A Birds-Eye View.

Everyone in my family called me bird, from a young age up until I finally asked them to please stop. I earned this nickname presumably because I flitted everywhere with little concern for the ground under my feet and no awareness of the constraints of life. In third grade, my teacher told my mom that I was a square peg (long before Sarah Jessica Parker made it cool to be one), and that she should probably stop trying to smooth out my edges and just accept that I wouldn’t fit.

I always kind of liked being a free spirit, and it benefitted me in many ways well into my adult life—even after I entered the corporate world. After all, my first two professional writing jobs were with engineers, first software then civil. With these types, someone better be a wild card or the whole ship is going down in a vortex of abstruse nerdliness. 

However, when I took my current job and started working as the only writer amid in a sea of designers, I started to cling to rules and structure as lifelines to both my sanity and my credibility.

In writing, it’s good to know the rules. And if you’ve proven to others that you know them, you can break them without anyone thinking you’re careless or stupid. Most of the time. Also, if you’re editing or critiquing someone else’s work, you can easily crown yourself as the authority by saying things like, “Only if it’s a compound adjective…” or, “What you have here is faulty subordination. Consider revising.” 

As far as structure goes, I never imagined I would appreciate it so much until I tried to get a project done with these people (that is, my wonderful coworkers, whom I truly do love). Yes, yes, yes, we can do anything we want! But we need to do something. What’s it gonna be?! 

Orderliness…methodologies...boundaries…these all sound like the death of creativity; but I’ve found them to be its deliverance. Whether any of my artistic comrades believe it or not. Establishing them provides the freedom to produce; to focus on one point and see where it takes us. 

I thought I only needed this structure under the chaotic conditions of my nine-to-five; but I realized that when I decided to start writing a blog about anything I want, I created those same conditions. I was paralyzed for months, unable to act, because I couldn’t herd my own mental cats. 

Being not even two weeks into a commitment to write daily for a year, I’ve decided to stop counting on what pops into my head on any day (often under duress), and build a framework for this blog.

So…Sundays I will report on my experiments in the kitchen. Tuesdays I will share something culturally significant. Wednesdays I will continue to explore fiction writing <this scares me to death, btw. Fridays I will declare my love of some musical obscurity or another. And the other three days I will leave open. Because I’ve still got to fly, right?

A favorite piece I picked up from local artist/eccentric, Rick Beerhorst.

Small House Rock.

Our first house was sort of the beta version of living quarters, and, from my perspective, it did not pass the usability testing. Our bedroom was exactly two feet larger on one end and one side of a queen-sized bed. We did not have space to fit a proper dining table in our kitchen, so we rarely entertained. And we were periodically visited by bats via our attic fan. It had its charm, but in a way that you’d think of if it wasn’t yours.

Despite my complaints, it did actually serve us fairly well. Still, I have difficulty forming fond memories of the house itself; but at least have many of the happenings in it.

The Sunday morning ritual was always to turn on WGVU radio and pretty much listen from Piano Jazz, through the Jazz Spotlight with Harvey McKnight, ‘til the end of This American Life (until they moved it to Saturdays). I would drink coffee and wander our 795 square feet, doing very important things, I’m sure.

Piano Jazz was, and is, a bit hit or miss; but, one Sunday, they hit me over the head with their feature on Bob Dorough. I realized as I was listening that I knew the voice, though I didn’t know why until it was revealed at some point during the hour-long program. I ordered the CD Devil May Care that day and obsessed over it for months. I attempted to turn friends on to him; but almost no one was having it. But how could they not love this? (Really, you want to listen to it. Play it now.)

I’ll admit that his tone and vocal styling are unusual; but that, to me, is the allure. I listened to him today after a long hiatus and was so enchanted (again) I almost cried.

If you want to like him; but... then maybe you will at least appreciate what he is probably more known for, which is explained in this audio interview on Fresh Air. (I was unsuccessful in finding the Piano Jazz session, so this will have to do. It's much quicker about getting down to business, anyway.)

So, what do you think of that?!

P.S. Devil May Care is the only album I own and the only one needed, in my opinion. Because it is perfect.
    

Here's My Number...

A few days ago, I went with my coworkers to an offsite meeting at a coffee house in Eastown. When we walked in, it dawned on me and I noted (out loud) that I hadn’t been there since early 1994. A couple of my companions wondered and asked why I knew the year, so long ago, so specifically. Who was I with? What happened that impressed my memory?

It was a friend from college, whom I hadn’t seen for a few years, that I saw that day. He was one of my people. I adored him, in a not at all romantic way; but in a very significant way. He was, and I have no doubt continues to be, a truly uncommon individual.

So I was there, doing whatever, and I saw him come in. We condensed the time that had passed into a 10 or so minute conversation. He told me about living and/or working in Holland (Michigan) and studying culinary arts. I told him about this new man in my life (who is now my husband). Hence the datestamp. We exchanged numbers.

What’s not weird is that I never called him. For one, I truly dislike talking on the phone. I also, no matter any great affection, am terrible about keeping in touch. Time passes. More passes. Nothing happens. (Except now, in the equally dubious and wonderful world of facebook, that is.)

What is weird is that I carried his number with me for at least 16 years. It was on a small piece of a ripped envelope (the only paper I had in my purse), folded unevenly with just his first name and six digits on it. I can conjure the image of it right now. Year after year, I moved it from wallet to wallet, in some sort of strange ritual. At no point was I prompted to pick up the phone, though. I just tucked it away in-between the library cards, equally-aged emergency band-aids, and postage stamps. 

Even after I knew that it was incredibly unlikely that this number could still be his, I still held onto it. It wasn’t until I reconnected with one of our mutual friends and learned that he was halfway across the country that I finally discarded it. Kinda wish I still had it, actually.

Hey, Anthony!

The Deal Is Off (an experiment in fiction).

It was a typical Sunday night. Ben & I were flopped in our respective stations - he: reclined with beer in hand and fat cat burrowed in the crease of his thighs; I: propped on my elbow, stretched the length of the couch, compulsively eating the Trader Joe’s knockoff of Good & Plenty. As I sorted the candy-coated pieces, making sure that at no point two of the same color passed my lips at the same time, I was still unaware that this night our life together would change irreversibly.

The Simpsons was on in the background, the current scene centering on a fiasco involving pickled hard-boiled eggs.

“Gross,” I said.

“They’re not that bad,” Ben countered.

I realized that this admission could only mean one thing: that he had, at one time, eaten a pickled hard-boiled egg.

“Twice actually,” he beamed. “One was homemade; the other was from one of those convenience store brine jars.”

Licorice-tinged bile rose in my throat. My head prickled as the blood dissipated, leaving me translucent and chilled. For 18 years I had kissed this man without ever knowing this vile secret. 

I thought of all the relationships I had ended over a breakfast order of scrambled eggs, unable to cleanse my mind of the spongy, jiggling, fart-scented morsels touching the same tongue that had explored my mouth so intimately the night before. 

Or the times I had cut brunch short on the arrival of my companion’s plate of glossy, over-easy discs with oozing yolks that gushed a pus-like discharge.

In third grade, I had a falling out with my best friend, who one day at the cafeteria table produced from her lunchbox a solid, cooked egg wrapped tightly in cellophane. With every bite into the white, rubbery flesh, the pungent outhouse odor filled my nose. When she turned to me with a toothy grin caked in chalky, yellow residue, I stumbled from my chair and dashed to a safe spot near the playground swing sets. I lunched alone for the remainder of the school year.

The too vivid image of my husband’s hand fishing into a vinegary vat to retrieve his slippery prize (he claims they use tongs)...the vision of his teeth ripping into its taut, putrid skin... our fate was sealed. I picked myself up, silently left the room, and started packing my bags. 

Moonlight serenade.

Through different social media channels, I follow a handful of people (mostly writers) who help me do my day job. Sometimes they help me do my 24-7 job. It probably wouldn’t hurt if I followed a few more, now that I think about it. 

Though I am 100% sure I’m never going to make a rainbow cake (I seriously dislike cake and I have a somewhat unnatural fear of food coloring), I love reading and seeing what the writers at Write in Color have on their minds. Yesterday they posted this story on their facebook page, along with this question: “What's the craziest thing you've seen lately?” Aside from a fleeting encounter with a bumble bee, which was really only metaphorically crazy—and probably only to me—nothing came to mind.  

Then I remembered something crazy I heard over the weekend. 

Our friends invited us to camp with them on their family’s 40-acre plot near their house in the country. It’s mostly wooded; but it has a nice open meadow and a fishing pond in one corner of the property, both of which have been groomed for (rustic) habitation. 

Probably about 10 minutes before it was polite, I abandoned our group for some deep exploration. I started at the first bend of the water’s edge and made my way slowly around, crouching every few steps to get a closer look at whatever I’d just scared into the water.

Step, step, plop. Step, plop. Step, plop, plop. I wasn’t quick enough to see even one; but I did once catch a small pair of spiny, webbed feet before they disappeared under the surface. 

Frogs. They were everywhere. Like a bad sci-fi movie.  

Later on, after we settled in around the fire, we started to hear their off-key, loose-banjo-string calls. They plucked and released, back and forth in dueling, toneless exchanges. They didn’t stop until sunup, when the cacophonous cries of wakened birds drowned them out. The six of us city dwellers were completely charmed. We giggled as we tried to recreate this curious sound. And that was probably the craziest thing our hosts had heard lately.

 

Take me to your leader.

I’m weird.

Most people are weird in one way or another, so this isn’t like some special characteristic that I hold. But in my teenage years when most everyone I knew was doing a great job of hiding their weirdness from the world; I was oozing mine. Not on purpose of course; I just didn’t know what to do about it.

I went to college and met a lot more people with this special skill. I did my best to assimilate; but ended up forming mostly superficial (albeit perfectly enjoyable) friendships.

It wasn’t until around May of 1989 that I met my people. I decided not to go back to Troy to live at home for the summer and instead took a three-month lease at an apartment complex near campus. It was practically vacant (because everyone else did go home) and was cheap enough that I could live by myself.

Within a few days of moving in, two inhabitants saw that I had landed on their planet and stopped over to investigate. They brought me back to their small colony where I met the rest of the natives. That night, we stayed up until the sun rose the next morning, playing music, sharing ideas, and contemplating the meaning in the stars. One of the leaders walked me home, and I accidentally fell in love with him sometime between my front steps and about 10:00 a.m.

Over the next few months and into the year, I became a part of their culture. I made sense to these people and they me. More weirdos joined us. We all moved in together, and my affection grew for that initial one, even though he was the only one of them all who actually didn’t want me to be me. I tried again not to be weird, even though it made no sense after knowing what I knew and being where I’d been.

When it eventually fell apart with him, I realized (over a painful length of time) that it was never him that I wanted. He was merely the tangible form of my deep awakening, and I was so profoundly moved that I feared that in losing him I was losing my connection to it.

It turned out to be just the opposite.

Going native, circa 1989.

Five Weeks of Falafel: Falafel 2.0

Today is week one of my Five Weeks of Falafel experiment; you can read the whyfor here.

I’m writing this a bit as I go so I don’t forget what I did. I’m realizing that by doing this, I could get to the end and have something that is not worth sharing. My confidence sometimes backfires on me; I hope today is not one of those humbling moments.

To start, I compared about six different falafel recipes, and though each has its own variation, there are standard ingredients that will form my base. I can tell already that the offending flavor in the falafel I've tried is probably cilantro. It’s pretty much a deal killer for me in any recipe, except Flank Steak with Chimichurri where it is a main feature and I love it—go figure.

So, no cilantro. But, I am going to add a few other wildcards because this is MY recipe and because I think they will be complementary without completely changing the genetic code. They are lemon juice, Aleppo pepper, hot paprika, and sesame seed.

Here's everything you need:

1 - 15 ounce can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
1 onion, chopped
1/4 cup fresh parsley
3 cloves garlic, chopped
Juice of half a lemon
1 teaspoon ground cumin
¼ teaspoon hot paprika
1 teaspoon freshly ground coriander (the seed)
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
½ teaspoon Aleppo pepper
1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds
1 cup dry bread crumbs
1 teaspoon baking powder
Vegetable oil for frying

Here’s what to do:

Mash chickpeas in a large bowl until coarse and pasty. A potato masher works best for this. Put onion, garlic, parsley, and lemon juice in a food processor and blend until finely chopped; but not pureed. Add to the mashed chickpeas and mix thoroughly.

Add cumin, paprika, coriander, salt, black pepper, Aleppo pepper, sesame seeds, and bread crumbs and mix thoroughly with your hands. The dough should hold together and not be sticky. Refrigerate dough for about half an hour.

About 15 minutes before cooking, knead in baking powder. 

Add about one inch of oil to a non-stick skillet, and while oil is heating on medium high, form dough into small, slightly flattened balls. Fry in oil until all sides are evenly browned, then drain on paper towel. (Watch out for exploding sesame seeds, btw. Ow!)

Done!

Here’s what I think:

Is it falafel? Nope; it is Super Falafel! I’m going to serve them in pitas with a garlic cucumber yogurt, romaine lettuce, and lemon.

Next week? Spicy Black Bean Falafel, clever name TBD.

I'd give my left ear for a good cup of coffee...

I remember buying our first home computer just after we bought our first house. It was 1998 and, at least from my perspective, the World Wide Web was more like a small subdivision. Certainly not the tool it is today. I think about this when I’m having a hard time remembering how I did certain things pre-Internet.

Like back in 1992. I was single and I was fairly adamant that my oneness not prevent me from traveling, or trying new restaurants, or catching the weekly independent film. Essentially, I dated myself. It was the spring before I was heading into my sixth and final year of college (it takes this long when you discover what you want to do after the first four years have gone by), and I was starting to feel a little antsy. I really wanted to take a vacation to Venice Beach; but none of my friends could go. So, I decided to just go anyway.

But, seriously, how did I do this? I must have used my landline to call the airline directly to buy my ticket and then, what? Drive to the airport and pay them with a check? How did I find the Jolly Roger Hotel, the absolute cheapest lodging in all of Marina del Rey? (OK, I just googled them and they are still there! And still cheap. And still boasting that crappy outdoor Jacuzzi that faced the intersection of a busy four-lane boulevard…) I think I may have actually gone to the library, pulled an LA phone book off the shelves, and pored over the yellow pages. Weird. Well, weird now, anyway.

Everything else had to be discovered once I got there, on foot, by manual search—the coffee house/gallery called Van Gogh’s Ear where I had the worst cappuccino I’ve ever tasted, the Vintage resale shop where a suede fringed vest that I couldn’t afford broke my heart, the outdoor bazaar where I found this unusual necklace that I still wear today…

Falafail.

(Last night’s post stirred up a lot of emotion in our household, so I’ve made a promise to lighten up...indefinitely.)  

Before my painting class last Wednesday, I planned to stop at the bookstore café to grab some dinner to go. I yanked at the door, and when it didn’t yield, I yanked harder as if this was somehow going to now make them be open. My only other option was the Mediterranean Grill a block away, which would have been great; except that I typically get their fattoush and I had literally had a salad for lunch, dinner, or both the last three days in a row. The lack of protein and nourishment was making me seriously hostile; however, since I am generally suspicious of huge slabs of meat that hang around waiting to be slowly harvested over a week’s time, my best alternative was to order the falafel.

At this point, you’re probably wondering why I am telling this astonishingly un-fascinating story. I promise I have a point. In fact, here it is: I want to love falafel. I love chick peas. I love Middle Eastern flavors. I love anything deep fried. This is falafel; but somehow there is something just not quite right about it and I can’t place what it is. 

So, I got the inspiration to deconstruct the recipe, find the culprit, and, in eradicating it, create a Super Falafel.

 

I was on my second glass of wine when I had this thought, so from there my scheme grew larger and larger, as people who know me know is prone to happen. I thought: why is there only Middle Eastern falafel? Why not Italian, or Mexican? So, starting this Sunday, once a week, I will bring you Five Weeks of Falafel. If you’re interested, stay tuned.