Italian Lemon Cookies and the Mindtrap of The Culinary Graveyard

Picture me standing on a kitchen chair with my arm elbow-deep in the top shelf of our kitchen cabinet. Each item I move requires a little extra muscle to unstick from the peeling, likely lead-rich paint of the shelf, especially the molasses jar. All the necessary ingredients are present: lemon extract, shortening (one large container, one small), various bags of white sugar and flour, baking powder, sprinkles.

Also present and accounted for: panko crumbs (never used), almond flour (opened but barely used), crystallized honey - maybe two tablespoons-worth, and half a bar of Trader Joe's milk chocolate. I chalk these up as a perk of the roommate cohabitation experience and shove them aside for someone else's enjoyment.

Despite the plenitude of foodstuffs, a short grocery list forms itself in my head:

Shortening
Sugar
Sprinkles...

A glance outside reminds me that it's snowing steadily, great big fluffy flakes that melt as they splat on any surface like half-assed snowballs from heaven. Do I really want to go out there? Is it worth suiting up and limping eight blocks to the local StopNShop?

A glance at the "use by" dates on the shortening cans assures me that it's unavoidable. The big can: July 2012. The small one: March 2011. I'm not certain that the use of yellowing vegetable lard will harm my project or my friends' stomachs, but it's not quite in the spirit of the holidays, is it?

Upon closer inspection, the opened bags of sugar are all about one-third full of crusty, hardened clumps. The sprinkles are crumbly and the white ones have taken on a pinkish hue.  While I'm absent-mindedly sorting I find several shakers of sprinkles, all of them sticking to themselves in permanent candy colonies  or badly depleted (who decided not to use the last 8 chocolate sprinkles on her last project? Does this really absolve you from the duty of replacing them?).

And so I find myself zipping up my sweatshirt, stretching my knit hat over my haphazard morning ponytail, wrapping my scarf twice... and thinking.

Dammit! Not thinking!

The whole point of this baking adventure was to avoid thinking. And doing. And calling. And filling out forms. And, most of all, worrying.

But everything leads back to this place in my brain lately. I could be saying to myself, "Good for you, Jo! Go out into the world and get groceries! Get baking! Do something cheap and kind for others and join in the holiday celebrations with some kind of happiness!" The circle of thoughts (really, the Circle of Thoughts) at this point) pulls me away from those self-wishes and turn me back to the questions: "When was the last time you did something good? Why haven't you been useful at all? What is the point of you? Remember the Jo who used to do things? Make things? Enjoy things? What have you done to her? Do you even deserve to enjoy ANYTHING?"

My journey through the graveyard of the baking shelf seems to prove the self-doubt: it's been so long since I've baked anything. It's been years since I've even wanted to try. I used to love trading recipes and having friends over for dinner. I used to save my pennies for culinary treats, especially around the holidays. This time of year used to bring on a mess of cookie sheets and mixing bowls, not to mention sketch books of Christmas card designs and piles of stamps and ink pads and embossing powders.

Where the eff did JoBiv go?

Here's my promise of this moment, and I know it will require reprinting and repetition on my part: I will try, and I will remember that trying itself is progress toward something... more solid, I guess? More familiar, at least.

So I'm buying the damn sprinkles. I'm buying the tub of Crisco and the big bag of sugar. I wish I were getting paid for something at this very second, but I will fill this space in time with lemon cookies made for sharing. And, knowing me, I will probably wind up enjoying myself, even if it's just a leeetle lemony bit.

Because who doesn't love rhubarb?

Oh yeah, lots of people. But isn't it beautiful? And the aroma is just lovely... Yes, I do have strawberries, but I feel it's somehow unfair to the rhubarb to force it to share the recipe with strawberries. I think of Rhubarb as the nerdy older sister, dependable and forthright, perhaps a little opinionated, while the Strawberry is the pretty little sister with natural talent; she gets all the praise and attention, and Mom insists that Rhubarb let her tag along every time she takes the car. Folks dutifully come up with semi-sincere praise for Rhubarb, but they go on and on about Stawberry with unsuppressed enthusiasm. How cruel.

Well, Rhubarb, I appreciate you for your own beauty and value, and I believe you can stand on your own. I've spent some time with Strawberry and can tell you; she may be pretty on the outside but she's only available at very short intervals and not consistently sweet.

Also, I'm crazy.

But! Writing about rhubarb has successfully distracted me from manymanymany current (and damaging) difficulties. So while I'm at it, let me report the following positive realities to which I am choosing to direct my attention:

1. My bed is covered with clothes that are too large and have volunteered to be donated. I'm losing weight. Somehow.
2. I have a new roommate who is lovely! (And makes life in this apartment far easier and generally happy.)
3. I am back in touch with several dear and positive people from my strange life, and I am enjoying being semi-social. Whodathunk?
4. I have additional nannying* gigs!
5. I have impending writing gigs!
6. I may not have to sell my body to keep paying rent!

Okay, back to baking. The rhubarb has soaked in sugar long enough, and I need to get my ass in gear for today's nannying gig.


*Nannying is a term I use to reassure myself that I have grown up to be something more than a babysitter. Yes, I am aware that it's a semi-pathetic self-deceptive triviality, but I'm fond of it. So there.

Calling all cooks...

It's that time of year again, when I am pointedly not in New York for Thanksgiving. Please send me a favorite holiday recipe for my mini-feast! I will think of you fondly as I prepare it in my jammies on Thursday morning.

Eggs tarragon, avec loneliness.

This is a lovely little Saturday morning omelet for a party of one. That's you, JoBiv.

You'll need:

2 eggs - the last two in the carton. Yikes.
2 sections of shallot, diced
1 roma tomato that may or may not be your roommate's, seeded and diced
2-3 tablespoons of grated parm
1 tablespoon tarragon
splash o' milk (1% today! Oh luxury!)
salt n' pepa (not the hip-hop phenomenon, the staple condiments)
2 slices of that creepy Trader Joe's bread that never goes bad. Seriously, I bought this loaf three weeks ago and it's still in tact! Non-furry! Of course, it tastes like cardboard, but whatevs. I mean seriously, remember last week when you thought you didn't have any bread? And then you find this forgotten loaf in the back of your shelf and are sure it's gone native to find... useful food!

1. Get some butter melting in a smallish pan, very low heat.

2. Whisk together eggs and milk until a little frothy. Whisk in tarragon, then parm.

3. Pour slowly into pan. Slide in the diced veggies.

4. Make yourself coffee, put the bread in the toaster but don't toast yet, and generally take yer dang time. This one's best cooked slow. When you can hear the butter crackling and the sides of the egg have released from the pan, start the toaster.

5. Fold the omelet (or don't, I don't particularly care, but it's nice for presentation) and let cook a little while you butter your creepy bread. Divide in two, plate prettily and serve. To self.

6. Eat. No, really, go ahead and eat. Cry later, over the sink full of dishes.

Saturday Morning Fancy Eggs

You will need the following:

A freezer full of hamburger buns you bought for a friend's Labor Day BBQ that required, she claimed, "shitloads" of buns, the purchase of which took up two weeks of your grocery budget.

Okay, not really, you only need

2 hamburger buns, defrosted on a plate over the pilot light. Sliced bread would work, too, if you had any.

2 eggyweggs

1 cube frozen basil
1/4 cube frozen garlic (these cube things are the coolest! Of course you could use fresh if you had it.)

splash o' roommate's milk

salt and pepper

1. Beat eggs with milk, add basil and garlic. Beat beat beat til frothy and green. Add salt and pepper.

2. Using the tops of the hamburger buns, slice off the seedy part. Cut holes in the center using cookie cutter shaped like an autumn leaf that you got when you threw a party with an old roommate/once-upon-a-time friend. Stuff bottom slice of hamburger bun in your mouth unconsciously.

3. Get a pan on the burner with some oil. Get it not-quite-cracklin' hot.

4. Place hole-y roll in the pan. Carefully pour about 1/4 cup of the egg mixture into the center of the bun. Let the bread absorb a little, then pour a little more. Cook 'til it puffs, then flip and cook until it REALLY puffs. Wonder idly what happened to the bottoms of the hamburger buns.

5. Garnish with sliced tomato and parmesan. Eat while thinking that next time it would be fun to have ingredients like Italian bread, cream, pancetta, fresh rosemary, shallots... Shut self up and try to eat mindfully.

Cafe Microcosmo

• 4:00 am: Skunk fight outside my window. Ends predictably.
• 6:30 am: Stench wears off. Alarm chirps.
• 7:30 am: Arrive what I think is a half-hour early for work, enough to get my tea and breakfast and sit peacefu... FUCK, Old Lech is here and wants to whisper sweet garlicky nothings in my ear. Hide in the basement.
• 7:57 am: On the floor in apron, hat and forced smile. Informed I am still one half-hour early. Learn I have the same exact schedule as the Special Needs Girl, because both of us are a bit useless and together might make up a whole person on the floor. Shittiness sinks in.
• 8:15 am: Punch in anyway. Proceed to be pushed around by grumpy Monday Morning types. Try to keep up with Regulars in a fairly cheery fashion, meanwhile dropping $30 worth of pastries on the floor, getting yelled at for cleaning too thoroughly, and nearly killing myself on the stairs.
• 9:30 am: Inform shift manager that an artist is coming for us to review work for us to put up on our walls. She shrugs. I try to get her excited and fail.
• 10:48 am: Behind the bar, cranking out drinks frantically, manager and friend both go on their half-hour breaks at the same time. Artist's wife arrives for conference. I send her around a corner with a free drink and frantically yell for help. While scurrying for whipped cream, someone tells me I need to be off the floor to help with sorting tips. My elbow catches a milk pitcher, sends it flying sideways, dumping its 180 degree contents down my calf and ankle, soaking my sock, seeping into my shoe...
  
• 10:49 am: "Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit...."
• 10:49:23 am: Yank off shoe and sock, rip apart First Aid pack for a burn pad, slap the slimey thing on my ankle, wiggle my shoe back on, and go to interview the artist's wife.
  
• 10:55am: Artist's wife schools me on corporate procedures about these things. And here I thought I was the resident expert. Shamefacedly shuffle downstairs to print out necessary paperwork.
• 10:58am: Changing in "dungeon," Special Needs Girl argues about who gets to do tips. In my underwear with floppy wet burn thing sliding off my foot and a whip-smart artist's wife waiting for me upstairs while our printer pops out one. letter. at. a. time, I simply say, "Please be quiet." Tears well up in S.N.G.'s eyes.
  
• 11:00am: Shove paperwork at artist's wife, bumble through polite farewells, run/limp out door with co-worker.
• 11:01-11:40am: Take sloooow train over Longfellow Bridge, which may be breaking beneath us, to bank where our coins stop up the counting machine three times. Gossip about the cafe half-heartedly while praying I get enough tips to cover groceries for two weeks.
• 12ish to 1ish: S.N.G. is off the clock, but waiting in the basement for us to sort out the cash, staring and making terrible social gaffs. I can't stand other humans anymore so I start drawing bananas on each person's tip envelope. Banana scenarious include but are not limited to: Banana Tourist, Banana Incognito, Banana Silent Treatment, Banana Olympics, Banana in a Hammock (literal, not sexual), Banana Nun Loaf (banana in habit with little poop - terrible, I know, but my brain fell apart), and Banana in a Hot Air Balloon. Why not?
• 1:34pm: clock out, but stay to read and decompress and enjoy A/C. Regulars look at me like I'm a little pathetic to spend all my time here. In return, I begin to feel a little pathetic and take myself home.
  
• 2ish pm: Run into current favorite Irishman from Chorus. Reunite joyfully and plan on gettin' the gang together. Heart pitter-patters with hope and promises are made for future rendezvous.
• 2:20ish pm: On the train in my non-cafe clothes, I still reek of coffee. It smells like skunks to me. I try to make sense of the day. I get out of my seat so a three-year-old girl with Downs Syndrome can sit safely with her Mom or nanny or whoever. She waves eagerly. I feel like a puke as I think of S.N.G., who isn't nearly as needy as this little girl but is almost always as joyful. I think of how little joy I return to her.
  
• Later than 2:20ish: Feeling abruptly returns to burned foot on train. Swallow scream.
• 3ish pm: Forge through Coolidge Corner to pick up ginger root and pork and a sense of self.
  
• Afternoon and onward... Cook from Arahsae's 3rd cookerie 'zine. Spray things with bleach. Calm heartbeats and hatebeats. Eat near roommate, but not with roommate.
  
• Now: Full stall. Literally full of yummy pork. Muy consada.
  

Sunday Mornin' Saffron Pancakes

Start by pouring a half cup of boiling water over a generous pinch of saffron. Seal in airtight container, allow to steep for a few hours (or a few days).

A couple years later, prepare some pancake batter, like so...

Dry ingredients in one (bigger) bowl:

1 1/2 c flour
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
3 tbs sugar

Wet ingredients in another bowl:

1 egg, lightly beaten
3 tbs melted butter
1 cup ROOM TEMP milk (fattier milk works better)
1/4 c saffron infusion
1/2 tsp lemon juice

Lightly mix wet into dry. Fry up in a buttery pan (or on a griddle if you have one). Sprinkle pancakes with powdered sugar and devour. They should be thin and light and perrrfect.

Keep cooking batter until all important matters which you have been avoiding finally catch up with your conscience. Clean the kitchen instead of dealing with these matters. Write blog entry about procrastination to pretend that said procrastination has ceased.

A week in pictures (and poverty)

There was snow. It was purty, and impossible to walk on with only one good foot.













Eggs and bananas. Bananas and eggs. (And toast, at the time, although I've run out of bread since.)












Proof that I left the apartment and made it to the movies with my roomie. Good Jo! Tut tut.












Dressed up for dates, because if I go on dates someone else will pay for my coffee/drinks/dinner. And I'm less bored. Okay, and I like boys.











Proof that I still love Boston, even though I've been dealt the worst blows of my life here (and they just keep coming).

Abstractions on love and grapes

A few years back I had a friend try Concord grapes that I had bought. This friend was very surprised by the taste. She said, “Oh, it tastes like purple popsicles.”

This was remarkable to me for two reasons:

1. Are we really at the point in our national diet that artificial flavors are our base experience, and the natural flavor is the abstraction?
2. I’ve had a fairly earthy life so far, growing up around vineyards, farm stands, real cows, etc. I forget that these things are soooo far away from the urban childhood.

You may cut me off at the pass here and realize that I’m trying to get myself excited about going home to Le Victoire. I called my mother last night to tell her I’d be able to make it home for the Beanie’s birthday (she’s turning four.) My mother broke out in tears of joy. TEARS OF JOY, people.

She asked me, as she always does, if there’s anything I’d like to eat while I’m home. This is sweetness masking compliment-fishing. I suppose that’s okay.

“Concord grapes,” I said, musing on the fact that I haven’t been able to get them in the city yet this year.

“Concord grapes,” she repeated, unenthused. I think she hoped to hear, “Gee, Mom, I’ve been dying to get a taste of your spaghetti sauce.” I have, actually, but I had this nightmare vision of the hours spent rolling meatballs, the masses of Tupperware (because she always makes way too much), the days of teasing tomato stains out of linens. In our house, nothing is simple. Even spaghetti sauce comes with guilt and grief.

Concord grapes stain, too, I realize. She’ll probably go to the extreme and try to make a grape pie, which is the most tedious pastry ever invented. Ever de-seeded 200 grapes to find that you still don’t have enough to fill a pie shell? It’s a special kind of hell. You lean over the sink, back aching, eyes blurring, fingers raw, deep red stains up your arms to the elbow. It is NO FUN.

Of course, there’s a part of me that loves my mother for wanting to do these things in my honor. There’s a part of me that wants a red carpet unfurled when I go home because, goddammit, it’s hard for me. There should be some kind of reward for going through it all, right?

That sentiment doesn’t last, though, as I sit on the couch at night, up later than my parents, and they each touch my head before they go to sleep. My mother sweeps my hair behind my ear and tells me not to pull. She gets a little teary-eyed and says she loves me, she loves to see me sitting there, she loves having me home.

I think of her love for me and how she says you can’t know how a parent loves a child until you are a parent. I think how maybe all the love in my life is the purple popsicle, and her love for her children is the grape.

Borrowed Pesto

Borrow, gather, and buy fresh:

2 fat juicy cloves of young garlic. Smush 'em with the broad side of your chef's knife. It's a satisfying crunch and the whole apartment will smell good for hours.

1/2 cup romano, grated from roommate who's in Philly. Promise self to buy her a new tub. Accidentally dump a huge clump of it into your mixture. Swear loudly. Promise self to buy a new tub, and really mean it this time.

1 handful roasted, unsalted almonds from other roomie, who points out their frighteningly passe' "sell by" date but blesses your efforts all the same. (Use in place of pine nuts, because, really, where the fuzz do you find pine nuts and why would you buy them when you can only really use them for pesto and those annoying salads in which all the pine nuts end up in the bottom anyway?)

1 overzealous handful (or two) of the fresh basil that took up 1/3 of your grocery budget, but it was totally worth it. It's the good stuff - kind of pointy and peppery with notes of fennel, so might as well use it before it goes black and sticky.

1/2 to 3/4 cup grocery store olive oil. Not the virgin stuff. Not because you don't have the virgin stuff, but because virgin overpowers the zing and zang of basil and garlic sometimes and makes it taste like every other italian thing anyone has ever made instead of YOUR pesto.

1 smidge of lemon juice. But since you cut up the lemon, throw the rest in your iced tea.

Put it all in the tiny, usually useless Black and Decker MiniPro food processor your dad (er... Santa) got you for Christmas two years ago. Pulse until the acrid smell of burning plastic overcomes the nice basily garlicky goodness you gots goin' on. Stop until the smell floats away. Pulse and repeat.

Add more basil.

And more oil.

Add more basil.


Cook pasta. Immediately put 3/4 of it away in the fridge, slightly melting the cheapo fake tupperware container you put it in.

ERSTWHILE: You have done the following...

Boiled water. Poured it over a 1/2 tsp of saffron. Let it sit overnight. Baked frozen chicken with a little garlic, a little seasoning salt, and the saffron tea.

Ruined abovementioned chicken by essentially boiling it instead of baking.


Get pretty pasta plate (inherited from a dear friend's move), dump remaining pasta on the plate. Spoon out some pesto onto the spagetts and toss it around. Add another spoonful. Aaaaand... another. Put a piece of chewy saffron chicken on the plate, too, not touching the pasta. The whole idea, after all, is to have a little rest from the spiciness of the pesto and force yourself to really taste the subtle saffron flavor. Mmm. That's nice. Even if the chicken is more alike to bubble gum in texture than to any meat you've ever cooked.

Eat it.

Clean dishes. Think to self: maybe I'll share this recipe. At least arahsae will read and enjoy.

Write post. Publish.

A fine dither

No Honey Nut O's. No Unnecessarily Sugary Maple Wheat Bites. No Oatmeal Crunchy Flakes of Happiness.

Trader Joe, this means WAR.


(On the bright side, nothing much in my life has gotten me in this much of a flurry for a while, and maybe it's about time I got hoppin' mad about SOMEthing, be it cereal or Syriana.)

Cheese is good.

Ah, cheese, the greatest manmade substance on this Earth, I laud you.

Starbucks. I'm running around frantically to fill orders and keep managers happy. A mom and small girl, about four years old, stand across the counter, the mother clearly encouraging the child to choose a lunch for herself. They are wearing similar clothing - red checked shirt and red gingham sundress (although it was not sunny enough today to warrant sundressing.)

"Do you want this?" the mother asks.

"No, I do not want that," the girl answers precisely.

"I'd like you to choose something to eat," the mother says.

"I don't know how that was made. Who made that? Did they make that?" The girl looks up at her mother as though she's an idiot to think she'd put something in her mouth that was produced by Starbucks employees.

"Sweetie, it's fruit and cheese. Will you eat a little of it?" The mother's getting annoyed but knows her daughter has the upper hand.

I decide to intervene gently.

"That's very good," I say to the little girl. "The cheese is tasty." I smile.

"I'm not sure if I want that cheese," says the girl, seriously.

The mother looks apologetic. "She'll be impressive in the business world someday," she says. I laugh at the condescending grown-up joke. The little girl hides behind her mother.

"Oh sweetie," I say, "we're not laughing at you."

She whispers to her mother, "that hurt my feelings when you laughed like that."

"We're smiling," I say, "because you're so smart and charming."

She puts out a distrusting bottom lip.

The mom throws a bunch of items on the counter, all expensive and unnecessary, I ring her up, and the two wander off to find chairs.

Moments later I'm running around again, emptying trash, wiping up after spills, sneaking sips of my drink. The girl and mother sit at the tasting bar on high stools. The girl is perched high, sitting on her knees, picking judiciously at her fruit and cheese plate. Apparently my trespasses are forgiven; she smiles at me when I acknowledge them.

"I think I might like this cheese!" she proclaims, showing me a mushed wedge of brie with several tiny bites missing.

Mom smiles a knowing, grown-up to grown-up smile.

"Does it taste good to you?" I ask the little girl.

"It does!" she says, full of amazement.

"Have you tasted that kind of cheese before?"

"No," she says, looking thoughtful, "but it tastes just exactly like white american cheese."

The mother laughs, but I know better by now.

"I'm glad you like it," I tell the little girl.

She appraises me very sternly. "I just didn't know if I would."

You're forgiven, too, four-year-old. Where did this kid come from?

Food glorious...

Remember the devolution of cafeteria food in college? Well, a lot of you went to nice colleges with fairly good food service. I went to St. Bonaventure University, which rated at the top of the Princeton Review's "Is It Food?" list about five years running.

This was the progression over a period of 72 hours:

1. Chicken fingers. Edible.

2. General Xiao's chicken (chicken fingers plus gooey spicy overly sweetened soy sauce). Edible if you found pieces without sauce.

3. Chicken parm. Edible with LOTS of sauce and extra cheese microwaved into a gloppy mess.

4. Chicken soup. Suspect.

Now, I don't have proof that these were the same fingers all the way through. I didn't get them fingerprinted. HAHAHAhahaha... Oh my god I'm so freakin' funny! ... Anyway, can't be certain it was the exact same product, but it became obvious over a period of time that no trucking company wanted to come to the Back O' Beyond, New York to deliver fresh food to us. More importantly, our tuition dollars had to go toward the essentials - fresh paint on the basketball court every season, frinstance.

Either way, I noticed that the food service seemed to order all food by the metric ton, and would not try to hide that fact by altering their offerings on a daily basis. NO, if they had canned peaches, by GOD, no Bonaventure student would go an hour without seeing a canned peach, at least peripherally.

Day 1 of peaches:

"Yay, I looove peaches! In pure corn syrup! Yum!"

Day 2:

"Think I'll put some cinnamon on 'em. There, that's different and still quite yummy."

Day 3:

"Hmm. The syrup is congealing. The peaches are still tender, though..."

Day 4:

"Isn't that yellow color a little startling? Anyone?"

Day 5:

"I... just... can't... Hey, whipped cream, guys!"

Day 6:

"Sorry, professor, I'm late because there was a peach-slide of apocalyptic proportions, the syrup and peaches making the dining hall a veritable slip n' slide of terror. Our lawyers have advised my parents to sue."

Day 7:

"PEACH FIGHT!"
"Dude, I wish peaches had better aerodynamics."

Day 10:

"That little piece of cottage cheese was in there yesterday. Grody."

Day 14:

"I wonder if they biodegrade?"

Day 21:

"Hey kids, guess what's for dinner at the bomb shelter? Clue: it comes out of a can..."

Day 37:

"PEARS! I looove pears...."

All this is to say that I'm beginning to admire our food service and wonder how they got so clever. I'm trying to be economical and clever myself, trying to think of the ways my mother disquised leftovers (ineffectually) and my babysitters got us to eat "good" food (by heaping it with sugar, salt and/or grease).

Here's my quandary: How do I make my italian sausage, red and green pepper, onion, cheese, tomatoes and garlic interesting for one. more. night. I've done the obvious sausage, p&o sandwich. I've done pizza today using frozen naan. Tomorrow I might get out the blender and make a peppery garlicky version of V-8. The sausage I'll stick in my ears.



Having griped so long, I have to admit, I never, EVOR passed up the canned pineapple. Even when I had canker sores. Pineapples are good, man.

Happy happy happy soooprise!

GUESS WHAT I GOT! noreallyguessohmygodit'soexciting...




GROCERIES!

I bought exactly four varieties of vegetables.

Two (or three counting tomatoes) varieties of fruit. One fresh, one frozen.

I bought CEREAL and EGGS.

I bought MILK and YOGURT!

I bought FOOD for-to EAT!

But damn, Sarah, I forgot the cheese.

The elephants are coming!

I'm judging myself by my deeds lately, because it's much easier to hate or love myself with some kind of proof. I create character witnesses in my wake, right? In the fantasy court I hold in my head, each witness must be called.

Including the Mom I brushed off yesterday, knowing that if I encouraged her conversation, she would ask me for food from the school kitchen. Knowing that our supplies are dwindling and she may be the culprit.

Then there are the Toddler teachers, one of whom got a stern talkin' to and relocation because of me. I fell into my old job of Parent Liaison, encouraging disgruntled parents to make phone calls and write letters stating their discomfort with the current teachers. They did. G'bye, lead teacher. Her assistant left with her, swearing some kind of fealty. And now I have a steadier job, which was a happy circumstance, not at all the purpose of my rabble rousing. I'm sleeping a bit easier than my co-workers; my name wasn't on the employee list they stole before they left. They've been calling eight to twelve times a day trying to get me on the phone.

Today I seemed to redeem myself. I had to call in to the preschool to tell them I've been sick (the montezumas! eeek!). I was given the day off (by another character witness who can feel free to call me inconsistent), so I took some time getting home from The Novelist's house. I stopped in at Linda's Donuts, a lovely lil place just inside Belmont. I sat myself at a booth, read some Mitford, ate an omelet... Two older ladies came in. They looked around at the full booths with hopeless sighs, then gestured toward the stools by the window. The one lady was so little that the stool could have been a convenient armrest if she felt like loitering there.

I got up from my seat, taking my food with me. "Excuse me, would you be more comfortable in the booth?" The women heaped effusive thanks upon me. The owner/server kept calling me a Dear (or was it deer?) and praised me each time she went past. "It's hard to have a conversation on a stool," I insisted. No autographs, please.

Okay, so there are three character witnesses right there. But... I couldn't help thinking, wouldn't anyone do the same? Why accept praise for something so obvious? To me, it was like holding a door open for a parent with a stroller - incredibly easy and near second-nature. I felt that maybe we shouldn't be so amazed at these tiny acts. They're much more common sense than common courtesy.

And just now the doorbell rang. It was the mailman with something requiring a signature. I took the pen he offered, signed on various X's, chatted while he shuffled through the mail to find mine... He left, I went inside. Good goddamn, I had his pen!

I grabbed my keys and walked after him up the courtyard.

"I'm sorry, I stole your pen!"

He came out of the neighbors' vestibule and gratefully took the pen back.

"You must be a college student," he said in his Caribbean accent. (That's a broad guess, but I'm fairly ignorant about the island accents and can't be more specific, plus I don't think it's a terribly important detail in the story, except now I've made it important by this lengthy parenthetical.)

"A college student?"

"Yes, or work in a business..."

"Oh... because I know how annoying it is..."

"To lose pens, yes. I knew you had to be a student."

I didn't correct my friend Sherlock. "Exactly," I said. We parted with grins.

Now, if I don't fuck up for the rest of the week I may go to heaven if I die in a sudden elephant stampede this weekend. Let us pray...

Briefly, my Wednesday

10:00 - First time I was asked by many group members, "Whoa... are you okay today, Jo?"

12:12 - Could not control tears. Had to leave the room so I could sob properly. The discussion: What happens when the people who are supposed to protect you harm you instead? That thought is pertinent, but this thought upset me more - What if you don't let your protectors help you; do you then deserve all that's happened to you?

12:30 - Sniffled through lunch and noticed everyone's discomfort with me too weak to entertain them.

3:00 - Booked my ass to Beacon St. for intake at a certain psychotherapy practice. Withstood intake as well as can be expected. Cried s'more. Withstood compliments as gracefully as possible with snot threatening to drip onto my shirt.

4:40 - Made it to Cambridgeside mall to look for interview clothing. Found it, bought it. Decided that I felt grimy and went to a salon to have my hair washed. "Only washed?" they asked. "Yep," sez I. "Oookay," they said. The washer and the receptionist couldn't figure out what to charge me, so I just gave the washer a tip.

7:30 - Walked into English Jo's apartment exactly on time, very proud of myself. We went out to dinner at a place called Orinoco that had lovely food and strange service. Flan = HEAVEN.

10:00 - Wandered to Wally's to catch some jazz/funk fusion. So good. So tired.

10:50 - Slugged myself to the T and knitted all the way home. Except when I was walking.

11:50 - Took cold medicine and sleepy-time medicine. Will pass out shortly.

Foood is goood

Over the past few weeks, Norah, Melissa and I have gotten into the habit of cooking on Fridays. Chris the Giant often helps out, too, but he's in LA this weekend. Poo on him.

Tonight we attempted dinner in my apartment. This marks the SECOND time Melissa and Norah have crossed my threshold. I've noticed this of late; my lack of guests. People don't tend to hang out at my apartment. But then again, I don't tend to hang out in people's apartments at all, except for Friday night dinners. I tend to see people at choir rehearsals, out for dinner, at movies, etc. Plus, I haven't been too terribly social.

BUT, I'm proud to say that my apartment can be very homey with people cookin' in it. We made a super-peanut-saucy thai-ish noodle thing. It was frickin' amazing. The girls were kind enough to split the recipe so my portion wouldn't burn my tongue out of my mouth. Sweet, aren't they?

It's funny, I haven't quite felt at home here. That's not so surprising, considering the rapid change of venue. Anyway, tonight felt nice, cooking in my place with friends, knowing where all the dishes are, finding a peeler I didn't know we had, lazing around the living room til we got sleepy, tucking away the clean dishes and the leftovers... It's home.

Death by screw, and not the good kind

Sarah Chessman had a birthday party last night, and I had qualms about going. I haven't been super social of late and wasn't sure if I was up to faking social niceties with strangers. But, I have a rule. Some of you have heard me say it. When I'm asked to go somewhere and have no conflicting plans, I go. It's a rule that's supposed to work against my social anxiety. It forces me to flip a switch in my head that says, "Too bad, you're already going. Nothing you can do but get there." This causes the same fatalistic tranquility I get on Amtrak trains - You're on. You can't get off. Eventually, you have to arrive. What's the point in worrying?

Of course, I still get anxious, and the actual event tests my limits. Sarah had reserved tables at Big City and there were tons of people there on a Saturday night. I have a hard time at venues like this, where people you've been introduced to at prior parties lie in wait like land mines. Each face forces an extended study: Have I met you? Do I remember your name? What do you know about me? My usual knee-jerk reaction includes a few more questions: How do I make you more comfortable in this awkward situation? Who is depending on me to make this easier?

I do have room for enjoyment, of course. That's why I have the rule that I have to go to these things in the first place. I always enjoy myself in some way, even if it's a tiny pleasure. Often the pleasure comes from discovering that I'm still capable of social graces. Such was the case last night. I talked to strangers, old acquaintances, and the birthday girl with surprising ease. A friend of Sarah's even asked for my email (I fear he means to send me chapters from a novel-in-progress, but he was also flirting).

And just as I was nibbling at birthday cake, congratulating myself on a job well done, I chomped on something very hard.

"What the..."

I sucked the chocolate off of whatever it was and, with all possible delicacy, removed it from my mouth.

"It's a freakin' screw!"

The dude who was chatting me up was similarly dumbfounded. I showed it to Sarah, who said it wasn't planted on purpose. I thought it might have been a party game. Not so. It was a 1 inch screw. In chocolate frosting. In my mouth. Hunh.

I wish I cavorted with gypsies more often. They could tell me what a screw in my cake signifies.

Sadly for chatter-upper-boy, it didn't mean he was getting one any time soon. We left as soon as I got the frosting off my fingers and we'd paid our tab.

But when the weekend's over, and Monday rolls around

... I end up like I start out
Just cryin' my heart out


(From "I Got It Bad and That Ain't Good - fave standard of the day)


That song has little to do with how I feel today, but the weekend is, indeed, over, and Monday has rolled around. Howdy, Monday. Whatcha got for me?

The weekend was a tad symptomatic. I'll break it on down for ya:



Friday:

I accompanied Meera and Ross to see Jenn's second-year med student show. It was this crazy mock-Alice's Adventures in Wonderland with many a dance number, with a cast of incredibly enthusiastic and talented med students who shamelessly mocked themselves and their faculty. I got... some of the jokes. Mostly I sat there stunned by the thought of the untapped talent in medical field. I imagine off-duty residents perfecting tap numbers and singing madrigals to pass the time. I really was amazed.

The only part of the show that bugged me came toward the end when they lowered a screen and ran a slide show while a girl, the director actually, sang this version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." If you haven't heard it, Israel Whatshisface sings this very laid-back vocal over a simple guitar playing a sort of reggae beat. His voice is a little scratchy, earnest and yet relaxed, and surprises you when he plays with the melody, then grafts in "What a Wonderful World" flawlessly. The girl who sang it on Friday night gave a painstakingly correct delivery with a classically trained voice. Her voice was beautiful, yes, but she killed the character of the song and for that she must die.

Er... I mean... that was uncool of her. Dammit.

Enough of my vocal snobbery. Moving on.


Sateeday:

Kate's birthday party started at nine, which gave me plenty o' time to gather my Flaming Cabbage supplies. You'd think. I went to the Tappan St. Stah Mahket. They had cabbages of a moderate size, Lil Smokies and no Sterno. I bought the Lil Smokies, figuring that I'd have to stop somewhere else for the Sterno and I didn't want to carry a cabbage around all frickin' day.

Next stop, the Party Favors store, also on Beacon. I picked up some fancy toothpicks and headed back home to shower, etc.

Out again... to the Russian store, Bazaar, which I don't frequent for fear that they will pick up my quarter-Russian scent and stare at me accusingly when I can't converse fluently in their dialect. But I knew they'd have some mean cabbages. I picked one up for $0.39/lb, it cost me $2.40. That's a lotta cabbage. It was HUGE, I tell you! But alas, the Russians had no idea what I was talking about when I asked for Sterno. Nor did the guy at Liquors Foods who always asks about Stefan (because they're both Salvadoran).

I got on the T with my cabbage, Lil Smokies, marsha-mellohhhhs, and toothpicks, planning to go to the Stah Mahket near Fenway and pick up the elusive Sterno. I stopped at the Tiger Mart first. The guy looked at me funny and said, "Why don't ya go ta Stah?" Right, buddy, off I go. I wandered up and down the aisles of Stah, knowing where Sterno SHOULD be, finding it missing (favorite idiom of the day), and eventually asking at the service desk while fighting back tears.

Some guy with a manager's badge went to check himself. Nope, all out. So sorry.

By that time I was pretty upset. If I couldn't find Sterno then I couldn't have a flaming cabbage, and if I couldn't have a flaming cabbage I'd be letting Kate down, although she might not really care that she couldn't dig into the Lil Smokies and marsha-mellohhhs, being vegetarian, but it's the principle of the thing, and reall the flaming cabbage is all about two things: spectacle, and Shane. And if the cabbage doesn't flame properly, where IS Shane? Have I lost him somehow? Is the elusive Sterno some kind of punishment for something I'm not doing for him? Oh my god, I'm the worst friend EVOR and the cabbage is a ruin and life as we know it has narrowed to this one failing...

Of course, I got to the party, blathered about my search for Sterno, cut a hole for a candle instead (vanilla-scented. ew.) and people still gathered 'round the cabbage in bewildered fascination.


Sunday:

All I had to do... and this is pretty simple, folks... was meet Arnie at his place in Belmont at 2pm and call my friend Tina. Not so much to ask, right?

Tina's boyfriend-whom-we-don't-call-a-boyfriend has mylofibrosis, a rare form of cancer, on top of some other scary cancer that he's been battling a lot longer. Tina's my nextdoor neighbor from Victor and we've known each other since 1982. She and Danny Welch are the only two people I bother to see when I'm home. Yesterday Tina threw a fundraising party to help pay for Eric's medical expenses, and I know she could have used me for moral support. I couldn't pay for the ride home, much less make a donation, but I wanted to call and touch base.

I opened my address book to the proper page, pointed at her number (her cell; I have her home number etched into permanence somewhere in my brain), and I could feel my heart start to pound. I could feel my pulse everywhere - my pinky toes, my eyebrow, and of course my chest. And then, as I held the phone, ready to turn it on and dial, it rang. I dropped it and yelped a bit, feeling a sweat break out on my forehead.

It was too much. I had to email her instead.

So I went to Kinko's en route to Arnie's and wrote her a nice, supportive, sorry-I'm-such-a-jerk email. Nice of me?

And then off to Arnies. The short story is the only story you need if you've ever experienced the MBTA bus system: I had to take two buses. On a Sunday. I started out an hour and 15 minutes early and got there 45 minutes late. I actually WAS in tears when I got there, feeling horrible for Arnie, who had informed me earlier that he wasn't sure he wanted to jam since he had to put his cat to sleep on Saturday, but finally mustered up the chutzpah to give it a go. He looked pretty frantic and helpless when he noticed my flustered face, and quickly appeased my request to be led to the bathroom. I ran some water, looked myself in the eye, breathed deeply. I couldn't get my heart to stop racing or the tears to stop rising. It took five long minutes to settle and go out to greet Arnie properly.

The jam session was a bit sloppy on both sides. We were both exhausted and it showed, but we also got a lot done, and I think Arnie felt better having some company. We added some upbeat tunes and thought over what the Nahth End gig might require of us. (I'm understocked in the Sinatra/Tony Bennett department and might not be able to take requests unless I catch up.) There were several times during our session when I felt my pulse quickening - when I couldn't get the rhythm how I wanted it, when I kept missing the same word or note repeatedly, when I couldn't find a song I wanted in the 400 pg fake book...


What I'm saying is that I noticed a theme this weekend. This is actually a good thing, that I noticed it, so don't go assuming I'm panicking about this, too, but... The OCD is getting worse. Those anxious reactions and out-of-control moments are all symptoms. That need to have things Just How I Want Them, that feeling of all of it crawling around under my skin until I could scream with the discomfort and self-loathing... it's gathering speed, picking up pace, gaining on me.

An Ode to Katya

Kate, the wonderful lunch-buddy,
Met me for yumminess at Zaftigs and even
Continued to the Booksmith and later, yes even later,
Accompanied me to The PaperSource, where I did math in my head
Successfully. This is auspicious evidence
That Kate influenced the cosmos today
And made it bearable for me, even if in doing so
She further neglected a much neglected paper
For Cathie's Crit class. Ah, Kate,
Who is lovelier than thou?


That's a poor poem, but you get the gist.