2005 Holidays: Week One
The Transit union is about two weeks away from an expired contract and a possible strike. This means that for the next couple of weeks there will be delays and breakdowns and all sorts of fun things happening to commuters in the city.
Today, for instance, my line was hit with some mysterious live third rail ailment that crippled four lines and had me stuck on a hot and muggy train for an hour and a half for a trip that should take no longer than 25 minutes. Did I mention the delightful concert provided by two very unhappy dueling infants -- each with a very impressive lung capacity?
I spent part of my lunch hour getting a work ID, and while I waited, a flirtatious Dominican boy and I played. I flicked his ear; he gave me lashes, sat on my lap and proceeded to give me a full account of his travels that day. Aside from these carefree moments, the day dragged on and left me drained and moribund.
My bus driver, who usually drives me home at night, is on an extended hiatus. He'd warned me about it, because I don't really like change. I don't think he'll return any time soon (or possibly ever). Too tired to read or even watch passively as the bus made its way to Sunset Park, I succumbed in my seat.
Somewhere in the lower part of Park Slope, almost every evening a young woman enters with her sweet baby boy. He looks like a tiny Tiger Woods. We play peek-a-boo every night. Tonight he found me asleep and ingeniously decided to take matters in his own two-year-old hands. He screeched like a banshee 2 or 3 times until he woke me up. As I opened my eyes and directed my gaze in the direction of that infernal sound, he smiled broadly. His mommy apologized, but she simply did not understand I wasn't holding up to my responsibilities in this relationship.
Tonight, for the first time in so many months I heard her use his name. It is the same as my youngest brother's -- the one who forgot so thoroughly about my existence that when my grandmother's companion died, he accused our father of hiring an actress to pretend he had a sister. Once my father actually asked me if my birthday wasn't around the time of his youngest son's.
Both my grandmother and the former companion were involved in the transit union and contract negotiations were always a big deal. There will be some posturing, veiled insults will fly like down feathers off a torn coat, feelings will be hurt, threats will be muttered… Then once it all passes and a "barely adequate" agreement is reached; we will all hug and pretend to be a big happy family.
Yeah, 'tis the Season!
Sshhh: the bugs are asleep!
My friend Barbara, who was the original mother of my laptop, is always telling me that she is haunted by electronic poltergeist. One (or more) of those hit BB (my laptop) with a vengeance. I tried several times to connect to no avail. I tried, on a whim, tonight and viola!
This means nothing, of course. The laptop still needs to be replaced or at least serviced. But I missed doing this and missed you folks something awful! I will visit my local Chinese computer witch doctor this weekend and let him swing a plastic chicken over his head while he runs a few diagnostic tools over BB.
Since we last shared the lunacy of everyday life Bush showed his deft ability to open doors -- very reminiscent of Kelly Bundy. Nick and Jess stumped on the hopes of dozens by calling it quits on their fairy tale marriage. Paris Hilton got a monkey, which prompted me to say, "God! Cats are pretty much self-sufficient and I wouldn't let her get one of those." And Mom, without looking up from her newspaper, responded, "I wouldn't give Paris Hilton a cockroach. It'd be cruel to the bug."
Mommy has never been sympathetic to the plight of the cockroach. PETA should thank the heavens for Paris.
For some intense bug pictures, visit: http://www.myrmecos.net
Fun While it Lasted...
My silence for the weekend was not an attack of blogger’s block, but an attack of techie gremlins clogging my hard drive. I was able to log on to the Internet, but as soon as I did, the system would kick me out and restart. This went on for hours and hours of fun and absolute hilarity until I finally gave up altogether.
Until further notice this blog will remain locked into what is already written. I thank those of you who commented here and e-mailed me, those who supported the project and those who contributed to it.
This is not a termination but an indefinite cessation until I work it out. Perhaps I can try to write, by hand, every day and have lots of material when the blog returns.
Latex, you virgins!
La Chef is Back!
The temps dipped below 40 today. Despite my apprehension about my ability to breathe in the cold, I was able to move around without problem when I went out this afternoon. I got plenty of rest on my day off and I am feeling myself again.
I went looking for chicken wings but there were these pathetic little things that caused me to wonder who killed the pigeons. I opted for a whole chicken, a pretty one. It has been a while since we've roasted one and today was the right time.
I stuffed it with one onion, fresh parsley, pepper flakes, olives, garlic, breadcrumbs, oregano and lemon juice. I used a couple of tablespoons of mayonnaise to bind it. I used a garlic, pepper, olive and vinegar paste to season the skin.
The stuffing came out moist and tangy. I used it to dress some noodles.
For a couple of hours, the aroma of pepper, lemon, oregano, garlic and roasting bird permeated the apartment. It was lovely and every bit as comforting as I remember it.
The leftovers are up for grabs. We've yet to decide whether they'll be part of a mean soup or big sandwiches for lunch. Tomorrow, to continue working on my fantasy cooking drill: baked ziti with a meat and sausage sauce.
Baby, I'm back! Life may not be every bit as exciting or rich as I intended it to be right this minute, but the happy cook makes it all worthwhile. For a while today I was in full control of the dream.
Veteran's Day
This Friday, along with teachers and public school kids across the city, I will be off from work. And it's a good thing because I have no more to give this week. My brain is fried and I am running on fumes.
I intend to get up really, really late! Probably after noon. The big decision of the day: what is the perfect Veteran's Day dinner? I'll walk down Fifth Avenue and lust after shiny laptops, shiny new shoes and all sorts of shiny stuff... I like shiny. Shiny! Mostly, I will rest and try to regain some balance, restore brain function. Do laundry, bring out sweaters and other winter clothes from storage.
At some point, when my brain clears, we will remember several veterans we've known. There's Mom's uncle Frank, now living in Seville. My uncle Hil who was a great shock to the US Army. My childhood crush Peter Hans in his sexy uniform. Our old friend George, a WWII vet and a former POW who was a remarkable man.
My Week: in <100 words
I have no idea what was happening the week ending November 11, 1998 but here is the journal entry for that day, in its entirety:
Some days you're the horse and some days you're the whip.
That there is the whole story.
I have nothing to add to speak for the present. It has not been a whipping week but I am entirely too tired to consider reality.
Election Night: Worst Episode Ever
Voting in my neighborhood is truly a community activity. The volunteers tend to come back year after year, through primaries, referenda and elections. People bring their children to watch them vote. I overheard a man say into his cell phone, "I have to call you back, I'm about to go vote."
As I signed in, one of the volunteers informed me, "Your Mom was here earlier." You can't get away with spit in this town! There are two gentlemen, comic book geeks with whom I have an ongoing Batman/Superman debate going since Rudy's administration. Tonight only one of them was sitting up front, but not at my district's table.
I was surprised to find quite a mass of bodies to weave through to reach my booth. The ladies told me that there had been a steady stream of voters during the day, and now at sunset bodies started to congregate. It was a source of hope to see a sea of faces of a dozen nationalities and ethnicities, all invested enough in the process to participate and lend their voices. It doesn't say anything for my opinion of the final outcome, but it was precisely the very definition of democracy at work.
I left while more people were coming in; my friend the comic book geek was taking a break. I said good night and as I passed a few cops huddled in conversation, I stopped and asked them to come with me for a moment. They followed me for a couple of feet and joined the comic book geek and another police officer. "I can't stay," I prefaced my volley, "but I want you to consider this. The older members of the group may not know enough of the second option, but you're a geek and can fill in the blanks. Here it is: Wonder Woman or Buffy The Vampire Slayer? Discuss!"
With that I headed home, taking a moment to gaze at Mars low and bright in the sky, and knowing that the man who spent millions of tax dollars to ensure his little girl and her horsy could have the home field advantage for the equestrian events at the Olympics would still be around to tell me how I am not struggling for the next four years.
Reading this Week: Portrait in Sepia
I read Isabel Allende's "
The House of Spirits" in the late 1980s. It was epic in scope and quite an accomplished first novel. I was impressed though I recall taking issue with some things, but not enough not to recommend it. It was memorable enough that when I vacationed in Venezuela I named the resident stray cat Clara after one of the book's characters.
"
Portrait in Sepia" follows the history of that same family from Chile (and various other ethnicities), though I never read the middle story told in "
Daughter of Fortune." This book begins with a large, ornate bed ordered by one of the characters; she has it paraded through the streets of San Francisco in an attempt to humiliate her husband and his mistress.
This reminded of an evening after we'd gone to the movies to see one of the Star Trek movies. We were walking by
ABC Carpet in Chelsea when I spotted the most beautiful, gigantic and extraordinary
Chinese wedding bed. I stopped. I gasped. I slowly and deliberately moved towards the window and was in such a state of rapture that the Yuppie couple that'd been standing there stopped looking at the bed and were instead observing me.
Then I uttered a sentence that will follow me forever, "I would do unmentionable things for that bed. With. A. Republican!"
The female gasped and grabbed at her young, upwardly mobile, husband in khaki Dockers by the arm -- to steady herself in her shock -- Mom shook her head, "We taught her better than that…"
Then I redeemed myself in the eyes of all when I added, "I meant
Tom Selleck. The Republican I meant was Tom Selleck!"
Spanish Potatoes
There is a Spanish restaurant in the Village (of which we do not speak)that serves these potatoes as a side dish. It is essentially the same thing that goes into a
Spanish omelet.
Kitchen anarchist that I am, I change it up a bit every time I make it. It keeps it interesting. Plus I think this is one of those dishes that beg for the cook to put their own personal touch to it.
Sunday night supper included pork chops and a side of potatoes.
I sautéed finely chopped onions, thinly sliced garlic and pepper flakes until soft in a bit of olive oil. Then I sautéed the potatoes in a little of corn oil (to make sure they didn't stick). I used small red potatoes (new) because they are waxy and cook rather quickly. They were cut in thick slices (bigger than French fries). This takes about 5 to 10 minutes, depending on how big a batch it is. I added some cut up salad olives and about 1/4 cup of chicken stock. I covered the pot and let it steam for a few minutes. I added the sautéed vegetables and about a half cup of chopped parsley, covered the pot again and turned it off, letting it stand a finish cooking on its own heat.
We've made these with capers instead of green olives; sometimes with black olives; other times with peas or carrots. Whatever the case, we always make enough for leftovers, so we can make a
tortilla.
Cracked: my head, my laptop.
The laptop is on its last legs. It took almost 4 hours to load up on Friday night. It did only slightly better on Saturday. Internet Explorer appears to be a union sympathizer and, like the musicians at Radio City Music Hall, is on intermittent strike.
I knew her end was coming and she is past middle age, past menopause and entering senility.
Time to go shopping! Certain to be a headache, but it is necessary. I suppose my first move will be to call the Dell lady at work and see if she can put me on a new model this week.
Not much else to report, except the highlight of my day was an almost crippling migraine that literally kicked my ass this afternoon into the early evening. It reminded me of the onset of my seasonal allergies. I didn't know what was happening to me and the sniffles seemed like a cold fighting its way to full-blown malady. It was the pain that felt like hundreds of tiny, sadistic demons stabbing me from the inside. My face felt like it would crack like glass and shatter into billions of painful little shards. My brain would short circuit causing me to go into episodes of near narcolepsy.
So I decided it must be a tumor. I'm not sure at what point I turned into Woody Allen, but there you had it. When I visited my doctor and after I went through the litany of symptoms and my colorful descriptions, and after he did a quick examination, I dumped that little bomb on him. "Doc, tell me the truth, it's a tumor isn't it?"
He turned in his swivel chair, lowered his eyeglasses on his face and said, "
How on earth did you arrive at
that diagnosis?!"
He loves treating me because I crack him up!
The Family's Panamanian Orchid
Mom’s paternal grandmother was a pretty mestizo from Panamá. There are various folkloric explanations for the meaning of the county’s name, my favorite is that Panamá is a Caribe word meaning “land of abundant butterflies.”
Neither of us ever met Matilde because she died during childbirth when Papi was about 8 years old. Papi was born in exactly 1900. His father, Eustis, was a ship building contractor from Nevis who worked on the Canal.
Though I was never told their story of woo, I suppose it was during the Roosevelt administration (during the last of the major construction) that they met, he charmed her, they fell in love and married. By the time Papi was born, they were living in the island of St. John in the Virgin Islands.
I saw Matilde’s face every day of my childhood, as my bedroom door faced my grandparents’ room and the oil portrait of the one woman Papi idolized. I favored her for many years and remember after Papi died when we gave Mom’s older (half) sister the original work, as she opened it, Mattie was left speechless looking from it to my face and finally understanding why the emotional eunuch that was her father loved me so much and so openly. It was never about me. I just looked like her. The man was incapable of experiencing love and joy outside of his mother’s gaze. (He had issues.)
For years I waited for the shocking white streak to grow in my hair prematurely as it did on her. I’m still waiting.
Here are a few reasons to try experience our ancestral land of Panamá:
1. The
Canal Zone2.
Kuna Indians and Mola Art
3.
Ruben Blades4.
Sancocho (chicken stew) and a
colorful cuisine (including iguana, which they say tastes just like chicken)
5. The
Rain Forest5a. Ethereal
Natural Beauty6. Did I mention
Ruben Blades? Because we love Ruben Blades. I skipped my first college graduation and traveled to Aruba just for Ruben Blades.
Kite Festival of Santiago Sacatepéquez
I used to date a Guatemalan Indian named José who called himself "El Oso" (the bear) although he never quite explained why. (Why he called himself the bear or why I even bothered, he wasn't very bright. Though he did have cool hair.)
I mention this for no reason at all, except that there is a really cool festival held in Guatemala during the Dia de los Muertos. Guatemala is divided into 22 departments, and each of these is divided into municipalities. Sacatepéquez is a Mayan dialect meaning "Grassy Hill" -- has 16 municipalities, including Santiago Sacatepéquez.
Legend has it that long ago the town was afflicted with failed crops, disease and a host of other disasters put the population in great spiritual unbalance. The town's shaman determined that evil spirits were disturbing the restful peace of the dead at the local cemetery as well as the residents, by haunting their former families and homes.
The shaman instructed the people to create giant kites and to go to the cemetery and to fly them high into the heavens during the Festival of the Dead. The sound of the wind fluttering against the paper would frighten and make the evil spirits depart. This legend has been passed down from generation to generation, although it is unclear exactly when the tradition began. What is clear is that since the first flying of the kites, the dead have rested in peace as well as the town's residents.
The youth in the village work for weeks creating giant kites, constructed from bamboo, cloth, paper and wire. They are designed in a circular shape and usually have a religious or folkloric theme. For 2 days, during All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day, they fly the gigantic, colorful kites to appease the spirits.
Voting in Protest
In less than a week, New Yorkers will run in droves of hundreds to the voting booth.
I am so uninspired by the "choices" that I keep having to psyche myself up to go vote. This particular civic duty was deeply ingrained in me since childhood. The first time I missed a vote, a primary, I almost had a nervous breakdown I felt so guilty. Well, not really, but I felt pretty guilty about it because I had no excuse.
At this point in life it just annoys me that I have to make the effort when the politicians aren't making an effort to give me real alternatives. I'm sick and fucking tired of having to pick the lesser of the evil, inept, corrupt or just plain stupid.
For weeks I have been only half joking about the ridiculous write-ins I could come up with in the Mayoral race. Al "Grandpa Munster" Lewis is always a great choice. I thought of "Whoever is buried in Grant's Tomb." Mommy also seems like a sensible choice to lead our great city. Batman! Michael Musto. Abe "Fish" Vigoda. Eric Cartman (he is a little evil but we've met his type before and we don't mind carpetbagging). Judge Marilyn.
I find Bloomberg arrogantly clueless about the plight of non-millionaires. Fernando Ferrer might be Puerto Rican and the pride of the Bronx, but I have no idea what he thinks he can do for me. Both the Republicans and the Democrats get my full disdain this year. The Libertarian, Green, Socialist Workers, Education and Conservative parties have been uncharacteristically invisible and mute. Part of the problem is that Bloomberg can and has spent several million of his own money and I think they are all going into this with a defeatist attitude. The truth is that they don't have much of a chance, the poor bastards.
The only other candidate is a little nuts, but in a funny enough way that I may "waste" my vote to make a statement. His name is Jimmy McMillan running under a one-note platform succinctly explained by his party's name: the
Rent is Too Damn High Party. My only fear is that enough disgruntled voters might do the same and suddenly we are being led by this clown that makes the 1980s Al Sharpton look absolutely regal.
But if he gets a good third placement in the total vote it might scare the two major parties into putting some thoughtful effort on positioning leaders of actual substance so I don't have to write entries endorsing someone I wouldn't let buy me a beer.
Hello, Darkness, My Old Friend…
I arrived home last night to find a bruised Mom. She took a spill on the street that afternoon, her leg giving way under her. Knots and scrapes attested to the dull ache she felt and announced the stiff pain to come.
Helpless, my mind turned to dark thoughts I did not wish to document.
Darkness, it seems, is a developing theme. Daylight savings is over and the sun sets before I leave the office. Darkness descends as I ride the bus to Sunset Park, and the stars meet me when I arrive at my stop.
I used to be a night owl. Life, to me, began after midnight and its celebration went on till dawn – vampiric! But when the Dark Times came and our finances dwindled, the first luxury we gave up was going out nights.
I haven’t been out at night in months and I did not realize I’d grown accustomed to daylight. Not until last night, when the darkness was so complete it was overwhelming and consuming. It felt alien against my skin as if I’d never cloaked my own pain in it.
Last night, I found no comfort or joy in darkness; no wonderment or embrace, just a quiet despair: my new friend.
HIM said...
Today is the anniversary of
Hailie Selassie I's coronation and a festival for Rastafari the world over. He was never part of the religious movement mounted in his honor and claiming him as God incarnate, the Black Messiah who'd bring all people of African ancestry to freedom and their rightful place as descendants from King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.
"Knowledge is power. If it is not applied properly to create, let there be no doubt, it will destroy."
I'm not suggesting you join the religion if that's not your cup of tea, but feel your Blackness and play a little Marley today. Sway to the beat and feel the grace of the spirit!
Flores para los Muertos
El día de los muertos -- the day of the dead -- is a three-day celebration to honor the dead that began in Mexico several millennia ago. There is a fantastic feature in the
Arizona Republic that has the whole history, crafts, recipes, altars, art and videos.
The Catholic Church tried to eradicate the tradition -- which to them seemed like the natives mocking death.
Although Rome does not approve, it has decided to simply not comment and look the other way, in a manner of speaking. Which is to say, they tried really hard but it didn't quite work out the way they intended.
The Church attempted to stamp out the celebration by Christianizing it. It's not pure coincidence that this celebration shares the dates with All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day (Nov. 1 and 2). This in effect cut the celebration to two days, whereas the Aztec tradition lasted a full month; and by changing the dates from late summer into fall, they hoped that it would serve to chip away at the meaning. Despite all their efforts to minimize the celebration, by concentrating it, they heightened it; in essence making it the biggest religious celebration in Mexico.
An unintended by-product is that the celebrations now coincide with the migration of the monarch butterflies and this has been integrated into the mythology, with the belief that the butterflies carry with them the souls of the departed.
