Love In My Tummy

I owe you people a food post. Seriously. My hard drive is overflowing with photographic documentation of culinary fabulosity, and I simply haven't had the time to share it with you.

And I certainly haven't got time to share it all now, so today will be a tribute to my new favourite food blog: Our Best Bites.

I found these lovely ladies the other day after following a link to their fabulously inventive Single Serving Pie in a Jar, which you can bet your arse I'll be trying as soon as I have time, and the funds to buy the jars.

In the mean time, I've been salivating over every recipe in their archive, and in the last two days I've tried two of them.

First up... Chicken Pot Pie
(Follow links for the recipes)

Since I am only feeding one person, I decided to make individual serving pies instead of one large pie.  I halved the recipe, which still made enough filling for one slightly larger pie in my new (and utterly beloved) Williams Sonoma soup bowls, and three smaller pies in disposable mini pie tins, perfect for the freezer!

I shredded up a half rotisserie chicken from my grocery store (a bargain at $2.99!) and thawed some frozen mixed veggies by dumping them into a ziplock bag and floating it in hot water in my bathroom sink.  I made Homemade Cream of Chicken Soup, which was admittedly bland when I followed the recipe. It tasted more like flour than anything else, but that may have been the cheap chicken broth stocked by my grocery store. I added about another half cup of broth and a ton of extra seasonings (probably about doubled the amount in the recipe, as well as added some sage and thyme) and that made it better. Will definitely try a different broth next time.

My only deviation from the recipe as written was to add a few cloves of minced garlic when I sauteed the onions in butter.  In my world, garlic would be its own food group.

I threw everything into a bowl (including the diced and boiled red potatoes that I didn't take photos of previously because, hey, they're potatoes), topped with the soup, and mixed it all up.  Easy peasy.

Now, I was going to give a little tutorial on making pie crusts in here, but a.) I'm not exactly a master crust maker, and b.) my camera battery was dying so I had to snap photos quickly and they all came out blurry.  So.  No pie crust tutorial.  I'll just note that I use the trusty recipe from Better Homes and Gardens, substituting butter for half of the shortening.  Works great.

Right. Onward.

I filled the incredibly-awesome-handled-soup-bowl and the three mini pie tins with the pot pie mixture, then topped them each with pie crust.

That's "P," for "Pie."

What can I say?  I like to have fun with my vents :)  These three were each wrapped in plastic wrap, then in foil, and stuck in the freezer for future consumption.

While the "P" pie was in the oven, baking at 400 degrees for approx 45 minutes, I took the little bit of leftover pie crust and performed a little bit of magic that is a Froggy Family Tradition.

Roll out the leftover crust dough, dot with butter, and douse in cinnamon and sugar.

Squeeze together at center and roll up ends.  Sorry about the blurry photo, it was the only one I got of this step.

Bake for 15-20 minutes until you have a sweet-centered, flaky treat!

Now, back to the pie...

Beautiful!  (Seriously, how awesome is that bowl??!)

Nice and golden.  Bon Apetite!

So, you ask... how was it?

Pretty darned good.  It suffered a little from the blandness of the Cream of Chicken soup, but for the most part it was very tasty and hit the spot.  I can't wait to see how the three in the freezer cook up!


And now, the second recipe, which is mercifully (for both of us) not nearly so photo-heavy, as I didn't take any prep photos.


Thai Peanut Noodles

We can add this to the list of Foods I Love That Would Kill My Mother (who is crazy allergic to peanuts, and almost every other legume on the planet). These are mentioned repeatedly throughout posts on the blog, so I thought they had to be worth checking out. They are also fairly cheap (unless your grocery store gouges you on the cost of Udon noodles like mine does) and quick to make.

They are also freaking divinely delicious. I am going to be making these a lot. I can tell.

(There's that bowl again!)

I cannot wait to see what the leftovers taste like cold later tonight. And I wonder why I'm still single.

And there you have it. My show is over and I've been off work for the past three days. Aside from watching almost two complete seasons of Doctor Who (oh David Tennant, I want to marry you), this is how I've spent my time.

On a scale of 1 to Productive... I'd say that counts as an 8.

On Loss

If I were to venture a guess, I would say that Bruce has been a fixture in my life for about 15 years. Not the chandelier that dominates the entryway and catches your attention each time you pass. More like the simple vase that sits unobtrusively in the corner; present, but never drawing attention to itself.

He was my grandmother's second husband, filling the gap in her life left after she and my grandfather separated. They reconnected at their 50th high school reunion, fell in love, and got married. I see him once a year, when the family gathers for Christmas; the man who gives ridiculous yet oddly practical Christmas gifts (lint brushes and fried-egg-shapers and rechargeable LED tea lights) and tells stories that for all intents and purposes should be interesting, but are somehow rendered inert by the placidity of his demeanor.

This evening, as I was getting ready for my show, my mother called to let me know that he had passed away.

He was diagnosed with prostate cancer last year, but in one of the ironic twists life likes to throw at us, it was a heart attack that took him.

I was conflicted when I heard the news because in a sense I was... relieved. I knew from the tone of my mother's voice that someone was gone, and of anyone it could have been, this was the one to cause me, personally, the least amount of grief.

I realized this evening that, for everything he was to my grandmother, my relationship with Bruce never amounted to love. More like a friendly acquaintance. I never thought of him as a grandfather--though considering my relationship to the man he replaced, that moniker would have been more of an insult than an expression of respect--he was simply my grandmother's husband.

My greatest sorrow is for her loss, the man she loved and with whom she shared a home, a life, and a family for the past 15 or more years. He was a good man, he took care of her and loved her, he was good to our family and gave my grandmother the love and stability she absolutely deserved after life had dealt her a bitter hand with her first husband, my grandfather. I am, of course, sad that he is gone--but my grief is not what one feels at the loss of a family member... and I am not entirely certain how to deal with that.

I mean no disrespect to the man himself, and I worry that somehow my lack of personal grief does just that. It is only that, when it comes right down to it, I never really knew him. I know his stories of serving with the Red Cross in occupied Germany after WWII. I know his restless energy that, even as his body began to fail him, drove him to stand instead of sit, to shovel the driveway even when younger men were ready and willing, and to keep a part time job for years after his supposed retirement, because idleness would have driven him crazy. But on the interpersonal level, our relationship amounted to a few scattered conversations among the mayhem of the family holiday gathering, once a year.

Tomorrow I will call my grandmother and attempt to convey my sympathy for her loss, though in truth I haven't the faintest idea of what to say. I know that in situations such as these there is really nothing one can say, but I'd feel a little better if I could at least think of something. I hope that what I have to offer--an "I love you, and my thoughts are with you"--will suffice.

I have no finite ideas of what, if anything, happens after this life, if indeed anything does. But I would like to say this to Bruce: Thank you for making my grandmother happy, for being a solid presence in her life, and giving her the love and the happiness that she deserved. For what it is worth, and in what way I can offer it, you will be missed.

Indeed...

I've concluded that I am pretty much over The Model.

I came to this conclusion when he texted to wish me a Happy Valentine's Day... on Saturday.

On Sunday (you know, when it was actually Valentine's Day) I decided to be gracious and write back to say Thank You (since, you know, I'm sure that's what I was supposed to do). A few text messages followed, and he told me to call him after my show. I said that I was probably going out with the cast afterwards, and he said "okay, get drunk and then call me."

I didn't get drunk. I went home, made some popcorn, put on my pajamas, and watched TV.

And had no desire to call him.

So I didn't.

Whatever spark there was when we first met has clearly been extinguished, at least on my end. I'm pretty sure we'll both survive. I know I will. The bottom line is that I think he is intrigued by me because I am unlike the other girls he's dated... yet he still wants/needs/expects me to behave like those other girls, which I am neither capable nor desirous of doing.

Which is precisely what I'll tell him if he calls me out on the fact that I am making no effort to get in contact with him; but I won't be initiating any sort of heart-to-heart on the subject. After all of one date, I don't think I exactly owe him any grand explanations... do you?

While we're on the subject, I did briefly meet another gentleman who sparked my interest, despite his sporting an ever-so-slightly-rodent-like mustache. He's got a bit of an Alessandro Nivola vibe going on, which can't possibly be a bad thing. Granted, I don't know if I'll ever see the guy again, but I certainly hope so. He's doing something (not sure what) at the theatre where my show is performing, so the possibility is definitely there.

For the time being, however, I've got more than enough on my plate to keep me occupied. It would take a lot to grab and maintain my attention in the midst of everything else that's going on--and on that count The Model, it seems, has failed to deliver.

I know...

... that it's perfectly ridiculous to be jealous that a man who lives 4,000 miles away has a crush on some other girl.

Which doesn't change the fact that I absolutely am.

Lord I have issues...

Muffled

Sure, it plays hell with transportation, after a day or so it turns disgusting and grey, and the black ice is positively brutal, but still... in those first few hours, I have to admit...

That I absolutely love New York City in the snow.

(The camera on my new phone, it must be said, is also deserving of a little love.)

No cars on Broadway? In the middle of the day?! "Snowmageddon" indeed!

This could, theoretically, be a euphemism for the city as a whole.

The temptation to run in and make a snow angel almost got the better of me... until I remembered that neither my coat, nor my jeans, were waterproof.

It's like the entrance to an underground ice fortress...

Those are going to be positively DEADLY when they are frozen solid. Must remember to tread carefully today.


I'm not sure how much snow fell in total, but it was enough to keep the opening night audience for my show to a minimum, which--considering that it was the first time that we'd actually done the show without stopping, with all light and sound cues, and a (still not quite) finished set--wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It went better than expected, but felt more like an invited dress rehearsal than an opening night. Here's hoping tonight kicks it up a notch.

As to The Model, I haven't heard anything from him since our date, and I realize that, aside from disinterestedly wondering if he'll ever call me again, I don't really think about him all that much. Sure he's attractive, and there is some chemistry, but something just seems a little... off. He puts me on the defensive in a way that I can't quite name, and seems to want or expect me to behave in a way that, well, just isn't me.

Case in point, according to him, my response of "Well I'm free as a bird on Saturday" to his saying he'd missed me was "demanding," and the "proper response" would have been "thank you, I missed you too." Ummmm... hi, I'd met you once. I find it difficult to "miss" someone that I don't actually know. Also, I'm not a parrot. If someone says something nice to me, I don't automatically repeat it back to him, and expecting me to do so seems decidedly self-serving.

So... I don't know. I suppose I haven't entirely written him off. A rocky start is not grounds for immediate dismissal. But by the same token, I am not sitting by the phone anxiously wondering when/if I'll hear from him again, nor do I feel particularly compelled to pursue him myself.

My enthusiasm, like the city under this blanket of snow, has gradually been muffled.

Just to Let You Know...

The Model eventually responded to my text with a reply that I did not find at all satisfying, so I chose to ignore him and take a nap instead.

Then he called, so I answered, and he asked me to go on a "proper date," so I agreed--with the stipulation that I have a big day tomorrow and couldn't be out late. We went out and had a glass of wine and a (ridiculously good) cheese plate. I enjoyed his company. When communicating face to face, versus via electronic media, he does not appear to be playing games, so.... we'll see.

I don't know what, if anything, will come of this. But I'm willing to stick it out a little longer and see.

The Plot Thickens... No, Thins... No-- Oh F*** It.

My phone was on vibrate this morning, so I did not hear it ring. I received the following paraphrased voicemail from The Model.

Hey, I just figured out that this was your number. If I'd known it was you, I would have called you back. I was just looking at these texts from last week and thinking "Who is this random girl demanding dinner?"

Ummm...

A. I demanded nothing. That was probably meant to sound cute, but missed the mark by a foot or more.

B. He has called me, and actually responded to the first text I sent last week by saying he'd been "missing me"... Does he respond that way to every text he gets from an apparently unknown number?

I sent him a text from rehearsal this morning to ask how he'd managed to lose my number after the above incidents, but--shockingly!--did not get a response. I called him later when I got back to my neighborhood after rehearsal and got his voicemail.

Methinks I smell one hell of a game being played here.

The jury is still out at the moment, because, yes, he is good-looking enough for me to consider giving him a shot at redemption if he ever actually fucking calls me... but I have a feeling that, thanks to those good looks, he's used to not having to work too hard (or at all) to maintain a girl's attention, and that sort of shit absolutely will not fly in my house.

One thing is for certain... if he's looking to lower my defenses, he's certainly going about it the wrong way.

Pieces

I overthink things.

We all know this. It is easily one of my defining (and I hope, to some, endearing) personality traits.

It is also a fucking curse.

After the night we met, the Hot Guy from Yale (who I will now dub "The Model," because, well, he's a model) sort of dropped off my radar... but not completely. He friended me on Facebook the very night we met (something that DM and I never did in the 2+ months we knew each other), and magically called me (which I missed, resulting in a voicemail) within a few days.

However, when I mentioned I was free for a particular stretch of time in my busy schedule--and subsequently informed him that that was, in fact, a none-too-subtle hint--I heard nothing.

And more nothing.

Then, this morning, I was poking around on the internet before heading off to work and he popped up on Facebook Chat. A paraphrase of his message follows:

I think you should know that I've thought about you every day since we met.

Not like an hour a day.

Maybe cumulatively 75 seconds.

But what I mean to say is that I miss you.

He then proceeded to tell me to call him later and he would take me out this weekend.

I called on my break from work and got his voicemail, leaving him one of my signature rambling messages.

I heard nothing.

When I left work I sent him a text (it was late) to let him know that, should he still desire my company, I am free on Saturday but in rehearsal all day on Sunday.

I've still heard nothing.

It feels like such a fucking tease.

And what really gets me is, that day we met and spent a 2 hour train ride together, he completely called me out on my defenses. I can't say he saw right through them, but he saw that they were there. Now, those defenses have taken a lifetime to build and are absolutely not going to come tumbling down at a moment's notice simply because a charming and attractive man has asked nicely... but I can't say I wasn't affected by his frankness in calling me out in the first place.

But then there's this game of cat-and-mouse that we seem to be playing that I absolutely do not want to play, and which, incidentally, is the reason I have fucking defenses in the first place!

Perhaps it's not a game. Perhaps we're just two busy individuals. But I am not going to go chasing his ass across Manhattan in the hopes that maybe he'll finally, actually, ask me out on a proper date. You may be thinking that, hey, this is the 21st Century, and really, if I want to see him I should just ask him out myself. But this I patently refuse to do, for the simple reason that one of the few requirements on a my fairly short list is that any man I date actually be interested enough in spending time with me that he be willing to make some fucking plans. I have been the pursuer far too often and it generally ends in my being rejected and/or embarrassed, neither of which is an experience that I am anxiously seeking to repeat.

Any man who can't man up and ask me out is clearly not a man I want to be dating in the first place. And no matter how much you try to convince me that you're not every other man I've ever dated, you'll never be the first one to say the things you're saying... and here I am. Still single.

Of course I do realize that the one common factor in my frustrating history is, of course, me...

This evening I was watching the most recent episode of Grey's Anatomy--which, I admit, has been floundering a bit for the past few seasons--when a particular moment hit me square in the chest with how solidly it reflected my own life. Sandra Oh's character, Christina, was talking about a previous relationship in which she had let a man slowly and quietly take away small pieces of her until she was no longer herself; and now, with a new man, now that she was finally herself again, she wanted to be damned sure she never let pieces be taken away from her again.

I had that too. It was a long time ago, and I was young, but the effects have stayed with me for more than 10 years. I let myself be changed and warped from the independent, self-confident young woman that I was into a needy, dependent, self-loathing... nothing. It's taken years and lots of bad decisions, but I feel like I finally have myself back. Perhaps not the same self, but a self that I like, love even, and I am reluctant to let anybody into my life who might try to chip away at the life and the self I've built.

It speaks to my own damaged psyche that I automatically expect every man I meet to want a piece (or more) of me like that first one did... and I'm working on it. But any man who doesn't have the patience, or doesn't see enough in me, to gradually overcome my defenses, isn't a man who should be in my life in the first place.

Which begs the question... how long will it take me to determine if The Model can be trusted... and will he give me an opportunity to find out?

The Aftermath

So, my MFA auditions were last weekend.

On the plus side, I now know for certain that rejection can't kill me.

First up was NYU, and from the moment I entered the waiting area, I was fairly certain that this was not the place I wanted to be. It was essentially the foyer of a small office, crammed with two dozen folding chairs, each of which contained a bundle of nerves that once upon a time had been a person. I was feeling fairly calm when I arrived, but that level of tension is highly contagious and I was soon feeling the effects. To top it all off, while the person ahead of you is in the audition room, they stick you in a tiny little room by yourself, ostensibly to warm up... but mostly it just gives you a solid four minutes to walk around in a circle and wonder what the hell you've gotten yourself into.

My audition was okay. I fumbled in a few places, but nothing atrocious. I did not receive a preliminary callback at the end of the hour, but based on the vibes I was receiving from everyone else in the holding pen, these were not people with whom I had any desire to spend the next 3 years, so I chalked it up to experience and moved on.

The next day was Yale, which was the day to NYU's night. People were relaxed. The holding areas were warm-up rooms where you could move around and get focused, and--gasp!--people were actually talking to one another! Aside from the fact that the building was absolutely FREEZING, prompting me to wear my wool scarf like a toga in an effort to get my core temperature back into the normal range, the environment was ideal.

My audition went, I thought, as well as it possibly could have. I corrected the mistakes I had made the previous day, and even elicited a chuckle from the auditor at the end of my comedic piece. Alas, once again I did not receive a preliminary callback. Indeed, of the 17 people in my group, only four received callbacks, and they were all men. I guess the quota of women for the day had already been filled.

So... it looks like my hopes of heading to New Haven next Fall have been quite decidedly dashed. Now I look to my PhD programs, and potentially to some MFA programs overseas, which have much later application deadlines. Indeed, I was doing a little research last night and the school in England that I attended for a year of Undergrad, and whose PhD program I adore, also has a 2 year MFA that has decidedly piqued my interest, which means I will have to choose with path I would prefer to pursue there. Decisions, decisions...

There is, however, one decided up-side to my not getting a callback at Yale, which is that the ridiculously attractive guy that I met while waiting to be seen didn't get one either, which allowed us to go out and get a drink, and ride the Metro North back to the city together.

Now, as a rule I generally don't date actors, as often the only thing they are capable of talking about is theatre, and their own triumphs and failures therein. As one of my fellow cast members so aptly put it: "Sex, religion, and theatre. That's about all we're good for."

Likewise, I generally don't date men who are prettier than I am. It gives me a bit of a complex.

That being said... for an actor who's also been through law school, and possesses a sixpack and cheekbones that could cut glass? I just might be prepared to make an exception...

Stay tuned.

The Opposite.

The grad school apps are all in, minus one hard-copy letter of recommendation which may or may not be on its way to me as we speak, and which I'd prefer not to discuss any further lest my head explode;

I've chosen my pieces for my auditions, and have them memorized;

I've submitted my limited-due-to-rehearsal availability to my boss, and she hasn't killed me;

And, oh yeah, I turned 30 last Friday.

So anyway...

I am having a serious actor's dilemma right now, and I'm going to vent to you about it. I know you all aren't actors (or, at least, those of you that I know aren't--lurking thespians, now would be an excellent time to come out of the closet, so to speak), but I'm sure there is some way this situation could compare to one that occurs off-stage, so hear me out.

We've started rehearsing for the show I'm doing in February, and for the most part I am delighted with this particular cast. They're funny, they're friendly, and best of all, they are fucking talented. It's awesome.

With one small problem.

There is a TON--I mean scads, loads, heaps, pailfuls--of sexual subtext in this play.

That's not the problem.

The problem, is that the man toward whom all of my closeted Victorian lust is supposed to be directed... is one to whom I am not in the least bit attracted. At all. Even slightly.

More to the point: he actually creeps me out a little.

He's nearly twice my age--due to my being cast in a role that even my aged 30-year-old-self is a bit too young for--and for whatever inexplicable reason, my body just wants to... recoil... whenever he comes near.

Now yes, I am aware that this is why it's called "Acting," but dear god! How am I supposed to drum up even a semblance of lust when my instincts are screaming at me to run the other way?!

I feel a little guilty even talking about it, even though none of you know who he is--very few of you even know who *I* am--as he is, I'm sure, a very nice man, and I don't mean this to be a diatribe against him as an individual, it's just...

Sometimes there's chemistry... and sometimes... there's the opposite.

This is most definitely the opposite.

I am so fucked.

First Lesson of the New Year:

Champagne and Vodka don't mix.

Actually, I already knew this, but apparently I forgot... leading to some extreme drunkenness on my part, the first UDI of the New Year, and the sneaking suspicion that my co-workers are going to make fun of me at work tomorrow.

On the plus side of life, I've submitted my application to Columbia! The downside of this is that I'm still short one letter of recommendation, even though my professor agreed to write it back in OCTOBER and I've reminded him at least a dozen times since then. Meanwhile the professor that I didn't ask until the middle of December managed to get hers in on time, so unless he's dead or in a coma, there is no reasonable excuse for his not having done it. Also, it makes me look bad.

Now I just need to finish up my CUNY application, select/memorize/rehearse my monologues for my MFA auditions... and rehearse for a play.

No, I'm not busy. Not busy at all...

New Decade, Same Frog

Greetings and Salutations Campers, and welcome to the New Year!

In true Froggy fashion, I kicked off 2010 by getting naked with a guy I'd just met. It seemed the only logical thing to do, really, being that I'm fairly certain we were the only two straight guests at the party. I do, however, wish that I could remember his name... I think I do, but I'm not certain. Not that it matters if I don't, because he lives on the opposite side of the country and my chances of ever seeing him again are slim to none.

The drama-free nature of the year's first indiscretion fully makes up for the debacle of New Year's Eve several years ago, when all of my friends knew that the guy I was flirting with was crazy, and for some reason opted not to warn me, thus leading to THE most painfully uncomfortable morning-after EVER. They did, however, tease me ruthlessly for some time afterward. Nice of them, really.

My only regret is that I smoked a few cigarettes, which I haven't done in months, and I can feel it this morning. Lungs = not happy.

So, while I don't necessarily believe that what happens on New Year's Eve sets the tone for the whole year, at least I've started off on good footing. What can I say? I do learn from my mistakes... I just choose to repeat the fun ones :)

Happy New Year y'all! What sort of trouble did you get into?

Jiggity Jig

Is it wrong that I want to have lunch at Panera tomorrow for the sole purpose of scoping out my ex boyfriend, and potentially making him very uncomfortable?

Okay, okay, maybe it's not the sole reason... I am rather fond of their bread bowls.

I just got back from the Best Friend's house, where I watched the Sex and the City movie with her and her remarkably acquiescent husband (who had his ACL replaced today and was therefore doped up on percoset). In the course of providing me with all the local gossip, she mentioned that my First Love served her coffee at Panera yesterday, where he is the manager, and skeezily hits on all the teenaged girls who work there.

It seems that my stellar taste in men stretches all the way back to the tender age of 13. Hooray for me!

Doesn't stop me from wanting to go check him out. What can I say? I'm a glutton for punishment.

The holiday has been lovely, if a bit of a whirlwind. It seems as if I've spent more time in transit than I have in any one place, and tomorrow evening it's back to the big city to work a double on Wed, and then I'm off again through January 3rd. I'm hoping that on at least one of those days, I get to sleep in.

Two of my four grad school applications have been submitted and my MFA auditions are scheduled. I've finally unearthed my writing sample for the PhD applications, which needs to be re-typed, as well as another contender that needs a little work, but if I have time, I may spruce it up and submit it instead. I'm also waiting on two letters of recommendation, which has me more than a little edgy as the deadlines are fast approaching and I can only send so many reminder emails before my head explodes. Contemplating combing the Baltimore newspapers to see if one of my recommenders has died or is in a coma or something, which are the only reasonable excuses I can think of for agreeing to write a letter back in September, and not yet having done so.

At least I survived the GRE and my scores, it has to be said, are stellar. 740 Verbal, 730 Math, and a 5 in Analytical Writing (which, okay, could have been better, but I'll live), just in case you were wondering...

I've also been cast in a play which will be rehearsing throughout January, in addition to getting ready for my MFA auditions, and figuring out how to rearrange my work schedule around all of the above so that I can still make enough money to pay my rent. I will hopefully be worked into an egg donation cycle early in the month, which will take care of my financial concerns, but seeing as I've been waiting since September, that can hardly be counted on...

In other words, life is about to get intensely crazy... but at least it will be interesting.

Happy Holidays y'all!

Eleven

I am playing a very dangerous game. Or, if not dangerous, just very, very foolish. I've been spending far too much time thinking about someone whom I certainly should not be thinking about, especially considering that said someone is 4000 miles away and likely to stay there.

Confused?

Me too.

The English Ex and I have been talking a lot lately, or IM'ing rather, and amid the usual sexual banter that colours our conversations--I did invite him to come visit me for New Years for the sole purpose of getting laid--there is an undercurrent of... something.

It's trying to figure out that something that is getting me into trouble.

Because that something is probably nothing, or else just very little. Two lonely people who once fancied each other feeding each other's bruised egos via the internet. On the other hand, it feels strangely familiar, like an echo of those days many years ago when he and I were both trying to figure out how we felt about each other, without letting on that there was anything to figure out. The main difference being that, all those years ago, we were on the same bloody continent.

But how many times can a man jokingly ask "Why aren't we married?" without there being just the tiniest thread of a something lurking beneath the surface?

You see, I can live with a tiny thread of something. Sure, in the end a tiny thread will come to nothing, just as all of this will, most likely, come to nothing. But a tiny thread would at least mean that it's not all of my own invention. That the something really is something, as opposed to wishful thinking.

I hope you're not annoyed with my egregious use of the word "something," but really, I have no other word for it.

Gah. What good can ever come of flirting continuously with an Ex who lives on the other side of an ocean? And even though I know the answer to this question is "none," why can't I seem to stop?

The other day I asked the folks on Twitter, "On a scale of 1-10, just how stupid is it to invite an Ex to travel 4000 miles for a dirty weekend? And will that stop me?"

Although I received not a single response, I can answer without a doubt...

Eleven.

And not a chance.

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried...

Last night as I returned home around 12:30am (my usual arrival time after work--I am rapidly becoming completely nocturnal) I was understandably surprised to discover that the entire sidewalk in front of my building was blanketed with broken glass. Much more than could come from a busted car window, or even a busted store window. It was as if a glass factory had exploded overhead, and its shattered entrails were now crunching beneath my feet as I made my way warily toward the entrance. The path leading to the front door was similarly strewn with glittering detritus, though here it had been swept up against the walls, like so many leaves in a gutter.

The door to the building was open. I entered, checking my mail as if all of this were a completely pedestrian state in which to find my home, then turned to discover that the floor, and the stairs leading up to my side of the building, were soaking wet.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs to scrape broken glass from the bottom of my boots and glanced up at two men standing outside the first apartment.

"So, er... what happened?" I asked casually.

"Fire, on the third floor."

"Um... what?"

I made my way up the stairs, sloshing in water and wondering what I would find on the third floor.

Not much, as it turned out, other than the Super talking to another man, and a smell much like a recently doused camp fire.

I made my way up another flight and on the fourth floor I found what I was looking for: Information, courtesy of the posse of fellow tenants gathered there.

Apparently, there was a 2 alarm blaze on the east side of the third floor, at least three fire chiefs had been through to check it out, and the entire building was without running water because the firemen had hit a pipe somewhere.

Peachy.

After chatting over the drama with the people who'd actually been in the building, I made my way up to my own apartment... to find my front door missing a considerable chunk of paint where it had been pried open--for whatever reason I could not then say--and held slightly ajar by a crappy old umbrella that had fallen from its perch inside and lodged there.

Fearfully, I opened the door, but nothing appeared out of place (or any more out of place than it had previously been, my apartment being a bit of a wreck at the moment) and my cat was, thank goodness, still inside.

I closed the door, checked the level in my Brita pitcher, and got ready for bed. Then it occurred to me that it would be a good idea to check and make sure I could still lock my door, rather than discover a broken lock in the morning when I tried to leave for work.

This was, I must say, the best idea I've had in a long time, because lo and behold when I went to open the door to test the lock... nothing happened.

And by nothing I mean... NOTHING. The knob would not budge. I was, effectively, locked in my apartment.

I immediately called the Super, who assured me that "a guy was going around checking all the doors" and would help me.

Two hours later I gave up, emailed my boss with a heads up that I would most likely be late for work, and went to bed amidst the sounds of hammering and shattering glass coming from below, where god knows who was doing god knows what in the wake of the inferno.

This morning I woke up and called the Super once again.

"Hi, It's Froggy in [Apt Number] again. I'm still locked inside. I need to go to work. Could someone please help me?"

"Oh, oh, yeah. You're locked out?"

"No. I'm locked in."

"You need me to bring you a key?"

"No. No. A key will not help. The fire department broke my door and I am stuck INSIDE my apartment. As in, I cannot get out. I am trapped."

"Oh. Oh! Okay, I'll be right there."

Shortly thereafter he arrived and managed to break my door open, whereupon he disassembled the entire knob/lock mechanism and proceeded to fuck around with it while the increasingly potent smell of day-after-fire wafted through the open doorway and into my apartment, saturating everything, while I amused myself with an entirely-inappropriate-for-reproduction IM conversation with The English Ex (which was, without a doubt, the highlight of my fucking day).

The knob was only half attached and not even remotely functional when an electrician arrived downstairs and the Super left, promising he'd be back soon.

Forty-five minutes later (and already half an hour late for work, nevermind the 45 minute travel time and the fact that I still had no running water and would therefore have to wash my face and apply make-up once I got there), I called him again to remind him that I was still without a functional front door, at which time he finally returned, with another man in tow, and between the two of them they managed to rig my door so that I can at least lock it behind me, but the result is that the entire assembly still needs to be replaced.

I thanked them, raced out the door to work, my bag laden with toiletries, and finally made it through the door 1 1/2 hours late, and 5 minutes before we opened.

Good. Freakin'. Grief.

Oh, and did I mention that, throughout the entire morning ordeal, the lack of water ALSO meant a complete lack of what might be an even more vital necessity? I am referring, of course, to COFFEE.

Now, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I am incredibly thankful that it was not my apartment that caught fire, that aside from a pervasive scent of doused camp fire, my belongings are not damaged, and that my cat did not escape during the ensuing mayhem during which I was not present, but still, I can't help but ask...

Seriously Universe? SERIOUSLY??

I think I need a vacation from my life.

Etc.

First things first: Sorry, but I've re-enabled verification words for commenting. After "Anonymous" left what appeared to be an advertisement for Cialis on one of the better posts I've written (which, I might add, has exactly NOTHING to do with erectile dysfunction), I've decided it was a necessary precaution.

Not that I've been writing much lately. Then again, I haven't been doing much of anything lately, aside from work, sleep, and studying for the GRE.

My restaurant was written up in the NY Times a few weeks ago, and for two weeks after the place was an absolute zoo. While it was stressful at the time, my wallet was grateful--particularly now that business is slowing down again. It's not as dead as it was before, but doing the math on tips from this week versus the past two weeks shows that the paycheck is about to drop off again. Significantly. Sigh. Oh you far-off dreams of financial solvency... never, it seems, to be reached in this lifetime...

Other than work, grad school applications and GREs--and occassionally catching up on my DVR--consume the remainder of my conscious hours. Such a thrilling life I lead, no?

Thanksgiving is right around the corner and it looks like I'll be stuck working a double on Wednesday AND Friday, though thankfully we're closed on the holiday itself. I'll probably be heading over to the Lovely A's house to hang out with her and her boyfriend--I'm sorry, fiance, *grin*--who seems to be under the impression that he can cook a turkey in a crock pot. I'll be bringing pie. Then I'll head to PA over the weekend for a belated celebration with the parents, who are kind enough to postpone their own festivities to accomodate my crappy work schedule--one of the perks of being an only child.

I take the GRE on December 2nd (less than two weeks away, and my Math score still needs a boost of at *least* 60 points! ACK!!), after which my primary source(s) of stress will be preparing material for my MFA auditions, digging up my writing sample for my PhD applications (which, of course, only exists in hard copy and is buried somewhere in my apartment) and re-typing it, wondering how the hell I'm going to pay for all of these applications, and writing four Personal Statements distinctly tailored to each of the four programs to which I am applying.

So. In case you were wondering why I've been MIA lately, this is why.

Think if I ask Santa for more hours in the day, he'd help me out?

In the mean time, go read the post linked above and reminisce with me about the days when I actually had the time and mental capacity to write something significant. I'll be right there with you.

Boo!

I need a break from reality.  Sadly, the minor respite afforded by one of my favourite holidays did not last long enough to alleviate the current tedium of daily life.

Halloween has come and gone, and while the festivities were significantly tamer than in years past, I still enjoyed myself.

I went to the Halloween Parade for the first time, and despite the heavens' repeated attempts to drench us, it was still pretty rockin'.

It should be noted, however, that arriving obscenely early is crucial if you want to get a decent vantage point from which to observe. We had managed to station ourselves, despite a late arrival, on a high curb that afforded us a decent view over the heads of those in front of us... until the umbrellas went up.

I was, of course, appropriately attired.

Which may explain how, later, I inexplicably found myself walking in the parade as my friends and I struggled to find an open subway entrance.

Shortly (relatively speaking) thereafter, I found myself in the Bronx, where the World Series had significantly overshadowed the holiday at hand--unjustly, in my opinion. I mean, the Series goes on for seven nights, whereas Halloween only gets one! In such an instance of unequal time-sharing, one would think that the holiday at hand would take precedence. However, just try talking rationally to a Yankee fan. Go on, I'll wait here.

...

A fruitless endeavor, no?

Eventually fatigue and baseball overload, not to mention having my mid-section cinched in by a steel-boned corset, took their toll, and after narrowly avoiding smacking the idiot mentioned in my previous post, I took a taxi home and promptly passed the hell out.

Happy Halloween!

Pop Quiz

It's Halloween and you are in a bar, hitting on a girl in an elaborate costume. You ask for her number. She declines. You,

a.) shrug it off and continue making polite conversation, hoping to change her mind with your natural charms;

b.) go find someone less resistant, and more drunk, to hit on;

c.) start talking about how much you hate Halloween, because of the way other bars (not the one you are in) handle the holiday, then get offended when she points out that the problem seems to be yours, and that you shouldn't blame the holiday because you make poor choices of location in which to celebrate, accuse her of being overly sensitive, and warn her that she shouldn't get too excited about some things, or she won't have enough energy left over for other things in her life.


I'll just let you mull that over. Go ahead, take your time. Tune in tomorrow to learn the answer that absolutely will NOT get you in my pants, plus more Halloweeny goodness...

Thoughts, Deep and Otherwise...

As I plodded to the subway after a torturously long and slow double shift yesterday, my exhausted brain managed to crank out some rather important thinking. Here it is:

I need to get over the fact that my life isn't what I want it to be, and instead of being quietly miserable, do something about it.

Again.

This type of thinking is what landed me in Grad School the last time, and while I was certainly enriched by the experience, I must reluctantly admit that, just maybe, I didn't choose the right course of study to get where I want to be--teaching college. So, it's ime to make an appointment to take the GRE, thus forcing myself to study for it, get those PhD applications in order, and...

...get over the insecurity and fear of rejection that has kept me from entering any academic program that requires an audition. The worst that can happen is that they say No. It will suck, but it won't kill me. Thus, I am applying to Yale's MFA Program. Because if I'm going to kick my fear in the ass, why not do it on the grandest scale possible? An MFA will also qualify me to teach college, fulfilling the "Get my life on the right track" course of action that I am determined to, once again, undertake, with the added bonus of offering the kind of experiential learning that is lacking from the more academically-oriented doctoral programs.

In other words, I'm just going to keep trying until I get it right. Or until the Federal Government refuses to give me any more Education Loans. (Though in my defense, I am only applying to programs that offer the sort of financial aid that will cover all or most of my expenses, thus adding comparatively little to my already massive debts.)


And, on the not so deep scale, I need to decide if it's really worth flirting with a guy I work with, no matter how attractive he may be. True, he's just working in the kitchen for a few months and is therefore technically not my superior (because I am NOT repeating the "Alcoholic Coke-Head Chef Incident," or any variations thereof, EVER AGAIN)... but he is the owner's younger brother, and therefore exists on a sort of plane unto himself.

He's also young.

Which I'm willing to overlook.

Because he's hot.

He'd been around for awhile, but I wasn't attracted to him until yesterday when I actually talked to him for awhile. Not gonna lie, it may have more to do with his British accent than his chewable lower lip, but a little spark kicked off in the back of my brain. It could also be that it's PMS week and my hormones are firing off like mad. I have a sneaking suspicion that, were I to just go for it, I could probably reel him in with little difficulty, but the thought of doing so under the gaze of the entirely female floor staff makes my skin crawl. I'd feel like some sort of exhibit at the Mean Girls Zoo.

There is a downside to having an all female staff. For the most part, I stay out of the drama, but overtly flirting with the boss's hot brother would decidedly land me in the middle of it.

Probably best just to covertly flirt with him to pass the time, and not worry about it.

Because clearly, I have enough to think about already.

Of Noodles, Ingenuity, and Following Instructions

I know. I know. I keep promising to stop being such a terrible blogger, and then I go right ahead and fail to post for an entire two weeks, which--barring the time I spent out of the country--is pretty much a record.

So this time, instead of handing you more empty promises to stop sucking, I have decided to accept the fact that, for the time being anyway, I am a crappy blogger. Not that I haven't crafted a dozen posts in my head while far, far away from my computer. I have. Scores of them. I just never seem to get around to sitting down and typing them up when I get home.

Massive blogger FAIL.

Besides, you really don't want to hear me whining about how I feel like a failure for being a waitress with a Masters Degree, which is what largely occupies my thoughts as of late. I'm sure you'd much rather see what I got up to in my kitchen on my day off yesterday, right?

That's what I thought.

Speaking of my kitchen, here it is, in all it's teeny-tiny glory.

See that little splash of colour in the bottom left corner? That's a pillow on my couch. My apartment? Is tiny. And this little closet of a kitchen is where the magic happens, with the help of a rolling island that lives in my livingroom and spends two-thirds of its time covered in junk mail and other assorted detritus, shown here in a rare moment of functionality:

Just thought I'd give you an idea of what it is I have to work with.

Anyhow...

Yesterday I found Heaven, and it is called Fairway, aka the most fabulously awesome grocery store EVER.

What makes it so awesome? Well for starters nestled on its shelves I found Blackcurrant Red Wine Vinegar. What am I going to do with that? No idea. But it was ONLY FOUR DOLLARS! Combine that with a selection of every. single. product. milled by Bob's Red Mill, and I? Am one happy freaking frog.

Especially since my pregnant Latvian co-worker has been missing the food of her homeland, affording me the perfect opportunity to try my hand at smitten kitchen's black bread recipe, and it's staggeringly complex list of ingredients.

Once the shopping trip was over--I admittedly went a little nutso in the Fairway and decided to treat myself to a cab ride home, thus entrusting myself to the care of THE WORST CAB DRIVER EVER. Seriously. We were on 125th. I told him we were going to 199th. He tried to go South. Then he tried to turn into the Sanitation Department, thinking it was a street--I lugged my treasures up five flights of stairs and dove into bread-making land.

True to Deb's word, the bread itself is remarkably easy to make once the ingredients are assembled, and the results? Are just lovely.

The round loaf is for the afore mentioned co-worker, and the loaf? That's for me.

If we're being honest, I think this loaf has just a little too much caraway for me, and when I make it again (because trust me, I most definitely will) I will probably cut the amount in half, and perhaps add some more shallots, but on the whole? This bread is absolutely lovely, has a really great texture, and I'm betting it will be fabulous toasted and topped with cream cheese.

While the bread was on its first rise, I set about making my dinner: Red Wine Braised Short Ribs, from Ted Allen's "The Food You Want to Eat", which I had pulled off the shelf on a whim earlier that day.

I don't have any prep photos from this dish, mostly because I was on the phone with Therapeutic Ramblings (whom I've known since the first day of Freshman Orientation at Undergrad College, many moons ago) while I was cooking, and two tasks at once is about my limit, at least where hot stoves and spitting fat are concerned.

A note here on following instructions:

The recipe stated to brown the short ribs for 12-15 minutes on med-high and turn down the heat if the bottom of the pan started to burn. Well, I started out on more of a medium heat to begin with, as my crappy electric stove (probably the only one in NYC--I HATE ELECTRIC STOVES!!) tends to cook hotter than gas. So, when the pan started to burn around 7 minutes, and the ribs appeared brown, I decided that was good enough and moved on to the next step.

I shouldn't have.

See, the browning process not only serves to sear the juices into the meat, but also to render the fat from what is a very fatty cut. Because I only browned the meat for half of the allotted time, a few of the pieces retained a large amount of fat, resulting in a fattier broth, and a few pieces of meat that were largely inedible.

That being said, since I was only feeding myself, there was still plenty of edible meat left to feed me and leave leftovers, so it was not a fatal error. Just an irritating one.

Right, back to the timeline...

When the ribs were set to braising on a rear burner I took a moment to shape my bread loaves and set them to the second rise, and then set about my final preparation for the evening: Homemade egg noodles.

The recipe for these darlings, which I halved, is super simple:

Egg Noodles
2 1/2 c. flour
2 eggs, beaten
1/2 c. milk, warmed
1 Tbsp. butter, melted
Pinch salt.

Combine ingredients in a large bowl. Knead until smooth, approx 5 minutes. Let rest covered in plastic wrap for 10 minutes. Roll out and cut. Allow to dry before cooking in lightly salted boiling water.

See? Told you it was easy.

The original recipe called to roll out the dough with a rolling pin to either 1/4 or 1/8 inch and then cut, but since K bequeathed me a snazzy pasta maker--and I like my noodles thin--I rolled out the dough to the #6 setting and then cut wide noodles with a pizza cutter... which is probably how I ended up with a whole lot more than the 2 servings the recipe claimed it would make.

What's that you say? What is that snazzy device on which my noodles are drying? Well...

...it's a clothes-drying rack, set up in the middle of my livingroom. Necessity is the mother of invention. Or so I'm told. Please, ignore the mess in the background.

About halfway through the noodle-cutting process, the bread loaves went into the oven to bake for approx 45 minutes. The lid came off the braising pot to allow the sauce to thicken, and then, finally, the noodles went into the pot.

Here they are, looking all buttery and fabulous.

Et viola! Red Wine Braised Short Ribs, served over Fresh, Buttered Egg Noodles.

And despite my failure to follow instructions, they were still delicious, eaten at my coffee table while watching Glee and drinking the half bottle of wine left over from the recipe.

So there you have it: I can cook a feast in a closet, knit a sweater, and I'm hot. Yet I'm still single. How does this equation add up? Well, my friends, that's a blog post for another day...