March 2013
It normally gives me great joy to see Adam Levine without a shirt on, unless he happens to be revealing the fact that he totally shaved his chest hair off and resembles a plucked chicken now. Men: stop the merciless razor. It doesn’t look good. Even if you’re Adam Levine. Especially if you’re Adam Levine. If you don’t believe me, check him out with a little more fur, and a lot less clothing.
I don’t know what it says about me that I devoured ‘The Dinner’ by Herman Koch in one day, so enjoyably enthralling did I find it and its deeply-flawed protagonist, but I do know it was a sensation of a novel. It’s been a while since a book captured my attention so completely – not since Jacob Tomsky’s ‘Heads in Beds’ probably – and there’s something about that rush of exhilaration that no other art form – not photography, painting, or even music – can approach, at least for me. Perhaps because in reading, and imagining, we invest a little more into the appreciation of the work.
I’ll pass this one around to a few people, because I’m interested in getting their take on it. Books like this – with their rather dark subject matter and questionably-immoral narrators – are rarely beloved. For that reason alone, I have a spot spot in my heart for them. The fact that honesty, and unflinching bluntness, play a part in the narrative, is a confrontation from which I’ve never shied away. I’ll take a challenge over a sentimental pussy walk any day.
With the time change and the shift in weather, this may be the week we finally turn the corner. I would like nothing more than to say farewell to this winter, the sooner the better. And while we won’t technically be there for a couple of weeks, I’m planning for the arrival of spring. First, however, a quick look back at this last hum-drum week:
It’s not often that I look back at old photo albums. That can be a very dangerous thing to do. I’m fortunate in that, for all my many failings, living in the past is not one of them. Yet every once in a  while I’ll crack open a blast from the seemingly-distant past, and I’ll chuckle at the many foibles and stumbles I’ve made over the years. The beauty of life – and, more especially, time – is that it is the greatest instructor. Mostly of what not to do. (And what not to wear. Ever again.)
In 1997, however, I was embroiled in ‘The Royal Rainbow Tour’ and its none-so-subtle-and-cringeworthy subtitle ‘Alan Is King!’ – and don’t you dare omit the exclamation point. The photos here were taken on one of the plentiful Ithaca stops, where – thanks to Suzie – I met a great group of friends, to whom I remain close to this very day.
As for my outfit, and this is where a certain distance comes in handy (I was a different person then, I swear…) I was on tour. I wanted to be golden, I wanted to be sparkly, I wanted to be a genie manifested to grant your every wish. And for that brief moment of time – in that sensational sliver of youth – I believed I was.
While at the movies the other day, I noticed a nifty way of getting around those ridiculously exorbitant popcorn prices. Since Andy doesn’t eat popcorn (he’s a Candy Man), it would be fruitless for us to put such a plan into employ, but the next time I’m in a group, it might be worth a shot. There was a trio to our left: a woman and her daughter, and a guy who appeared, by all indications of his over-the-top and overbearing attempts to be funny and loud and gregarious, to be dating the woman and trying out for the role of fun step-father (but only ended up looking foolish, boorish, and idiotic). They had a large popcorn (the size that gets you free refills) and a tray with something else on it (nachos maybe? Who on earth orders nachos at the movies?) He removed the nachos or whatever other foul item that was there, and poured the bulk of his popcorn into the tray. He then went back out to the lobby and refilled it before the movie started. I thought it was an anomaly, until it happened again.
The family to our right, an interracial couple with three kids (and these kids were gorgeous, especially the oldest girl – the magic of an Asian father and a Caucasian mother) also had a large popcorn, then proceeded to produce several large plastic ziplock bags. The father filled the bags with popcorn, and each kid got one of their own. He then went out to get the bucket filled for him and his wife.
Is this what we’re doing now? Is this the only way to combat the ever-rising price of popcorn at the movies? Because I’m game. The only problem is I can barely finish a medium popcorn, much less a large – and much less two large buckets of the stuff. This is the stuff of group enterprises.
By the way, I’ve often wondered this with those free refills: let’s say you finish your large popcorn by the end of the movie – can you then get a refill on the way out? And if so, how come you never see people leaving the theater with full buckets of popcorn? I mean, even if you don’t want to eat it then and there, people will take free shit they don’t need or would ever use simply because it’s free. Just a thought for a Sunday morning.
To counteract my dismal dahl doings (and combat a few days of the dreadful BRAT diet), this is a successful kitchen creation story with a super happy ending. While laid up with the nasty stomach flu, I tortured myself by watching the Food Network and seeing all the things I couldn’t eat. (It’s a little thing I do.) On ‘The Barefoot Contessa’ (is she even a real Contessa? What is a real Contessa anyway?) Ina was having some of her favorite chefs give out the recipes for what they liked to cook after a day of hard work at their respective restaurants – so these were supposed to be good, but relatively quick and easy. Chef Julia Turschen explained her Kimchi fried rice dish that looked so good, and simple, I knew I’d have to try it as soon as my stomach allowed.
Here is the recipe – it worked so well you just need to follow it word for word:
Heat 3 tablespoons of olive oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium heat. Add the onion, garlic and a pinch of salt. Cook, stirring now and then, until the onions begin to soften and just begin to brown, about 10 minutes. Turn the heat to high and add the kimchi and cook for 2 or 3 minutes until it begins to crisp on the edges. Add the soy sauce and rice and stir thoroughly to combine. Cook until the rice is warmed through and beginning to brown, about 5 minutes. Transfer the rice to a warm, shallow bowl and set aside.
Wipe the skillet clean with a paper towel and add 2 tablespoons of olive oil to the pan and return it to the stove set over high heat. Crack the egg into the skillet, sprinkle it with a pinch of salt and immediately cover the pan with a lid. Cook until the egg white is cooked through and the yolk is barely set. Slip a spatula underneath the egg and transfer it on top of the rice. Scatter the scallion over the dish and sprinkle with the chili powder. Eat immediately, being sure to break the yolk and let is act like a sauce over the rice.
I doubled the recipe (if I’m going to invest the time and effort into cooking something, it better damn well feed more than one person at one sitting), and went a little heavier on the rice (about three cups, cooked) because I wasn’t sure how much heat I could take (kimchi is no joke). It was said by the chef that kimchi totally changes once it is cooked – and this proved true. When it first hit the pan, I wasn’t sure. That initial aroma is intense, and some might find it off-putting, but after a few minutes it transforms into pure goodness, and by the time the rice is added it all comes together in almost-miraculous alchemy.
The double dose of fried egg was killer – and this dish is all about that fried egg topper. (I sent the recipe to Suzie, who tried it before I could, what with a working intestinal track and all, and she agreed that it was the egg that sent it spinning.) I used cayenne pepper for the Korean chili powder and it seemed to work just as well, if a little less coarse. Don’t skip out on the scallions either – they’re much more than a simple garnish here. All in all, this is one supreme recipe that even Andy enjoyed. (And he’s not easy to please.)
I’ve always been a fan of drag shows. The fact that a few select gentlemen have the courage and balls (no matter how well-hidden) to put on a dress, paint their face, and go out to put on a show as a lady will always thrill, impress, and fill me with pride. When you throw Madonna into that equation, it’s practically a religiously-orgasmic experience. Such will be the case tonight when Rocks presents ‘The Madonna Show’ at 7 PM.
It’s actually been a while since Andy and I have been to a drag show, too long in fact. But if there’s anything that will get us back into the swing of things, it’s Madonna. The fact that two stellar performers are putting it on – Duchess Ivanna and Penny Larceny – makes it all the more special. Both ladies are nothing short of fierce – and they know how to put on a proper show. (And considering that I’ve been house-bound for the better part of two weeks, I am ready to get out and partay!)
Don’t just stand there, let’s get to it.
Everyone said dahl would be an easy recipe – and it was. The problem may be that I just don’t like it. Some might joke that I don’t know my way around the kitchen – and if you’re talking about making pancakes from scratch without the aid of something like Bisquick, you’re right. (And, okay, I occasionally forget that the stove-top is on until the smoke alarm goes off, and some things have unintentionally burned – NEVER food though, just pans or cork trivets or plastic ladels). But for most everything else, I’m pretty damn serviceable. If you’ve graduated from high school, you should be able to follow a recipe. (Those are always my famous last words before a cooking disaster.)
Sometimes though, either the recipe is off, or mistakes are made, or a lack of professional training comes in as far as flavoring and tasting goes. I’m going to blame the recipe this time. I wanted to make a simple dahl. I got the recipe online (which is always going to be a crap-shoot no matter how many stars or reviewers have glowingly rated it) and I liked it because it did away with the coconut milk.
Which brings to mind a question for FUSSYLittleBLOG: is coconut milk a dairy product? I’m guessing no, as it comes from a plant source, not a mammal, but does that mean it doesn’t have any lactose in it? I believe the lactose is the issue for me, so I avoided it just in case. However, that may have proved fatal to this recipe.
I obtained the necessary ingredients from the Asian Supermarket. We had most of the spices on hand, with the exception of cardamom, but we don’t have a supply of red lentils. I rinsed them off, assembled and cooked the onion and garlic, then added the water and other ingredients. It looked and smelled like it was coming together nicely. I brought it to a boil, then turned it down to low and covered it, allowing it to simmer for 45 minutes or so. When I returned, the lentils had softened and expanded, and the soup had turned wonderfully rich and thick.
But here’s where I’m a bad cook, and my amateurishness would be blasted by anyone of those scary chefs on the Food Network: I don’t taste until the end. The reason being is that, apart from salt and pepper and possibly sugar, I wouldn’t know what else to add or change to rectify things. I’m not Julia Fucking Child.
In this case, the taste was just off. Well, maybe not off so much as unimpressive. It reminded me a little bit, in its blandness, of the mung bean dish that I used to try, and hate, at family dinners. Maybe that’s what dahl tastes like, but with all the spices involved (coriander, cardamom, turmeric, cumin, cayenne, cinnamon, and fresh ginger) I expected more. At that point, I could have added a ton of salt and pepper, but that always seems like cheating to me. If a recipe’s no good without having to add a shitload of salt to it, then the recipe’s no good. This one was bland, and bad.
Never one to dismiss anything before it’s plated up properly, I poured the dahl over some rice. It looked good. It looked hearty. It looked like how I wanted it to look. Unfortunately, it still tasted the same. If anything, it was more disappointing because the appearance was so at odds with the lack of flavor. I was bummed. Andy was kind and blamed it on the recipe. I chalked it to up to a failure not quite on a par with pancakes from scratch, but a waste nonetheless. However, my next cooking adventure would prove far more successful…
… but not as awful as the more atrocious reviews and commentary would have one believe. ‘Oz – The Great and Powerful’ – a new telling of ‘The Wizard of Oz’ story focusing on the Wizard and how he came to be ‘The Wizard’ as well as how the witches related before Dorothy arrived – was actually a visually-arresting, but not entirely spellbinding event movie. I have yet to see a Sam Raimi film I loved enough to see again (not even the oft-lauded ‘Spiderman’) and this was par for that plodding course.
I’d say at least 45 minutes could have been judiciously excised (there is no need for munchkins to sing except in the original film version – their song and dance routine stopped this movie completely for me) and as much as I love Mila Kunis, (spoilerish bit straight ahead…), she did not translate well to the Wicked Witch of the West. As integral and indelible as that character has become (thanks to the movie, the musical, and Gregory Maguire’s masterful novel ‘Wicked’), the Disney version is just that – too Disney and white-washed, when what we need is a green terror.
The screechy, cackling, and fire-ball-hurling temper was wholly lacking in any tangible bit of the terrifying, perhaps because of the nearly-humanless CGI-heavy form she inhabits after her transformation. It’s an odd choice, given that the story tips on the ingenuity and resourcefulness of humans and our ability to conjure illusions so convincingly. Raimi would have done better to take note of his own lesson.
As it stands, it’s a nice, if slow at-times, re-imagining of that well-tread yellow-brick road, even if it ultimately rings hollow. But nice, as Stephen Sondheim once noted, is different than good.
It may seem strange to some, but I don’t eat meat on Fridays during Lent. My last bit of Catholic-raised guilt finds a home here, and it’s difficult to explain since I’ve been rather vocal about my issues with the Catholic church – particularly under the homophobic regime of the don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-on-
In a way, it’s my own show of love for God – no matter how trivial or trifling. Not unlike giving something up for Lent, it’s an act to mark this time of year in the Catholic calendar. It doesn’t mean I subscribe to the dogma or the hate in any way. At its heart, it’s the one ritualistic remnant of faith I’ve retained – a largely inconsequential covenant that is more of a reminder of the story of Jesus – a story rife with love and forgiveness – two things we could all use – and two things that have always proven difficult for me to master. Whether or not one wants to believe in the big JC, there are valuable lessons to be learned from his story, and God knows I need them more than most.
For a few weeks at the end of Winter, when my faith and sanity are usually tested the most, I give up meat on Fridays. It just makes me more aware of things – the time of year, the state of my life, the condition of my spirit – and how can something like that be wrong? Andy rolls his eyes before diving into his ham sandwich, and I’m intelligent enough to understand there may be more than a little bit of superstition involved in my actions, but sometimes the heart over-rules the head, and a lifetime of tradition is tough to break.
Because at the technical tail-end of Winter, you do what you gotta do to survive – in this case, re-living summer glory, remembering sunny days, and re-visiting shameless shots. Bare with me until this season closes its doors. (I’m told we’re getting snow.)
I haven’t seen my friend Kira since late 2012 – which seems an eternity for someone whom I so adore. Her mother has been visiting family in Panama, so Kira has been bound to her house in Attleboro, watching the kids and holding things down on the home-front. As admirable as all that is, I missed our Boston visits. Then again, she was in Florida for ten years, so I can’t complain that selfishly. We’re gearing up for a reunion of sorts, to start off the spring season in Boston in a couple of weeks, and I’m in the planning stages of what to do.
A few highlights of our times together that always make me smile:
– A late-night dinner of Peking duck in Chinatown, followed by a walk through the Boston Public Garden (and a pose beneath an enormous Chionanthus tree in full fragrant bloom)
– A pre-holiday walk through Downtown Crossing, looking at the Christmas decorations and picking up Tibetan mittens
– A virgin taste of raw oysters on the half-shell at the Parker House, which soon became one of our favorite things to share
– A condo-stocking whirlwind shopping spree at Wal-Mart and Target to prep the place for JoAnn’s 40th Birthday party (and making all the trips up the condo stairs to bring the stuff in)
– A pre-party walk through the South End, on a sunny day in April, capped by another oyster stop
– A night-time talk backed by Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter
– And the traditional cup of tea in the morning before we say good-bye, before hitting Boston for a few final hours together, stretching the time as long as we can.
I can’t wait to make some new memories, and perhaps revisit a few old ones. It’s okay to do that with another person. There is nothing more comforting than the company of an old friend. Especially in Boston.
In those days, did I know, then? Did I know what was to come, how it would all unfold, how it was futile to worry about what could not be changed? Of course not. How could anyone? A vague sense of worry or unease came with every thunderstorm, a gnawing, nagging bit of fear with every front. Yet after the storms always came the sudden sun, sometimes unexpectedly, and always welcome, and we rejoiced in it. How I wish I’d known then how easy it would be, at least as far as the things I worried about. There would be heartache more real and damaging than anything imagined at that point.
But we did not know that then.
As a gift for Andy in honor of a recent rescue mission, I picked out a bouquet of light pink hyacinths, on the verge of blooming. They’ve lasted for over a week, stretching and filling the family room with their pungent fragrance, always verging just short of cloying, and in close proximity perhaps surpassing such a point. They’re more than welcome at this dire time of the year, especially with some more snow on the horizon, and sometimes just the slightest whiff of a spring bloom makes all the difference. Incidentally, out of all the new Tom Ford Jardin Noir collection of Private Blends, the selection I was most enamored of was the Hyacinth-based one – Ombre de Hyacinth. As a rule, I’m not a fan of floral frags, but this one spoke to me because of my fondness for Spring, and the happy correlation to one of its most delicious scents.
My pal Parley pointed out that today marks the anniversary of the death of Patsy Cline, a favorite around these parts (and the closest I’ll get to appreciating country music, I’m afraid). Ms. Cline sang of heartache and heartbreak better than just about anyone else – it’s there in her words, there in her voice, there in the longing expressed by her heart. Certain singers have an intrinsic loneliness to their work – Judy Garland, Annie Lennox, and even Madonna (listen to ‘I Want You‘ or ‘You’ll See‘ – hell, the whole ‘Something to Remember’ album) – and I tend to gravitate toward them because of it. Not that they haven’t had a lot of love or romance in their lives, but because they somehow felt the heartbreak more acutely, or at least managed to translate that pain into song. A sad torch song or a bluesy siren’s cry will always trump a dance-pop tune for me, especially at night. I’m melancholy that way, even if laughing with friends beats crying with lovers.
