Ponytail Papers

Mama said there'd be days like this.

As part of my recent mental beautification and education project, I signed up for a couple of classes at the local food-ware store, The Wooden Spoon. The first class was two weeks ago, and it covered the basics of roasting, baking, sauteing, and ... I don't remember. Two other techniques.

This is the first time I've ever gone hands-on in a class. Up until then, all my cooking education had been via The Culinary Institute of Television. I studied under Julia, Jaques (and his hopelessly inept daughter Claudine), and my favorite TV chef ever, Caprial Pence. I used to be able to watch lectures from the CIA on PBS, if I got home early enough from your Saturday morning grocery runs. With cable TV, I graduated to Sara Molton, Emeril, and Mario. (Now I'm worship the Holy Trinity of Alton, Ina, and Bourdain.)

But the thing is, I don't think I know how to cook. After two cooking classes, I know how to cook. It has nothing to do with technique and everything to do with confidence.

Today's class didn't get off on the best foot.. After being stiffed for a ride by the CTA and the vanishing #22 Clark bus, I had to hoof it (in a hurry) about three-quarters of a mile in about 10 minutes. I made it with time to dash into the bodega across the street for iced tea and water. WOOT.

I rushed in, grabbed a spot at the counter, and caught the tail end of a conversation about cast iron vs. porcelain clad cast iron (basically Lodge v. Le Creuset). (Huge fan of both.) I was worried, because this class was more advanced than Don't Burn Yourself 101--the last class--I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep up. Based on the conversation, I lost that fear and instead became apprehensive that Team Ralph Wiggum might never have made their own sandwiches before.

Quick briefing then we're on to Cesar Salad, Pulled Pork w/Coleslaw, Crab Cakes w/roasted red pepper sauce, Jambalaya, and Maple Bacon Glazed Donuts. (Mmmm. Donutsssss.)

All five stations worked at once, but because of no-shows, I became an army of one, Me vs. The Salad. I could pause here and grumble that I made the damn salad last time, but instead I took it as an opportunity to hone my skills as Iron Chef Vinaigrette, because, DUDE. My dressings kick  ASS.

In the tradition of my father, I was all assholes and elbows on the salad.  Call me Julie Cesar. In chatting with the chef, we agreed I would going stealth on the dressing because--SPOILER ALERT--Cesar dressings are made with coddled eggs and sardines. (In fact in my house, you probably are getting a raw egg...strike that. You never heard that.)

I am a romaine ripping, herb chopping, arm flaps whipping in the breeze as I whisk like it's my damn job salad maniac. I don't have the luxury of tracking down the measuring spoons (in the hands of Team I Ate My Red Crayon as they fiercely debate whether little t means teaspoon or tablespoon) so I am eyeballing like a bitch. I whip up a batch of homemade crutons that make the angels sing. I am hustling and "Yes Chef"-ing and in the zone.

When I'm held up because I can't get to the stove and have to outsource my coddled eggs to Stool #5 (who screws them up), I whip together the most amazing mise en place for the rest of the ingredients. After Todd hands me my now soft-boiled eggs--thanks TODD--we are rocking and rolling.

Finishing touch is a dusting (heh...this is me we're talking about) of Asiago cheese. Per-flipping-fection if I do say so myself. (In spite of the soft-boiled eggs, TODD.).

The jamablaya was good. The crabcakes (I typed crapcakes the first time--that sounds about right) were okay. Slaw and pulled pork good, particularly with some pickeled jalepenos tucked into my sammie. And the doooonuts. The donuts were great but huge and I was suddenly aware of why the master plan for today involved the impromptu sprint.

But while all this is going on, I'm scoping the perimeter. Because you'd better believe I'm checking out the 20% off All-Clad cookware just behind me. Ohhh, you sweet little sauce pan. Who's your mama?

Speaking of mothers, mine's a firm believer in knowing what the good stuff is, and then buying it on sale. All-Clad has traditionally been well beyond my price point, even on sale. I reached my dainty, still somewhat garlicky mitt past all the fancy stuff and retrieved a small, gorgeous saucier just hanging back there all Corduroy-like, waiting to come home with her true person.

To recap: No buses, had to run. Stuck making the least glamorous and challenging dish. Packing home a $90 All-Clad saucier for a mere $45? I can take days like this alllll week.

 
Meet Alekka, after today's chef. She and I are going to rock little reductions like they're going out of style. I will totally coddle your egg in her if you come to my house for salad. (As far as you know...)

PS: I'll let you know when I'm making those maple bacon donuts. I saw God.

Once in a Lifetime: Floatation Tank

This is the first in an ongoing series of "Once In A Lifetime" experiences. The world is a really weird, really cool place, and I'm trying to spend more time in 2011 doing new and weird things.

Today's experience was both new and weird, to be sure. A year or so ago, I got swept up in the whole Groupon/Living Social/You Swoop coupon deals. So far, my purchases have been for restaurants I already like or for bakeries I want to add to my route.

Last fall, a You Swoop coupon came up for a session in a sensory deprivation floatation tank. I don't remember how much I paid, but I think it was about $20 for a $50 hour-long session. I'd never done it, and knew nothing about floating, but it sounded like an interesting experience for my year of mind/body/spirit.

Just from a facts standpoint, the tanks are 8 x 4 x 4, filled 10 inches deep with highly salinated, body temperature water, and the water is sterilized after every use. The purpose of a floatation session is to remove stress by removing sensory stressors. This location has been in business for 20 years and had some extremely positive reviews.

I'm a big fan of salty soaks in the bathtub, or even in my footbath. From an energy standpoint, salt is supposed to remove toxins (or whatever--hippy eyeroll here) but I do know I always feel better after a good long soak.

SO! Knowing I'd be all wigged out and weird from a long winter, I booked my session for today--President's Day--when it would be convenient for me to scoot down to Lincoln Park to the studio.

Spacetime Tanks is down on Lincoln Avenue just east of DePaul University. I stepped down into the studio, took off my shoes, and checked in. The waiting room was decked out in Chicago beatnik--persian rugs, incense, salt water fish tank. The staff was very friendly and I quickly taken back for a full briefing on the room and some pointers on the experience. Ear plugs are provided to keep the water (and salt) out of your ears. Floating is best enjoyed completely naked, with no tension on your skin, but it is permissable to wear a bathing suit if you're bashful.

After a quick shower, in I went.

There's a 3 x 3 ft. portal on the tank; a door that can be easily opened. I approached the tank cautiously, but it was very easy to step in and sit down. Carefully scootching around, I oriented my head toward the fresh air vent and laid back.

The tank is completely dark and soundproof. The water is just deep enough that you completely float but can very easily sit up. The salt in the water assists your natural bouyancy and the air in your lungs keeps you from rolling over. Fully floating, the water neatly frames your face. Nothing about it felt dangerous. Although I'm prone to claustrophobia, after a few moments I was completely unaware of the walls and ceiling around me. It felt very much like floating along on a lake on a dark, starless night.

(But warmer. The water is exactly as warm as your exterior skin, so you are never cold or warm. Just...there. Because of the high salinity, the water feels incredibly soft and gentle on your skin.)

Unable to touch any surfaces, my brain began to create sensations for me. It felt very much, at first, as though I was floating in a circle. Once my thoughts calmed down, that sensation went away.

So did I have any trancendental thoughts or out of body experiences? Not really. I can tell you this, I thought in complete sentences. Paragraphs, even. No interrupting thoughts. When something popped into my head it wasn't like a big emergency, just "oh hey, later I need to attend to this."

My hair fanned out around me and every bit of me--body and mind--relaxed.

I did not have a good sense of time passing, but I wasn't surprised when I heard a gentle rapping on the tank exterior--my cue that my time was up.

Jill had turned on an infrared light to warm up the room. I ducked back into the shower, very thoughtfully stocked with Aveda products, and cleaned the salt off.

Some people say that an hour in a float tank is like a good night's sleep, and I can agree with that. Some floaters fall asleep; some just relax. Strolling back into a stiff, snowy wind, I felt much more relaxed inside. Even a "seriously, again?" phone call from my mail-order pharmacy didn't hassle me with waves of irritation like it would have two hours before. Mission accomplished!

Would I do it again? I probably will. The regular rates aren't bad, and a five-float package is a well-priced option. Massage services are also offered, and perhaps I will do a float-massage combo.

Would I recommend it? Talk to me one on one and we can see if this would be an experience you would like. Generally speaking, sure!

Intimidating

The first of the introspective 30 topics is "Talk about something you hate about yourself." Maybe another day I will. Instead I'm going to talk about something about myself that I loved until last Friday.

Backstory: I interviewed for another position in my company. This is a story I'm, by now, sick of telling. I've interviewed for the role twice now, and both times I've been close, but not quite the right person.

I talked about it with a colleague of mine. He couldn't see why I wouldn't have been a great match for the job. He did, however, offer that maybe the hiring manager was intimidated by me.

I didn't know what to do with that information. The manager is a late fifties aged former submariner who runs among the most cutthroat in our industry. I'd have thought he'd seen it all.

Maybe not.

I have always been this way: Straight shooter. Highly verbal. Quick thinking. As an adult, I've had to learn to modulate this aspect of myself. For everything I say there are volumes of things I don't say. I temper the sharpness--oh, believe me, I do.  I try to watch body language very closely, so I can shut myself down when people have had enough of me. I try to know when to walk away, turn in early, excuse myself, go silent. But I don't mess around when asked for my opinion and I don't shy away from a debate.

Other than the darker aspects of my communication style, I've never seen it as a liability. I thought I'd chased all the old-school images of women in the workplace away long ago.

What do you do when the thing that separates you from the herd is perceived as threatening? I railed at the fates and blamed sexism, because to be hard charging as a man is an undisputed asset.

I plan to follow up with my mentor: a soft-spoken man about my age who would have given me the job were it his to give. I will continue to work out all my shortcomings with respect to this role. But if this is truly the problem? I don't really know what I'll do. I'm at a loss for words.

RAB to DVD

Today, it was finally nice enough for me to make my own way to the Stretch Chi studio in Lincoln Square. It's an uncomplicated, mile-ish walk with a short El Brown Line ride in the middle. I've had an errand I've meant to run for over a year now and today was the day to address it. I've needed to take a piece of jewelry for a repair quote, and there's a lovely jeweler just a few doors down from the studio.

When my maternal grandmother died, I was her only granddaughter. Her engagement ring was left to me. It's a pretty diamond in a classic Art Deco setting--perfectly appropriate for their depression-era engagement.

The back of the band is almost worn through and it's quite a bit too small for her granddaughter's hand. My grandmother was petite. My mom is tall, like her dad, and I'm taller than she.

My grandfather led a hard life in the beginning. His own father deserted his mother with three daughters and my grandfather. He went to work in an uncle's bakery at a young age to help support the family. I recall that he hated it. Although he must have known how, as long as I knew him, he never baked. Eventually, he went off to school--St. Louis University, I recall--and majored in business. He got a job with the Internal Revenue Service and he worked for them his entire career.

Along the way, he met my grandmother, who went to the Virginia Teacher's College. They met under economic circumstances as dire as today's. In that day, married women could not hold jobs, so my grandparents were engaged until both their families were comfortably cared for enough for them to establish their own household.

They had a son first, who died days after an excruciating labor. Legend has it that my grandmother died as well, but was very reluctantly revived. After that, she was known to have an unusual instinct for others' pain, and she was never able to keep a watch running on her wrist.

My mom came along, and when she went to college, my grandparents began to travel the world. Their favorite place, by all accounts, was Oaxaca Mexico. I know they went to Ireland, where my spirited grandmother shimmied out along a ledge to kiss the Blarney Stone. I know they went to Spain and Portugal and were fans of the sherry there.

And then...my grandmother developed spinal cancer that went horribly misdiagnosed until it was too late. Family lore tells that the scar on my wrist was caused by hot coffee that was spilled as my grandmother collapsed during her last day at home.

After that, my grandfather renewed his energy in projects and crafts. He was a master gardner. To combat arthritis, he learned to make Chrismon ornaments (hand beaded on wire) and he typed his weekly letters to my Mom. He mastered stained glass. He was an Optimist. He traveled some more, and eventually remarried. The marriage ended badly as his health began to fail, and he spent his final years in Wheaton with my family.

Anne favors the Blue side of the family with her height, freckles, and strawberry blond hair. Margaret inherited his aptitude for numbers and his keen organization. My inheritance arrived as a subscription to National Geographic World, a children's publication that debuted when I was 10. It was in those pages that I learned about faraway islands called Trinidad and Tobago.  Thirty years later, I've been there.

I thought of him today, too, during my walk. He liked to walk whenever he could and, on a day like today, he would have gone about his errands on foot as well.

All of these memories hovered around me as I talked about the restoration of the engagement ring. Through her loupe, the jeweler could make out most of the inscription, so I helped her out with the rest: RAB to DVD. Her birthday was last week; his is tomorrow.

2010, the short version

Until I get together all my resources to finally capture the magical mystery ride/bad acid trip that was 2010, this sums it up nicely:

 

It's the equivalent of having your skirt caught in your tights on the internet. I spent days/weeks reconfiguring passwords that were not the same, but similar, since my info was apparently everywhere. I received emails from concerned folks at Groupon and Woot (who gave me a 5% coupon for the trouble!) basically saying "Hey...uh...did you hear? Yeah, the bad guys have your info."

I'd be more upset if I hadn't gotten in a couple of really sweet smartassy cracks on Gawker in my day.

More soon.

Stay at home day, 1/3/11

I ended up carrying 2 days from '10 into '11 and opted to take them this week. Here's the Monday rundown so far:

-See the first three quarters of Clean House. Fall asleep for, and completely miss the reveal of, the end. It was medium charming. (Good premise, obvious staged drama, good host, hateful assistants.)

-Start pumping laundry. What? The more I get done today, when I can presumably to only two or three things at a time, the more flake out time this weekend.

-Kitchen clean up.

-Cookies made. I'm calling them Epiphany M&M cookies.

-Cookies re-evaluated. I'm calling them compost. I think I had some bad shortening in there.

-Redemption lunch. In an attempt to reduce the on-hand supply of chow, I whipped up some Trader Joe's pierogi. (I blame Kerri for the inspiration, but mine were not as good or as authentic.) They did turn out awesome! (Sparkle fingers!).

-Attempted to enroll on-line for three courses at the JuCo near my house. In the two years since my last class, they still have not invested in an electronic enrollment interface. (For the record, the courses are growing herbs and veg, small container balcony gardening, and Nia fitness.) I decide to call them later.

-Very quickly, I'm set upon by the cat Who Will Not Nap Nor Let Me Type. (HOLY CRAP. Real time reporting here--she just lept from Kevin's desk to the back of the couch in, what is quite honestly, the most graceful and cat-like movement of her WHOLE LIFE.)

I gotta go give scritches on this one. Honestly, all I have left for the day is one more kitchen clean up and a whole shit ton of folding to do. And a cat trophy to make, evidently.

And then? Bring ON the lazy.

This Little Piggy Stays Home?

I recently started writing my Year in Review post and made it as far as Places (in the Places, People, Things noun-style recap). And, while I wouldn't have traded any of those trips, it quickly dawned on me that I was away from home--at some point--during every single month of last year.

Please, under no circumstances are you to whip out your hankies at Oh Poor Julie, Your Life Must Suck. I'm not without complicity in this situation; I green-lit all of those adventures.

But it explained a LOT. Like how I only dove the equivalent of four days' worth despite being on dive boats for two weeks. Offered the choice of an underwater adventure or reading alone on a quiet boat, there was no competition in my heart.

I read and I enjoyed the quiet. I spent that time capturing the internal sensation of being at home on the couch, but with much better sunsets.

It also helps explain, but does not excuse, the limited amount of time I spent with family and friends geographically closer to me, but on the other side of the chasm of my ridiculous schedule.

Over the last couple weeks, I started compiling a rough list of things I'd like to experience in 2011. It's something I've done for the last few years and it's much more enjoyable than a list of stern resolutions or hearty "Thou Shalt Nots" for the year ahead. Hell, the list for 2010 was blown away by the year that actually happened.

Once of those 2011 line items is going to be a careful consideration of where I go next year. I'm not pooping on parties; I'm just going to be mindful of the cumulative effects of being constantly on the run.

(Trust me. At the rate we hustle, it isn't "on the go"--it's the more-manic "on the run".)

Home has to be somewhere other than the place I do my laundry for free and swap out suitcases.

Some of the journeys in 2010 were to friends' homes, and to you I must say that it is true: The road to a friend's house IS always short. I'm so glad we had the luxury of time to spend in one another's company.

And it's not to say I'll be voting thumbs down all year. Opportunities to see the world and enjoy the companionship of true souls are irresistible, aren't they? But I'll need to be selective, and I'll need to set aside time as well for the people, and places, so close to my home.

Please, ask me about my tree.

It's dinner, and I've just finished explaining how we were at my parents for Thanksgiving weekend, Kevin was out of town the whole next week, then we spent all day Saturday basically at a funeral, then I outlined the series of hurdles of the past week, including term paper, work project, social and professional commitments, and this? THIS was the follow up question:

So, is your Christmas tree up?

Here's how I answered:

Well NOOOOOOOO my tree's not up, were you not paying attention in the slightest? I actually work a full-time career-type job that requires a big fat FORTY as a mininum, to say nothing of being married to a guy putting in 70 ROUTINELY. It's not a cute plug-in five and a half hours at the bank so I can kind of cover my own Visa bill. It's actual work, not pretend work.

But since you want to talk about trees, let's get right to it. Even if I HAD time I wouldn't have put up a Christmas tree. Notice something about the vestments and frontals at church? That they're blue or maybe purple? YEAH that's because we're in Advent, like its bigger badder sidekick LENT, which is a time of contemplation and preparation and NOT about putting up a tree which is what you do when you're OUT of Advent.

Oh, I'm sorry, your led by the nose flavor of religion never taught you that?? Well let me lay a little more education on you there. Your women-hater forefathers didn't dream up the tree all on their own. They jacked it from the PAGANS. Norse heathens, to be precise, who brought a living tree into their homes as a symbol of life and the hopes of fertility and prosperity in the year ahead.

And do not even get me started on your manger set up. Shepherds? Yeah, they weren't in the fields in December. Either Christ was born in the spring or summer or someone was wacked on myrrh when they wrote the folklore down. And the magi? That's plural for MAGICIANS. Make sure those little pagans get a really prime spot on the hearth.

All of that aside? I have a house to clean. Unlike you, I DON'T HAVE A MAID.

SO NO, MY TREE IS NOT UP.

(Well, that's how I answered in my mind.)

In reality, I said this:

"Not yet. You? Three trees? How nice!" Because my mother, who taught me all these things also taught me it's more polite to say "How nice" when you really mean "BITE ME".

It was a super long week this week. I had a term paper due (the first since the Bush I administration), several parties, projects and other assorted responsibilities.

Chief among them was the office Christmas party. It's a longer rant for another day, but it pretty much blows being in management at corporate "social" events. I generally end up eating with my staff, which is fine, but I have to continue being the politically correct, HR appropriate me I am during the day, but more so because there's usually booze on the table.

As long as I'm whinging, I don't even get to sick back and just enjoy the event quietly. My crew instinctively looks to me for direction and conversation and JEEZ, could they pull the sled for just a couple hours so I can stop being "on"?

Not so much. At least this year I didn't actually have to serve the potatoes (yes), wear funny antlers and pour soft drinks (oh yes), wasn't in a skit or bobbing for apples (yup), Most importantly, I didn't have to defend my crew from allegations of cheating in the Christmas tree decorating contest (really, I couldn't have made that up).

I won't be consoling myself with half a pound of fudge like I did last year, either. That's a good thing.

In the meantime, how about some pictures?

 
Making our way to the French side in our rented Jeep.

 
Stopping at The Tropicana for a delightful French lunch. More champagne? Mais Oui!

 
St Kitts has these old brick structures. This is from the batik factory, but there were sugar mill bases dotted all over the island.