Eat Your Feelings

Hurry, I've got to get to class!

2010-04-08T17:19:00.000-04:00

The Brooklyn Flea: Part I

2010-02-25T12:04:00.002-05:00

Hippies are a complex species these days. As I wasn’t there for the adventures of historical hippie-dome, I can only assume that no one denied a friendship with Hell’s Angels on Facebook or negotiated LSD deals via Blackberry, the same goes for free love—not Skype sex. But on this day at the Brooklyn Flea, a new breed of 21st century hipsters has flocked with various techie paraphernalia (I can’t attest to the Skype sex). They are here to buy and sell the junk that was probably stashed in their condos and couldn’t be sold on ebay. It’s not the traditional picture of hipness but don’t be square man, times they are a changin’. Clothing, furniture, jewelry, postcards, artwork and everything in between can be found here. The Brooklyn Flea attracts over 600 vendors who sell to visitors who push, poke and pillage through three floors of the Williamsburgh Savings Bank.

Today I am one of these scavengers. I am eager to meet and greet the new hippies who have discovered how to reconcile the new with the old, and still make money. I want to throw myself into the flea market matrix and as soon as that first cup of organic, locally grown, fair trade coffee hits my lips, I am ready to strategize. Strategy is the key when navigating The Flea. One must establish a plan, set a pace, and prepare rations. This is no exaggeration. When a mass of dreadlocks or a cloud of patchouli is all that stands between you and the perfect pair of Salvatore Ferragamo cufflinks, it pays to be prepared. I have trained for years and still have not completely mastered a strategy, but I have enough skills to get me through, the most important of which is, the look.

Flea market hippies can spot a poseur from a mile away so camouflage is essential. I was once denied a set of dishes because my jeans were from “Old Slavey.” Today I must also compensate for my super-square companion who is clean cut and pea-coat clad, and generally looks like he fell out of an LL Bean catalogue. But no matter, I have piled on half of my wardrobe, skipped the shower, and fish-bowled my car with sage. We are the odd couple, but I fit right in. I am ready to infiltrate.

We start on the top floor which seems to be where novice sellers have to do their time before they’ve earned ground floor status. There’s not nearly as much foot traffic as the floor below us, the result is a string of unpleasant vendors. Actually they were some downright bitchy hippies—noses hidden in recyclable coffee cups while bloodshot beady eyes glared and followed me from one table of crap to the next. These must be the rookies, or those banished to the upper levels for failure to exude the happy hippie spirit. Another possibility is I am looking more like a Fagin than an Olsen, an easy mistake given the wardrobe similarities.

Then suddenly, out of the warm glow of an electric disco ball comes a smile and my confidence returns. From a tucked away nook appears—according to his nametag—John. John tells me about the great deal he’s offering today: any three items off his table for $10. I am so relieved to see a smile, and quite an attractive one, that I’m a bit stunned and can only manage a quick nod and an over-eager “great,” which comes out a lot louder than I expected. Then I look at handsome John’s table, then back to handsome John, then back to the table. And I wonder if there is any sane explanation for three Playboys from 1976.

I decide not, and leave handsome John with his collection. That explains the smile at least, with three decades of porn what guy wouldn’t be smiling?

We move back to the ground floor and after circling for some time, I decide I am ready to haggle. The items I covet? One money clip of Winston Churchill’s face, three used postcards from Susan to George postmarked 1954, a copy of Reanimator and an aloe plant. That is what I love about flea markets, one stop shopping. As it stands, my purchases would come to a whopping $25 which is really a deal considering the money clip. But I have to at least try haggling, just for the sport of it. The woman I am up against though, does not take things so lightly. Her unflinching grey eyes are surrounded by clown-red hair that only makes her look that much more psychopathic. She only comes up to my shoulder but could easily take me down with a nudge of her elbow.

The next few moments are a blur. The adrenaline is pumping as I hear red-head say $25. Then I hear my own voice boldly suggest $15. Am I doing this right? My mouth is drying up, and there’s a slight twitch below my left eye before red-head concedes to $20. The stale air hangs for a moment while I compose myself and wonder what was slipped in my coffee that’s making the room spin and why in mother-earth’s name I chose this woman to haggle with.

Then I breathe and hand over the twenty. I do this a little too quickly but I don’t think she senses the full extent of my relief. Red-head hands me a paper bag and with sweaty hands I load up my goods. As I start to leave, she gives me her card with her website, ebay and twitter accounts listed. With that gesture, I feel like I got what I came for, an understanding of the very specific moment where the new and old come together. Happily I walk away with Red’s old junk and my new sense of accomplishment, careful not to let the 100% post-consumer waste door hit me on the way out.

Old Dog, New Tricks?

2010-02-22T19:05:00.007-05:00

I'm going to do my part and start brainstorming a a new shape of hot dog but, in my humble although professional opinion (I am without a doubt a hot dog pro), the problem (for adults at least) isn't the shape of the hot dog, but the amount. It's like the problem many have with booze, one is never enough. I'm more likely to start choking when I'm on my third dog: my jaw is sore, my eyes glaze over,the ketchup-coma sets in...but it's too good to put down...:)

Rockabye

2010-02-18T08:24:00.005-05:00

I have not quit, I will not quit, I cannot quit. It's been a drab week here, so I'm really looking forward to getting into Brooklyn on Saturday, hitting the Brooklyn Flea, then flying through the air with the greatest of ease.

In the meantime, I'll imagine rocking around in this wonderful egg chair and nibbling on delicious checkerboard cake.

Feeling better already!

Things we eat alone

2010-02-08T09:29:00.002-05:00

I need this book. Julia recommends it in my favorite episode, The Omlete Show. I watched it this morning and now I'm starving, omletes for lunch! My new obsession is to put sweet paprika and turkey in my omelet, try it...amazing!

Take me higher

2010-02-04T22:19:00.003-05:00

I bought high rise underwear and I didn't quite mean to. (And I don't look exactly like the girl in the photo, mine aren't that high but...you get the picture, without a (graciously spared) picture.

Like up to your belly button Lauren?

Why yes, gentle reader...and you know what? I kind of like them. They're unbelievably soft and when my pants start falling down (because I have no hips and can't find the perfect belt), there's no crack show.

But isn't it just a big ol' whale tale?

Well, maybe, I've never got a look from behind. But I think it's more of a
1920's look, with a touch of badass-ness (super high rise underwear + low rise jeans=interesting new "style"). I should probably just wear them with skirts, but they're too damn comfy. I didn't realize they were quite so high when I bought three pairs, but now I'm hooked, judge as you may.

And I love that this picture was from Glamour.com, and pitched by one of my favorite bloggers !

I had it coming

2010-02-01T17:24:00.006-05:00

I firmly believe that every once and a while, the universe intercedes on my behalf. Someone or something out there protects me from--not necessarily harm--but more likely, myself, or in tonight's case...disappointment.

For weeks I have been preparing myself to watch Twilight. Don't judge, I can't help it. There's only so many times I can watch and re-watch every Harry Potter, and it was time for a new supernatural indulgence. So I bumped it to the top of my Netflix and carefully studied every Robert Pattinson/Kristen Stewart photo shoot/interview session ("interview" is a generous phrase, since I'm pretty sure neither of them were able to construct a comprehensible sentence).

But I proceeded, not wanting to be left behind when my grandchildren eventually watch the movie (like I did with "The Way We Were"...saving the gushing for another post), and want to hear my first hand account of the generational phenomenon.

Enter: The Universe, when I accidentally returned my unwatched Twilight to Netflix. At this point, an unfortunate accident. A few days later Cul surprised me with my very own copy, complete with limited edition Twilight Post cards. Now I was ready.

So we planned a Twilight night, I bought a bottle of "Spellbound" Cabernet to really get in the mood.

Re-Enter the Universe: The movie won't play, damn my laptop. But I persist, unable to accept that perhaps the universe is trying to shield me from something. We finally get the movie playing...

And the disappointment is so great I still can't express myself. Fifteen minutes in and I had to turn it off. There really are no words, just sadness and a very cold empty feeling.

Thinking positively though, the wine was delicious and we ended up watching Interview with a Vampire instead. An oldie but still a goodie.

Resolutions...

2010-01-30T02:27:00.003-05:00

Just a quick note, because it's 2:27AM EST. I had a lovely evening out with some of Cul's friends from work. I got to experience all that heavy metal had to offer, even got a steak and cheese sandwich out of it. Mind you, I'm not a heavy drinker, far from it. And tonight was no different. Two beers, neither of which I finished because I still don't really like beer. But both of which were ordered because they were Hunter Thompson beers (Flying Dogs, if you're interested...and really great labels, which is my favorite part).

So yes, I'm getting home late, and yes I have to work with loads of children at 9AM. But that I can deal with. Then the Saab starts acting up. I gave the blessed thing ten minutes to warm up, but still it insists on stalling all the way down 290. So I flip on the warning lights and pray for the best. Clearly, I got home fine.

But all I could think about was having to pull over and wait in the -10 degree weather for AAA to come. Then the world (in my paranoia) pulls a Bill-Cosby's-kid on me, and sends a "good samaritan" who pulls up behind me and proceeds to slaughter me. Now from all the Law & Order I've watched, the ME would have a hard time identifying my time of death because of the cold weather, but on the plus side it would also take me longer to bleed out because the unbelievably cruel New England weather would also slow blood loss.

New Year's resolution: Less Law & Order (sorry Stabler, I love you), and more car maintenence.

A man, a plan, a canal, panama

2010-01-26T22:28:00.004-05:00

Keeping it short today because I had my Non-Fiction writing class tonight and I'm in hyper-editing mode-which is a nasty monkey on my back-right now. I will tell you a quick story though. Because it's absurd and I believe it's important to remember the absurdities on particularly mundane days.

Last semester there was a woman named Karen in my class. Karen, in another life, must have been a manicurist or held a world records title for longest fingernails because she would obsessively clip and file her nails, then proceed to trim her cuticles. No exaggeration. Not push them back, TRIM them. With the salon style clippers and everything. Personally, I don't think those things should be allowed on public transportation...see something, say something.

Ten or so minutes into class, after she'd finished her sandwich, out came the clippers. Somehow we always ended up sitting next to each other. No matter where I moved, there was Karen. The first time I witnessed this, I was curious. The following week I was disgusted. Fingernail clipping flew onto my papers and she just kept going at it. The amazing stunt came when she was able to offer feedback on my paper...while filing.

I've had the break to cool off, and now I find myself missing Karen. If we had class together this semester, I might even have asked her to buff and shine my nails. I think it was the lack of self-awareness I admire. I'm a fidget by nature. Hair twirling, toe tapping, knuckle cracking, the works. So maybe this semester I'll pick up a hobby to work on during class. I've given up on doodling and I usually like to stay focused. But maybe I could try my hand at some scrap booking mid-lecture.

Any ideas?

(It's actually making me very nervous to solicit ideas into the blogosphere, but I figure I'll have to get over it eventually, so I might as well face the beast now)

Baby, you can drive my car

2010-01-25T21:34:00.002-05:00

There are many things I've learned as a commuter:

1. Always have a roll of quarters handy
2. Always carry a wad of ones, even at the risk of looking like you earned said cash in a solicitous manner
3. The lyrics to every Chaka Khan song...ever
4. The proper technique for creepily spying on the car stuck in traffic next to you (I recommend wrap around sunglasses)
5. As you approach any cop with a radar gun...start singing (this theory is still in the testing stages, so don't try it quite yet)
6. That blinkers are optional

Today though, all my hard earned knowledge was rendered useless in the way many things are rendered useless...my mother's voice in my head. Granted, the rains were torrential and my poor Saab gets knocked off course when I sneeze, but still...it shouldn't have taken me and hour and a half to get to school. And I probably didn't need to go 55 the whole way, but I did because my well intentioned mother always leaves me with these parting words:

"Be careful, it's slippery" (that's what she said...can't help it)

Back on track though. Yes, she always says this, or some version at least. The roads are terrible, it's icy even though it doesn't look it, etc... On cloudy days I'm warned about the ice on the road, or a possible storm so be careful of falling branches. On warm days I should look out for the fog. One day last May she was convinced there was black ice.

I believe driving anxiety to be a learned behavior, so it's no surprise that this paranoia has been ingrained in me, although my fears have manifested themselves in other ways. I consider myself pretty easy going, but behind the wheel I am generally a wreck. Weather is a factor I can handle. I will be the idiot you scream "it's only rain!" at as I scoot along highways. Feel free to pass, I will go no faster. Rain, sleet, snow, I can deal with. I'll be white knuckled and shakey, but I can deal with it.

What I can't ignore is the possibility that I will have a brain aneurysm while driving, careen across three lanes of traffic and meet my fiery doom at the guardrail. I know this is not a joke. No one takes this more seriously than I do because I've read the horrible stories of perfectly healthy twenty-somethings having aneurysms behind the wheel. And I'll never see it coming.

Or there's the chance that I'll get pulled over by what I think to be an unmarked cop car, only to find myself mugged and carjacked. This possibility leads to another problem. The cop pulling me over really IS a cop, but because of the paranoia that I've let fester for the past seven years, I ignore the sirens and wait to pull into a public area, only to be an unwitting participant in a high speed chase.

Fear breeds fear.

So while I've learned a lot driving around this fair state and holding my own against so many lovely Massholes, there are obviously problems I have yet to solve. Besides the practical/obsessive/insane/absurd ones I've listed above, I should probably spend my commuting time figuring out/quelling above paranoia, or quieting my mom's voice in my head.

Until then, I will patiently wait for the day when I will hire a driver,whose background I will have thoroughly investigated. We will have a relationship like in Driving Miss Daisy, I will teach him to read and he will teach me how to trust and reunite with the real world.

Until then...

I never read Kite Runner...and other confessions

2010-01-24T21:28:00.003-05:00

Last week I finally got my hair cut...the woman found a bobby pin in the mass. I'm fairly certain there was more booty in there too, maybe a cork or a lost earring, luckily she had the tact to withold that from me.

The next day I discovered a parking ticket...in my sock drawer.

Then there was the ink stain on my boots because I dropped an old cartidge in my boot bucket (a post for another day, when I will finally admit and analyze how/why said boot bucket contains seven pairs of boots in various shades of brown)

Oh, and the popcicles that I forgot were in my trunk...when I went grocery shopping before Christmas.

Clearly, I've let myself go. Lucky for me my culinary companion had the good sense to draw my lacksidaisicality (real word?) to my attention, in his painfully blunt and annoyingly right way. So here's the sob story: I've found myself on this bleak Sunday in the middle of a graduate semester that I am totally unprepared, and unequipped for. I happen to (occasionally) write a blog about food, but the most exciting thing in my pantry is a box of sesame Wasa crackers and a vial of terribly expensive espresso powder...that I dropped all over the floor yesterday then carefully scooped back up after picking out the dog hairs.

Throw into the mix a looming (sort of) audition with an aerial dance company whose current members have bodies...well they fly around and balance on their heads all day, so you can only imagine. Panic + hunger + writers block = a very nasty me.

BUT...I've decided to make a conscious effort to post...ideally daily, realistically every-other-daily. Not writing for a professor, a boss, or more recently, a member of the Boston Transportation Authority. Just for me, or for you.

Eat Through the Pain

2009-10-13T16:23:00.002-04:00

It's a sad, sad day when I come home to a stack of bills and an already skimpy checking account. It's been a sad day for a while. But enough complaining because, where there's a proverbial will there's a tangible way.

And the way to go is Shakers Cafe. In the heart of what used to be Worcester's French hill, is the best home cooked meal you never had at home. Lebanese, lightly fried and mind-blowing. I already asked once, but Ms. Pavlina (Owner), please please take me home.

The trick here is that they only serve dinner on Fridays. It's BYOB, so there goes the self-consciousness that comes with trying to pick a wine that goes with fish while a snooty waiter scoffs at your choice of the cheapest sheet on the menu.

No one looked twice as I unscrewed my own bottle, or even blinked when I practically licked out the remains two hours later. At Shakers, your business is your business, your booze your booze. A nice place with a "leave me alone as I enjoy this epiphanic calamari" attitude...and no, I don't think that's a real work, but it is certainly a real attitude.

While I have yet to experience the famous Shakers breakfasts,I am told that on any given weekday, local workers patiently line up and wait for the place to open. Like dinner, the breakfast prices miraculously hover around $6.00. I can't wait to try the Lebanese Omelet and Mexican Homefries.

I've put off the blogging for a while, but look at that...it wasn't so hard. (That's what she said. I know, I know). But now I'm back in the throws of school and while my studies consist of writing until carpal tunnel sets in, there's nothing like a little blogging to clear the mind.

It reminds me to not take myself too seriously. The simpler way to accomplish this would just be to laugh every once and a while, but I wouldn't want to take away from the killer frown lines I'm working on.

While we're on the subject of lightening up,there are a few drinks I'd like to bring back that help with my efforts. Lately it's the Old Fashioned, or a lemonade shandy for the faint of heart.

Cheers!

I think I've lost my Edge

2009-06-14T11:53:00.004-04:00

Last night's masterpiece: Baked sourdough with basil, mozzarella and grilled zucchini; chili shrimp with blue cheese, lemon shrimp salad (from my garden!); perfectly grilled tuna steak; lemon, shrimp and cherry tomato kebabs with oregano.

Maybe a little overboard for two but a delicious way to really get the summer going. The presentation needs a little work so a HomeGoods trip might be in order.

Living off the Land

2009-06-14T11:43:00.002-04:00

French breakfast in the woods...don't overlook the snooty New Yorker

Marshmallow roasting skills!

The Starving Scholar

2009-06-01T09:52:00.006-04:00

It's over, I've done it and life can begin again. The only excuse I can make for my noticeable absence in the blog world is an all-consuming, soul-crushing senior semester that is finally and successfully completed. My mind has been fed by everyone from Hamlet and Heaney to Braddon and Bronte but alas...the rest of me has been starved. So in the months before my loan payments begin I hope to make up for my neglect with as much food as my deserted taste buds and abandoned Visa can handle. But first, here are the past few months...

Over the course of the semester, the staples of my diet have totaled:

1. Two pounds of Everlasting Gobstoppers, mostly chewed and not savored, resulting in one small cavity.
2. No less than 400 cups coffee (this math took a very long time), an addiction fueled by Dunkin Doughnut's 'free turbo shot' offer.
3. Two BJ's twelve packs of Annie's Mac & Cheese...which, in my defense, offers unusually small serving sizes.
4. A now-confidential amount of wine, gin, etc...

Okay, so I'm not starving starving, but the quality of food in my life has definitely taken a turn. On the plus side, I plan to promote this as a weight loss diet which will work in just a few simple steps.

Lose the freshmen fifteen! Reclaim your high school jeans! And find the inner strength to get that diploma! We at Getyourbachelor'sorwe'lldisownyou Industries have found the secret ingredients that will unlock the skinny scholar in you. With a diet built on trimethylphenol, caffeine, dextrose, corn syrup, Yellow 6, Blue 2, and ethanol, you are mere weeks away from the 'you' you were before UMass. As a special offer, we will include an exercise regime guaranteed to burn fat!(As well as the candle at both ends) For no charge to you we will assign essays, novels, more novels, short stories, poetry, literary theory, response essays, exams, group projects and more! Don't miss out on this offer and your chance for the pale, worn, and malnourished look that is all the rage with incoming Grad students.

Side effects may include migraines, heartburn, low to non-existent social activity, spontaneous outbursts in rage/tears/happiness, and a significant increase in alcohol consumption.

It's good to be back.

Just the (twenty) Two of Us

2009-01-06T21:45:00.000-05:00

Dining at Dali for my birthday dinner recently, I couldn't help but think that this experience was much like what I imagined sleeping with Grover Washington Jr. (everyone has their thing) to be--edgy but delicious, unpredictable but exciting. I was not disappointed. Much like Grover, I was immediately struck by Dali's charm and welcoming atmosphere. Floor to ceiling memorabilia of the Spanish old country that makes you feel like you've jumped into the vacation home of Baz Luhrmann and Paula Dean: just the right amount of "home cooked" feeling, and a huge helping of intoxicating visuals. But enough obscure 80's references and stretched similes--clearly winter break has left me a puddle of pop-culture.

Just like Mr Washington Jr. however (last one I promise), the (forty-five minute) wait was worth it, and may have even been the tantalizing flirtation necessary to build my excitement for the meals to come. I feel the need to preface this by explaining that my culinary companion and I are freaks...freaks who will eat everything and anything that is put in front of us. It's become a challenge to see who can eat the weirdest thing on the menu, so far I'm ahead. It's a lot like Andrew Zimmern, but only slightly sexier than watching a large bald man eating some poor animal's testicles.

With that said, I can only express my great enthusiasm for Dali's delicious Queso de Cabra Montañes, Chipirones Rellenos, Conejo Escabechado, and wild boar which was on the specials menu, and I can't remember the Spanish name. The baked goat cheese was an easy choice, and a last splurge since "the one I now shun" has forgone dairy. The first tapas came just in time too, since I had finished off all the homemade hummus and was left with fistfuls of bread that needed to be eaten, or they were going in my purse. Next came the Chipirones Rellenos...squid stuffed in its own ink. Zimmern would be impressed, but alas, the inky stains and jaw-locking chewiness was just something I couldn't get over. Who was I squidding? (terrible...just terrible)

For me the boar was truly the highlight of the evening (right after the third Kir Royale), with a savory smokiness that made me consider taking up hunting (do boars roam Western Mass?) We topped off the evening with Conejo Escabechado, don't visualize it, but I could not get over the tenderness of that rabbit--I mean fall off the bone tender. Maybe hunting is my calling, and could get me an employee discount...the braising and juniper/garlic glaze is so worth fair-weather ethics. Add onto that mouthwatering Churros and one or two backwater Absinthe's, and you'd think my paycheck actually resembled Zimmern's (I just can't get over him today)...but even my party and I could afford Dali's reasonable rates. With the Tapas Caliente averaging between $5 and $9, it's the perfect place to stay for the long haul, and try a variety of selections off the perfectly priced menu.

And if you're snickering at my celebration of 22 because you've past that number long ago, do not despair. The inoffensive Sangria pitcher is for you, and there is plenty going on inside these dimly lit rooms that you won't even notice the 22, 45, or 70 year olds all having Feliz Cumpleanos sung to them. Dali has a chair for everyone, as long as you can handle the wait.

So muchas gracias to Jose for this exquisite recommendation! Dali was a deliciously quirky experience and allowed 22 to start off the same way.

The Slaying of the Dragon

2008-12-10T20:04:00.000-05:00

Anyone living in the Shrewsbury, Worcester, Northboro etc... area knows "The Dragon." Dragon 88 (alias: Dragon Shady-Eight) on Shrewsbury Street, Boylston is where I have some of my fondest childhood memories, as well as my most regrettable/forgettable 18+ experiences (let's face it, they didn't start carding until just recently). And while I know that the Dragon will always be there, the part of me with better judgement (though small) knows that a quiet petition to shut down the Dragon would probably better the community, and seriously lower the DUI count in the area. I know this is not a laughing matter, but just take a peek through the Christmas light-lined doors, to the right of the golden Buddha cat, and five paces past the yin-yang, and try to tell me you're not laughing.

Or crying...And it is with the following events in mind that I solemnly swear never to cross their Mai-Tai soaked rugs again, here's why:

1. New Years Eve, 2007-2008: Do not judge by my New Years activities alone. Yes, it was pathetic but to the Dragon's credit...it was cheap. This particular New Years involved:
One: Delicious, but probably below health-code standards flaming PuPu Platter
One: Cauldron-sized Scorpion Bowl
Two: Half finished Mai-Tais (No one seemed to notice that I dumped them in the bathroom sink).
Surrounded by the dollar bills that customers seem all too willing to autograph and display on the walls, it seemed perfectly ironic that I was stuck footing the bill for my "too drunk to remember his wallet" Ex. And let's review, the Mai-Tais are dirt cheap and strong as hell, I can't get through one, but the challenge is not so great for someone I will fondly remember as a keg with legs. So this New Years will count doubly, this year's celebration as well as last years to make up for the year I dropped the ball at the Dragon.

2. Spring 2008: This incident actually happened to a good friend whose last stop was the Dragon before a nasty spill that involved stairs and respiratory assistance.

3. November 2008: My culinary companion's birthday, which for some yet to be explained reason, resulted in a stop at the Dragon. It has been a few months and I'd almost forgotten why I hated the place so much, how quickly my memory returned. The visit itself wasn't particularly memorable, just some laughs as we watched a young man flee from the claws of a stalking cougar, a regular night. This normal night involved: ONE: Mai Tai... And the next think I knew I was half asleep mumbling about elephants while the rest of his poor family was trying to watch a movie. An instance like this makes me seriously question what's in that giant Mai Tai pitcher, and think that maybe there's a pitcher for girls, and another for the guys. I will forever stand by my belief that there was something extra in that drink. Elephants?

4. Later November 2008: This one was not my fault, and didn't even really result in anything too traumatic. The hometown "thing" is to gather at the Dragon the night before Thanksgiving to see everyone you graduated with and hoped you'd never see again. To be fair, this was an event I wasn't even aware of until this year, and was something I graciously agreed to, in exchange for a week's worth of servitude and three back rubs. Ten minutes into the bar wait, and at least 75 people over fire code, I found myself shoulder to shoulder with : the jocks, nerds, drama queens, sluts, bullys, someones ex-girlfriend, one night stand, two ex boyfriends, and a few too-old-to-be-there teachers. On this particular night the Dragon taught me: You can no longer come here just for the amazing crab-Rangoon's, and if you are here next year...you're already on a seriously steep downhill rum-run.

As we've seen, nothing good ever comes out of the Dragon, Kublai freaking Khan could not walk out of there with any pride, so let's just cut our losses and make a break for PF Changs, $15 for a Mai Tai, roofies are extra.

The Need to Feed...The Unimpeded Mind

2008-12-09T09:46:00.000-05:00

It is a curious fact that novelists have a way of making us believe that luncheon parties are invariably memorable for something very witty that was said, or something very wise that was done. But they seldom spare a word for that was eaten.
Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own

Today's title is a shout out to a certain English Department that I'm growing increasingly fond of as graduation looms. If I had my way, the next Symposium would take place here...A Great Place to Hang with English Professors and also...

Best Bar if you want to seem like a really cool girl/
Best Bar to take and test your girlfriend

The hands-down winner is Victory Bar & Cigar, Shrewsbury Street, Worcester. Cigar bars only fly with a small number of people, so I have little worry that the next time I pop over, my graduating class will have infiltrated. This is without a doubt, the greatest part of Victory for me, the crowd is generally 35+ and at any given moment there are no more than 3 women...No one I know goes there without me...Wonderous. If you're lucky enough to snag seats in the back, you're free to lounge in comfort with table service (albeit, the strip club vibe is strong back there, but it's a small price to pay). Friendly bartenders, decent price, and an all around good vibe has been my experience on at least two birthdays and a dozen or so other occasions.

Ladies, bring your guy here and you've pretty much set yourself up for the sexiest looking night ever. For a woman to bring a man here is a fool-proof plan: You won't be doing the trying-to-get-the-bartenders-attention jig which we all know looks like an awkward two step side to side around the inevitably-massive bar hogs; Geriatric gentlemen part, even MOVE THEIR CHAIRS to make sure you can squeeze in to survey the bar. And that's not an easy feat in a floor length fur coat (watch out for him) and gold diggers hooked to each arm (hearts of gold I promise). Once the drink situation is settled, the would-be imposing cigar selection can be easily navigated with assistance from the helpful staff. Or, if you're trying to go home with the helpful staff, study up on the basics at

Now comes the "Best Bar to take and test your girlfriend" part: Even I can admit that after the 2 hour marker, I get the slightly asphyxiated, Caterpillar-on-the-mushroom feel...But if your girl can keep herself afloat here, hold onto her because you're already doing a lot better than the rest of the people in there who are sitting alone, with an extra change of clothes in the car, so the wife doesn't know they've been smoking. If she can hold her own here, maybe pick out a decent cigar, and/or at least pretend she's not suffocating...you've got something good.

Brawls at the BBC

2008-12-04T09:48:00.000-05:00

The British Beer Company's newest location in Framingham promises inevitable tension, regardless of what you order. The menu sets the tone for hostility as the loyalists seem to have contributed all things not American in the menu (Brie, Pasty, and Shepherd's Pie are all from the same place right?) and the Revolutionists have pushed for Hamburgers, Country Fried Steak and Spinach dip. With a menu that lacks any sense of cohesiveness, it's no wonder that I felt the overwhelming need to open the Ex-Files with my own culinary companion.

Maybe it was the sheer number of desperate young professionals, the extremely friendly valet, the security guards on patrol or just the bigger than me tv...but the night was primed for less than comfortable discussions. We're not big fighters though, not yet anyway, and not in the impulsive jealousy-driven way. Just in the "I'm always right and don't even try to prove me otherwise"-way. I was halfway through my pizza and he was halfway through the (fairly impressive) draft list when I felt compelled to "go there"--poor guy didn't know what hit him and neither did I, quite frankly. The next thing I knew we we both on edge, quietly burning holes in every person we encountered. I found a mortal enemy in the waitress that lingered just a little too long, and I'm pretty sure some of that unidentified "guy speak" was exchanged with our bartender. You know the look-and-nod that says: Do your job and don't even think about it...I know you're thinking about it...stop thinking about it.

But maybe you're looking for a fight, sometimes we need them--but know if you're brought to the BBC, you're someone's target and you're going to lose because you didn't see it coming. While your partner is making room for a pint of cider and blood to spill, you're still trying to figure out why the security guard is following you and how to avoid being trampled if there's a fire.

With the palpable tension, we wrapped things up, quietly deciding that mediocre and demographically confused chain-food was not worth any drama. Luckily we had the long and statey-littered trek down Route 9 to smooth things over, ultimately deciding that maybe we would return to the BBC. Maybe some day, when we become young professional yuppies and are too lazy to just stick an equally good Mrs. Buds Pot Pie in the oven.

A Quick Sampler

2008-12-03T23:33:00.000-05:00

Never having been a blogger before, I'm selfishly using this surprisingly remarkable tool to release all the informal pronouns I've been stifling since high school. It's already proving to be quite cathartic. But aside from the innumerable contractions and first person perspectives I plan to abuse, the heart of my writing is in my stomach. Awkward...let me start by removing myself from the the serious conversations on obesity, diabetes, heart disease etc... Don't get me wrong, I'm the first one to hand out vitamins and gym passes in Christmas stockings, and Special K bars in Easter baskets...But I do believe in vices...strongly. I've chosen mine very specifically, food is one of them. Disclaimer from the start: Your body is your own, do what's best for it.

My foodie tendencies, like much of my life-- is elitist and exclusive. I justify this because if it involves my body I get the last and only say and what I say is "Congratulations to me I got a raise and I want to celebrate with some amazing Italian" or "I'm sorry I was so insensitive, let's grab some Chinese and talk it over" or maybe even "The Route 9 Dunkins has better chocolate frosted, we need to turn around" I also try to justify my tendency to eat my feelings by a fully paid gym membership and my own painful vanities. I'll do what it takes, just let me eat.

Obsessive? Maybe, but food can sometimes say what we simply can't, it can ease the hostility when you're ready to throw a significant other out the window (what a waste of lo mein) and set the tone for your next few hours. I thrive on these challenges, making the dinner decision for the night, where, when, atmosphere, driving time, drink menu, possible wait time, price, best service, best bread....All essential contributing factors.

So the intention of my writings is to share restaurants, recipes, bars, diners, coffee shops etc from wherever I find them. And of course, I can't escape the inevitable conversations and emotions that start flying around when you send a 20-something anywhere you can find cheap food and booze. We may find comfort food, food that causes discomfort, food that repairs uncomfortable situations or uncomfortable situations that are caused by food...you never know that can come out of the kitchen.