This is a pie which is about people moving from the greater New England area, in their twenties. I shared this pie with some fantastic people who are moving from Boston to Brooklyn this weekend, (good luck, folks, if you read this), and a variation follows if you want to serve it as a dessert rather than a brunch pie.
Crust:
1 c. white flour
6 tbl, butter, frozen (takes about 90 minutes in the freezer, but longer won't hurt it).
1 tbl, brown sugar
1/2 tsp, nutmeg.
Pie:
2-3 large apples, peeled, cored, and chopped.
1 cup milk
2 eggs and one egg yolk
1/2 c. brown or white sugar
1/4 c. brown or white sugar
1/2 c. walnuts, crushed and toasted.
1/2 c. maple syrup.
1/4 c. flour
1 tsp apple pie spice/or cinnamon and nutmeg.
Vanilla
(Optional- substitute one cup of chunked white bread or pound cake for some of the apple)
Brunch variation (slightly eggier flavor, more firm)
First, make the crust. Grate the frozen butter into a bowl. Work in the flour and sugar and nutmeg, and then add just enough water so that when squeezed, the crumbs form a dough. Don't overwork- some butter lumps are ok, and you want the mixture to remain fairly cold. It won't form a dough per se, but what you want is a mixture which is fairly moist but crumbly. Press into the bottom of a pie pan, and chill for at least fifteen minutes. (Look, ma! you don't roll it out!)
Preheat oven to 425, and bake crust for 12 minutes. It won't be done, but you just want it set enough so the wet ingredients don't sink in.
Into a large bowl, dump your apples, nuts, and spices, and 1/2 cup of the sugar.
toss around a bit, then put into your semi-baked pie shell. Return to the oven for about 12 minutes at 425. (Apples take longer to cook than other things, so this is semi-important - but if you're making it the night before and reheating it in the oven, you don't have to do this.) Remove from the oven.
(AFTER THIS POINT, the recipe is for the eggier, brunchier version- the dessert version will pick up from this point)
You may want to leave your milk out from the moment you start making this if you're using a glass pan, because cold milk hitting hot glass is a recipe for explosions. just keep that in mind.
In another bowl (jesus, do you need a lot of bowls to do this), beat the eggs, egg yolk, milk, maple syrup, remaining flour, remaining sugar, and vanilla. Pour over the apples, and bake at 350 until the middle doesn't wobble. (Maybe an hour, possibly longer. Depends on your eggs)
Dessert Variation:
Remove apples, nuts, and crust from oven and put aside to cool; set oven temp. at 300.
In a heavy saucepan, melt 2tbl of butter with 1tbl of the milk and the flour. Stir slowly until the color is like the wood grain paper that covers cardboard furniture at ikea. Slowly stir in the rest of the milk, and the sugar, and the vanilla, and hold well below boiling. Remove from heat. It should be somewhat thick. In another bowl, beat together the eggs and egg yolk.
Slowly slowly, drizzle a tablespoon of the hot milk mixture into the eggs, and stir. Drizzle another tablespoon of the hot milk into the eggs, and stir. Another tablespoon of hot milk into the eggs, and stir. Another tablespoon of the hot milk into the eggs, and stir. Continue like this until most of the milk is gone, then scrape the rest into the bowl.
Pour eggs and milk mixture over pie crust, apple, walnut mixture. Bake at 300 for fifteen minutes, then 350 until the custard is well set and golden. (As little as a half an hour, as much as an hour- just keep checking it).
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
What I'd really like to do today...
I'd like to lie on my living room floor. For several hours. I'd like to do this with cds playing, perhaps, because I only own three cds, and yet have a five-disk cd changer, all three.
I'd like to have a chocolate cupcake, only propping myself up sufficient not to choke, and a glass of red wine, and go back to lying on the floor, semi-comatose, until I transition seamlessly into sleep.
What I am doing today: Studying in the library, only interrupted long enough to choke down enough cola and peanut butter sandwiches to keep my brain supplied with life's two most vital nutrients: caffeine and sugar, until I pack up my shit into a backpack and several reuseable grocery bags and bag-lady my way home.
I'd like to have a chocolate cupcake, only propping myself up sufficient not to choke, and a glass of red wine, and go back to lying on the floor, semi-comatose, until I transition seamlessly into sleep.
What I am doing today: Studying in the library, only interrupted long enough to choke down enough cola and peanut butter sandwiches to keep my brain supplied with life's two most vital nutrients: caffeine and sugar, until I pack up my shit into a backpack and several reuseable grocery bags and bag-lady my way home.
Monday, July 30, 2007
In other news, life ceases to have all meaning.
Evil, selfishness, and short-sightedness have triumphed. The celtics have traded Al Jefferson for Kevin Garnett.
Why would someone trade a decade of wins and the rekindling of a legacy, starting in two years, for a year or two of above-average performance, starting right now? What kind of manager would make that type of decision?
Why, a manager who believed that he would be fired before his long-term investment matured, and is willing to sell a team's future down the river. The difference between the celtics and the knicks is no more. The difference between life and death is no more. The difference between Danny Ainge and Isaiah Thomas is only in the color and cut of their suits.
I no longer have anything to look forward to. I dread the fall, I dread finals, I dread beginning my new, unpaid, job, and I dread whatever horrid creature I'm becoming, in this worthless, valueless, hopeless world.
Why would someone trade a decade of wins and the rekindling of a legacy, starting in two years, for a year or two of above-average performance, starting right now? What kind of manager would make that type of decision?
Why, a manager who believed that he would be fired before his long-term investment matured, and is willing to sell a team's future down the river. The difference between the celtics and the knicks is no more. The difference between life and death is no more. The difference between Danny Ainge and Isaiah Thomas is only in the color and cut of their suits.
I no longer have anything to look forward to. I dread the fall, I dread finals, I dread beginning my new, unpaid, job, and I dread whatever horrid creature I'm becoming, in this worthless, valueless, hopeless world.
So, where have you been? Part Two: A day in the life.
5:20 AM. I wake up before my alarm goes off, or maybe I was already awake and just waiting to turn it off. I make my bed (this consists of folding it up, because right now I'm sleeping on a futon in my living room, and re-arranging the pillows and blankets until it resembles a couch.
5:30 AM. Breakfast. I slice a banana into some store-brand pink flavored yogurt, top it with slightly stale cereal, and eat it watching the morning news. A paper mill is on fire out on route 2; a girl was raped on the esplanade; and thunderstorms are predicted.
5:45 AM: Thunderstorms begin. I get dressed. I pack my lunch, brush my teeth, and consider fixing my eyebrows.
6:00 AM: I check my email, read the news, and look over my notes for corporations. My group is on today, so preparedness is key. After a bit, I pack up my backpack, put my lunch in a bag, and make sure I have my goddamned Charlie Card.
6:30 AM: Out the door.
6:45 AM: Back in the door. It's raining too hard, and my backpack isn't waterproof. I can't risk my laptop, so I get in the car and drive to the train station.
7:05 AM: Onto the train. Watching the lightning through the windows of the train is pretty cool. Random sudden stops and power outages slightly less cool.
7:45 AM: Arrive at school. I put my books away, get the keys and the cashbox from a locker, and open the CISP kitchen, which is a small room with linoleum floors and a very subtle rodent problem, where I work several hours a week.
8:00 AM-10:00 AM: Work. Mostly sitting. Some counting of money. A little bit of arranging things. Mostly I review my reading for the classes I'll have today, and start the reading for the classes I will have tomorrow.
10:10 AM- 10:25 AM: Run across the street on an errand for work. Run back, grab books, run up three flights of stares, and sit down for...
10:25 AM- 11:45AM: Basic Income Taxation. Fun times were had by all. About a third of my time was spent checking emails and reading CNN. This is considerably more productive than certain other members of the class, who are playing sudoku, doing crosswords, and internet gambling.
11:50 AM- 12:00PM: I am a jackass. I forgot to print out the assignment for corporations. I run up the stairs to the library, print out my document, grab my lunch from the fridge, and manage to get to my seat in corporations in time to get out my books, drop off the assignment, and start to eat my lunch (Yogurt, a granola bar, and half a banana). I like to cut up the banana and put it in the yogurt. It keeps me awake.
12:00PM - 12:40PM, Approx: Corporations, awake.
1:10PM - 1:30PM, Approx: Corporations, asleep.
1:30PM - 2:00PM: Corporations, Awake.
2:00PM - 2:05PM: I run to my locker, trade my corporations books for my Intellectual property books, buy a soda, and get back to I.P.
2:15PM - 3:45PM: Intellectual Property. My favorite class. I don't make a jackass out of myself today, I stay awake, and I'm prepared. A+
4:00PM - 5:00PM: Back to work. This time I'm tabling, sitting in a hallway begging other students to cast votes for...something. I pretend to read evidence for tomorrow, but mostly I zone out.
5:00PM - 6:55PM: My favorite spot in the library is taken. It's a nice little nook on the fourth floor, where there's no wireless reception and a lot of sunlight. I pick another spot, and settle in. I finish my reading for tomorrow, pack up my computer, and trade my books for my gym clothes.
7:00PM - 7:40PM: I arrive at the gym. It's full of undergrads. The girl at the front desk tells me they're closing at 7:45 tonight. I get a magazine and a sweat rag, change, and get upstairs, where I proceed to beat an elliptical trainer half to death.
7:55 PM: Back on the green line. Give up my seat to an old woman carrying a large child.
8:38 PM: Home. I consider dinner. I consider the prospect of doing dishes, and wonder what can be had without doing any before I actually get to eat anything. I microwave a pre-frozen sandwich I bought on sale last week, and cut up a cucumber on the side.
9:10PM - 9:30PM: Eat dinner, blog, make an attempt to call my boyfriend.
And what are my plans for the rest of the night? I'll spend at least an hour, probably two, studying evidence. Then a shower which covers at least the three major areas, followed by collapsing into bed, setting my alarm, putting on a DVD and, before the titles finish, passing out.
Tomorrow will be very similar, and the day after that. The only expected variations will be a decline in the number of hours I can devote to sleep...because, you have to understand, this was me slacking off.
5:30 AM. Breakfast. I slice a banana into some store-brand pink flavored yogurt, top it with slightly stale cereal, and eat it watching the morning news. A paper mill is on fire out on route 2; a girl was raped on the esplanade; and thunderstorms are predicted.
5:45 AM: Thunderstorms begin. I get dressed. I pack my lunch, brush my teeth, and consider fixing my eyebrows.
6:00 AM: I check my email, read the news, and look over my notes for corporations. My group is on today, so preparedness is key. After a bit, I pack up my backpack, put my lunch in a bag, and make sure I have my goddamned Charlie Card.
6:30 AM: Out the door.
6:45 AM: Back in the door. It's raining too hard, and my backpack isn't waterproof. I can't risk my laptop, so I get in the car and drive to the train station.
7:05 AM: Onto the train. Watching the lightning through the windows of the train is pretty cool. Random sudden stops and power outages slightly less cool.
7:45 AM: Arrive at school. I put my books away, get the keys and the cashbox from a locker, and open the CISP kitchen, which is a small room with linoleum floors and a very subtle rodent problem, where I work several hours a week.
8:00 AM-10:00 AM: Work. Mostly sitting. Some counting of money. A little bit of arranging things. Mostly I review my reading for the classes I'll have today, and start the reading for the classes I will have tomorrow.
10:10 AM- 10:25 AM: Run across the street on an errand for work. Run back, grab books, run up three flights of stares, and sit down for...
10:25 AM- 11:45AM: Basic Income Taxation. Fun times were had by all. About a third of my time was spent checking emails and reading CNN. This is considerably more productive than certain other members of the class, who are playing sudoku, doing crosswords, and internet gambling.
11:50 AM- 12:00PM: I am a jackass. I forgot to print out the assignment for corporations. I run up the stairs to the library, print out my document, grab my lunch from the fridge, and manage to get to my seat in corporations in time to get out my books, drop off the assignment, and start to eat my lunch (Yogurt, a granola bar, and half a banana). I like to cut up the banana and put it in the yogurt. It keeps me awake.
12:00PM - 12:40PM, Approx: Corporations, awake.
1:10PM - 1:30PM, Approx: Corporations, asleep.
1:30PM - 2:00PM: Corporations, Awake.
2:00PM - 2:05PM: I run to my locker, trade my corporations books for my Intellectual property books, buy a soda, and get back to I.P.
2:15PM - 3:45PM: Intellectual Property. My favorite class. I don't make a jackass out of myself today, I stay awake, and I'm prepared. A+
4:00PM - 5:00PM: Back to work. This time I'm tabling, sitting in a hallway begging other students to cast votes for...something. I pretend to read evidence for tomorrow, but mostly I zone out.
5:00PM - 6:55PM: My favorite spot in the library is taken. It's a nice little nook on the fourth floor, where there's no wireless reception and a lot of sunlight. I pick another spot, and settle in. I finish my reading for tomorrow, pack up my computer, and trade my books for my gym clothes.
7:00PM - 7:40PM: I arrive at the gym. It's full of undergrads. The girl at the front desk tells me they're closing at 7:45 tonight. I get a magazine and a sweat rag, change, and get upstairs, where I proceed to beat an elliptical trainer half to death.
7:55 PM: Back on the green line. Give up my seat to an old woman carrying a large child.
8:38 PM: Home. I consider dinner. I consider the prospect of doing dishes, and wonder what can be had without doing any before I actually get to eat anything. I microwave a pre-frozen sandwich I bought on sale last week, and cut up a cucumber on the side.
9:10PM - 9:30PM: Eat dinner, blog, make an attempt to call my boyfriend.
And what are my plans for the rest of the night? I'll spend at least an hour, probably two, studying evidence. Then a shower which covers at least the three major areas, followed by collapsing into bed, setting my alarm, putting on a DVD and, before the titles finish, passing out.
Tomorrow will be very similar, and the day after that. The only expected variations will be a decline in the number of hours I can devote to sleep...because, you have to understand, this was me slacking off.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Kill it! Kill it!
I was walking home from the train station today when something...terrible...happened.
I was just past the fire station when I passed a man pushing a stroller. In the stroller was a baby. It was a classic baby, I suppose, nothing exotic or imported. It was a young baby; I'm not good at the ages of young people; I have to go by size. It was small for a baby, large for a liquor bottle. It was about 1.5 gallon baby. Redheaded, squinty, with that wierd accusatory old man face that the small type of baby generally has. It was drooling and just a little bit crusty.
And it wasn't wearing a hat.
I remember that, because as I passed them, some voice said in my head "Oh, don't you want to put a hat on his little head?".
Don't. You. Want. To. Put. A. Hat. On. His. Little. Head.
Not: For the good of society, will you please wipe that little fucker down or consider a rear-facing stroller? He's gone past sticky to greasy, and it's unpleasant to have that thing wheeled at you on a hill, like that.
But: Don't you want to put a hat on his little head?
Remember, I'm the person who is ready to advocate for a thirty day, no questions asked return policy on those things. I'm the person who seriously considered writing a paper for my animal behavior class that suggested that the delayed appearance of features triggering the "aw" response in human infants is a result of the evolutionary advantage to abandoning infants below a certain age.
Not only am I suspicious of, and hostile to, infants - I don't know a thing about them. I've taken, and passed, child development, but the only thing I got from it is that Russian learning theorists tend to die as young, and of similar (hepatic) causes as other Russian intellectuals. And yet, apparently, I know one thing about babies: They should wear hats. On their little heads. When it's sunny out.
I'm trying to reassure myself that my reaction was not some bastard emergence of then nurturing instinct I have thus far only hoped to extend to large, wealthy african-american men who are strangers to me
.
It's probably nothing to do with babies, and a lot to do with my mom. "Don't you think that baby should wear a hat?" is the only female conversational game* that my mother will consent to play. The rules are simple: Is it sunny out? Can that thing be identified as a baby? Then it should be wearing a hat. So you get to say "Don't you want to put a hat on his little head?" I still haven't figured out whether this game works without accompanying weather conditions. Can hats be suggested on babies for one's own amusement? To go with the general tenor of the moment? If I see a baby at a funeral, can I say "Don't you want to put a comically small hat with a black tulle veil on his widdle head?," or, in the North End "Shouldn't that baby be wearing a fedora?"
*Other famous female conversational games include "Other people's medical problems" "Lets enumerate our imaginary flaws" "Things I would like to buy or own but haven't yet." and "Who would you let put it in your butt?**"
**This is not actually a female conversational game +.
+But if it were, I've got my answer: Prince William, and Prince William only.++
++ Not out of some ridiculous anglo-royo-philia, but because the dollar's down. And if I'm going to have somebody stick something in my pooper, I want to be able to sell the story to the tabloids. And nobody's got a more thriving tabloid culture than the UK. And damn, the Brits would pay a lot for the story of the night the Prince got his brown wings. With exchange rates being what they are, it's likely that royal weiner + my bum could be the smartest investment I'd ever get to make.
I was just past the fire station when I passed a man pushing a stroller. In the stroller was a baby. It was a classic baby, I suppose, nothing exotic or imported. It was a young baby; I'm not good at the ages of young people; I have to go by size. It was small for a baby, large for a liquor bottle. It was about 1.5 gallon baby. Redheaded, squinty, with that wierd accusatory old man face that the small type of baby generally has. It was drooling and just a little bit crusty.
And it wasn't wearing a hat.
I remember that, because as I passed them, some voice said in my head "Oh, don't you want to put a hat on his little head?".
Don't. You. Want. To. Put. A. Hat. On. His. Little. Head.
Not: For the good of society, will you please wipe that little fucker down or consider a rear-facing stroller? He's gone past sticky to greasy, and it's unpleasant to have that thing wheeled at you on a hill, like that.
But: Don't you want to put a hat on his little head?
Remember, I'm the person who is ready to advocate for a thirty day, no questions asked return policy on those things. I'm the person who seriously considered writing a paper for my animal behavior class that suggested that the delayed appearance of features triggering the "aw" response in human infants is a result of the evolutionary advantage to abandoning infants below a certain age.
Not only am I suspicious of, and hostile to, infants - I don't know a thing about them. I've taken, and passed, child development, but the only thing I got from it is that Russian learning theorists tend to die as young, and of similar (hepatic) causes as other Russian intellectuals. And yet, apparently, I know one thing about babies: They should wear hats. On their little heads. When it's sunny out.
I'm trying to reassure myself that my reaction was not some bastard emergence of then nurturing instinct I have thus far only hoped to extend to large, wealthy african-american men who are strangers to me
.
It's probably nothing to do with babies, and a lot to do with my mom. "Don't you think that baby should wear a hat?" is the only female conversational game* that my mother will consent to play. The rules are simple: Is it sunny out? Can that thing be identified as a baby? Then it should be wearing a hat. So you get to say "Don't you want to put a hat on his little head?" I still haven't figured out whether this game works without accompanying weather conditions. Can hats be suggested on babies for one's own amusement? To go with the general tenor of the moment? If I see a baby at a funeral, can I say "Don't you want to put a comically small hat with a black tulle veil on his widdle head?," or, in the North End "Shouldn't that baby be wearing a fedora?"
*Other famous female conversational games include "Other people's medical problems" "Lets enumerate our imaginary flaws" "Things I would like to buy or own but haven't yet." and "Who would you let put it in your butt?**"
**This is not actually a female conversational game +.
+But if it were, I've got my answer: Prince William, and Prince William only.++
++ Not out of some ridiculous anglo-royo-philia, but because the dollar's down. And if I'm going to have somebody stick something in my pooper, I want to be able to sell the story to the tabloids. And nobody's got a more thriving tabloid culture than the UK. And damn, the Brits would pay a lot for the story of the night the Prince got his brown wings. With exchange rates being what they are, it's likely that royal weiner + my bum could be the smartest investment I'd ever get to make.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
From my walk today.
For some reason, this picture put this mini-movie in my head: Crucified Jesus, on a hill. Red skies. Bible epic costumes and sound. For some reason, Yul Brynner is there. And hanging around Jesus' neck, just like on the door of a small barber shop at lunch time, is one of those signs with the plastic clock face on it, one of those : Back at - signs. Some roman soldier runs up, sniggering, and takes the hands off the plastic clock. The apostles titter among themselves, dissappointed that no one wrote it down. Then somebody goes up there with a sharpie and writes "Soon."Jesus will be right back, people. As soon as he drops his netflix in the mail and buys a grape slurpie - there's gonna be redemption and there's gonna be half-priced french pedis.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Blogging Backup.
I haven't blogged seriously for most of this term; I've let so many important events go by: being solicited as a caterer for a friend's wedding; a trip down south; the whole employment thang.
Why haven't I blogged? Well. Here's the thing:
1. I have much more time now than I had as a 1L.
2. I have much less time now that I am a 2L.
If those two statements seem contradictory, it's because they are. They're also both true. I have much more time now. I've grown my interests back; I've been baking bread and making bagels. I've been getting to the gym more; I've been seeing my family. Unfortunately, the amount of time required to do these thi
ngs is actually greater than the free time I've acquired by virtue of being a 2L.
It all comes down to poor time management.
So, a month's worth of blogs, in a few sentences, in simplified English, with accompanying illustrations.
June 29 : I had job interviews. Basic Summary, as an east german lolcat: "Yes. I is qualified law thing. Pleaz to hire me for law. Pleaz? K Thx."
June 30 - July 1 : Donuts are good. They are far away. Maryland is pretty. I drank beer. Many barbeque sauces. Oh! So many! Did not see Lincoln. Another time. Happy Birthday to me.
July 3- July 5 : Went to the beach. Nice beach. Wine. Fireworks, yay! I drank beer. Had burger. my friends were there! Yay! Hi Joe! Later.
July 6-July 12 : Holy Shit! Everything is broken! My car goes click click click. My phone won't beep. And sprint smells suspiciously like vinegar and morning dew to me.
Why haven't I blogged? Well. Here's the thing:
1. I have much more time now than I had as a 1L.
2. I have much less time now that I am a 2L.
If those two statements seem contradictory, it's because they are. They're also both true. I have much more time now. I've grown my interests back; I've been baking bread and making bagels. I've been getting to the gym more; I've been seeing my family. Unfortunately, the amount of time required to do these thi
ngs is actually greater than the free time I've acquired by virtue of being a 2L.It all comes down to poor time management.
So, a month's worth of blogs, in a few sentences, in simplified English, with accompanying illustrations.
June 29 : I had job interviews. Basic Summary, as an east german lolcat: "Yes. I is qualified law thing. Pleaz to hire me for law. Pleaz? K Thx."
June 30 - July 1 : Donuts are good. They are far away. Maryland is pretty. I drank beer. Many barbeque sauces. Oh! So many! Did not see Lincoln. Another time. Happy Birthday to me.
July 3- July 5 : Went to the beach. Nice beach. Wine. Fireworks, yay! I drank beer. Had burger. my friends were there! Yay! Hi Joe! Later.
July 6-July 12 : Holy Shit! Everything is broken! My car goes click click click. My phone won't beep. And sprint smells suspiciously like vinegar and morning dew to me.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Recipe: Big Fluffy Bagels of Sorrow and the Pain of Growing Alienation
For the Bagels:
2 and 1/2 cups of white flour.
1/3 cup of oat bran, ground fine.
1/2 cup of whole oats, ground fine.
1 teaspoon of salt.
1 teaspoon of yeast.
For the water:
Brown Sugar
Salt
For the Sorrow:
The news that someone you love deeply will be taken far away from you, to not only grow apart, but potentially even begin working against you. This needs to be a betrayal you are entirely powerless to prevent, yet something that is considered an inconsequential loss by society at large, so that your family and dearest friends cannot even begin to comprehend the depths of your emotions at this moment.
Suitable sorrows, ranked from highest to lowest yield:
-Delonte West, the best and greatest and most awesome basketball personality to cross the TD Banknorth Fleet O'Rama Parquet, getting traded to Seattle, which means he'll end up in Oklahoma, which means it will be hot and nobody will come to see him, and no one will care about the things he wants to do, like strip naked and drive down crowded highways in a convertible, or believe that he really did talk to Bugs Bunny one time.
-The cancellation, mid-show, of a Morrissey concert. (hi nichole! my bagels refer to you!)
-Kitten abortion.
Assemble dry ingredients, oatbran flour, oat flour, white flour, salt, and yeast, in a bowl. Add, slowly slowly, and mixing from the sides of the bowl, slightly more than one cup of warm water. After dough is mixed, dump into a slightly greased bowl, cover, and set aside for two or three hours.
During those two hours, mope as necessary.
Turn dough out onto floured board, and work until dough is somewhat elastic and oblong. Cut into eight hunks. Shape hunks into bagels, by poking your thumb through, and in a wringing motion, as if you're ringing out unshed tears, form the bagel with your fingers. Set each bagel on surface, cover, and leave to double in bulk.
After dough has nearly doubled, take out your biggest pot, and fill nearly all the way with water. Add salt (again, think tears) and sugar to the water (bittersweet, such is the nature of loss. Also doughy.) Put on high heat and bring to a really, really rapid boil.
Drop bagels two by two into the boiling water. Cook for 3 or 4 minutes each side, and set on dish towel or pile of paper towels to drain. As you're nearly halfway done, preheat the oven to 425. When all bagels have been boiled, allow the last batch to drain for at least five minutes, then place on waxed paper on cookie sheet, and bake for 30 minutes.
Bagels, sorrow, unfathomable loss - good with peanut butter.
2 and 1/2 cups of white flour.
1/3 cup of oat bran, ground fine.
1/2 cup of whole oats, ground fine.
1 teaspoon of salt.
1 teaspoon of yeast.
For the water:
Brown Sugar
Salt
For the Sorrow:
The news that someone you love deeply will be taken far away from you, to not only grow apart, but potentially even begin working against you. This needs to be a betrayal you are entirely powerless to prevent, yet something that is considered an inconsequential loss by society at large, so that your family and dearest friends cannot even begin to comprehend the depths of your emotions at this moment.
Suitable sorrows, ranked from highest to lowest yield:
-Delonte West, the best and greatest and most awesome basketball personality to cross the TD Banknorth Fleet O'Rama Parquet, getting traded to Seattle, which means he'll end up in Oklahoma, which means it will be hot and nobody will come to see him, and no one will care about the things he wants to do, like strip naked and drive down crowded highways in a convertible, or believe that he really did talk to Bugs Bunny one time.
-The cancellation, mid-show, of a Morrissey concert. (hi nichole! my bagels refer to you!)
-Kitten abortion.
Assemble dry ingredients, oatbran flour, oat flour, white flour, salt, and yeast, in a bowl. Add, slowly slowly, and mixing from the sides of the bowl, slightly more than one cup of warm water. After dough is mixed, dump into a slightly greased bowl, cover, and set aside for two or three hours.
During those two hours, mope as necessary.
Turn dough out onto floured board, and work until dough is somewhat elastic and oblong. Cut into eight hunks. Shape hunks into bagels, by poking your thumb through, and in a wringing motion, as if you're ringing out unshed tears, form the bagel with your fingers. Set each bagel on surface, cover, and leave to double in bulk.
After dough has nearly doubled, take out your biggest pot, and fill nearly all the way with water. Add salt (again, think tears) and sugar to the water (bittersweet, such is the nature of loss. Also doughy.) Put on high heat and bring to a really, really rapid boil.
Drop bagels two by two into the boiling water. Cook for 3 or 4 minutes each side, and set on dish towel or pile of paper towels to drain. As you're nearly halfway done, preheat the oven to 425. When all bagels have been boiled, allow the last batch to drain for at least five minutes, then place on waxed paper on cookie sheet, and bake for 30 minutes.
Bagels, sorrow, unfathomable loss - good with peanut butter.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Dear Sandwich:
It seems like a cliche, but can I just say that I never thought it could be like this?
I didn't.
I ordered you on a whim, I admit, because I'd seen others enjoy you. And I'll admit, there'd been many, many sandwiches to pass through my life: club sandwiches, cuban sandwiches, peanut butter sandwiches.
I had, in times past, even eaten margarine on graham crackers and called that a sandwich.
For a while, I'd considered sandwich toppings to be the cutting edge of sandwich consumption; that all that could be done with sandwich fillings, the meat of the sandwich, was to coordinate what kind of bread it was on, and what vegetables, sauces, and cheeses it was paired with.
Little did I know that a sandwich of nothing but meat on a soft roll could be so much.
Then I ordered you, sandwich. You, the Burnt Ends Sandwich from Blue Ribbon Barbecue in Arlington.
Just one bite and I closed my eyes and I was sitting in front of every campfire I'd ever seen. The smoke, the meat, the soft roll- it was like childhood and summertime- but I'd never had barbecue as a child.
Until I was twenty-three years old all I knew of brisket was boiled corned beef on Saint Patrick's Day. How can a sandwich make me feel nostalgia when it evokes nothing I've ever experienced before?
The cole slaw wasn't so bad, either.
Love,
Hobolawstudent.
P.S. Sorry about digesting you and everything, but you understand.
I didn't.
I ordered you on a whim, I admit, because I'd seen others enjoy you. And I'll admit, there'd been many, many sandwiches to pass through my life: club sandwiches, cuban sandwiches, peanut butter sandwiches.
I had, in times past, even eaten margarine on graham crackers and called that a sandwich.
For a while, I'd considered sandwich toppings to be the cutting edge of sandwich consumption; that all that could be done with sandwich fillings, the meat of the sandwich, was to coordinate what kind of bread it was on, and what vegetables, sauces, and cheeses it was paired with.
Little did I know that a sandwich of nothing but meat on a soft roll could be so much.
Then I ordered you, sandwich. You, the Burnt Ends Sandwich from Blue Ribbon Barbecue in Arlington.
Just one bite and I closed my eyes and I was sitting in front of every campfire I'd ever seen. The smoke, the meat, the soft roll- it was like childhood and summertime- but I'd never had barbecue as a child.
Until I was twenty-three years old all I knew of brisket was boiled corned beef on Saint Patrick's Day. How can a sandwich make me feel nostalgia when it evokes nothing I've ever experienced before?
The cole slaw wasn't so bad, either.
Love,
Hobolawstudent.
P.S. Sorry about digesting you and everything, but you understand.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
In defense of Paris Hilton.
I think I've mentioned before that I feel a certain...warmth towards Britney Spears, the more she falters in life, insofar as I feel anything at all towards her. People who express surprise and shock about her "antics," I think, aren't really thinking. What did people think would happen when a girl from a lower-middle class background in the south is taken out of school, given millions of dollars, and called a sex symbol from the age of 16 on? Without the millions of dollars, she's just like any other girl from Florida - except she's had no formal education, no friends, and no experience with normal life. Of course she's a train wreck. Millions of dollars don't stop the train wreck; they just make it more sparkly. People make disdainful faces about her now; they furrow their brows, flipping through magazines at the check out counter,
"Well, before, it was all in good fun...but now she's brought a child into it."
The kid's going to be fine. When you have millions of dollars, it doesn't matter how together your mom is, as long as she can find a way to buy you a doting nanny with a good handle on child development. And even if not, it's not as if Britney Spears minus money and fame would be any better of a parent (or less likely to be a parent) than she is now. She's just more visible, and, as I said, much more sparkly to look at.
Paris Hilton I don't find as charming. I bet she actually is nearly everything she's accused of: vapid, talentless, shallow, ignorant. I doubt she is, as some seem to think, a harbinger of the apocalypse or a destroyer of the integrity of a generation...but really, believe what you want. But allow me to pose a question: What would you rather she be? Who else could she be?
Lauren Bush? Lauren Bush, Ralph Lauren model from the age of thirteen, from the same family that produced George H.W. Bush, Jeb Bush, and George W. Bush...could have very easily been Paris Hilton. Instead, she's gone to college. She received a prestigious fellowship, to travel around the world and visit children in orphanages. She was recently interviewed about this travel in Marie Claire. It was a two-page interview, followed by an opportunity to purchase a T-Shirt, designed by the young Ms. Bush, to support children in orphanages in impoverished countries.
Ms. Bush is ambitious. She contemplates a career in human service. She mentions in this interview that she did not get this fellowship because of her celebrity status; she had just applied, and she got it. Oh, Ms. Bush. I believe you, precious. I believe that you believe that. Because, otherwise, you wouldn't be able to live with yourself.
Think about Lauren Bush. She will have a fabulous education, followed by a wonderful career in whatever she chooses, which will provide her with money she will not need, some of which she will donate to people who do, most of which will go to buy trinkets and stocks and ridiculous luxuries, made guilt-less by her orphan safari and other ventures. And each opportunity she gets, like the fellowship- is one that she takes away from someone else.
Her college admission. Her future internships. Her career. Every thing she does, which she is RICH ENOUGH NOT TO NEED TO DO, is going to be another opportunity lost to someone who may have achieved it through merit and hard work (I'm not saying Ms. Bush has no merit, or has never worked hard; only that when one is that privileged, and that connected, it is impossible to suss out what has come from what source).
I prefer Ms. Hilton. She will never need a job. She will never need an education. Thus, she declined to get one. Even her ridiculous television programs took nothing away from anyone. No one could star in The Simple Life, except for a vapid and useless socialite. She is the embodiment, the open and naked result of privilege and nepotism, un-shrouded in virtue or charity or stylish concerns...The only thing she has ever done that was actually, literally, destructive to society was drive drunk. And, arguably, by sparking a debate and outrage over her preferential treatment in prison, perhaps some good will come from it. If people grow outraged enough, perhaps some change will happen. Maybe public support for prisoner's rights will grow, as stories about young men dying in prison from neglected absesses and apendicitis while Paris gets a pass because she can't get her lithium.
"Well, before, it was all in good fun...but now she's brought a child into it."
The kid's going to be fine. When you have millions of dollars, it doesn't matter how together your mom is, as long as she can find a way to buy you a doting nanny with a good handle on child development. And even if not, it's not as if Britney Spears minus money and fame would be any better of a parent (or less likely to be a parent) than she is now. She's just more visible, and, as I said, much more sparkly to look at.
Paris Hilton I don't find as charming. I bet she actually is nearly everything she's accused of: vapid, talentless, shallow, ignorant. I doubt she is, as some seem to think, a harbinger of the apocalypse or a destroyer of the integrity of a generation...but really, believe what you want. But allow me to pose a question: What would you rather she be? Who else could she be?
Lauren Bush? Lauren Bush, Ralph Lauren model from the age of thirteen, from the same family that produced George H.W. Bush, Jeb Bush, and George W. Bush...could have very easily been Paris Hilton. Instead, she's gone to college. She received a prestigious fellowship, to travel around the world and visit children in orphanages. She was recently interviewed about this travel in Marie Claire. It was a two-page interview, followed by an opportunity to purchase a T-Shirt, designed by the young Ms. Bush, to support children in orphanages in impoverished countries.
Ms. Bush is ambitious. She contemplates a career in human service. She mentions in this interview that she did not get this fellowship because of her celebrity status; she had just applied, and she got it. Oh, Ms. Bush. I believe you, precious. I believe that you believe that. Because, otherwise, you wouldn't be able to live with yourself.
Think about Lauren Bush. She will have a fabulous education, followed by a wonderful career in whatever she chooses, which will provide her with money she will not need, some of which she will donate to people who do, most of which will go to buy trinkets and stocks and ridiculous luxuries, made guilt-less by her orphan safari and other ventures. And each opportunity she gets, like the fellowship- is one that she takes away from someone else.
Her college admission. Her future internships. Her career. Every thing she does, which she is RICH ENOUGH NOT TO NEED TO DO, is going to be another opportunity lost to someone who may have achieved it through merit and hard work (I'm not saying Ms. Bush has no merit, or has never worked hard; only that when one is that privileged, and that connected, it is impossible to suss out what has come from what source).
I prefer Ms. Hilton. She will never need a job. She will never need an education. Thus, she declined to get one. Even her ridiculous television programs took nothing away from anyone. No one could star in The Simple Life, except for a vapid and useless socialite. She is the embodiment, the open and naked result of privilege and nepotism, un-shrouded in virtue or charity or stylish concerns...The only thing she has ever done that was actually, literally, destructive to society was drive drunk. And, arguably, by sparking a debate and outrage over her preferential treatment in prison, perhaps some good will come from it. If people grow outraged enough, perhaps some change will happen. Maybe public support for prisoner's rights will grow, as stories about young men dying in prison from neglected absesses and apendicitis while Paris gets a pass because she can't get her lithium.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
In which the Hobo says she prefers mental retardation to tort reform.
Actually, that's not the essence of my argument.
I don't prefer mental retardation to tort reform; I prefer mental retardation to death. Unfortunately, I'm not HoboDeathStudent, and I like to pretend sometimes that I care about issues relating to my future career. (Actually, I do. But no one wants to debate the intersection of contract law and social policy with me. So I will continue to mostly write about things I cook)
So there is a massive, massive lawsuit in the works. If you're unfamiliar with the thimoseral/autism thing, here's a summary: In the past fifteen or twenty years, autism has been being diagnosed far more often than it had been previously. This increase cannot be explained by an increase in the population, although it is theorized, that, among many possible factors, it may be related to the aging of the population. There are a great many people, and very many parents of autistic children, who believe that a mercury-containing preservative in vaccines, thimoseral, is the cause of some cases of autism.
The proposed mechanism of action is inconsistent; some people believe it is the mercury in the thimoseral which causes brain damage, which causes autism, in certain very vulnerable children. Others believe that it is the combination of vaccines now given, which overwhelm the immune system in some children, and cause an auto-immune reaction, which causes autism.
The science isn't good; and the law isn't any better. For many reasons, it would be hard to make this case out in regular court. First, unlike, say, DES, which caused a characteristic type of cancer, (clear cell adenoma)at an unusual age; there is nothing distinct about autism potentially caused by a vaccine and other cases of autism. Any potential plaintiff may have contracted autism anyway (factual causation problem, for tort students).
Plaintiffs have, however, killed their legal and scientific problems by bringing suit in "Vaccine Court", which, as far as I can tell, has lowered their burdens of proof in order to create a more streamlined process for people injured by vaccines. All settlements in vaccine court come out of a general pool; mumps vaccine makes your balls fall off, flu vaccine gives you a seizure - it all comes from the same account. That way, no one has to identify the manufacturer or distributor of their particular dose of vaccine.
I could go on legally, but I won't.
Before I go into my next argument, let me just say: I have tremendous respect for parents of autistic children and all people who work with them. If I had the balls and the strength of character, not to mention the patience and internal reserves, to be in a nurturing profession like that...I wouldn't be going up to my eyelashes in debt to be able to sit in a room with papers all day.
But basically, if you're a parent, what these parents are saying, with their lawsuit is "Fuck your kids."
Vaccines aren't fun; they're not a government plot. They're not a pharmaceutical plot. They're dangerous tools of the medical profession, yes. But they're necessary. And the reason they're necessary is because if we did not vaccinate children, we'd be back to the era of birthing four to raise three. Mumps, measles, rubella, polio. All these things didn't just hurt kids, or make their lives difficult, lonely, unpleasant, frustrating, undignified- they killed them. If thimoseral causes autism (and I have seen nothing to convince me it does), it's still worth vaccinating every child.
Autism doesn't kill you. Polio might.
So what these parents are saying is "I would prefer that my child be normal, and two children I do not know be dead." It's a fair thing to feel. If we didn't want to save kin over strangers, especially unseen strangers, we'd have run out of ourselves, long ago. It's not a fair thing, however, to enact. If vaccines become too much of a liability for companies to produce, they'll stop. And when they stop, people will start to die. Mostly children.
I've been thinking about the outcry against increased genetic testing for down syndrome. Parents of children with downs syndrome are concerned that if people find out that they're having a child with downs syndrome, they will abort it. They feel that if these parents knew what living with a child with downs is like, they'd keep the baby. People are concerned about the ethics of ending a pregnancy, to spare a family from having a mentally disabled child, or to spare a child from having to live with a mental disability - when we have a whole lobby of people who openly prefer the painful deaths of other children, to the possibility that their child may not be perfect.
By the way, kids: The vaccine court is a form of tort reform. A limited pool of compensation. Specific rules for specific injuries. Streamlined process. Tort reform ain't the answer.
I don't prefer mental retardation to tort reform; I prefer mental retardation to death. Unfortunately, I'm not HoboDeathStudent, and I like to pretend sometimes that I care about issues relating to my future career. (Actually, I do. But no one wants to debate the intersection of contract law and social policy with me. So I will continue to mostly write about things I cook)
So there is a massive, massive lawsuit in the works. If you're unfamiliar with the thimoseral/autism thing, here's a summary: In the past fifteen or twenty years, autism has been being diagnosed far more often than it had been previously. This increase cannot be explained by an increase in the population, although it is theorized, that, among many possible factors, it may be related to the aging of the population. There are a great many people, and very many parents of autistic children, who believe that a mercury-containing preservative in vaccines, thimoseral, is the cause of some cases of autism.
The proposed mechanism of action is inconsistent; some people believe it is the mercury in the thimoseral which causes brain damage, which causes autism, in certain very vulnerable children. Others believe that it is the combination of vaccines now given, which overwhelm the immune system in some children, and cause an auto-immune reaction, which causes autism.
The science isn't good; and the law isn't any better. For many reasons, it would be hard to make this case out in regular court. First, unlike, say, DES, which caused a characteristic type of cancer, (clear cell adenoma)at an unusual age; there is nothing distinct about autism potentially caused by a vaccine and other cases of autism. Any potential plaintiff may have contracted autism anyway (factual causation problem, for tort students).
Plaintiffs have, however, killed their legal and scientific problems by bringing suit in "Vaccine Court", which, as far as I can tell, has lowered their burdens of proof in order to create a more streamlined process for people injured by vaccines. All settlements in vaccine court come out of a general pool; mumps vaccine makes your balls fall off, flu vaccine gives you a seizure - it all comes from the same account. That way, no one has to identify the manufacturer or distributor of their particular dose of vaccine.
I could go on legally, but I won't.
Before I go into my next argument, let me just say: I have tremendous respect for parents of autistic children and all people who work with them. If I had the balls and the strength of character, not to mention the patience and internal reserves, to be in a nurturing profession like that...I wouldn't be going up to my eyelashes in debt to be able to sit in a room with papers all day.
But basically, if you're a parent, what these parents are saying, with their lawsuit is "Fuck your kids."
Vaccines aren't fun; they're not a government plot. They're not a pharmaceutical plot. They're dangerous tools of the medical profession, yes. But they're necessary. And the reason they're necessary is because if we did not vaccinate children, we'd be back to the era of birthing four to raise three. Mumps, measles, rubella, polio. All these things didn't just hurt kids, or make their lives difficult, lonely, unpleasant, frustrating, undignified- they killed them. If thimoseral causes autism (and I have seen nothing to convince me it does), it's still worth vaccinating every child.
Autism doesn't kill you. Polio might.
So what these parents are saying is "I would prefer that my child be normal, and two children I do not know be dead." It's a fair thing to feel. If we didn't want to save kin over strangers, especially unseen strangers, we'd have run out of ourselves, long ago. It's not a fair thing, however, to enact. If vaccines become too much of a liability for companies to produce, they'll stop. And when they stop, people will start to die. Mostly children.
I've been thinking about the outcry against increased genetic testing for down syndrome. Parents of children with downs syndrome are concerned that if people find out that they're having a child with downs syndrome, they will abort it. They feel that if these parents knew what living with a child with downs is like, they'd keep the baby. People are concerned about the ethics of ending a pregnancy, to spare a family from having a mentally disabled child, or to spare a child from having to live with a mental disability - when we have a whole lobby of people who openly prefer the painful deaths of other children, to the possibility that their child may not be perfect.
By the way, kids: The vaccine court is a form of tort reform. A limited pool of compensation. Specific rules for specific injuries. Streamlined process. Tort reform ain't the answer.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
2L, baby!
Man, it's been a...couple of weeks.
Finals ended on a note of triumph for me. I strode out of my constitutional law final with the smugness of a pimp with a solid gold dick. I had the greasy self-satisfaction that can only come from knowing you've passed a class without listening to a full sentence the professor said for at least four months. Solitaire was as close as I came to paying attention; unlike when I was checking my email, blogging, or reading...when I was playing solitaire I wasn't actively trying to block the fucker out.
I'm not (well, normally I am) one of those annoying folks who roll out of bed and into the first and last classes of the semester and, chuckling softly, complete the final with twenty minutes to spare, pausing only to inquire what the actual name of the course and professor are. I dedicated serious time and energy to this awesome feat of not-failure.
I knew I would be ignoring this professor. Whatever shreds of self-regard I still clung to as a 1L were just barely sufficient to keep me from listening to his half-sermonizing, half-self-consciously ironic tone. That, and refrain from eating out of the garbage.
Other than that, the exams were not terribly memorable.
And here I am, starting the first term of my 2L year. I'm taking Corporations, Basic Income Taxation, Intellectual Property, and Evidence. I'd dearly love to pay off my student loans, and thus, am taking anything that I can imagine that might lead down that road. I've even developed a charming justification, with the obligitory thin veneer of moral superiority, for my coming legal prostitution:
You see, despite my passion for subjects in the public interest (affordable housing, reproductive rights), I could never actually work in those fields vocationally. Because, regardless of how deeply you feel about the field, if you're getting paid, you will be advocating for someone else's agenda, someone else's priorities. And I just care too darned much about my interests (affordable housing, reproductive rights) to compromise. The only ethical thing, then, for someone of my deep and abiding moral code, is to work in a field unrelated to my beliefs, with the hope of contributing in a self-directed, avocational way, as time moves on.
Morally consistent, no? And it only took me a year at the "Nation's Premier Public Interest Law School" to develop a nuanced and comprehensive justification for how quickly and thoroughly I hope to sell out after graduation.
Finals ended on a note of triumph for me. I strode out of my constitutional law final with the smugness of a pimp with a solid gold dick. I had the greasy self-satisfaction that can only come from knowing you've passed a class without listening to a full sentence the professor said for at least four months. Solitaire was as close as I came to paying attention; unlike when I was checking my email, blogging, or reading...when I was playing solitaire I wasn't actively trying to block the fucker out.
I'm not (well, normally I am) one of those annoying folks who roll out of bed and into the first and last classes of the semester and, chuckling softly, complete the final with twenty minutes to spare, pausing only to inquire what the actual name of the course and professor are. I dedicated serious time and energy to this awesome feat of not-failure.
I knew I would be ignoring this professor. Whatever shreds of self-regard I still clung to as a 1L were just barely sufficient to keep me from listening to his half-sermonizing, half-self-consciously ironic tone. That, and refrain from eating out of the garbage.
Other than that, the exams were not terribly memorable.
And here I am, starting the first term of my 2L year. I'm taking Corporations, Basic Income Taxation, Intellectual Property, and Evidence. I'd dearly love to pay off my student loans, and thus, am taking anything that I can imagine that might lead down that road. I've even developed a charming justification, with the obligitory thin veneer of moral superiority, for my coming legal prostitution:
You see, despite my passion for subjects in the public interest (affordable housing, reproductive rights), I could never actually work in those fields vocationally. Because, regardless of how deeply you feel about the field, if you're getting paid, you will be advocating for someone else's agenda, someone else's priorities. And I just care too darned much about my interests (affordable housing, reproductive rights) to compromise. The only ethical thing, then, for someone of my deep and abiding moral code, is to work in a field unrelated to my beliefs, with the hope of contributing in a self-directed, avocational way, as time moves on.
Morally consistent, no? And it only took me a year at the "Nation's Premier Public Interest Law School" to develop a nuanced and comprehensive justification for how quickly and thoroughly I hope to sell out after graduation.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Yes, another food post.
The Great Pizza Crust Experiment.
As you know, I have no money. As you may or may not know, I love pizza. I probably love pizza more than I love you, no matter who you are. Random blog reader, friend, accomplice, undisclosed romantic interest- unless you happen to be a certain gentleman who has quite impressive skills in the paint- I am almost certain to have a deeper and more tender regard for pizza than I shall ever have for you.
No money plus great love for pizza = debt. Sadness. Tragedy. So, as I am wont to do when faced with tragedy, I went to my parents house. They did not make any donations to the cause. Then, I made my way to the traditional homeland of pizza: Rhode Island.
And in Rhode Island, I conducted a scientific study,of similar historic import to when that french fuck discovered oxygen by killing a pigeon, in order to answer the timeless question: How the fuck am I going to make good pizza without a pizza oven?
We've all experienced it. In order to save money, people will decide "Hey, it's just sauce, cheese, and bread. I can make that." And it never works. Why? Because pizza depends on heat sources unavailable to home cooks.
Problem- Fat melts at 100 degrees. Sugar burns at 400-ish. While water boils at 212, it takes time to get there, whereas your fat and your sugar go faster. In order for pizza crust to get chewy before it burns, the oven has to be hot enough that the water in the dough boils out before the sugars and fats start to incinerate.
Further problem: If your oven isn't hot enough to cook the dough fast, your dough will rise too much as it cooks. This creates the most loathsome situation known to man: Domino's Pizza. Doughy, bready, like an irish girl's low-rent approximation of focaccia...it's not pizza. It's bread with sauce, cheese added for modesty. No good. You simply can't bake a pizza longer to compensate for your tepid-ass, suzy-homemaker oven.
The solution is obvious: Raise the heat. Pizza stones were created for this; unfortunately, they're either expensive or shitty, or both. The stone you buy at the store is likely to be a rotten heat absorber and reflector. Alton Brown says to buy a marble tile at a home supply store, but as I mentioned, I have no money. So what's a girl to do?
Strategery, folks.
Strategy One:
My first strategy, one I've perfected in my dorm, is the old fall-back: Direct conduction. While the hottest setting on the dial of your stove may be 500 degrees, the temp. inside your oven varies. Gas only burns at one temp, after all. It's just that your stove is programed to turn the flame off and on, intensify it and temper it, until some part of the stove reaches the temp. on your oven dial. The hottest part of your oven is the floor, because it's closest to the flame. And the flame heats the bottom of the oven directly, instead of by heating the air around it, so it's even hotter.
So, in order to take advantage of the hot spot, make your pizza on your thinnest cookie sheet or cookie sheet substitute. Cover that sheet in tin foil, oil, and a dusting of either cornmeal or semolina flour.
At left, you can see our crust on the sheet, pre-toppings. After the pizza is constructed, into the oven at the hottest setting it has, for 9-12 minutes. (Results to follow at end.)
However, the direct conduction method has flaws. First, it's not translatable to electric ovens, for a variety of reasons. Second, it requires that the oven be turned up as high as it goes, which can be a problem; errant bits of oil on the cookie sheet, those that aren't covered by dough, may smoke and set off your fire alarm. Third, it makes people nervous to put things directly on the floor of the oven. They think it's unnatural, unsavory, perverse.
There's a second method that doesn't require putting the pizza directly on the floor of the oven; and, I'd hoped, would allow the pizza to be cooked at a lower temp. without sacrificing texture. Unscientifically, I'll call this "the less direct conduction method"; or the "I don't have a pizza stone method".
Cast iron is a fantastic conductor, store-er reflector, and distributor of heat. It's also durable, traditional, and non-stick. Really, cast iron pans are fantastic. They just require a little more responsibility than other pans. Or a significant other who is willing to do the maintenance.
So I took the cast iron skillet and put it in the oven, middle rack, upside down at 400 degrees, for 25 minutes, while I was assembling the pizzas. Then, I placed a pizza (on an improvised, reinforced tinfoil disk), on top of the skillet. This, I hoped, would allow the pizza to take advantage of the fantastic heat-transferring properties of cast iron, without resorting to deep-dish. In the purposes of science, I have to disclose that I made this pizza sauceless, because I was scared that if there was sauce that dripped, and the skillet was too hot to take out of the oven (and it was, for hours after), then we may have rust.
The third method was cast iron, not preheated. I took a little cast iron pan (a tortilla warmer- ten dollars at your local ethnic grocery), and tossed that onto the top rack. Let's call this the control grou
p.
How'd they come out? Well, all three were edible. And all three were special in their own way, although they shared a common flaw: lack of cheese browning. As we all know, the ideal pizza has stretchy, gooey cheese, topped with an almost imperceptible layer of stiffer, crisper cheese. (This allows the pizza to be cut, without the cheese sliding off). All three of my methods focused on getting the crust cooked, not the cheese- so after the crust was done, I slid each pizza under the broiler for a few seconds.
Our tortilla-warmer pizza was beautiful, and only took a few minutes longer to cook than the other two pizzas. The crust was golden, the toppings were perfectly done, and it really did look like a delivery pizza. Check out the browning on
the crust; the bottom was golden, and not a bit burnt.
However, this pizza was, when cut, very doughy. Because the cast iron wasn't pre-heated, the dough got a lot of time to rise before coming up to temp. For illustrative purposes, check out this picture of an earlier, pepperoni pizza, made with that method. Take a close look at how thick the crust, how midwestern the profile. It was edible, tasty, even. Better than gourmet frozen, better than Pizza Hut; but not better than your finer House-Of-Pizzas.
Our other cast-iron pizza had a less pleasant appearance. This may b
e because it was the only pizza not to spend any time below the cast iron pan, so the crust didn't get as nice and brown from reflected heat. However, the crust was chewy, flexible, foldable. The cheese was nicely melty, and the short cooking time and moderate heat left vegetable toppings cooked, but not mushy. The ideal, I think, would be to bake a pizza both on top of, and immediately below, pre-heated cast iron pans- that way, the crust is golden brown and crisp on top, tender and chewy on the bottom.
This pizza crust did not have the traditional Dominos/Pizza Hut/Boboli thickness. It was thin enough that, if the pan had been large enough, one could pass it off as delivery.
Finally, we come to th
e old favorite, my standby direct conduction pie. This pie was tasty. The crust was a little too thin in places- it was hard to keep the toppings on; however, that may have been due more to the large size of the pizza than the method of cooking. It was delicious otherwise, with fine browning, and the cookie sheet made it easy to take out of the oven and put under the broiler to crisp the cheese.
This method works better with fatty, lightweight
toppings, than with high-water, high-weight vegetable toppings. While it was difficult to keep hold of our peppers, onions, and mushrooms, an earlier pizza made using this method was able to handle garlic sausages, fresh mozz, and pepperoni quite nicely, as seen at right.
Conclusion: If you want a big pizza, and you have a gas oven- just fearlessly, boldly, bravely, put it on the floor of your oven. Remember that pepperoni always helps, and that turning the dial as far as it goes feels so good. If you don't have a gas oven, but you do have a cast iron skillet, try that. Better yet, use two, and preheat them both. Finally, if you haven't got the foresight to preheat your skillet, but somehow have come into possession of pizza dough, cold cast iron works almost as well, as long as you're willing to accept a little more dough in your life.
As you know, I have no money. As you may or may not know, I love pizza. I probably love pizza more than I love you, no matter who you are. Random blog reader, friend, accomplice, undisclosed romantic interest- unless you happen to be a certain gentleman who has quite impressive skills in the paint- I am almost certain to have a deeper and more tender regard for pizza than I shall ever have for you.
No money plus great love for pizza = debt. Sadness. Tragedy. So, as I am wont to do when faced with tragedy, I went to my parents house. They did not make any donations to the cause. Then, I made my way to the traditional homeland of pizza: Rhode Island.
And in Rhode Island, I conducted a scientific study,of similar historic import to when that french fuck discovered oxygen by killing a pigeon, in order to answer the timeless question: How the fuck am I going to make good pizza without a pizza oven?
We've all experienced it. In order to save money, people will decide "Hey, it's just sauce, cheese, and bread. I can make that." And it never works. Why? Because pizza depends on heat sources unavailable to home cooks.
Problem- Fat melts at 100 degrees. Sugar burns at 400-ish. While water boils at 212, it takes time to get there, whereas your fat and your sugar go faster. In order for pizza crust to get chewy before it burns, the oven has to be hot enough that the water in the dough boils out before the sugars and fats start to incinerate.
Further problem: If your oven isn't hot enough to cook the dough fast, your dough will rise too much as it cooks. This creates the most loathsome situation known to man: Domino's Pizza. Doughy, bready, like an irish girl's low-rent approximation of focaccia...it's not pizza. It's bread with sauce, cheese added for modesty. No good. You simply can't bake a pizza longer to compensate for your tepid-ass, suzy-homemaker oven.
The solution is obvious: Raise the heat. Pizza stones were created for this; unfortunately, they're either expensive or shitty, or both. The stone you buy at the store is likely to be a rotten heat absorber and reflector. Alton Brown says to buy a marble tile at a home supply store, but as I mentioned, I have no money. So what's a girl to do?
Strategery, folks.
Strategy One:
My first strategy, one I've perfected in my dorm, is the old fall-back: Direct conduction. While the hottest setting on the dial of your stove may be 500 degrees, the temp. inside your oven varies. Gas only burns at one temp, after all. It's just that your stove is programed to turn the flame off and on, intensify it and temper it, until some part of the stove reaches the temp. on your oven dial. The hottest part of your oven is the floor, because it's closest to the flame. And the flame heats the bottom of the oven directly, instead of by heating the air around it, so it's even hotter.
So, in order to take advantage of the hot spot, make your pizza on your thinnest cookie sheet or cookie sheet substitute. Cover that sheet in tin foil, oil, and a dusting of either cornmeal or semolina flour.
At left, you can see our crust on the sheet, pre-toppings. After the pizza is constructed, into the oven at the hottest setting it has, for 9-12 minutes. (Results to follow at end.)
However, the direct conduction method has flaws. First, it's not translatable to electric ovens, for a variety of reasons. Second, it requires that the oven be turned up as high as it goes, which can be a problem; errant bits of oil on the cookie sheet, those that aren't covered by dough, may smoke and set off your fire alarm. Third, it makes people nervous to put things directly on the floor of the oven. They think it's unnatural, unsavory, perverse.
There's a second method that doesn't require putting the pizza directly on the floor of the oven; and, I'd hoped, would allow the pizza to be cooked at a lower temp. without sacrificing texture. Unscientifically, I'll call this "the less direct conduction method"; or the "I don't have a pizza stone method".
Cast iron is a fantastic conductor, store-er reflector, and distributor of heat. It's also durable, traditional, and non-stick. Really, cast iron pans are fantastic. They just require a little more responsibility than other pans. Or a significant other who is willing to do the maintenance.
So I took the cast iron skillet and put it in the oven, middle rack, upside down at 400 degrees, for 25 minutes, while I was assembling the pizzas. Then, I placed a pizza (on an improvised, reinforced tinfoil disk), on top of the skillet. This, I hoped, would allow the pizza to take advantage of the fantastic heat-transferring properties of cast iron, without resorting to deep-dish. In the purposes of science, I have to disclose that I made this pizza sauceless, because I was scared that if there was sauce that dripped, and the skillet was too hot to take out of the oven (and it was, for hours after), then we may have rust.
The third method was cast iron, not preheated. I took a little cast iron pan (a tortilla warmer- ten dollars at your local ethnic grocery), and tossed that onto the top rack. Let's call this the control grou
p.How'd they come out? Well, all three were edible. And all three were special in their own way, although they shared a common flaw: lack of cheese browning. As we all know, the ideal pizza has stretchy, gooey cheese, topped with an almost imperceptible layer of stiffer, crisper cheese. (This allows the pizza to be cut, without the cheese sliding off). All three of my methods focused on getting the crust cooked, not the cheese- so after the crust was done, I slid each pizza under the broiler for a few seconds.
Our tortilla-warmer pizza was beautiful, and only took a few minutes longer to cook than the other two pizzas. The crust was golden, the toppings were perfectly done, and it really did look like a delivery pizza. Check out the browning on
the crust; the bottom was golden, and not a bit burnt.However, this pizza was, when cut, very doughy. Because the cast iron wasn't pre-heated, the dough got a lot of time to rise before coming up to temp. For illustrative purposes, check out this picture of an earlier, pepperoni pizza, made with that method. Take a close look at how thick the crust, how midwestern the profile. It was edible, tasty, even. Better than gourmet frozen, better than Pizza Hut; but not better than your finer House-Of-Pizzas.
Our other cast-iron pizza had a less pleasant appearance. This may b
e because it was the only pizza not to spend any time below the cast iron pan, so the crust didn't get as nice and brown from reflected heat. However, the crust was chewy, flexible, foldable. The cheese was nicely melty, and the short cooking time and moderate heat left vegetable toppings cooked, but not mushy. The ideal, I think, would be to bake a pizza both on top of, and immediately below, pre-heated cast iron pans- that way, the crust is golden brown and crisp on top, tender and chewy on the bottom.This pizza crust did not have the traditional Dominos/Pizza Hut/Boboli thickness. It was thin enough that, if the pan had been large enough, one could pass it off as delivery.
Finally, we come to th
e old favorite, my standby direct conduction pie. This pie was tasty. The crust was a little too thin in places- it was hard to keep the toppings on; however, that may have been due more to the large size of the pizza than the method of cooking. It was delicious otherwise, with fine browning, and the cookie sheet made it easy to take out of the oven and put under the broiler to crisp the cheese.This method works better with fatty, lightweight
toppings, than with high-water, high-weight vegetable toppings. While it was difficult to keep hold of our peppers, onions, and mushrooms, an earlier pizza made using this method was able to handle garlic sausages, fresh mozz, and pepperoni quite nicely, as seen at right.Conclusion: If you want a big pizza, and you have a gas oven- just fearlessly, boldly, bravely, put it on the floor of your oven. Remember that pepperoni always helps, and that turning the dial as far as it goes feels so good. If you don't have a gas oven, but you do have a cast iron skillet, try that. Better yet, use two, and preheat them both. Finally, if you haven't got the foresight to preheat your skillet, but somehow have come into possession of pizza dough, cold cast iron works almost as well, as long as you're willing to accept a little more dough in your life.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
"Barry"
Ok.
There's something you need to know about me. This is the kind of thing, that if you were totally in love with me, and I died suddenly, in an elaborate bus accident, or of some shadowy yet well-publicized female cancer, you would remember in a slow-motion montage accompanied by tedious acoustic pseudo-rock. Whereas, if you were half-interested in me, and then we broke up, you would use it as evidence that I was not charming insane, but actually beyond the limit of being salvageable for occasional hook-ups.
I name my meatloaf recipes.
Men's names. "Andy" is stuffed with mashed potatoes and has the classic diner-style ketchup sauce. This one is "Barry". Barry is...deceptively simple, delivering complex, yet starkly middle-American flavors, reminiscent of a small-town deli. Without further ado,
"Barry"
2 lb ground beef.
1 egg
1/4 cup brown mustard
2/3 cup crushed sour cream and onion potato chips
4-5 slices swiss cheese
garlic.
salt.
pepper.
In a large bowl, beat egg. Add mustard, meat, and potato chips. Sprinkle with salt and pepper, and add garlic.
On a large, foil covered cookie sheet, form 2/3 of meat mixture into a loaf. Make a "well" in the center. Cut or roll cheese to fit into well. Add the rest of meat mixture as a "roof". Bake at 375 for one hour. Tasty, no?
Thus, "Barry".
There's something you need to know about me. This is the kind of thing, that if you were totally in love with me, and I died suddenly, in an elaborate bus accident, or of some shadowy yet well-publicized female cancer, you would remember in a slow-motion montage accompanied by tedious acoustic pseudo-rock. Whereas, if you were half-interested in me, and then we broke up, you would use it as evidence that I was not charming insane, but actually beyond the limit of being salvageable for occasional hook-ups.
I name my meatloaf recipes.
Men's names. "Andy" is stuffed with mashed potatoes and has the classic diner-style ketchup sauce. This one is "Barry". Barry is...deceptively simple, delivering complex, yet starkly middle-American flavors, reminiscent of a small-town deli. Without further ado,
"Barry"
2 lb ground beef.
1 egg
1/4 cup brown mustard
2/3 cup crushed sour cream and onion potato chips
4-5 slices swiss cheese
garlic.
salt.
pepper.
In a large bowl, beat egg. Add mustard, meat, and potato chips. Sprinkle with salt and pepper, and add garlic.
On a large, foil covered cookie sheet, form 2/3 of meat mixture into a loaf. Make a "well" in the center. Cut or roll cheese to fit into well. Add the rest of meat mixture as a "roof". Bake at 375 for one hour. Tasty, no?
Thus, "Barry".
Thursday, April 12, 2007
I love Delonte West.
I fucking love him.
He is insane. And I love him.
Watch this. Immediately. I don't care if you don't like basketball. I don't care if you don't have time. You need to watch this. You need to see what he has to say about theology.
"Jesus, he knew about the beach...because it's hot in isreal...you think it's a robe..but it's a toga"
and about his aspirations for the future. Naked. With tube socks.
And about everything. You cannot understand me if you do not embrace Delonte. I love him. I will stalk him. And I will teach him that you don't need to take the Mass Pike to Boston from Waltham. I will make him a bouquet out of carrots and sweat socks.
We will run away together.
And now this. Damn you.
Love him immediately. No! Don't love him! All for me.
I'm so lonely.
He is insane. And I love him.
Watch this. Immediately. I don't care if you don't like basketball. I don't care if you don't have time. You need to watch this. You need to see what he has to say about theology.
"Jesus, he knew about the beach...because it's hot in isreal...you think it's a robe..but it's a toga"
and about his aspirations for the future. Naked. With tube socks.
And about everything. You cannot understand me if you do not embrace Delonte. I love him. I will stalk him. And I will teach him that you don't need to take the Mass Pike to Boston from Waltham. I will make him a bouquet out of carrots and sweat socks.
We will run away together.
And now this. Damn you.
Love him immediately. No! Don't love him! All for me.
I'm so lonely.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
This post is about my breasts. Plan accordingly.
My back hurts.
My back hurts a lot.
I didn't notice for a couple of days, because my leg hurt, too.
I blame Isaac Hayes for the leg. Long story. Basically, pasty, out of shape white girl + soundtrack to Shaft + gym = over exertion. I am not a sex machine with all the chicks, and I just have to accept that. I'm in search of a movie soundtrack more attuned to my fitness level. I'm deliberating between "The Graduate" and "The Little Mermaid."
It's hard to get pumped enough to hurt yourself listening to "The Sounds of Silence." Then again, "Mrs. Robinson" is pretty kicky. On the other hand, "Under The Sea" could be dangerous. My complete lack of co-ordination, yet incomplete immunity to rhythm makes me a danger to myself.
But my back hurts a lot. I couldn't figure it out. Every day this week, at about six pm, my back starts hurting. Like crazy. Like...back when my bra didn't fit. Or that time I was talked into going braless for three days.
Then I realized: My bras don't fit.
My bras don't fit because I've lost thirty pounds in three months. Nothing fits. However, due to poverty and not really caring, I've been ignoring everything that isn't actively falling off. Bras, if you've worn or interacted with one lately, do not fall off. They just scooch down, like lazy teamsters. And when they slouch, perhaps thinking about increased disability benefits, or extortive bargaining tactics, they don't do their work.
The tit-wranglers have been on vacation, and I never noticed. And my back has been paying the price. Of course, I still have no money. And I'm not going to spend my vital burger money taking the train to buy a bra that'll just betray me in 20 more pounds.
Listen...to the sounds...of silence.
My back hurts a lot.
I didn't notice for a couple of days, because my leg hurt, too.
I blame Isaac Hayes for the leg. Long story. Basically, pasty, out of shape white girl + soundtrack to Shaft + gym = over exertion. I am not a sex machine with all the chicks, and I just have to accept that. I'm in search of a movie soundtrack more attuned to my fitness level. I'm deliberating between "The Graduate" and "The Little Mermaid."
It's hard to get pumped enough to hurt yourself listening to "The Sounds of Silence." Then again, "Mrs. Robinson" is pretty kicky. On the other hand, "Under The Sea" could be dangerous. My complete lack of co-ordination, yet incomplete immunity to rhythm makes me a danger to myself.
But my back hurts a lot. I couldn't figure it out. Every day this week, at about six pm, my back starts hurting. Like crazy. Like...back when my bra didn't fit. Or that time I was talked into going braless for three days.
Then I realized: My bras don't fit.
My bras don't fit because I've lost thirty pounds in three months. Nothing fits. However, due to poverty and not really caring, I've been ignoring everything that isn't actively falling off. Bras, if you've worn or interacted with one lately, do not fall off. They just scooch down, like lazy teamsters. And when they slouch, perhaps thinking about increased disability benefits, or extortive bargaining tactics, they don't do their work.
The tit-wranglers have been on vacation, and I never noticed. And my back has been paying the price. Of course, I still have no money. And I'm not going to spend my vital burger money taking the train to buy a bra that'll just betray me in 20 more pounds.
Listen...to the sounds...of silence.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
A Recipe: "Tell me all your goddamned hopes and dreams" Risotto
Ingredients:
1 and 1/2 c. arborio rice.
1 carton chicken or other stock
1 cup juicy red wine
1 box frozen petite peas, or 2 cups fresh spring peas (cooked and set aside).
1 container sliced baby bella or crimini mushrooms
1/4 cup parmesan or pecorino romano cheese, grated
Olive Oil
Patience
Pour the chicken stock into a small saucepan on low. Do not allow it to boil. Move on.
On the bottom of a heavy saucepan, set over medium heat, drizzle about a tablespoon of olive oil. Dump in the mushrooms. Do not salt. Do you notice how there's no salt in the recipe? The salt is in the stock. No where else. Don't fucking salt anything. Anyway, stir the mushrooms around for about three minutes, until they get resilient in texture and give up their juices to the pan.
Remove mushrooms from the pan, reserving as much of the mushroom liquid as possible. Add about another teaspoon of olive oil to the bottom of the pan, and dump in the rice. Stir the rice around for about two minutes.
Pour in the red wine and stir until the wine is absorbed by the rice. Settle in. Maybe get someone to put on some music, maybe romantic-y type music. Al Green. Put on some Al Green. Love and Happiness...
Now you're going to want to keep pouring stock slowly into the rice. Add a half cup, stir for about...oh, three minutes, maybe five, until each stir reveals the bottom of the pan. Then add another half cup. You've got four cups of stock, so you'll want the stirring to take about a half an hour, total. After there's no more stock, combine risotto, peas, mushrooms, and cheese, and put in a casserole in a 200 degree oven to rest for ten minutes. Have a glass of wine. LOVE AND HAPP-Y-NESS...then serve. Delicious.
Here's a picture. The rice is actually, in person, a really pretty lilac-purple color, not brown. The lighting was not the best.
1 and 1/2 c. arborio rice.
1 carton chicken or other stock
1 cup juicy red wine
1 box frozen petite peas, or 2 cups fresh spring peas (cooked and set aside).
1 container sliced baby bella or crimini mushrooms
1/4 cup parmesan or pecorino romano cheese, grated
Olive Oil
Patience
Pour the chicken stock into a small saucepan on low. Do not allow it to boil. Move on.
On the bottom of a heavy saucepan, set over medium heat, drizzle about a tablespoon of olive oil. Dump in the mushrooms. Do not salt. Do you notice how there's no salt in the recipe? The salt is in the stock. No where else. Don't fucking salt anything. Anyway, stir the mushrooms around for about three minutes, until they get resilient in texture and give up their juices to the pan.
Remove mushrooms from the pan, reserving as much of the mushroom liquid as possible. Add about another teaspoon of olive oil to the bottom of the pan, and dump in the rice. Stir the rice around for about two minutes.
Pour in the red wine and stir until the wine is absorbed by the rice. Settle in. Maybe get someone to put on some music, maybe romantic-y type music. Al Green. Put on some Al Green. Love and Happiness...
Now you're going to want to keep pouring stock slowly into the rice. Add a half cup, stir for about...oh, three minutes, maybe five, until each stir reveals the bottom of the pan. Then add another half cup. You've got four cups of stock, so you'll want the stirring to take about a half an hour, total. After there's no more stock, combine risotto, peas, mushrooms, and cheese, and put in a casserole in a 200 degree oven to rest for ten minutes. Have a glass of wine. LOVE AND HAPP-Y-NESS...then serve. Delicious.
Here's a picture. The rice is actually, in person, a really pretty lilac-purple color, not brown. The lighting was not the best.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
I am a crackpot.
My letter to the editor of a well-respected, left-leaning, newspaper:
Dear (Newspaper) Magazine;
I am disgusted.
Your weekly feature, "Feature," is possibly one of the most obscene manifestations of elitist housing pornography that I've ever seen. Eastern Massachusetts has been experiencing an affordable housing crisis, and yet you run features on million dollar condominiums, half-million dollar fixer-uppers, and other offensive manifestations of the ludicrously inflated market that shuts so many out.
So many Massachusetts residents are quasi-homeless or paying 60% of their income for housing, dreaming of the day that prices fall so that they can have a permanent address, a cat, a single school district to in which to raise their children; this feature mocks them. It's as if, in a region experiencing famine, food shortages and inflation; you're running a weekly feature on the chic-est ways to throw food away.With the handy links provided to the listing agents, the indulgent descriptions of amenities, you're adding a coat of protective lacquer to the bubble that deserves to burst.
This feature is distasteful and irresponsible. I wonder about the Magazine's motivation in running it. To prop up the market? To inspire envy? To help the poor real estate agents? To pretend that $400,000 starter homes in Dorchester are within anyone's reach? To make the good old (Newspaper)Magazine as lofty and aspirational as the New York Times Magazine? What this feature accomplishes is to firmly establish the Globe as the paper of the "haves", "have-nots" be damned.
Sincerely, respectfully,
(Hobolawstudent)
(Wrong Side of The Tracks), Ma.
Response:
Dear (Hobo)
I got your email about your displeasure with our real estate feature in the
magazine. Respectfully, I think you are picking on one week of the feature.
The truth is that in recent weeks we have focused on inexpensive Cape
homes, $350,000 condos, and other prices. Each week it varies, sometimes
pricey, sometimes not, sometimes city, sometimes suburban. The feature is
addressing the wild fascination with real estate these days. Whether
$400,000 starter homes in Dorchester are within reach is unfortunately the
reality of today's market. If you want to live here, it's costly. I feel
like you are more angry at the real estate market's realities than at this
feature perhaps, which is something all of us can relate to. This feature
is merely stating the facts as they are.
I appreciate you writing us, though.
Best
(Some Guy), editor, (Newspaper) magazine
Dear (Newspaper) Magazine;
I am disgusted.
Your weekly feature, "Feature," is possibly one of the most obscene manifestations of elitist housing pornography that I've ever seen. Eastern Massachusetts has been experiencing an affordable housing crisis, and yet you run features on million dollar condominiums, half-million dollar fixer-uppers, and other offensive manifestations of the ludicrously inflated market that shuts so many out.
So many Massachusetts residents are quasi-homeless or paying 60% of their income for housing, dreaming of the day that prices fall so that they can have a permanent address, a cat, a single school district to in which to raise their children; this feature mocks them. It's as if, in a region experiencing famine, food shortages and inflation; you're running a weekly feature on the chic-est ways to throw food away.With the handy links provided to the listing agents, the indulgent descriptions of amenities, you're adding a coat of protective lacquer to the bubble that deserves to burst.
This feature is distasteful and irresponsible. I wonder about the Magazine's motivation in running it. To prop up the market? To inspire envy? To help the poor real estate agents? To pretend that $400,000 starter homes in Dorchester are within anyone's reach? To make the good old (Newspaper)Magazine as lofty and aspirational as the New York Times Magazine? What this feature accomplishes is to firmly establish the Globe as the paper of the "haves", "have-nots" be damned.
Sincerely, respectfully,
(Hobolawstudent)
(Wrong Side of The Tracks), Ma.
Response:
Dear (Hobo)
I got your email about your displeasure with our real estate feature in the
magazine. Respectfully, I think you are picking on one week of the feature.
The truth is that in recent weeks we have focused on inexpensive Cape
homes, $350,000 condos, and other prices. Each week it varies, sometimes
pricey, sometimes not, sometimes city, sometimes suburban. The feature is
addressing the wild fascination with real estate these days. Whether
$400,000 starter homes in Dorchester are within reach is unfortunately the
reality of today's market. If you want to live here, it's costly. I feel
like you are more angry at the real estate market's realities than at this
feature perhaps, which is something all of us can relate to. This feature
is merely stating the facts as they are.
I appreciate you writing us, though.
Best
(Some Guy), editor, (Newspaper) magazine
Monday, March 12, 2007
My trip to Wholefoods.
I went to Wholefoods on Sunday night. I generally don't; my brand of socially conscious grocery is usually Trader Joe's, but Whole Foods is just a little bit closer to my apartment. It wasn't so bad; I was expecting to be charged 26.50 at the door, and checked for toxins on my way into the produce section. Really, the admission was reasonable and no one looked like they were even thinking about telling me about optimal colonic maintenance.
All I needed was one tomato, a bag of greens, and something premade-y for dinner. Frozen raspberries were on sale at a shockingly reasonable price, so I picked up some of them, too. I got a nice quesadilla, because it was the only item I could find with nutrition facts on it, and navigated my way through aisles of cruelty-free cheeses and fair-trade dish detergent to the registers. I admit, I gaped a little, drooled, let my jaw drop and stared at some wonders (goat milk ice cream!) like the suburbilly I am, but all in all, it was just a market.
Then I got in line.
The lines were long. I don't know if Whole Foods doesn't believe in express lanes; but this store certainly didn't. The registers were placed so close to the aisles that the lines bent around displays and doubled back on themselves like crazy vines. Organic, hand-picked, sun-dried, single-origin vines.
The guy behind me, dressed in the hempy, non-weather resistant livery of a vegan bike messenger, had only one item. I had four.
The woman at the front of the line was arguing with the patient, unfortunate, unenvied cashier over the ethics of pricing some vegetables per each, while others were priced per pound. The price difference between one avocado and one pound of avocado could not have been more than thirty five cents; the woman carried a two thousand dollar purse. She was enjoying herself. The cashier, less so.
Eventually, as Ms. Hermes-Guacamole was completing her transaction, I asked the guy behind me if he'd like to go in front of me.
We chatted. It was pleasant. I am charming.
Then, after a moment, he said "I hope that whoever bought you that ring knows that the diamond trade fuel civil war in Africa.*"
"Not this diamond, guy."
"Well, even with antiques..."
"No, guy- this ring is plastic."
I stood awkwardly for a moment, paid, and left. I was crossing the train tracks when I realized: That was flirting. That was how flirting goes in a world of organic salt and deodorant stones. Just as the proud peacock spreads his ludicrous tail, and the mighty gorilla scratches his tiny balls, so does the vegan bike messenger display his heightened sensitivity to the horrors of globalization to the unsuspecting law student.
*P.S. To all those hoping to impress girls holding organic produce, please be advised: Once Leonardo DiCaprio has starred in a movie about your pet cause, it becomes less impressive. Once one of Dick Wolf's ubiquitous teledramas does 42 minutes on it, it becomes a liability.
All I needed was one tomato, a bag of greens, and something premade-y for dinner. Frozen raspberries were on sale at a shockingly reasonable price, so I picked up some of them, too. I got a nice quesadilla, because it was the only item I could find with nutrition facts on it, and navigated my way through aisles of cruelty-free cheeses and fair-trade dish detergent to the registers. I admit, I gaped a little, drooled, let my jaw drop and stared at some wonders (goat milk ice cream!) like the suburbilly I am, but all in all, it was just a market.
Then I got in line.
The lines were long. I don't know if Whole Foods doesn't believe in express lanes; but this store certainly didn't. The registers were placed so close to the aisles that the lines bent around displays and doubled back on themselves like crazy vines. Organic, hand-picked, sun-dried, single-origin vines.
The guy behind me, dressed in the hempy, non-weather resistant livery of a vegan bike messenger, had only one item. I had four.
The woman at the front of the line was arguing with the patient, unfortunate, unenvied cashier over the ethics of pricing some vegetables per each, while others were priced per pound. The price difference between one avocado and one pound of avocado could not have been more than thirty five cents; the woman carried a two thousand dollar purse. She was enjoying herself. The cashier, less so.
Eventually, as Ms. Hermes-Guacamole was completing her transaction, I asked the guy behind me if he'd like to go in front of me.
We chatted. It was pleasant. I am charming.
Then, after a moment, he said "I hope that whoever bought you that ring knows that the diamond trade fuel civil war in Africa.*"
"Not this diamond, guy."
"Well, even with antiques..."
"No, guy- this ring is plastic."
I stood awkwardly for a moment, paid, and left. I was crossing the train tracks when I realized: That was flirting. That was how flirting goes in a world of organic salt and deodorant stones. Just as the proud peacock spreads his ludicrous tail, and the mighty gorilla scratches his tiny balls, so does the vegan bike messenger display his heightened sensitivity to the horrors of globalization to the unsuspecting law student.
*P.S. To all those hoping to impress girls holding organic produce, please be advised: Once Leonardo DiCaprio has starred in a movie about your pet cause, it becomes less impressive. Once one of Dick Wolf's ubiquitous teledramas does 42 minutes on it, it becomes a liability.
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