Hairography And Snakeskin

Perhaps I should have been skeptical of the python-print leggings, or the two separate belly dance scarves (one all cymbal, the other all curtain), or the teacher's intense southern accent, but, when it comes to belly dance, ridiculous outfits tend to signify little - sure, they might mean that the wearer is trying to hard, but they might also mean that they've finally FINALLY found that art form that best suits their personal style. In London, after all, I attended truly amazing classes taught by a woman who frequently wore an ensemble involving a great deal of magenta crushed velvet, sometimes with another layer of scarf atop the fishtailing skirt, which was offset by a crushed velvet and, I believe, sequin, sports bra-ish top. And, furthermore, who am I to judge an accent?



But then there was the hair. 


20 minutes into an increasingly awkward and hand and foot oriented series of steps, counted in rigid 8's, regardless of the speed or rhythm of the music, there was only hair: sure, I know it's an asset when you're dancing - an asset that I currently lack, but a whole sequence built around whipping your head down and up in a sort of whole body "yes" nod. Because that "really gets the crowd going," - sure, maybe when it's waist-length, but certainly not when it barely goes past your ears. Then you look like you're dodging a line drive or something. I know, because I saw myself in the mirror, and it was not pretty. And, as I learned last week on Glee - hairography is probably asking for trouble (sure, that was about singing, but I think the lesson transfers here).


And that was when I knew that I need to find a good class - maybe even pay for it. The music was there - snake arms and hip drops were there, but the constant exhortations to play to the audience when doing arabesque upon arabesque- really, the most awkward of all steps - all knee-bend, no shmmy, dull arms - fine for a transition, but after 20, no one looks sexy or in control anymore, even if you're all finally moving together and allowed to move on - and  the hair, oh, the hair.  Of course, none of this is actually the teacher's fault - she made a piece of a very complicated art rather accessible, and maybe introducing the awkward bits at the beginning is a good strategy for equipping dancers for later challenges to their grace; and she sees it as something you perform in front of people, so people-pleasing was a big part of the act - and I have a feeling the reasons I like it (i.e. community, posture, maybe a little bit of physicality to offset all of the time that my movement is limited to typing) aren't hers. Or maybe they are, but she keeps them to herself? In any case, time to think about investing in a different teaching style, with or without the snakeskin.

I Had A Whole Thing About Newark

But never got that far (though I did get to Newark - and beyond - and back). Though I have been taking mental notes over the last few days -


I had a short diatribe about premium seating on airplanes, and how I suspect that letting people on through the "elite access" side of the velvet rope ultimately slows everyone down - in addition to making class distinctions wholly unnecessarily - which might say something about class in a more general sense, but who's to say? 

Back in town, with one day to get things together on the life front before the work one starts going crazy again, (actually, it turned out, less than a day), I did what laundry I had left from the load I took home, went running in the park, bought groceries, and trashbags (where does Key Food hide their trashbags? plain sight, no doubt, but it took me visiting 3 stores to find them), bought lavender/grey/pink 70s-style running shoes (well, let's just say they're 70s-style - I have no idea if this is really true) closed not one, but two coffee shops that, apparently, think Sunday after thanksgiving belongs to the weekend, rather than the coming week (ha!), made enchiladas, another batch of cran-apple sauce (it's as much process as product - thanks in no small part to the popping noise the cranberries make), and some sweet potato fry-ish things, and to did some work (though, of course, not nearly enough).

So now Newark of last week is a distant memory. Newark of last night, and the near-miss with the 7:30 train back to town: fading fast. 

Where I really spent time -  Cleveland - is more indelible, and was, as ever, full of the kind of conversations about urban farming and schools and all kinds of things that are normal in a way that I sometimes think I make up when I'm away. There was also a late birthday cake and a great deal of pie. 

Perhaps I would have written more, but I also spent 3 days drinking decaf because I mistakenly assumed my mom never buys it, and may not have been fully awake for much of the time I was there.

Convection Ovens Are The Wave Of The Future

There is no microwave in my apartment. 

Under normal circumstances (i.e. pre-job that I go to, when it was summer), this isn't really a problem - the toaster oven does far more work than I would ask of the microwave anyway, and in less space, and to much greater snacking enjoyment. Ever make an open face sandwich in a microwave? Yeah. Me neither. It also isn't that necessary when reheating is optional and your main warm course is  egg-based, and therefore must be prepared atop the stove anyway.


Since starting going to work, however, I've been trying to take lunch at least 2 of the 3 days when I'm at the office,  and it's really expanded my microwaving horizons. On Monday, I stood around in the kitchen for the full two minutes it took to reheat my food, half annoyed with having such an awkard amount of time to stand around in a kitchen, half  truly amazed by the prospect of reheating food to a dangerously high temperature in so little time. It was kind of the way I feel every time a plane takes off - but with only a residual "this might not be that good for me" feeling, rather than the dip into the pool of sheer terror that I inevitably take on every trip. 


Then I came home and lost microwave access for the rest of the week, but still had food that really needed to be reheated to be in any way enjoyable. 


After my recent discovery that the small round pan I bought in Switzerland to deal with a similar dilemma  (though there was only a toaster oven there - the regular oven lacked a door, perhaps because the kitchen was too narrow to open it without melting something) is too big for my toaster oven - a fact which leaves only the smaller, flimsier, not totally up to the task pan that came with the oven, I decided to do things the old fashioned way: in a square nonstick baking pan in the regular oven. Sure, it takes 20 minutes, and the nonstick part evokes the same "this might not be good for me" as the microwave, but the food heats pretty evenly through, there aren't any burns, and I generally find the dining experience to be quite enjoyable. But still: 20 minutes! 


I shared this information with my friend Claire, and she reminded me of the truly marvelous invention: the convection oven. Sure, it's far too expensive for my current station in life, but oh, it's so amazing. The principles of regular reheating - and further cooking, rather than soggy-ing or dehydrating like the microwave - but so much faster! Someday, oh, someday. . .

In Other News

Still in my neighborhood, but a bit different - I worked from the coffee place that I like so much this morning, and a neighborhood literary celebrity was there. I know for a fact that the regular who was sitting at the table next to mine knows who he is, because I saw him at a reading by said writer, but I'm not sure if he saw the writer. In any case, neither of us acted like we knew who the writer was, and neither did anyone else. Anyway - I've been waiting for this day for some time, since the writer both lives and has written about the neighborhood (including a book I happened to be reading when I first visited the neighborhood in person 2 years ago, long before the geography made any sense, and thus, long before the landmarks mentioned meant anything at all). But it was an exciting side for my veggie burger, 3 cups of coffee and 10,000 stories about population and climate that I was compiling for work, and the one really good  case study I found for other work. Anyway - it was a good day for the coffee place as office, especially in the morning. Though I wonder if the writer had been there to work, if we all would have been more productive? As it was, he was having lunch in the front part of the restaurant, perhaps giving an interview? Perhaps being a well-adjusted writer who actually interacts with others during daylight hours?


Shortly after he left, 3 screaming babies took over the area where I was sitting. They distracted me from my work on maternal health - which is actually rather fitting, considering the struggle to address pregnant women's health, rather than just children's in the "MNCH" field. And: as an advance warning -  this metaphor is likely a sign of things to come. All of my jobs have big stuff going on for probably the whole month of December, but definitely the next few days. I'm going to be more or less breathing reproductive health statistics, theories and strategies in the coming weeks.

Some News - Not Good, But Could Be Worse News

I ran into a neighbor who lives in the building next door this morning on my way to work, and asked if he knew what happened - apparently someone was shot in the leg, down the block, closer to the projects, and somehow staggered all the way to our end (I do not live on an especially short block). Still pretty awful, no doubt, and without more information about the circumstances, who knows what will happen next, if whoever did it was caught, and on and on.



Then I got an update from the internet and kind of lost my shit. Reading the comments: probably not the best way to gain a perspective - on something scary that happens on your block. Luckily, Bruns ignored my warning about reading the comments and we spent some time gchat ranting about some of the more egregious threads - lock up juveniles who are caught with guns forever! these people have no values! it's the video games! and then, of course, this block isn't in Boerum Hill, it's Gowanus! Maybe kind of Park Slope! Gowanus! my sister! my daughter! 

There was some decent pushback on the arguments about cause/proper response to gun violence, and one of the commenters, who I think would be my friend if I knew him/her in person, called bullshit on the neighborhood definition thread - worrying about your property values when you don't know the more immediate, human consequences of the incident: a little tacky. And, while many pointed out the "too many guns" part, without knee-jerk punitive solutions, the whole argument spun so far away from what really happened and to whom, exactly, so quickly that it felt like something big and important and immediate got lost, and I continue to regret reading so much of it, though I do not regret talking to my neighbor.

Is No News Good News?

I came home tonight to a whole lot of police tape, 4 cops, and either an arrest in progress or someone freaking out and being sent to the back of a police car to calm down. A neighbor was walking her dog, and had clearly left after whatever happened had happened, so when she said into her phone earpiece "someone got shot next door" I was inclined to believe her. Which building, exactly, was hard to tell,  the cop that let us through the tape didn't seem like he was ready to give a press conference, and the people on the stoop next door said they didn't know what was going on either. So, I went home and checked NY1, and the Gothamist news map - nothing on NY1, and Gothamist confirmed an address (next door to mine) and that there had, in fact, been a shooting. I haven't been able to find out any more, and I hope that is something of a good sign, but it's hard to tell, and there are a lot of kids in the building; and a month or so ago, a (mildly sleazy) detective came looking - to my building, which was the wrong building (whether he went looking for the right building after that - hard to say) -  after a woman reported her boyfriend threatening to kill her. I have no idea how comprehensive the media is when it comes to covering shootings inside lower income buildings in the middle of gentrifying neighborhoods in Brooklyn (my guess is not very, but I feel like there would have been some upset over a fatality or kid-involvement, right?), but there was quite an information vacuum on the ground. Anyway: I think there are too many guns, I hope everyone is all right and stays that way.

Detour

After leaving brunch with a visiting cousin and a New Yorker cousin a bit early, I stopped on the way home to sit down and be busy and important,  I stopped in Brooklyn Heights for some long-delayed work clothes shopping yesterday (there was a sale, it was almost over).  Because I don't really like shopping, but like buying clothes that don't really fit even less,  it took half an hour to buy . . .a sweater and a skirt. BUT, it meant that I left the store just as the sun was going down, so I took a walk down to the Promenade at perfect promenading hour. And decided I was ready for deep thoughts and lots of concentration.


So obviously, after that, I had to take the long way home - through the Syrian bakery - for several days worth of garlic paste and new friend, muhamarra, and cheap pitas, and then to core and peel and braise a pumpkin with cranberries and onions and orange juice, which sounds weird, but is actually pretty good - though I think I'm set for peeling winter squash for a while, and, obviously, boil some (red) lentils. And it wasn't quite as pretty as industrial loaders or big old houses at dusk, but, I realize now, it was all the same set of colors. Maybe it isn't a coincidence that they weren't at all the same colors as the work I needed to do. Maybe the sunset tomorrow - which, I will probably be able to see over 9th Avenue and a little bit of New Jersey (my internship involves a window- no real desk, but a window - it's pretty amazing),  will be?

The Battery Buying Escapade of Aught-9

On Monday, I had to get my picture taken for a work website, but the camera that had been hanging out with my project may have gone to a conference in Ethiopia (or possibly Tanzania, but I think Ethiopia), with one of my coworkers, and our temp's much nicer camera was out of (Lithium) battery, so it fell to my AA powered wonder to do the job. But the batteries were, to use its term, "exhausted," so my co-intern and I went to the big camera store down the block, thinking "hey, this will take just a minute." That was before we got in trouble for trying to go in the exit; before I spent a solid minute trying to get the battery-keeper guy to give me $2 worth of batteries without leaving all of my contact information - I was paying with cash and no, you are not allowed to pick, or even point convincingly at your own - merely describe them while he picks up one $8 package after another until you say "I only have $6 and I just need two;" before it turned out that the battery keeper didn't even give me the batteries themselves, but instead gave me a piece of paper with their description (one would think that someone who spends so much time with descriptions would be more exacting on the visual end) to turn in at the checkout; before we waited for the system to go into effect and my batteries to materialize out of one of the many plastic bins that were moving at a steady (and one might wonder, not so safe for electronics) clip on overhead conveyer belts, in a manner more befitting a children's movie about a camera store than a real life camera store.

I dare say, had I been 8, or, maybe, buying more fun stuff - for example, they have film developing supplies, and if I had free time, space, or access to an enlarger, I'm sure I could fill one of those bins. Or, perhaps, it would be more exciting if I were awaiting the delivery of a really snazzy new digital camera (with aforementioned lithium batteries and maybe less than a 3 second delay between hitting the shudder and the picture being taken) . . . Anyway, it was the kind of disconcerting shopping experience that I have learned to expect in foreign countries (minus the added fun of the metric system and maybe plus a whole lot of american big city worry about theft), but seldom come across here, and, which, on a different kind of day, for a different kind of errand, I might actively seek for the sake of whimsy or sense of moment, but in this case, found completely annoying and uneccesarily bureaucratic.

The Buttermilk Called My Name

About a week ago, I was standing in a long line at Trader Joe's, passing the dairy case veeeery slowly, and I was overcome with an impulse to buy the pint of lowfat buttermilk next to me. I just KNEW I needed it for something. Then it took three days to figure out what I needed it for: hypothetical cider donuts, which I had considered making before my roommate went on vacation 3 weeks ago, leaving behind a bit of cider (it turned out for the best, I heated and drank it and enjoyed it very much), just as real fall and Smitten Kitchen made me want to invest in the day-long project and more donuts than I could ever hope to enjoy on my own - even with the homemade ones, I have trouble really enjoying them after the first. With the exception of a canoe trip when I was probably 14 - where we boiled dough from a can over an open flame in a pot of boiling Crisco, (awesome fire safety lesson, ps) - then somehow managed to cover it in sugar, pretty much can't move after the 3nd (I know I made it into the canoe and was able to use a paddle afterward that time - things might have been different had I been asked to walk).

However, I lacked both the buttermilk and a donut-cutter, at the moment I was willing to throw caution and good sense to the wind. So I didn't do it then. But the spirit of the donuts was clearly at work last week. After figuring out what it was for, realizing I lacked the time, patience and audience to pull it off, I started looking for another use. Not so easy.

But then.

Artichoke/onion/spinache quiche. It had to be done.

And I may never go back.

Really - probably the best quiche I've ever made. At least in terms of egg/milk/crust proportion (it needed more spinach), and texture. And I will do it again. And it will be even better.

Now, though, I have rapidly aging buttermilk, and no idea what to do with it. Another quiche is probably not in the offing, pancakes seem a bit bold, and I'm so used to cooking without regular milk, that I may have adapted to go without it. Hm.

If Only I Liked The Yankees. . .

I turned 27 on the 4th. The Yankees won their 27th World Series on the same day. As a Cleveland fan, I cannot see this as a good omen for the year to come, but I'd sure like to.

Then again, I guess, after last year, it was bound to be anti-climactic. Even though there was whiskey this year (last year, it was champagne and, I won't lie, a whole pizza - coincidentally, I don't remember the last time I had cake - maybe in college?)

Also - I volunteered on a campaign on election day - which, even when they don't go together, I might like a little more than my birthday - and, while the council-member elect gave a pretty good speech, and we had a conversation about beets - something I have never spoken to the President about (though I hear he doesn't like them I don't know why not); and, in the two hours I stood outside a polling place, trying to get grouchy people to take flyers, I noticed the mildly intriguing fact that a LOT of people move their mouths to while their walking - either singing along to the music in their ears or replying to the voices in their heads - it lacked some of the suspense of last year . . or the same campaign 6 weeks ago (he's the Democrat, it's a Democratic district). So that celebration was fairly low-key too - which, I suppose, was fitting, given my advancing years.