La Familia: a rant
I have a second cousin who is the very personification of the term blabbermouth to such an extent it is no longer a slur but a Universal Truth. She also loves to give out bad news. I cannot say it gives her pleasure without sounding bitter, but it does seem to energize her tremendously.
If the phone rings at 4:30 in the morning on a weekday, you can pretty much guarantee it is her and something
"absolutely horrible" has happened. She couldn’t possibly wait until 8 a.m., she must disseminate the bad news as soon as it happens so she can cover more ground and spread the misery to a larger audience.
She has no integrity; she’ll sell out her own children if it takes the heat off her. Once, in a misguided moment of familial bonding, Mom confided that she had not been working (after her layoff) and that we were struggling a bit. She was, understandably, a little worried and she needed to voice it. After Mom spoke her peace, she asked her first cousin to keep her confidence, because she did not want my grandmother to worry (as these people have a tendency to panic easily). I swear these people are like elephants: they forget nothing and a tiny mouse will cause them to stampede and then drop dead in a second!
A short time later, Cousin It (not Itt, that’s the classy one) went to visit. She lasted about two hours. The moment the conversation veered towards her and her failures she blabbed in apeshit-crazy-semi-quatrain:
“Mariehasn’beenworkingformonthsandmonths
andKaliisbarelymakinganymoneyandtheyare
strugglingandthey’vebeenlyingtoyouaboutit!”
She made Mami cry and there was no need for it, as we were in no imminent danger of experiencing hunger or homelessness or anything remotely uncomfortable (besides the odd sleepless night). We can live large and we can downside without feeling much of a pinch, we are not spoiled trust fund babies – we are middle class that got there through sweat and tears so we can manage the lows in the ride.
But this BITCH had the squalor of Mumbai ghettos one step above our situation. It wasn’t true, but dramatic enough so that her own missteps no longer mattered.
Even if we were sleeping in the subway and eating off trash cans, it was not her place to do this. The fact that Mami has Alzheimer’s and doesn’t remember any of this means nothing to me. I don’t want this person in my life.
Last night she called three times, in the space of 45 crucial seconds during "Kings". The first time to ask for a call back. The second time to explain where she was calling from. The third to leave a number. She had not run out of time, the messages lasted less than 30 seconds in total (about 5 seconds for the first two and some 15 seconds for the last one).
Of course, she called to say someone died. I will mourn him in my own (private) way. But in the larger picture, that’s just one less tie to her.
I do realize the story told here might not seem enough to declare someone unforgiven. It was just the last straw. (Search blog for Baa Baa Bitch [8/22/07] for one of her greatest accomplishments, my cousin Patty!) Once we reach that point, I turn my back.
I am fully aware that the next generation has access to the internet -- though I doubt they're collectively smart enough for it, even by the stupid standards we read about on Fark -- and this is a public blog. I'm okay with that. It makes this part easier: Fuck you!
A seaside delight at home
A sandwich is a simple thing: two pieces of bread and some filler in the middle, usually with some condiment to bind it together. Often ignored in food sections of magazines and newspapers, until Super Bowl weekend, the sandwich is also ignored on most food television programming.
Simplicity is not an excuse for laziness. Slapping two pieces of bread around of piece of baloney is easy, but making a good sandwich takes a little effort. It doesn’t need to be like rocket science, but it is no different than other forms of cooking, preparing or planning meals. You need fresh and good quality ingredients and combine tastes and textures to create a tiny masterpiece that brings pleasure to all your senses…
The langostino rolls were fantastic. Since the meat was already cooked, all I had to do was let it get to room temperature.
Two tablespoons of mayonnaise and a teaspoon of Dijon mustard went into a bowl. Four scallions were thinly sliced and topped it. A teaspoon of minced capers followed. Garlic powder, freshly ground pepper and lemon zest, and dill weed finished the bind. I mixed the seafood (whole) and coated it well. Two beautiful, juicy and sweet, blood red tomatoes went into the bread and the langostino salad spread over it.
In each bite, you have savory fish, sweet tomatoes, salty capers, pungent mayo and mustard, bits of crushed pepper, crunchy scallions. And altogether it is quite the little party in your mouth, with soft bread and flaky crust coming together to make chewing a magnificent experience. And the dill adds a lovely aromatic to add to this holy matrimony.
Yes, my sandwich was sexy and romantic and delicious! Simple it was not...
Labels: food, sandwich
Easy does it...
I went head-to-head against the heat and the heat won. It manhandled me in despicable ways… And it hasn’t gotten Death Valley hot yet!
It was ugly. But I survived the first test of summer. So I try to take it a day at a time, and keep telling myself, “Two weeks in July and then August – make it in one piece through that and you’re home free.” Isn’t that sad?
The humidity lifted a bit and the sun hid behind a few rain clouds, so I made a quick run to TJ’s to build a weekend menu.
I bought langostino tails for the most obnoxious po’ boys snack on Saturday. I got marinated ahi tuna steaks. Ordinarily I prefer to season my own food, but the ingredients here are precisely what I would have opted for: olive oil, garlic, lemon juice, cilantro, salt, red chili flakes, black pepper. Then for Sunday, a real treat, steamer clams in a garlic butter sauce!
Mom already has the salads ready so the actual cooking will always be under 15 minutes. I like that a lot. I love cooking but that kitchen is unbearably hot in the summer. I prefer to enjoy my food, it is not necessary to toil for good eating.
Finally, this is for Jeff. A validation of something we’ve agreed on for years but now we have
science behind it. According to scientists at Newcastle University’s Centre for Life, “The protein in bacon supplies the body with amino acids, which the brains needs to restore the neurotransmitters damaged by alcohol [consumption].” And bread’s carbohydrates give the body energy to get up and go. So there you have it, a good BLT can cure a hangover. Cheers, brother!
Getting Happy
I loved the “Doctor Who” marathon for the sheer escapism. I may not necessarily share the Doctor’s enchantment with humanity, although I find it endearing in its own way. I suppose that circumstances not under my control called for that fanatical emotional and moral allegiance – even if fictional – for no other reason than to temper my homicidal tendencies.
Have you any idea how absolutely exhausting it is to restrain that urge to beat somebody bloody for prolonged periods? And how demoralizing it is to succumb to fantasies where you get the opportunity to just kick somebody to death? I don’t want those thoughts nor do I wish to derive pleasure from imagining violence I simply cannot commit. In fact, I’m into deep paranoia, with the strong suspicion that I am being provoked because the bully feels safe in their belief that I will not retaliate. But I can’t guarantee that!
The human animal reacts in unpredictable ways when you trap it, and you can’t be sure that I won’t finally let go and allow my baser instinct to take over. The last time that happened it scared the living shit out of me. I literally drew blood and that raw rage is something that no one should experience. It is blinding in ways even narcotics are not. I understand blood thirst literally to my core and I do not need to do that ever again.
And yet, she keeps pulling me in, and pushing every button, too stupid to realize that she’s dancing barefoot and
naked in a minefield.
I’m out of “Doctor Who” episodes for the moment. Instead, I’m slowly throwing myself into creating a world to populate a short story into something larger. I did not want to rely on the typical dystopian society, so perhaps inspired by the Doctor’s optimism I’m imagining a quirkier world fueled by human ingenuity.
In that quest, as a form of therapy and for research, I spent an hour at the Church of the Printed Page, Barnes and Noble, buying periodicals.
Mental Floss for the skyscraper farms bit and the “26 things to make you smile” – kinda need that right now.
National Geographic for its feature on Angkor – I was thinking of using a water castle but a city and ancient temples have its romantic appeal.
Skeptic for its piece on Christian origins – because I am about to do quite a number on organized religion.
I need to make myself happy and I have no desire to start drinking or doing drugs, and if I can’t afford to get myself another degree, I can create my own set of research and even if the story never gets written, I will have a ball putting some of the pieces together. It may be the only thing that keeps me sane and grounded, besides Mom.
Simple pleasures
For several hours I’ve had 4 snapper fillets sitting in a garlic pepper dressing – about 9 crushed cloves of garlic, fresh ground pepper and chili powder, a dash of lime juice and olive oil. Dried oregano, dill weed and powered garlic serve as a binder and a little salt give traction when crushing the garlic in a mortar.
We’ll grill the fillets and the garlic will turn into savory chips to go with out juicy fish. The side dish is a simple string bean and red onion salad in a mustard dressing.
Tomorrow night, we’ll have pasta with a seafood combo of shrimp, scallops and squid in pesto sauce.
I love the idea of dinner in less than 10 minutes! (It means more time to hang out with Mom and it does not mean you have to eat crap.)
The Dark Side of the Equation
By the end of the day the exhaustion was so palpable it had almost metamorphosed into a living demon holding me up. I stood at the bus stop silently begging the universe that the 5:30 bus would be early so I could just crash and be on my way home.
The bus came and the driver went on a break, so as I waited, the bus that goes across the bridge dropped off a few commuters and I found myself unable to stifle the cackle when I spotted the nun. I self-corrected and became very interested in a cloud above to avoid looking at her. It was a delayed reaction from a perverse universe to finish off yesterday’s entry.
She was going home after a day of soliciting alms and I wonder why these women are still here, in Brooklyn, in New York and in those ridiculous outfits. They are not real nuns, they are not a real order and their church was nothing more than a front for a sociopath who called himself a bishop.
I suppose that perhaps the story was not sexy and exciting in the way serial killers are portrayed nowadays and maybe these people used up their 15 minutes a long while back, but my memory is a little fresher than that.
In fact, I wonder how many of those commuters sharing a bus with her know that she is a
LeGrand Family member and a shameful bit of history?
Little People All Over the Place!
The Little People of America are holding their annual convention in Downtown Brooklyn. Consequently, there are hundreds of little people walking around and I think that is awesome! But there presence also is cause for bizarre moments because most people freeze and don’t know what to do. On any given day, you are likely to see one, on an exceptional day you may run into two of them. This is unlikely though.
Today, one of my colleagues was standing on the southeast corner of Court and Livingston, smoking a cigarette, waiting to cross the street. As both lights hit red and the B37 bus started inching to make the wide turn towards its last stop, 5 young women all under 4-feet sprinted across Livingston and burst into breathless laughter. There was pure joy in that simple act.
My colleague was obviously not aware of there convention at the Marriott Hotel over the weekend and part of this week. And just like most people, the sight caught her by surprise, but she did not want to stare. She is tall and has quite a commanding presence, though she has a sweet disposition, and she looked straight ahead not wanting to appear rude.
I crossed the street and crept right up to her and whispered, “Do you remember when I told you my life was like a freaking Fellini movie? Well, now you’re a witness.”
She held her breath, not wanting to slip and burst out laughing within earshot – because most adults have never met a little person and do not realize that they actually have a sense of humor and that they don’t necessary walk around weighed down by a giant chip on their shoulder.
“I’m serious,” I told her, “the only thing missing is the nun. And you know, there’s a bunch of them walking around here… Did you know that they don’t even make them put on those things on their heads so we can recognize them. But any of these women in sensible shoes and without visible ankles could be one of them!”
That broke her.
Anyway, the next time you encounter a little person, look them in the eye and give them a good day. They are short but otherwise like the rest of humanity, they want to be respected, acknowledged and loved.
That said, Peter Dinklage is one sexy little person! There, I said it. Dude is hot.
