking through it. “Spinach salad with grilled shrimp, please,” it said. No one was more shocked than the brain, who later confided that it had only won the fight with the aid of my suddenly appearing willpower. “Willpower?” I asked incredulously, “Where did HE come from?” My brain simply shrugged.
My willpower has shown its strength with increasingly frequency in the days since. In line at the movie theater concession counter, as the boyfriend ordered a humungo (that’s a technical term) popcorn with plenty of butter, and my stomach greedily anticipated our finding seats and subsequently snatching the entire bucket from his hands, my mouth ordered me a soft pretzel (which was, by the way, fantastic) and a diet coke. My brain, willpower and I thoroughly enjoyed the movie guilt-free, while I assume my stomach (though full and satisfied) sulked like a 6 year-old.
What is spawning this sudden spike in logic? Perhaps it is the onset of summer-like weather. Maybe it is my recently implemented exercise regime. I don’t know, nor do I care. What I do know is this: My confidence likes the willpower very much, and it is welcome to stay as long as it likes.
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