New pets

After more than a month of not seeing each other, Robot and I planned a romantic weekend away together on the Cape. We went all out. I took a day off work and we rented a cozy little room with a porch and a fireplace. There was biking involved, and long hikes along the seashore, an entire pint of Ben and Jerry's consumed by the fireside, visits to lighthouses, and stone sculptures erected on the beach.

We had a great time despite several incidents that did not quite contribute to the romantic atmosphere, including Robot coming down with a full-body rash and me sitting on a piece of chocolate on the seat of his car until it melted and, well, no longer looked like chocolate. At the end of the weekend, we stopped into a bar to have one last drink before heading back to the city. After we had finished our burgers and were slurping down the last sips of our beers, the bartender asked us a strange question.

"Do you two want some free oysters?"

The answer seemed self-evident. Moments later, we were handed a bucket full of ice and two dozen live, unshucked oysters, a gift from a fellow bar patron who had a few too many on his hands and didn't know what to do with them. Back home, wielding our butter knives awkwardly in hand, we managed to pry a few of them out of their shells and, seconds after their demise, slid them down our throats. It turns out that oysters, while always delicious, are even more so if you've shucked them yourself and therefore earned the oyster. The rest we tucked into the fridge, following the Cape men's instructions to empty all water and leave them in there for as long as we wanted -- they promised us that those little guys can live for MONTHS in there, feeding off of their own bodies when they get hungry. Which if you think about it is really creepy and also a great way to ensure that what you're consuming is very fresh.

It was fun to have new critters in the house, and Persil enjoyed the company, but we decided not to put that last assertion to the test. Two weeks later after we returned from the Cape we downed our last oysters, and they were just as delicious as they had been on day 1. But my fridge feels a little bit empty without them.

Raspberry season

My roommate is a bit squeamish. I try to protect her from anything that I think will bother her; for instance, when we catch a mouse in one of our traps, I tell her to close her eyes while I dispose of the mouse and then hop around the kitchen, wringing my hands. I make sure to take the garbage out immediately so she won't accidentally catch a glimpse of a bloody little tail peeking out. I once found a moth in our ten-pound bag of flour, and disposed of the moth, sifted through the bag to check for other moths, and put the bag in the freezer without breathing a word of it to my roommate, knowing she'd want to toss the whole bag if she knew the truth.

Last week, though, I slipped up when she asked me if I wash the raspberries we get in our farm share.

"Want to hear something gross about the raspberries?" I asked, thinking that if I prefaced my story with that question I was giving her an out. But of course no one ever replies no to a question like that.

"Tell me," she replied.

"If you look at them really closely, you can see there are tiny little white worms on them."

"GROSS," she replied. "So, you're saying that yes, you do wash them?"

"No," I replied honestly, "I eat them with the worms."

"Next time you ask if I want to hear something gross, I'm going to say no," she answered.

Somehow ever since then, I've been the only one eating the raspberries in our fridge. They're delicious. And they've got extra protein.

Chocolate Extravaganza

It's T-minus 5 days until Theradate's chocolate party, which I have been looking forward to for weeks because a) it's a chocolate party, DUH b) I'm smitten with Theradate and c) two of my best girlfriends, Slinky and La Chimiste, have agreed to make the trek down to check it out with me. 

The invitation: 

It's been way too long since we gathered together to pop some corks, tell some tales and make some trouble. Plus, three times in the last week alone I've run into folks at Whole Foods who've asked when the hell we're going to have another shin-dig at my place. 

So--mark your calendars for the evening of May 31st, and we'll gather together over here for some good old-fashioned frolicking as we usher in the summer.

Our agenda for the evening is full: we'll hang around, watch the sun go down, and while away the evening as we sip, gab, gossip, strum, sing, tempt, talk, hint, laugh, play, dance, tickle, incite, incant, expound, inspire, dissuade, deter, concur, demur, infer, imply, amuse, guffaw, refrain, condone, support, provoke, suggest, submit, present, applaud, uphold, prevail, proffer, further, foster, mingle, make, meddle, and more. 

Bring a friend. Bring three. Doors are open to all. (Scoundrels, scofflaws, strumpets, and scalawags strongly preferred, and will find much company.)

As usual, grab a few of your favorite musical instruments, racy poems, embarrassing stories, small animals, party games, improbably ideas, out-of-circulation drachmas, or whatever else tickles your fancy.

The Council of Culinary Consiglieri have decided on a food-theme for the gathering: CHOCOLATE-FEST, 2013. 

For those of you who haven't been to one of these gatherings before: no one needs to bring ANYTHING apart from their own good selves. However, anyone who feels like trying out new recipes on an unsuspecting but appreciative crew of slightly tipsy heathens--feel free to bring whatever you like related to the current food theme, e.g. "chocolate". Willing mouths await.  

WHO: You and whomever else you feel like bringing

WHAT: Party

WHERE: My house

WHEN: Friday, May 31st. Sunset is at 7:21 PM, if you want to be here for that. Otherwise, come on by when it gets dark. We'll play into the night, until everyone's done playing. 

WHY: I dislike that question

HOW: We'll figure it out

xox

-Theradate

P.S. Even though my past attempts to solicit RSVPs have failed continually and miserably, hope does indeed spring eternal, so I'll give it another go: "A quick RSVP would be molto apprezzato. Grazie!" That way I'll know how many bags of chips to get. 

Best. Invitation. Ever. 

Dating, Italian-style

"Tell me about your most recent date," said my date last night, a blond, blue-eyed Mediterranean whose coloring, if not his sharp southern Italian esses, contrasts sharply with l'Artista's.

"D'accordo," I said, "although I have to warn you, it's not going to be a very interesting story. We met up for dinner last week after my sister's annual Christmas cookie-baking party. I brought along a few of the cookies we baked, so we had those for dessert. We talked a lot about New York since we both lived there for a long time. He was nice, but I wasn't feeling it."

I paused for a moment, then added, "How about you? Tell me about your most recent date."

"I haven't had any," he replied. "I hate dating, American-style. I know all the rules, and I hate them. But tell me, how come you didn't bring cookies on our date??"

"I'm sorry,"I told him, "I should have. But I do have a quiche in the car if you want some."

The date ended with us standing by my car, eating my half-frozen quiche, him pretending to enjoy it even though I had warned him it wasn't the most delicious thing I had ever made. And I thought, I sure do like Italians.

Lucio Battisti: one of many Italians I love.

Eating well

When I told my sister that my Theradate was taking me to Oleana, she rapidly fired a series of questions at me:

"How did you get him to agree to take you there?!"

"Does he know how expensive it is?"

and lastly,

"Is he paying?"

Despite my sister's assumptions about my conniving personality, it was actually entirely his idea. And he turned down my repeated offers to help out with the bill.

I came away with a *very* full belly (the waitress actually warned us we had ordered too much food), as well as a number of mini take-away containers filled with deliciousness. It will be a strange moment tomorrow when I invite my two young friends who I have a lunch date with every Wednesday into my room with their school lunches consisting of hot dogs and baked beans, then whip out my leftovers. "I have mussels with deep-fried hot peppers," I'll say, and give them a small bite to taste, if they're adventurous enough. "Oh, and this? It's a small bird with crunchy bones, called a quail. It's accompanied by toasted pistachios and dried barberries."

Sea, sun and deadlines

I had several long talks last week with my friend M in which we discussed what I should do about Leif Ericson. Leif and I have been spending a lot of time together, and things are feeling pretty couple-y. But, we're not a couple, and the flags are still there. I had to decide: should I back off and slow things down a bit, or go for it? While I do believe in some level of caution, I have also observed that my friends who behave very cautiously end up seeming to waste more time on dead-end relationships. In other words, sometimes by behaving less cautiously, you figure out the issues sooner and get the inevitable breakup over with.

With M's help, I decided not to go the cautious route. I packed my bags and headed off to meet Leif and a couple of his friends for a fun weekend on the Cape that involved lots of delicious drinks, sunset kayaks, fresh fish cooked on the grill, naps curled up together on the hammock, as well as some less romantic but still fun activities, such as people watching during Bears Weekend in P-town.

However, I am not completely throwing caution to the wind, as is evidenced by a couple of upcoming dates on my calendar. One is "Stop putting up with Leif day," to be observed a month from now. Another name I considered for it is "Shit or get off the pot day"; it is the day when Leif needs to decide if he wants to be my boyfriend or not (provided I am ready to make that decision by that point, which frankly I don't right at this time). Later, in early October, I have "Decide about Leif day" -- assuming he gets past the first hurdle, of course. This day is based on my friend Kansas' theory that you should give men four months to prove themselves. If you don't feel certain about them by the end of four months, move on. Early October is the four month anniversary of our first kiss; my new rule is to put that date on my calendar as soon as I kiss a guy I like.

I had an amazing weekend on the Cape. It was unforgettable. I didn't come away from it feeling weak in the knees about Leif, or certain that we're meant for each other. I did come away from it feeling that I know him better and have a better sense of how compatible we are, as well as still having a lot of questions about our compatibility.

I enjoyed spending time with Leif's friends, too. Last night, we hatched a plot to make dinner together the next time they're in Boston. One of his friends has gone squidding a bunch, and has quite a supply in his freezer. I suggested we use the ink in my pasta dough, and create squid ink ravioli with lobster stuffing. While Leif was using the bathroom, I had to resist the urge to whisper, "Psss -- give me a call and let's do that dinner, even if things don't work out with Leif!"

Feed me

One issue that comes up a lot while dating is eating. I was impressed when a potential date suggested, a few months back, that we meet up for a Restaurant Week dinner. I thought it was a nice gesture, that it showed he was excited to go out with me, and I didn't think far enough ahead to consider what would happen when the check arrived. So it came as an unpleasant shock when the bill came and I realized that I was stuck between a rock and a hard place: I didn't really want him to pay for my $50 dinner, given that I had no intention of ever seeing him again, but I certainly didn't want to pay for it either, $50 being an entire week's budget of fun on my Austerity Budget. In the end, we split the bill, parted ways, and never spoke again.

On the other hand, some dates go too far in the other direction. Doctor O, who I went on five dates with last winter, had a bad record in that regard; he suggested a dinner spot for our first date, but when I arrived, stomach grumbling, he ordered only drinks. The trend continued through our subsequent four dates, until, just before we were due to meet for a tapas dinner, he dumped me. At one point while we were dating Slinky reflected that she wasn't sure if I really liked him or if I was just light-headed due to hunger. I guess I'll never know.

So far, Leif has struck a happy medium. Our dates have all been inexpensive, but I've never left a date with an empty stomach. On date 2, he grilled oysters for me. In the middle of date 3, he stopped by the grocery store to buy goat cheese so that we wouldn't be drinking champagne on an empty stomach; late that night, we made avocado and tuna salad. When I suggested we meet at the cemetery for a walk on date 4, he promised to bring along a few victuals, and arrived with a backpack full of goodies plus a picnic blanket. Now, as I prepare for our patriotic date 7, I received the following text from him: "Happy 4th. I will feed you tonight unless you have other plans. See you soon."

I have a friend who says of the men she goes out with that, prior to the first date, they aren't real people in her mind; it's only after date 2 that they begin to seem like little embryos. At date 7, Leif is starting to be semi-formed. He's past the stage of looking like a tadpole, with four real limbs and a head and torso, but he's still far from being a fully formed human. He certainly is a promising little fetus, though.

Don't think about elephants

Leif's got pasta skillz

Leif Ericson continues to be charming and kind, and he helped me make an amazing batch of beet ravioli with my new pasta maker two days ago. He also continues to be flaggy. I resolved not to think about him much or be in contact with him to try to minimize my attachment to him. This is difficult, because I have an attachment disorder (probably because I breastfed for a long time as a baby) that makes me attach too easily.

An hour or so after I made this resolution, I got a text message from Leif asking how I slept last night and if I had heard about the Supreme Court decision yet.

Two hours after that, I saw the news on Facebook that the Coen Brothers are making a sequel to the Big Lebowski -- Leif's favorite film. Real or hoax? I'm still not sure. Obviously, I had to pass on the news.

After receiving his excited reply, I went on OkCupid to try to find some new men to go out with. Guess who came up as one of my first suggested matches??

Grrrr.

Well, maybe leaving the country will help. Peace out, folks, I'm heading to Canada. (For the weekend.)

Austerity Times

To deal with reduced financial circumstances, I've temporarily had to implement austerity measures. I'm hoping it won't be for long, because two weeks in I'm already missing the little perks in life, but in the meantime here are a few things I am not allowed to indulge in:

• Bars. Drinking is allowed only within the confines of a house.
  
• Eating out. But, austerity measures are not about being cheap, so if a friend treats you, you still need to reciprocate.
  
• Parking tickets/towing fees. So hard to resist their allure.
  
• Pottery lessons. Big frowny face.
  
• Yoga? Still trying to figure that one out because I'm not sure I can live without it.
• Clothes. If you have enough clothes that they overflow your ample drawer space AND several boxes in the basement, it's enough. (I may have slipped up a bit this afternoon when I HAPPENED to be on the JCrew website and saw some crazy sales. But I put it on a gift card, so it doesn't count.)
• A Smartphone. I'm up for a new phone from Verizon, and had planned on joining the masses and getting an iPhone. But it'll have to wait. (On a related note, when did it become so rare to only have a Dumbphone??)
  
• Gas. Hence, I am biking everywhere. Which means I am often sweaty, a bit smelly, and very buff.
• Cheese that costs more than $8. Not totally sure I can live without that, either, but we'll see.
• Mani/pedis and waxes. Sorry in advance for all the extra hair.
  

And here are a few things that can help one get through Austerity Times:

• Friends who are also on austerity measures to plan fun, low-cost activities with and help you stick to the plan.
  
• Benefactors who ship you boxes of free clothes. Because there's always a LITTLE bit more space in those drawers. Or in the basement. Or on the floor. (Thanks, D.)
  
• Foraging. Rather than head to the farmer's market and purchase pricey organic berries for my annual late summer jam-making extravaganza, as I have in the past, I visited a few crab apple trees near my parents' house last week and picked away, free of charge. On the way back, my arms laden down with apple bags, I was inspired when I passed some Rugosa roses and noticed their bulging hips, and I picked some of those, too. I also found some elderberries, but at that point I was running short on time and had to stick with my first two finds (but I have high hopes for next year!). Downside to foraging: Lots of worms. Like, really lots. I'm pretty sure neither my apple jam nor my rose hip jelly can be considered vegetarian. Upside: extra protein.

Indulgences

I'm the kind of person who has lots of routines and rules that I follow every day. When I wake up in the morning, I have to brush my teeth first thing. I never, ever eat a meal at home when I'm not sitting at my kitchen table. I can't stand to leave lots of dirty dishes in the sink.

Dreamy, as I'm sure long-time blog readers can imagine, is more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants, impulsive guy. If he feels like it, he'll go right ahead and eat dessert before dinner. He doesn't think twice about skipping teeth-brushing when he's sleepy. He doesn't even own a kitchen table, and because he doesn't have a kitchen sink either, dirty dishes pile up on his bathroom floor. And cleaning his apartment is... not a priority.

So it was probably under his influence that I exclaimed on Sunday night, after concocting a pair of delicious post-dinner Old-Fashioneds, "Let's take them to bed with us and drink them there! We can watch Glee at the same time. It will be the best Sunday night EVER." Because I so rarely indulge myself like this, the idea seemed incredibly fun and exciting.

We headed to bed, orange-garnished Old-Fashioneds in hand, and set up Dreamy's iPad to watch Glee. A few minutes in, shortly after the opening credits, Dreamy got up to go to the bathroom, and on the way back snagged the remaining candy from my Easter basket and brought it along to bed. He started peeling chocolate eggs and shoving jelly beans into his mouth, leaving tiny pieces of pastel-colored foil scattered around him.

I'm usually a pretty generous person, and would be happy to share just about anything with Dreamy. This includes my precious Easter candy, even though it only comes once a year and is amazingly delicious. But I could see that if I let Dreamy keep at it there would soon be no Easter candy left for me, plus the foil all over the place did not appeal to my sense of order. So I cut him off, grabbing the bags and placing them carefully on the bedside table.

A few minutes passed in silence. Then: "Hey, what happened to that chocolate bunny your grandmother sent?" We opened up the bunny and started gnawing on its ears. After a few bites, I thought to ask if Dreamy might prefer dark chocolate to the milk we were presently consuming at unprecedented speeds. My students are very generous with their chocolate gifts, so there is never a lack of chocolate in the house. I got out a box of truffles that I received for Teacher Appreciation Week last week.

In the morning, I opened my eyes to take in my bedside table: empty Old-Fashioned glasses with the orange rinds hardening at the bottom. A decapitated chocolate bunny lying horizontally with a half-open box of truffles perched precariously on top of it. Tiny pieces of foil scattered across the bedside table as well as the bed. And Dreamy? He had a big dollop of chocolate on his neck where one of the truffles had leaked on him, midway toward his mouth.

I'm not going to make a habit of it, but I have to say, it kinda was the best Sunday night ever.

Sickie McSick

For the past four days, I've had a fever in the triple-digits, not to mention an astonishing amount of phlegm escaping my body. (Remind me again: What did I take that flu shot for??) It's been hard to muster the energy to do things like go pee, let alone cook. On Day 1, I managed to get up a couple of times to open the freezer, pop some bread into the toaster, and then eat it topped with a slice of cheese. I was definitely ready for something more by the end of the day.

On Day 2, my family, Dreamy and I had reservations for dinner at a fancy restaurant. I waited till the last minute to change the reservation, hoping against hope that I'd be up for it, but needless to say, it did not happen. Instead, Dreamy came over bearing armfuls of Trader Joe's chicken noodle soup. Damn, was that shit good. I don't think I've had canned chicken noodle soup since I was five or so, and it tasted like heaven in a box. I quickly put in an order for more canned soup with my mom and sister, who were coming over the next day to bring me supplies.

Now that I've been living on nothing but chicken noodle soup for three days, out of which days I've left my apartment once, and my spot on the couch maybe 10 times (mostly for bathroom visits), I'm again ready for a change. My fever is finally down, and I think I have just about enough energy to make this easy pasta recipe, courtesy of Marc Bittman:

SPAGHETTI WITH FRIED EGGS

Time: 20 minutes

Salt

1/2 pound thin spaghetti

6 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil or lard

2 large cloves garlic, lightly smashed and peeled

4 eggs

Freshly ground black pepper

Freshly grated Parmesan or pecorino cheese, optional.

1. Bring a pot of salted water to the boil. Start the sauce in the next step, and start cooking the pasta when the water boils.

2. Combine garlic and 4 tablespoons of the oil in a small skillet over medium-low heat. Cook the garlic, pressing it into the oil occasionally to release its flavor; it should barely color on both sides. Remove the garlic, and add the remaining oil.

3. Fry the eggs gently in the oil, until the whites are just about set and the yolks still quite runny. Drain the pasta, and toss with the eggs and oil, breaking up the whites as you do. (The eggs will finish cooking in the heat of the pasta.) Season to taste, and serve immediately, with cheese if you like.

It sounds like just the kind of protein-y, rich, scrumptious meal I need, although it's too bad I don't have any lard in my cupboard.

Hopefully by tomorrow I'll be back to my regular self, because I sure am sick of this couch. On the plus side, I am extremely well caught up on current events (just ask me about the situation in Egypt), Season 1 of Glee, and Muppets videos on YouTube. Here's the video that got me started on that kick, sent to accompany a feel-better email from Dreamy's friend Brian:

Frittata all'Artista

I made myself an Italian omelette with fried zucchini for lunch the other day, the way l'Artista taught me, for the first time in ages. I was nineteen when he taught me how to make them, and I thought I'd died and gone to heaven when I first tasted it. He'd make a salad dressed with lemon and olive oil to go with it, and he told me to take simultaneous bites of the omelette and greens so that the taste of the lemon and fried zucchinis mingled. It was the first of many culinary (and life) lessons I received from l'Artista, from how to fry an egg to how best to clean your shower (his technique was to do it while showering). He was the most amazing cook I've ever met, and I would give a lot of money to be able to eat one of his meals.

Later, in college, I tasted my friend the Father of Capitalism's French-style omelettes, and fell in love with them. They are cheesy and buttery and runny and gooey, totally different from l'Artista's omelettes. I got F of C to give me omelette lessons, starting in his mother's apartment overlooking Jeanne-Mance Park in Montreal and continuing several years later in the tiny kitchen of my Brooklyn studio, where I had to crane my neck around the doorway of the kitchen to follow his instructions because we couldn't both stand in the kitchen. He taught me to use a wooden spoon to swirl the egg around a bit so it cooks for the absolute minimum time possible, quite different from the Italian strategy of cooking the hell out of the eggs. I've been making F of C's omelettes ever since and still love them, and gradually stopped making l'Artista's.

L'Artista's are pretty damn good too, though, and they popped into my mind today as I was pondering what to do with the copious zucchinis and lettuce from my farm share. I think of them as more lunch or dinner-appropriate, whereas Father of Capitalism's are clearly a breakfast item. L'Artista would start by thinly slicing a zucchini, then sautee it in olive oil. When it was nice and brown, he'd toss in the eggs thinned with a bit of milk and seasoned with salt and pepper. After they got nice and brown on the bottom, he'd flip the omelette and cook it on the other side. Personally, I think you can never go wrong with cheese, so at this point I threw some grated comte, but that is definitely NOT the Italian way. Finally, he'd serve it with a salad composed only of greens and dressed with salt, olive oil, and lemon.

Yummm. Or, to use one of l'Artista's favorite words, squisita.

V-Day

Today, of course, is Valentine's Day, the traditional archnemesis of the newly single. As much as I hate to admit it, it has caused me to think a bit wistfully of La Moustache once or twice this week. Not that I'm sad that we broke up, just sad that I turned out to be so woefully wrong about his character (or lack thereof).

Three years ago today we celebrated our first Valentine's Day together. Moustache had had a visit from a French friend not long before who brought him a gift of a Raclette grill, and on V-day 2007 he started a tradition of having a Valentine's Raclette dinner. For those of you who have not had the pleasure of enjoying a Raclette dinner, the grill is an electrical appliance with what looks like four miniature frying pans that heat up when it is plugged in. To make the dinner, one places slices of Raclette cheese – a delicious cheese that uncannily smells exactly like the dirtiest, sweatiest feet you could possibly imagine – on these mini frying pans, where they melt. Then, one empties the melty contents of the pans onto boiled potatoes, broccoli and charcuterie, and finally one gobbles them up.

That first year, I was still in graduate school, and when I got out at 9 pm he was waiting for me outside the school, his arms overflowing with gifts and flowers. We headed to his studio apartment on 10th Avenue, where we consumed our dinner and gazed into each others' eyes, and despite how tired I was it was all very romantic.

On V-day 2008, we continued this tradition, and again had a very scrumptious dinner. It was my first year as a full-time teacher, and midway through dinner, abetted by the champagne we were drinking, I was hit by a wave of exhaustion. We headed to bed early, and as I lay curled up in bed beside him, I began to feel very strange. It wasn't exactly nausea or coldy-feeling; I had never felt quite like this before, and was unsure how to describe it. Nonetheless, I reported this strange feeling to La Moustache, and then asked, “Do you think I'm getting sick?” “Oh, no,” he responded, “You'll be fine. Just go to sleep.” Reassured, I put my arms around him and snuggled up against his back. Approximately ten seconds later was when the wave hit, completely out of the blue, like a tsunami. Before I had any time to react or turn aside, vomit was pouring out of my mouth, onto the bed, onto Moustache's pajamas. And this was not just any vomit, it was Raclette vomit, with the sweaty feet smell amplified and mixed with champagne.

And so ended our Raclette tradition. V-day 2009 found us in Mexico City, where we helped set the record for most couples kissing simultaneously (39,897 people, which begs the question – did someone double up??). At the time, I would never in a thousand years have guessed what the following year would bring.

This year, V-Day 2010, my date is my little Green Bean, who started off the day on a romantic note by regurgitating his breakfast for me. In the end, he has turned out to be a much better consort than La Moustache. In fact, here he comes now, flying across the room to land on my head with the same happy, excited look he gives me every single day. I'm sure he won't be my only companion for long, but in the meantime I am quite content with my little sidekick.

Plus, I got the single best Valentine's Day gift I have ever received this year from my *very* generous mother, a fuzzy, gorgeous Valentine's sweater. Thanks Mom!