Chasing the Verrazano
This summer will mark the 20th I have lived in and around Bay Ridge (it depends on who is running for office, I live at the hem of the outskirts, so to speak).
During my first two seasons here, I took walking tours of our new Temple settings and fell in love with the rich canvas the Dutch left behind and was further enriched by the Italians, Irish, Greeks and Scandinavians that came after them. This countryside, former farming community and the original Long Island, a Revolutionary War hotspot: all its beauty is palpable and its charm
very hard to resist.
Suspension bridges have long held my fascination, even before being held captive by the magical charms of Mark Helprin's
Winter's Tale. During those first few months after we moved here, I felt an internal call to follow the Verrazano (especially because at the time it screamed, "
Tony Manero strutted here!"). On clear days, and even more strikingly on clear, moonlit nights, it stands out as you look up on Fourth Avenue emerging from the subway station on the way home. It sits there, surreally peeking at the sky like some sort of ethereal runway to heaven... This, of course, is only an illusion. It leads to Staten Island.
This is only one of the reasons I have always felt the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge is a tragic figure on New York Bay. It is not as pretty as its older sibling, the Brooklyn Bridge; will never be as famous and well loved. Despite having the distinction of becoming the longest suspension bridge at its opening; it leads to the island of Staten and not Manhattan, and will always pale in comparison.
A friend of ours, from another life, used to paraphrase the well-known phrase and give it a uniquely Brooklyn twist: "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, and not every bridge is the Verrazano..." Make of that what you will.
For some really cool facts and pictures, check out Kevin Walsh's
Bay Ridge page in his Forgotten-NY website, including a great page about the
Verrazano.
Public Service: Support MIT Dudes
Click and participate in the
MIT Weblog Survey. It's for science. It's for posterity. It will keep them off the streets of Cambridge!
Einstein would have wanted you to...
Read like a geek
The experiment of the week: reading 2 books at once. I used to be able to do that. Sometimes I would read 3 books at once--alternating with textbooks, to clear my mind between chemistry, philosophy, political science, marketing or whatever I was studying that particular semester. (I was a weird kid, leave me alone!)
But I need to pace myself here because I just got my groove back... My reading groove that is, not like that Teri Macmillan's hot, gay husband thing. Hey, I've heard things!
My choices for reading are eclectic, nothing new there. My morning book, which I read during my train ride to work and during lunch:
Einstein in Love by Dennis Overbye. My evening book, read during the hour-long bus ride back home, is
The Kitchen God's Wife by Amy Tan.
What are the odds I'll mix my Mandarin with my Yiddish? This should be fun. It's official, I think. I am a geek!
If you love Uncle Albert like we do at the Temple, check out this great page for the NOVA special
Einstein's Big Idea. If you love experimenting in the kitchen, the Asia Society has a fabulous page full of
cookbooks. You know my motto:
eat and learn!I'm not advocating stretching your attention if it will affect the enjoyment of reading a good book. This is only an experiment. Results will be posted next week...
Weathered Cuisine: Couscous and Shrimp Salad
The cool thing about hot, humid, sticky and unbearable summer weather is that it gives you the opportunity to eat healthy. You have no choice but to pick items that will cook quickly (or not at all). Especially in an apartment without air conditioning!
This weekend, during two of those less than stellar evenings, I decided to go the salad way. The first night, I sautéed some chicken breasts and added them to a bed of greens, tomatoes, olives and pimentos, avocado and cucumbers. The second night (not consecutive), I wanted something a little different. I made couscous with shrimp, which is the easiest entrée in the world. Once you boil the water, you throw in the shrimp, spices and couscous; cover it and let it stand for 5 to 10 minutes. You don't need to stand over it--you can go have an iced tea while being fanned by a tall, half-naked guy… (A girl can dream!)
The salad included some lettuce, avocado, cucumbers with a Dijon mustard and oil dressing. The dressing can be refrigerated and can also be used to marinate meats and fish for grilling or a base for rice, a pasta salad. Go wild!
Mustard and Oil Dressing1 tablespoon of Dijon mustard
1/2-cup vegetable oil
1/2 cup red wine vinegar
1 teaspoon ground black pepper
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 large cloves of crushed garlic
1/4-cup olive oil
1/2 teaspoon of onion powder
Combine the mustard, vegetable oil, vinegar, pepper, salt, garlic, onion powder and olive oil. Place in a container with a lid, cover and shake until thoroughly combined. Chill until ready to serve.
Brought to you by the girl my grandmother swore would never learn to cook... Happy Birthday, Mami!
I am A Trendsetter
On June 17th, I published a rant that partly was a plea with some of my fellow New Yorkers regarding their fashion sense. (Revisit those haunting words in the
Archive.)
Today, this very morning, I find that the
New York Post took my rant one nauseating step further and added photos to the whole deal -- thereby making my point all the more, er, poignant…
See the photo essay at
Gawker.
And may I add, on behalf of millions of New Yorkers:
Eeeewwwwwwwwwwww!
Science Fiction is Sexy
The summer is the perfect time to catch up with the classics!
Science Fiction and Fantasy are important genres because they encourage learning about science, technology, cultural anthropology, religion and social structures. It's not just about two-headed green dudes and hyper drives. And it isn't only about space travel; good science fiction encompasses astronomy and cosmology, geology, psychics, mathematics, biology and medicine, engineering, pneumatics, thermodynamics, optics and computational sciences. Snort if you want, but the geeks shall make progress to make your lives easier--unless you're a
Luddite. More than anything else, it is about humanity: its humor, its heroism and its pettiness, all its potential (good and bad)… It is also about fantastic worlds where magical things can happen as a matter of course. Think of it as escapist or as a creative way to view the possibilities the Universe has to offer.
Come on, science fiction, unlike most drivel out of John Grisham's laptop, assumes you are at least a little smart.
Smart is sexy!
This coming week will be one when SF will be spoken about a lot. There's the premiere of Steven Spielberg's "War of the Worlds." We haven't decided whether we are willing to part with upwards of $30 just for the air conditioning, because Tom Cruise freaks us out and the trailer doesn't look interesting enough to part with cash. And while I like movies, I prefer to read a book and imagine a cinematic adventure. Seldom do movies capture all a good imagination can conjure.
I think many folks shy away from this genre because they are intimidated by the word science. The success of SF in film and television in recent years might be an indication that people have put that prejudice aside. If you're ready, try one of these classics from our bookcase (in no particular order):
Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein
The Foundation Novels by Isaac Asimov
I, Robot by Isaac Asimov
The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury
The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury
2001: A Space Odyssey by Arthur C. Clarke
The Dispossessed: An Ambiguous Utopia by Ursula K. LeGuin
The Left Hand of Darkness (Remembering Tomorrow) by Ursula K. LeGuin
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams
Reading & Life: Charming Billy
Book of the week: "
Charming Billy" by Alice McDermott
It begins at his wake and rehashes his life from the pivotal moment that pretty much defined every move, every word and every drink he took in his adult life until he died. More than that, it explores the assumptions made by those in his life, who may not have all the facts at hand but thought they did. History, after all, is the fiction we create to embrace our prejudice (or something like that).
The widow reminded me of this stoic Irish woman we know. I pictured the character to look tall and willowy, with stark white hair and a quiet dignity about her -- just like our Mary. Good fiction pulls you in and allows you to bring your own experience to it.
This isn't one of those sensational adventures one reads for entertaining value. It is simply a lyrical treatment of the human experience, a slice of life, something that many of us tend to live mundanely…
After I read it, I remembered how during a family wake I discovered for the first time a fact I always suspected. My great-great grandmother was Chinese. We were all brought up as if this fact was common knowledge, yet she'd been dead half a century when I was born! There were clues, of course. One of my great uncles was referred to as
El Chino -- and often, the commentary that followed was that this was from Mica's side of the family. This, they thought, explained it all. Good fiction puts even tiny moments in perspective, reassesses their inherent poetry, it makes you think, remember and smile.
I met a man who "didn't waste time reading fiction." He felt he was doing too many important things for that. This made me a little sad. Most of the moments we live from day to day are quite unremarkable, the beauty of these tidbits is best documented and expressed through fiction. Good fiction celebrates every ordinary moment for very ordinary characters. It makes us all heroes; elevates and gives us carte blanche to dream. What could be unimportant about that? It was that comment, more than anything else said or done, that made me decide ultimately not to accept his offer of work.
He dared call himself a visionary! A visionary without whimsy or charm that would've made for really bad fiction. One who, once dead, will be quickly forgotten; unlike some fictional characters, like Billy…
I feel like Wonder Woman
The last few years have been brutal. This year alone has brought a brutality of Biblical proportions. But I guess we all need a little humbling every once in a while -- it clears the mind and cleanses the soul. Think of it as trial by fire, call yourself a phoenix and rise above it. It will hurt like hell . . . but the flying! Everybody likes to feel like a superhero once in a while.
My agency called yesterday. When we began our business arrangement, they offered direct deposit. I filled out the form and sent it along with the other ten pounds of paperwork required. They told me that in the absence of an address on the check, I needed a verification letter from the bank. This, I thought, was ridiculous. And I told them as much (because obviously all they need is my name, routing and account number).
"Look, the whole point of direct deposit is so that I can avoid all dealings with the bank. I don't even want to go to the ATM to deposit my check. Now you want me to actually go and speak to bankers? Forget it, it's just not worth it."
The Accounting Manager explained this was the best they could do.
"In the 21st century? Wow, not much for megatrends, are you? Oh well, I need the exercise. I'll take a walk to the bank once a week and call it a workout!" I'll maintain cheerfulness about me if it kills me.
The call yesterday was about this episode. They decided to review their policy after our brief conversation. They've rethought the whole thing, and will accept checks lacking personal identifying data.
I affect policy! Not in D.C., not in Albany. Just in the five boroughs and only for a several hundred souls. The moral of this story: savor your little victories.
I feel like
Wonder Woman!
Weathered Cuisine
Late yesterday, as we were leaving work, we got hit with a violent little thunderstorm. The skies turned deadly black, with occasional streaks of lightning and hard-hitting rain. I felt the perfect dinner for this type of day would be a slow cooked chicken with potatoes and smothered in onions. Comfort food…
Today had that perfect summer day quality. The skies were clear, the warm sun was shining, there was a cool breeze and there was no humidity to speak of. It was the type of day that causes you to temporarily forget your troubles and sashay.
The perfect meal to commemorate the perfect summer day, to my mind, is a carrot salad (slightly blanched) and marinated in an olive oil, crushed garlic, pepper, dill, honey and mustard sauce. That would be my allegorical cool breeze. I know that for a hot sun nothing substitutes better than sweet summer corn, with a schmeer of peppered butter. But the Green Market at Columbus Park outside Borough Hall today was a bit on the pathetic side. Instead, I brought out my trusted little
George Foreman grill and let it work its magic on a small London broil. The steak marinated in soy sauce, a liberal amount of freshly crushed pepper (heat, baby!) and lemon juice for a couple of hours.
Noodles are not really necessary but I include them in utter defiance of the whole no carb diet trend.
You have choices as to beverage. Beer seems appropriate. A little wine... Iced tea. Lemonade. A pitcher of sangria! You drink whatever you want.
The Manchurian Fiancée
The Matriarch of the Temple brought up a disturbing point up last night as we did some light reading…
“Raymond Shaw is the kindest, warmest, most wonderful human being I’ve ever known in my life.” That quote, of course, is the linchpin of “
The Manchurian Candidate.”
“Tom is the most amazing man in the whole wide world!” That’s the linchpin of a relationship, as defined by a vestal virgin, whose sole purpose is to keep the appearance of burning fires for a sexually ambiguous guy with an enormous neck and a dogma deeply ingrained with ideals of mother ships and creative creationism– not that there’s anything wrong with that…
If you are interested in the virtues, the excitement or a more realistic treatment of love-at-first-sight, go here:
http://www.barbarabretton.com/. Ms. Bretton can spin quite a yarn, figuratively and literally. I know because I have read her words
and have a classy, magical scarf born of her magic fingers.
Despite being both agnostic and a pagan (no irony there), I strongly believe in freedom of religion. Still, I will never forget my first foray into the world of Scientology. I was in Montreal, and we were walking around during a break from concerts at the Jazz Festival. We had gotten off Rue Saint-Denis on Mont-Royal, when we hit a Scientology bookstore/reading room. I picked up several books and began reading.
After that all I remember was cackling so hard, Mom grabbed me by the elbow, in a move that can only be defined as full Victorian priggishness (she even scowled like Maggie Smith)… She knocked a book from each hand – one "Dianetics," the other a SciFi thing that made “
Plan 9 From Outer Space” sound like freaking Shakespeare. Then she dragged me back out into Papineau Street while I laughed my ass off, holding my aching sides and pointing back at the stacks of books mercilessly; while young men with Freudian fixations on their cacky looked back defiantly and slightly ashamed… Not my finest hour; but dudes: WTF?!!!
Although a wedding date has yet to be announced, our suggestion for the bride and groom is a lovely
selection of varied words...
Noche de San Juan
Puerto Ricans love a good party. And Noche de San Juan is one of the most interesting you'll ever experience.
St. John the Baptist is the patron saint of the tiny island. At midnight on the eve of St. John's Day, tradition says that the waters are blessed and they are endowed with special powers--including healing powers, they also bestow good fortune and beauty, and ward off evil.
Following in ancient Midsummer traditions of the Druids on to the Romans, bonfires are lit on the beach. People leap over the fires believing this custom will purify them.
Then, at the stroke of midnight, people line up at the shore and begin to walk backwards into the sea. Tradition states that you should jump against the waves (while the more athletic and daring do back flips, landing facing land). Some claim you are supposed to do this 12 times, to ensure health and good fortune for a full year. Others claim you should perform the ritual 7 times-- that lucky seven thing.
There is so much pagan lore involved in this celebration that it amazes me the Catholic Church has maintained its distance and silence for hundreds of years. They allow it, but don't comment on it.
These rituals take place all along the coastlines of the island. But the bigger festivity is the fiesta patronal (or the Feast of St. John) in the capital city, which lasts some 4 days and nights. This is a magical and absolutely grand time to be in Puerto Rico. The smell of sea water, the music echoing through the cobbled streets in Old San Juan, the smells of comida criolla, the beautiful and happy faces, the free flow of spirits…
Wish we were there…
Leftover Potatoes Makes Stewed Cod Creamy
We love
cod--no doubt a genetic trait inherited from the Spaniard branch of the family tree. I promised you a recipe, so here goes...
First you must place the salt cod (about a pound) in cold water and refrigerate. Change the water 3 or 4 times overnight. Cut the cod, which will be plump and less salty, into cubes. Dredge in flour, seasoned with garlic powder, cayenne pepper and dried herbs and put aside.
Coarsely chop onion (I used a small yellow one and a small red one), garlic, parsley, olives and one red pepper. Combine a small can of tomato sauce with 1 to 1 1/2 cups of water, with a capful or two of vinegar.
Sauté the onion in about a tablespoon of olive, until desired softness; add garlic, then pepper and olives. Take out of pan. Apply a tablespoon of vegetable oil to pan, when heated through; add cod pieces and brown for a couple of minutes on each side. Add the vegetables, the leftover potatoes and the sauce. Cover and cook over low heat until it begins to boil (about 10 minutes or until the potatoes are heated through).
The cod will retain some salt and olives are cured in salt, so I don't recommend adding any to the dish. There will be a variety of textures, heat, savory and sour bites and the potatoes -- with their bit of mayo -- will make the sauce turn slightly pink and creamy.
Serve with rice, pasta, or with crusty bread, as a main course or a tapa. Serve immediately--or better, refrigerate overnight and enjoy the marriage of all the ingredients working together!
Click on the plate and try an Italian recipe, from our friends in the Bronx:
Labels: codfish and potato stew, food, potatoes
Potato Salad Nostalgia
One of the simple pleasures of summer
(though it is not technically summer yet) is a good potato salad. It conjures up images of picnics at the park, family outings to the cottages at the beach and barbeques in one of many backyards…
There are thousands of versions of potato salad. For every nationality, every ethnicity and every regional nuance there is a version of potato salad.
I don't like it when it is drooping in mayo, that's repulsive to me. I prefer my potatoes gently coated in their condiment, not drowning in it. I also don't like them with celery. That is one sad little vegetable! It's virtually devoid of taste, except some bitterness, and it's mostly water. Despite the crunch, it does nothing for me. (Refrain from hate e-mail defending the green stalks, I will not convert!)
This weekend, to accompany five alarm chicken wings and a simple lettuce, tomato and avocado salad, I made potato salad.
After boiling the potatoes in lightly seasoned water, I covered them in a mixture of about a tablespoon of mayo, lemon juice, a couple of crushed garlic cloves, salad olives with red pimentos, pepper, scallions and lots of parsley. I spooned the mixture over the potatoes and gently mixed it all, so it would coat evenly.
As we eat, we will talk, and inevitably the conversation will steer towards those picnics, family days at the beach and myriad barbeques. We will remember fondly and laugh, eat merrily and add this potato salad to the database of related memories, for future reference. And the leftover potatoes went into the following night's dinner of stewed cod--I'll post that recipe tomorrow.
For your reference, here's a link to a page of nothing but potato salads, including a 19th century version (but not Dan Quayle's special potatoe treat):
http://www.foodreference.com/html/potatosalads.html
Traveling Back in Time at The Cloisters
When I was a wee lassie, and we lived in Upper Manhattan, Mom used to take the bus out to Fort Tryon Park and we'd spend hours at
The Cloisters.
The building, overlooking the Hudson River, was built in strict accordance with medieval primary documents regarding such monastic structures in Southern France and Spain. It was built to house the Metropolitan Museum of Arts medieval collection in an appropriate environment. It is magnificent and fantastic! It specializes in the Romanesque and Gothic traditions and includes thousands of objects -- illuminated manuscripts, stained glass, metalwork, enamels, ivories, and amazing tapestries. More importantly, some of the structural design is part of the collection; and the parts that have been reproduced are so dead-on, that stepping into the four acres feels like you have literally traveled back in time.
I've drawn from my visits lately, while reading Michael Crichton's "
Timeline" and Dan Brown's "
Angels & Demons" and "
The Da Vinci Code." The combination of art, history, religion, and the wealth of literary references it conjures are awe-inspiring. And in this environment, we were trendsetters, beginning a rather hip version of what would become the "Mommy-and-Me" movement. I cooed, Mom got out of our tiny apartment, and we picnicked surrounded by a surreal alternative to the noisy streets of New York City.
To this day, I still have dreams set in The Cloisters. There is a recurring one that involves a giant buffet in its Gothic splendor. The dream always takes place in early autumn and there is a cool breeze caressing the guests in the Gardens--lots of flowing gauzy fabrics. I think it might be a wedding, probably mine; but like all my wedding dreams, it's always about the reception. I don't think I've ever seen the dream groom. Then again, even in reality, it's seldom about the poor bastard, is it?
Speaking of bastards: useless then, useless now (you know who you are).
Happy Father's Day, Mom!
Frockling in the Rain!
On Thursday, the temperature stayed below hellish again. It was a bright and beautiful day. I got off the bus and a lovely, cool breeze met me head on. Then, as I neared the avenue, a huge drop of rain landed on my forearm and it was cold! Then a second and a third rapidly descended on my forehead and on top of my head. And I laughed. Yes, I laughed. The next moment, the wind picked up and a wall of chilled water came down in a frantic deluge!
A man, on his stoop and running back indoors said, “Come out from the rain,” offering me shelter. I hooted. I crossed the avenue as three sheets of ever more violent and cold water came down and covered 90-percent of my body. Several adults and children huddled at the entrance of one of the apartment buildings in the corner and waved me in. I giggled in delight as my skirt clung to my legs and my shoes began to vent water. An Amazon lesbian walked stoically by and yelled, “You enjoy it!” The gentlemen who own the tire store in the next block offered me shelter and I kept merrily walking in the rain, my umbrella—half-broken—flapping in the wind (adding percussion to the symphony of nature as it landed around me and on me) and barely covering my face and hair. As I passed the pharmacy, several people huddled between the set of doors in the front. One gentleman politely pushed the front door ajar for me to come in from the rain. I was squealing in absolute delight and completely drenched, still making my way home.
The children looked at me longingly, wanting desperately to be me, because all children and Fred Astaire understand the ideal of frolicking in the rain.
As soon as I hit my apartment, it came to a full stop, as if the Universe sent the rain just for me. Apparently, I needed a little frolicking.
Rant, Part I
You knew that eventually I'd go off on a rant... It was inevitable. Also, as it is a rant, the entry title gets no exclamation point.
This is a message to my fellow New Yorkers, to my fellow Brooklynites in particular (because I haven't gone into the city for a few weeks now).
Used to be, a lone soul walking down the street, loudly speaking to themselves, you'd immediately assess they were nuts; you'd give them a wide breadth of the sidewalk; and life would go on. But now, freaking wireless technology makes it difficult to differentiate the nuts from the gabbers -- especially because I work so closely to the criminal court, several city and state offices, as well as the post office. So you have all sorts, all colors and all levels of mental deterioration walking around spouting inane to incomprehensible commentary--without giving the rest of us a clue as to whether we should be on the lookout for a meltdown. That ain't right, people!
Worse yet, and this one is directed at the ladies: My Sisters, after David Dinkins and then Rudy Giuliani sold the soul of Times Square to Disney to get rid of the hookers--because it was supposedly a quality of life issue that all New Yorkers cared about--
why, oh why do some of you insist on walking around in distressingly low levels of undress? Dudettes, I know that although it is not technically summer it has been unseasonably and uncomfortably hot and humid. Still, those of you topping 200 pounds with rolls of fleshy fat falling out of your backless, mini dresses need to stop and think! (Especially because when you do this during the daytime, it confuses the men and they don't know what to yell out for catcalls. I mean, dear lord, I have seen so much cellulite this week that I am thinking alternative fuels can be mined off those craters in your naked thighs!) Do you not understand that while you exercise your misguided sexy romps down the street, the rest of us cannot find jagged pieces of metal to gouge our eyes out? Bitches, have mercy!
My humble suggestion: people, invest in Blackberries and cotton muumuus. Do it for New York. Do it for me.
Haven't I suffered enough this year?
To check out all the hustle and bustle of the Big City, without getting mugged or the constant and creative colloquialisms telling you how to fornicate, where and with whom, check out these live cams:
http://www.earthcam.com/usa/newyork/timessquare/
PowWow!
Summer, though we've already discussed that
technically it isn't summer yet, is the beginning of Powwow season. We attended a powwow in 2001 and it was one of the most visually beautiful and spiritually evocative experiences of our lives.
A powwow, for the uninitiated, is a gathering of Native Americans. To quote one of the characters in Northern Exposure, at a powwow, "we dance, we eat, we hang out..." There are exhibitions with powerful birds of prey; activities for children; storytelling; vendors with food, crafts and jewelry; occasionally, there's also a mechanical bull... The Grand Entry is pure pageantry with of all chiefs and tribes represented entering and parading in a designated area, in tribal regalia. Then there are competitions including singing, drumming, men's dance, women's and children dances; exhibitions of hoop dancers.
At least once in your lifetime, you should attend a powwow! If you're in Brooklyn this weekend, the Gateway to Nations Powwow will take place June 17 -19 (Friday: 11 am - 5 pm and Saturday and Sunday: 1 pm - till we're done, we run on Indian time) at Floyd Bennett Field in Ft. Tilden. There will be no rain date.
Check out powwow activity in your area, a cool video, pictures and links here:
http://www.powwows.com/Check out my Native American murder mystery bookshelf (great summer reading, though it is
not technically summer yet) at
http://www.geocities.com/kaliamanda/hillermania.html
Summer Reruns!
We are knee-deep in summer reruns (although it is
not technically summer yet). Network television gifts us with stupider programming than they do during the regular season. Not only do they repeat bad television, they deprive us of the good shows and replace them with brilliant mind candy like, "Fire Me . . . Please," "Dancing with the Stars," and "Hit Me Baby One More Time," and the brilliantly idiotic, "Beauty & the Geek."
We had our highest power usage record today. Ever. It is too much to ask us to entertain cultural activities that might require us to actually move.
Therefore, this is a public service: in the heat and humidity that has descended on us, it might be smarter to load up on DVDs, crank up the AC, sip on Long Island iced teas and catch up with the good stuff we never watched, wished we had or miss terribly. So, at times like these, we rely on the expertise of our
Resident High Priestess of All Things Television. Go here for some of
Julia's Picks:
http://www.geocities.com/kaliamanda/juliaspicks.htmlHer choices run the gamut from the young to the young-at-heart, plus a couple of grouches in between, and several decades to boot.
My contribution to this entry follows:
Long Island Iced Tea
1/2 oz vodka
1/2 oz gin
1/2 oz triple sec
1/2 oz light rum
1/2 oz tequila
2 oz sour mix
Mix with ice and then top with coke. Do
not operate any machinery more complicated than a remote control lest your soul be permanently banished to the eighth circle in hell!
Celebrate Brooklyn!
My very first date happened when I first moved to Brooklyn. It was a walking tour of Prospect Park and ended with a terribly romantic pause at the gazebo, overlooking the lake, in the rain. I was 17; he was a 22 year-old Army reservist. It was not to be. He was an idiot. A pretty idiot, so he served his purpose.
At the beginning of the summer,
though technically it really isn't summer yet, Prospect Park lines up their calendar of music, dance, film, culture and cool things for kids of all ages. Starting June 15th, you can see Rickie Lee Jones perform live! Throughout the summer, which has not technically begun yet, you may attend concerts by Ben Folds, Hugh Masekela, the Brooklyn Philharmonic, Rufus Wainwright, Eddie Palmieri, or stick around for new and exciting renditions of the scores of Lon Cheney's Phantom of the Opera, The Sound of Music and Tarzan the Ape Man...
You get to sit on the lawn or by the bandstand, and enjoy the sounds, watch the kids run around all giddy, smell the goodies from the street vendors, watch the sky change colors into a golden haze and starry night, while surrounded by beautiful, lush trees.
Celebrate Brooklyn!
Bubbles!
Technically it isn't summer yet, still one of the ways to know summer is upon us is the sound of kids frolicking in the street below our window. These kids are a lively bunch: they like to kick balls around, run up and down the block and squeal a lot.
Occasionally, after returning home from work, there will be a chalk outline on the sidewalk. To say that in Brooklyn might bring up visions of a new urban CSI edition, but these outlines include pictures of boxy houses, tic-tac-toe games and other sidewalk games that get passed down through the generations.
My favorite summer thing is going outside and blowing bubbles. It's a lazy afternoon activity. For a big batch of bubble solution add:
- 4 cups of water
- 1/2 cup of dish detergent
- 1/2 cup of corn syrup
Unlike the James Bond preference for vodka martinis: stir don't shake.
There are simply too few simple joys left in daily life these days, blowing bubbles remains one of my favorites. Kids are mesmerized; and regardless of the looks the adults will give you as the walk past, the fact is their inner child smiles in complicit nostalgia. The Tao of Bubbles is the Way to Inner Peace…
For all you ever wanted to know about bubbles, visit Bubble Town. Then impress your friends with some fantastic bubble tricks, giant bubbles and, if you find the right shapes, bubble magic!
Puerto Rican Day!
This city is chuck full of Puerto Ricans. And every June, for one Sunday we take to Fifth Avenue and parade like fools dying to share the lustful rhythms of salsa... From 44th to 86th Streets, with Central Park skirting the celebrations, proud Boricuas display their flag.
People line up near one of the 78 municipalities (by birth, by association, it doesn't matter) and they march to declare their pride in their heritage. One year, I attended and decided to parade. I ran into a girl I went to elementary school with from kindergarten to fifth grades. Her mother passed away and her father moved them to New York. I didn't see her again until junior high school. Then, in high school, I left Puerto Rico and moved to New York. I literally ran into her at a prom party when we bumped full bodied into each other with our rum and cokes and squealed like little girls who used to play Barbie together. Her name was Lillian.
Another year, I decided to go to the Parade but not participate. I walked, alone, through Central Park, just watching all the happy people. One man grabbed me and adopted me. His family was barbequing all these cocina criolla (a big pot of rice with pigeon peas, roast pork: drool). They treated me like family, because I needed cousins.
The Mayor will pretend to be Puerto Rican, just like he pretends to be Irish for St. Patrick's Day and like he pretends to be Italian for the Feast of St. Genaro. Then he'll probably mispronounce something in Spanish.
Just as a point of reference:
1. Puerto Rico is an autonomous commonwealth (or a colony, depending on whom you ask).
2. Puerto Ricans are not resident or illegal aliens, they are naturalized American citizens.
3. Puerto Rico is not the 51st state: New York is an extension of the greater metropolitan area that extends a little past Luiz Muñoz Marin International Airport.
Happy King Kamehameha Day!
In 1795, Kamehameha became the first ruler of the United Hawaiian Islands. He is said to have been greatly admired for his astonishing physical strength, his great intellect, and the fact that he was said to possess mana (the spiritual power of the Gods) and that he was the Chosen One (prophesy said that one day a great leader would be born to one day unify the Hawaiian Islands).
A priest warned that Kam was destined to become the slayer of chiefs and, his grandfather, the King ordered the child killed upon birth. He grew up with a childless couple, hidden away from the King for many years. He fulfilled the prophesy. He proved to be a brilliant war strategist as well as a great diplomat.
As a ruler he became known as Kamehameha the Great. He banned human sacrifices said to increase his mana; because apparently the dude was secure enough in his inner mojo.
http://www.kamehamehadaycelebration.org/
Da Vinci!
I read on the subway ride during my morning commute, sometimes during my lunch hour at work, and then sit quietly on the bus from Downtown Brooklyn to Sunset Park and read some more. Two of the last few books were Dan Brown's Angels & Demons and The Da Vinci Code. I was fascinated that somehow he made art history and comparative religion a thing of pop culture. Yesterday's counterculture is today's hipster movement... Who knew that one day the so-called lunatic fringe would be the avant garde of literary trends in the new millennium? If you'd like to further explore some of the social anthropology ramifications in the last book, check out the titles in my
Illuminated Pop Culture bookshelf.
I also find it extremely fascinating that Steven Spielberg managed to convince the French to allow filming
inside the Louvre Museum for the movie version of the Code starring Tom Hanks (because somehow you
just know they consider the far more brilliant performer to be Peter Scolari). Now you can visit without actually spending one single Euro:
http://www.louvre.fr/louvrea.htm. Check out the collections, take a virtual tour, shop for pretty things!
I'm Spartacus!
For over a week I've avoided the Deep Throat story.
I was conflicted about it.
Somehow, in my mind, this was one of the mysteries of life that would not be solved in this plane of existence. I always assumed that once I died, there would be a moment of perfect clarity when all would be revealed: who really shot Kennedy, where's Jimmy Hoffa buried, who was Deep Throat?
I felt a little cheated …
I didn't want to k-n-o-w! Not true: I did, but since I was resigned to not knowing, this development threw me for a loop.
Finally, ready to clear my mind of all my ambivalence, I read the Vanity Fair
story. For a pedantic and petulant review of the Deep Throat revelation go to
http://www.geocities.com/kaliamanda/deepthroat.html
Frank Lloyd Wright's 138th Birthdate!
Back in 1991, in some dark New York City bar, after hours… A drunk looks over my shoulder to my sketchpad and comments that Frank Lloyd Wright's work was "a manly version on that whole gay Art Deco movement."
I didn't look up as I continued to add lines and edges to my doodle, "Frank Lloyd Wright's inspiration was organic. Didn't you play with rocks when you were a kid?"
Typical of every move he made since he chose to sit next to me and started talking, he answered without thinking, "Oh yeah! We skipped rocks on the lake. But you're a girl, you didn't play with rocks, did you?"
Still not looking up I replied, "Frank Lloyd Wright's designs are based on the natural world."
He started pointing his finger and then poking my doodle, "What's that got to do with rocks, conceited?"
He was starting to piss me off. There was a reason I was seated in a dark corner doodling while a dozen drinking parties bustled around me. I finally faced him and stared him down for a minute.
"He felt nature was the manifestation of God. The inspiration for his work was based on the natural world -- be it a rock formation or a spider's web. He believed there was a beautiful simplicity to these organic structures of design that made them strong and eternal. He designed spaces to accommodate the organic rhythms around it, to flow… You know what? Why don't you combine form and function, pick up your ass and get the f*ck away from me?!"
I was trying to become one with my cognac; and this freaking mamaluc kept breaking that delicate equilibrium born of creativity, controlled substances and what Mr. Wright referred to as "honest arrogance."
For a great resource on the works and life of Frank Lloyd Wright, visit the All-Wright Site:
http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/1469
Ranch Dressing!
NBA playoffs are underway and baseball season is gathering momentum. For those poor souls that cannot afford attending games because their salaries aren't in the one-percentile, we rely on TV... Finger foods happen to be a great accompaniment when one is coaching from the couch.
Here's my recipe for a homemade ranch dressing that serves as a great dip for crudités, chicken wings or anything else you'd like to dip in it (HEY, watch it--this is a family blog). If you feel the need, you can also use it for salad (green, pasta or potato).
3/4-cup mayonnaise
Two tablespoons of white wine vinegar
Lemon juice
Pepper to taste
Crushed garlic
Minced dill (we also use parsley, green onions, red onions)
Mix until you incorporate all ingredients, add more liquid for a runnier sauce or mayo (maybe a little coarse mustard) for a more solid dip. Refrigerate in a container with a lid or squirt bottle.
Most recipes call for buttermilk, but since I hardly use this ingredient, it tends to spoil, so I substituted with handy stuff. Sometimes I throw a little hot sauce in there. Sometimes I boil the garlic in a quarter cup of salted water until the water evaporates, and mash it before incorporating it into the dip. Sometimes I feel a little crazy and add a little grated Parmesan cheese in there!
Check out my list of favorite food magazines here: http://www.geocities.com/kaliamanda/foodmags.html
Tony! Tony! Tony!
A few weeks ago, my office mate asked me if I knew a certain song. He sang a few lines and was confronted with an empty stare. He hummed the melody. Nothing. He clearly enunciated the name of the rapper in question. My eyes glazed over. The man is a high school teacher; he has more than a passing acquaintance with
The Look.
"Don't you know…?"
I didn't let him finish the thought, "As far as rap and hip hop is concerned, I stopped listening after Sugar Hill Gang's
'Rapper's Delight.'"
Well, you would think that I punctured several vital organs with a concealed weapon! His eyes widened, his jaw dropped, he developed an above-the-neck tick and he appeared not to be breathing for all the pain I put him through.
I tried to explain to him that the genre wasn't something I followed because I felt a jarring disconnect between their experience and mine. He tried to appeal to my Blackness but he clearly gave me that same look of abject betrayal my social brothers and sisters give me when they decide I'm just not Black enough.
Immediately, I grabbed my CD case and dropped the soundtrack of "Star Wars: The Phantom Menace" on the tray and let it play. Surely, you think, it was misguided to try to end the conversation by playing classical music, but
it worked.
I always try to escape labels. I don't want to be easily defined by any means. My music preferences are eclectic (one of my fantasies is to speed down Fifth Avenue in Brooklyn, in a red convertible, while blasting Mozart or Vivaldi)…
In a move that sent chills throughout my office, 2 weeks ago, I started playing an Internet radio station from my desktop. My choice? The 2004-2005 Broadway Shows channel…
http://www.accuradio.com/Those poor people don't know what to think; but it's a public service: confusion is good for the soul! And maybe they'll feel the urge to get me "Spamalot" or "Wicked" tickets to reward me for all my hard work.
Roses and Jazz!
When I first moved to the mythical borough of Brooklyn, many moons ago, Sundays was a time dedicated to reading the Sunday Times and finishing the puzzle. It was a day we slept in a little and had a mid-day brunch. When the weather was nice, we'd pick the afternoon to go on long walks around Park Slope. On more than one occasion, we would walk to the Brooklyn Botanical Garden and soak up the beauty of the natural world.
The first time Mom and Uncle Bob took me to the Garden, when we walked into the Lily Pond I stood there mesmerized for a moment and tugged at Mom's sleeve, "Mommy, look! Monet's Water Lilies Pond!" It was a proud moment for my matriarch.
The Garden is now named the Brooklyn Botanic Garden -- they are very serious about dropping the -al suffix. June is Rose month and today they'll add a little jazz to your enjoyment (for those in the vicinity). I will be skipping the festivities as my allergies and roses are not friendly, but I can always visit the website and look at them for the comfort of my home (no sneezing).
http://www.bbg.org/exp/roses/rosemonth.htmlElsewhere on the site, you can explore the different gardens with a 360-degree camera angle that's spectacular! My favorite has always been the Japanese Garden. The Rock Garden is very serene. The Lily Pond is there too, but it pales in comparison to the experience of seeing it first-hand for the very first time...
Happy Birthday, Socrates!
According to
The Pagan Book of Days by Nigel Pennick, June 4, 470 B.C.E. is Socrates birthdate, which would make him very tired were he still alive (not to mention the monumental headache).
To commemorate, I give you
The Last Days of Socrates at
http://socrates.clarke.edu/ for everything you learned, everything you forgot and tidbits that will make you sound like freaking genius during snooty cocktail parties. It also includes some beautiful graphics and even sound files.
The man said a lot of very smart things, the most sensible of which is quite possibly this:
"Remember that there is nothing stable in human affairs; therefore avoid undue elation in prosperity, or undue depression in adversity." My great grandmother was Socratic, in introspection too, when she'd look at me and kindly say, "Everything in moderation..."
Of course, singing happy birthday to Socrates would end with
him asking,
"How old am I now? How old am I now?" Except it would sound something like,
"πωs παλαιόs είμαι εγώ τώρα? πωs παλαιόs είμαι εγώ τώρα?"I doubt Socrates ever heard that badly written ditty in his time; though it is believed that birthday cakes originated in Ancient Greece. In olden days, before we adopted more "linear" calendars, birthdays were associated with phases of the moon. People would take round cakes with lit candles (representing the resplendant full moon) as an offering to the moon goddess Artemis.
I am Pagan, hear me meow!
Finally Sith!
Memorial Day seemed like an appropriate day to go see "Sith" -- a moment of remembrance for the fallen, isn't it? To paraphrase Woody Allen, I feel a void; an empty one… But not in a bad way, it's just a little melancholy at the realization that we've come to the end of the road. Still, what a journey!
There was certainly a lot going on within that screen! It was beautiful and dark and intense. I loved it. Not better than "Empire"and nothing will ever compare to "New Hope"--if I had to pick, I'd place it as third best in the entire epic. It was far more seamless than "Clones" and "Phantom."
The score by John Williams was sublime, I sat there thinking just that as Anakin reached the younglings and it broke my heart that such beauty would culminate in brutal cruelty -- but life is senseless like that sometimes.
Having said that, the High Priestesses of the Temple concur on this one thing: the point, the
exact point, when Anakin makes the decision to turn over to the Dark Side seemed hollow. This was my biggest "What the f*ck?!" moment in both trilogies. There just didn't seem to be enough incentive to choose Darkness -- not enough fear or confusion. Anakin didn't fall prey to the Dark Side so much as he acquiesced to it, he didn't fight, he didn't think, he just took the leap without even a push. Maybe I missed something. I tried to compensate for this by rationalizing that perhaps the entire conversion was more a Sith mind trick (because though Padme did die in childbirth, the vision differed from the reality and could have been implanted in his mind by someone knowledgeable in such things); that Anakin was far more conflicted than he appeared to be, that he was not strong enough to contain himself (that he went eagerly to it because it was easier than standing up to it), that he was young and incomplete in his training (and maybe I was right and ultimately what it comes right down to is this: a boy needs his mother)… Whatever, I didn't buy it.
As for the prophesy, I guess the Jedis took it too literally. To restore balance there must be chaos and destruction. Anakin, in his own misguided way, brought all of that to the Universe. Reaching redemption is not directly proportional to the offense; it's a journey towards wisdom. Ultimately, it doesn't matter why he fell, but that he overcame it, right?
Though, I admit that anything said by Palpatine should be taken with a giant and sour grain of salt… Did we get a hint that perhaps Anakin was created by a Sith Lord? Or maybe this was a red herring?
It was an operatic wonder and I will watch it again. Maybe all it boils down to a very simple and old truth: sometimes people will disappoint you, despite their potential or your love for them. To quote my Jedi cousin, Sith Happens!
For a brilliant, insightful and clever experience, visit The Darth Side: Memoirs of a Monster (Journal of Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith and Servant to His Supreme Excellency the Emperor Palpatine) at
http://darthside.blogspot.com/ Created by one Matthew Frederick Davis Hemming, this blog rocks!
National Spelling Bee!
Today culminates the National Spelling Bee in Washington, D.C. My friend Jeff likes to say that I like big words, but size isn't everything... The last contestant on the fourth round pulled through with
querulential.
I have no idea what that means; personally, I believe they just made that up (she said peevishly).
Here are a few words I'm afraid will not appear in Round Five:
- lalophobia --fear of speaking, especially in public
- logophobia --fear of words
Don't let the kids put you to shame, go to http://www.dictionary.com and learn a new word, then use it to confound a rude person! Or go retro, use last year's winning word: autochthonous (1. Aboriginal; indigenous; native. 2. Formed or originating in the place where found.) I've heard rudeness is autochthonous to New York but those who think so can bite us.
Enter A New Feature!
There is always chatter in my head (Joan of Arc used to hear voices too!); and yet, I have been avoiding the idea of a blog on the excuse that I simply do not have enough to say. Additionally, my life just isn't interesting enough--despite its epic drama and operatic connotations of the last 6 months.
But who's to say that I can't use the technology to change that? Add the blog to my life as a way to break free of the tension, to improve my reading habits, to do more interesting things so that I never find myself blogging things like, "Well, nothing happened today, but check out this new funky font!"
The 2 biggest topics obsessing us at the Temple these days:
- Darth Vader
- Deep Throat
What a punk and what the f*ck! Despite the initial apprehension of having little to say, life gives you topics at every stage of the game...
