big brother goes shopping

This?

Seriously the most dangerous thing to happen to my bank account since, um, ever.

Clearly it's not enough for the leviathan company that is Gap, Inc. for there to be days on end when I leave the house and realize every item of clothing, including underwear, comes from some outpost of their empire.

No, they need more, more, more! Now they have to go making it easy for me to browse and order designer shoes? I might as well just sell my soul, or tattoo their NYSE call letters on my body.

Somebody hide my Luxe card.

punktastic

I asked Desiree yesterday to save all of Nina's baby clothes for me. Ostensibly this was all in good save-the-Earth recycling faith, but in reality, it was entirely so that, in the (not imminent so don't freak out Mom and Dad!) future, I can dress my child in this t-shirt.

i have an odd description of the word "fun"

Today's project: Purchase and hang a spice rack.


Tomorrow: Prepare an elaborate fall dinner for Laura, Jim and me.

Best weekend ever. And yes, I know I'm weird.

dream a little dream of squee

Occasionally I start to put together a list of things I want to find in my next place of residence.

I don't mean restaurants or school districts. I don't even really care if there are decent gyms or a Whole Foods in the region. (Update: Whole Foods is coming to Portland in February. Yay! Only 32 months after I came here.)

No, I'm not looking at the big picture so much; I'm talking about my individual site of habitation, often known to others as a "home."

Unfortunately, I fear that the requirements vastly outpace my own purchasing power. For example, items that routinely show up in my daydreams include the following:

My dream kitchen, complete with stainless-steel appliances, a silent yet capacious dishwasher, impeccable lighting (hey, I am a theatre geek at heart) and wine refrigerator;

My own washer and dryer, preferably Energy Star-rated but still capable of doing a massive load of color all in one go;

A Roomba.

OK. I kind of don't so much care about the Roomba, but I had to throw something remotely afforable in there, so as not to seem entirely out of touch with reality.

Sigh. I think it's abundantly clear that I both want and do not want to be a real adult. A Roomba? Seriously.

But I would give my left pinky finger for a washer-dryer. There are some things on which one just cannot compromise.

this is why i support public radio

The weekend before last, Jim and I were coming in from some errands and we ran into the Green-Independent candidate for the one of the city's seats in the State House of Representatives.

I've never actually met a politican going door-to-door before; it seems somewhat quaint and old-fashioned, but then a) this is Maine and b) the dude was wearing Birkenstocks, so it wasn't really all that surprising.

What was a shock was that my name was not on his list of registered voters.

I registered in Maine when we moved here and I got my driver's license converted from Massachusetts. I voted in the Presidential election in 2004 -- I got the little sticker that said "I Voted!" and everything. Yes, I know I should have voted in any number of smaller municipal races since then, but I didn't, and besides, I was fairly sure that failure to do so would not result in being purged from the voter registration rolls.

Then, driving home from a proctoring event this afternoon, NPR taught me that, indeed, it just might.

Disappeared. Gone. Poof! No record of me, either in married or unmarried nomenclative form.

To be fair, it's not so much my lack of voting as the fact that, in trying to do the logical thing and consolidate the numerous lists of voters in the country, the various and sundry state offices didn't quite get it right. Maine probably never told Massachusetts to take me off their rolls, and so when duplicate registrations were eliminated, both of mine fell into the gaping maw of the Secretary of State's office.

Still. Bureaucratic idiocy notwithstanding, I'm pretty sure I still exist, and I'd like the state to reassure me of that prior to November 7th. I'd better get right on that.

And, hey, on the bright side -- now I'm voting under an entirely new name. No one will know where I've come from! I'll be the mysterious registered Independent. Isn't that always the best kind?

piping-bag dreams

Yesterday, since it was an absolutely perfect fall day just about at the height of leaf season, Jim and I decided to go apple-picking.

There are a zillion and one pick-your-own (or not) orchards in Maine -- many of which are members of the American Pomological Society (which: hee) -- and they grow just about any type of apple you could want. However, we had it on good authority from the culinarily omniscient Mr. Freed that the Macoun apple is well-nigh unmatched for all apple-y services rendered. Therefore, we set out on a search for the mighty Macoun.

Luckily, the orchard, which we chose almost entirely at random, not only seems to specialize in Macouns, but also seems to have planted them so that they were at the height of ripeness yesterday. We filled two half-bushel bags, and while we did diversify a little bit so as not to be unfair to the McIntoshes and Golden Deliciouses looking longingly at us from their own branches, we definitely brought home quite a haul of Macouns.

We also picked up a half-gallon of fresh sweet cider and a few bite-sized steaming hot cider doughnuts to bring home. The cider made it; two of the doughtnuts, though, did not last long in their happy paper bag. However, it was much needed sustenance for the next phase of the day, which involved a prolonged and exciting stop at Williams-Sonoma on the way home.

Through some crafty gift-card-swapping, I wound up with a couple of hundred dollars in Sonoma gift cards. It's not as though there was anything there I really, oh, needed, per se; but I did want many things. Some new mixing bowls, for example, and fancy dipping oil and balsamic vinegar. Jim actually needed a new meat thermometer. And -- since the backseat of the car was filled with apples -- the pièces de resistance: new pie pans, of course.

I did almost -- almost! -- throw frugality to the wind and run off with a roasting pan and rack, which item I do not have. However, I didn't feel like exhausting all of my gift cards on one item, and so I refrained. (But damn they were pretty.)

Today dawned also crisp and clear, and my mission, as I chose to accept it, was to bake a Macoun apple pie from scratch and then make an enormous batch of five-alarm turkey chili to share with friends in the evening.

Looking around right now while my pie is in the oven, I can see that the mission included a hidden directive as well, which goes as follows: Dirty every utensil and item of cookware/bakeware in the kitchen, some more than once, before the day is out. This message will self-destruct when the dishwasher cycle is complete.

In any case -- who cares about dishes! -- the pie smells fantastic. I've never been overly fond of double-crust apple pie, so mine has a single shell and an oat-walnut-streusel topping. Once it's out of the oven and cooling, I will start the chili, so that by the time Laura and Don come over, everyone will be able to dive right in. I hope the pie is enough for them tonight. Next on the list (probably tomorrow) I think I shall make an apple crostata, or perhaps a modified tarte Tatin. We have so many apples! What an excuse to bake!

I'm starting to think that even Donna Reed would find my concept of the perfect day frightening. I actually considered buying the mechanized pastry bag at Sonoma, although I couldn't for the life of me figure out why one would need such a thing. Instead, I filled out an application for part-time and seasonal sales associate.

Because, dude. I would so kick ass in that little green apron.

agincourt

I started feeling somewhat less than healthy yesterday evening, and today I woke feeling pretty awful. It's about the right time of year for that: Between the third and fifth weeks of school, fully 90% of my SAT students bring germs to class, and different germs at that. Even the hardiest immune system would take a beating.

Mine? I believe it has learned to cry uncle without even putting up a fight.

My husband indulged my desire for Greek food, did the laundry I'd meant to start before I realized that carrying it down the stairs had sapped all my daily energy allotment, and then went to buy me juice.

He called me on his way home.

"I just wanted to tell you to expect a surprise," he said.

"A...surprise?" I asked.

"You'll see," he replied.

Given my general inability to muster anything even vaguely resembling patience whatsoever, it was a good thing that the store is a mere five minutes from home. Nothing is better than a surprise when the most excitement one has had all day is discovering one has awakened from a nap just in time for DS9.

Jim arrived, and in the bag with the yummy juice (it tastes like liquid raspberry Jell-O!) I found one of my all-time favorite movies.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold -- just for widescreen versions of films seemingly released to DVD in miniscule numbers and all but disappeared from mainstream shelves (stupid profit margins). I'm thinking that the feast of Crispin Crispian may come a little early this year.

days of eeyore

Every once in a while of late, I've been getting hit with a little wave of sadness that I lack, in the moment, a nickname.

It's tough to shorten a one-syllable name, I'll admit, and my given name does not lend itself to er, nicking. Nicknames also are not always a welcome adjunct to life. I am probably wholly responsible for an entirely new generation of non-St. Louisans knowing my best friend by her nickname rather than her beautiful given name, and I will most likely continue to apologize for that until we're too old to remember there was ever an option.

My husband uses his full given name at work, but it's nearly impossible for me to remember to address him as such when in the presence of office colleagues, leading to innumerable blank stares and forced laughter about the confusion his dual nomenclated status confers.

Regardless, I never really had a nickname beyond those created by my family. One cousin's initials (prior to her marriage) spelled a homophone for my name, and that became her nickname before I was born, so in order to avoid confusion, that part of the family often used my first and last name to address me. On the other side of the family, the same moniker got adopted for...well, frankly, I haven't the slightest idea why, but it did. All the same, since full name address is generally reserved (when one is young) for those moments when one is really seriously in trouble and I mean it young lady, it never struck me as the kind of thing I should spread as a nickname. Fine from family, but way too formal for friends.

My parents have a pet name for each other that got diminuted (clearly I'm making up words here, but I don't care) for me. They call each other Boo, after a long-retired pantyhose commercial (...no, really), and thus they called me Baby Boo. They rarely employ it now, I admit, but if I sign a birthday card that way, they don't wonder who sent it.

However, I am also, or was also, Lele -- since, with a name like mine, you can't shorten it to make an endearment, might as well double it. It's been ages and ages since anyone had reason to call me by this particular nickname, and recently, I'd started to miss it.

It seems a silly thing, really, to reminisce about a nickname. There are so many other terms of endearment that get used regularly -- my husband and I rarely address each other by name -- but only a nickname is particular to an individual. And so, occasionally, I found myself sighing that I wish someone, anyone, would have a reason to reinstate my nickname. Or, perhaps, bestow upon me a new one.

This morning I was sitting at the computer reading my morning news items when a small window popped up on my screen:

Jim: Hey boo bear.
Me: !!!
Jim: I thought of that on my way to work today. "Lele the Boo."
Me: Hee! I like it.

I never told him I wanted a nickname.

I guess I didn't have to.

And I have to say? I'm pretty darn happy being his Boo Bear.

eat your heart out, shiloh

Because I think this new boy is even cuter. Congratulations, McHales!
I'd offer free babysitting, but I'm pretty sure the mileage would be the end of me.

gourmet i reserve a table, please?

Below, Gourmet Magazine's list of the Top 50 restaurants in America.

I am seriously considering making it my mission to eat at each place. After all, if Julie Powell can turn cooking everything from Julia Child's cookbook into a published tome, I'm sure there would be a market for people willing to read about someone else's expense-account-funded fine dining.

Oh, wait, that gig already exists. It's called being Frank Bruni.

So until the Times or other paper of quasi-record decides to throw money at me and send me to fancy restaurants, I am guessing I'll have to have a gimmick. I could do it by only traveling on foot or bicycle from site to site. Given that the rest of the vocation involves eating, this may not be an entirely insane idea...

Right. So back in the real world, I'd like to point out that Portland's famed Fore Street makes the list yet again, and that Durham, the District, and Philadelphia all rate at least one spot each (good news for future endeavours, no?).

My best friend and I have an as-yet unscheduled date to dine at Number 3 while wearing extraordinarily expensive shoes. Sometime after my 30th and before her 35th, I think, we just might make it.

1. Alinea – Chicago, IL*
2. Chez Panisse – Berkeley, CA
3. The French Laundry/Per Se – Yountville, CA; New York, NY
4. Spago – Beverly Hills, CA
5. Joël Robuchon at the Mansion – Las Vegas, NV*
6. La Rêve – San Antonio, TX
7. Masa – New York, NY*
8. Alan Wong's Restaurant – Honolulu, HI
9. Daniel – New York, NY
10. Le Bernardin – New York, NY
11. Magnolia Grill – Durham, NC
12. Michel Richard Citronelle – Washington, D.C.
13. Charlie Trotter's – Chicago, IL
14. Arrows – Ogunquit, ME
15. Cyrus – Healdsburg, CA*
16. Striped Bass – Philadelphia, PA*
17. Babbo – New York, NY
18. Locke-Ober – Boston, MA*
19. Canlis – Seattle, WA
20. L'Auberge Carmel – Carmel, CA*
21. Bartolotta Ristorante di Mare – Las Vegas, NV*
22. Restaurant August – New Orleans, LA*
23. The Inn at Little Washington – Washington, VA
24. The Dining Room in the Ritz-Carlton Buckhead – Atlanta, GA*
25. Vetri – Philadelphia, PA*
26. Fore Street – Portland, ME
27. Jean Georges – New York, NY
28. Higgins – Portland, OR*
29. Da Marco – Houston, TX*
30. La Belle Vie – Minneapolis, MN*
31. Parker's New American Bistro – Cleveland, OH
32. Michy's – Miami, FL*
33. Frasca – Boulder, CO*
34. Gramercy Tavern – New York, NY
35. Providence – Los Angeles, CA*
36. Restaurant Guy Savoy – Las Vegas, NV*
37. Zuni Café – San Francisco, CA
38. Urasawa – Beverly Hills, CA*
39. Bacchanalia – Atlanta, GA*
40. Sanford – Milwaukee, WI
41. York Street – Dallas, TX*
42. Manresa – Los Gatos, CA*
43. No. 9 Park – Boston, MA*
44. Trattoria Nostrani – Santa Fe, NM*
45. Cafe Juanita – Kirkland, WA*
46. Paley's Place – Portland, OR*
47. Lantern Restaurant – Chapel Hill, CA*
48. L'Etoile – Madison, WI
49. Herbsaint – New Orleans, LA*
50. Nana – Dallas, TX*

challah back

One of Jim's coworkers very kindly brought us a challah from Cambridge for Rosh Hashanah.

I am particularly enjoying the fact that Rosh Hashanah coincides with the first day of autumn -- the juxtaposition feels quite lovely that way. For the first time, I am inclined to make a big holiday feast, even though it's just the two of us here to eat it.

Of course, I refuse to get anywhere near my grandfather's preferred New Year's celebratory food, but I am thinking about an apple-rum cake and a honey-glazed roast chicken. Gotta have that sweet New Year, after all.

Is cultural heritage an excuse to cook? Given that my husband and I come from Jewish, Italian, and German backgrounds, I'd have to go with a resounding "Hell yeah!" on that one.

L'shanah tovah.

you want i should whack someone for you?

Since my husband has been sending this picture all over his office to showcase the stages of his healing process, I figured I might as well share it with the interwebs.
Seems the removal of wisdom teeth results not so much in the loss of wisdom as in the creation of a wise guy.

I just hope there's nothing in the trunk of the car that shouldn't be there. Married to the mob, indeed.

he's created a monster

Maybe it was Peter Jackson's incredible shots of New Zealand. Maybe it was my husband's pure and abiding love of all things Middle Earth. Maybe it was the hobbity goodness that is Dom Monaghan and Billy Boyd, and, yes, even Elijah Wood and Sean Astin.

But I actually held my breath when I read this:

Fans of J. R. R. Tolkien, the author of "The Hobbit" and "The Lord of the Rings," have a new epic to look forward to. Houghton Mifflin announced yesterday that it had acquired the American rights to publish "The Children of Hurin." Begun in 1918, it was a tale that Tolkien, (1892- 1973), worked on throughout his life and will take his readers once more among elves and men and dragons and dwarfs. Houghton Mifflin said in an announcement that although it had long been assumed that "The Children of Hurin" would remain unfinished, it had been reconstructed and edited by Tolkien's son Christopher, working from Tolkien's many drafts. Publication is scheduled for spring.

Aw shit. Just when I thought I'd finally finished my dalliance with Tolkien fantasy.

Damn you, Christopher Tolkien, for giving me more to read. Damn you to hell.

obviously males should bear the young of the species

My husband is recovering admirably from the extraction of his wisdom teeth.

Why is that when I had my wisdom teeth removed, I was wrecked for, oh, easily a full week? Granted, part of the problem was that I went home and went to bed, but no one had impressed upon me in my post-anaesthetic haze that I should not recline fully, so I awoke an hour or two later with all the blood in my body having rushed directly to my jaw. Not only did my cheeks swell to ungodly proportions, but I was so bruised that I believe my parents discussed, in hushed tones, whether I would ever fully recover.

I spent the next week being spoon-fed yogurt and mashed potatoes and, in one horrifyingly memorable incident, wrestling internally with myself as my stomach -- and my father, gently rubbing my shoulders -- tried to tell me it was all right to throw up, while my brain said LIKE HELL IT IS, IT COULD ONLY BE WORSE THAN HOW I CURRENTLY FEEL.

Jim? Well, he actually didn't keep down all of yesterday's food, but it didn't bother him in the least. He's beyond chipmunk-cheeked, that's for sure, but aside from the occasional dull ache, he feels pretty good. He can't chew, of course, and he's pretty much superglued to his ice-bag, but he's played a fair amount of Lego Star Wars II on the GameCube and re-watched Spider-Man 2 and thinks it's hilarious to document his swelling on the digital camera.

I actually feel kind of useless; here I was all ready, with mushy foods stockpiled to nurse him back to health, and aside from right after the surgery when the remnants of the anaesthesia knocked him for a loop, he's barely needed my help at all.

This bodes ill for when we decide to have children, as clearly he tolerates pain and bodily trauma far better than I. I guess I can consider it payback for giggling when he drooled in the recovery room.

it's a sign of the times

Nintendo's new system is being released...

...on our first anniversary.

Dude. Whatever happened to paper? Clearly Nintendo is out to get me.

(Hee. Just kidding. This goes on the Christmas list, maybe, but not the anniversary one.)

because anticipation increases the fun

So the oral surgeon's office apparently screwed up. They told Jim his surgery was today, but his doctor doesn't work Tuesdays and, unbeknownst to us, moved the appointment to Thursday.


On the upside, now I don't feel so guilty about having to work tonight. On the downside? Two more days to look forward to the tooth-extraction extravaganza. Lovely.

At least Jim can use the extra time to force-feed himself extra doses of pineapple. It's something do do with enzymes reducing swelling, I think? That, or a self-serving practical joke by the Dole people.

agnus dei

Tonight I made lamb meatballs.

Now, before you make the inevitable "meat" and "balls" jokes, let me just say that they were outrageously good, so laugh all you want. I am sated.

I had this leftover mint pesto from the big Labor Day Open House we hosted. The pesto was phenomenal, but given that it had no preservatives and was utterly homemade, was not going to last forever and ever, so I had to make something that would go well with the pesto.

And by "go well with" I mean "was not just a big bag of cardboard, because the pesto was so good that it would make even that taste delicious."

So I was at Wild Oats doing some browsing -- which is what I mostly do at Wild Oats, although their real-crab California rolls with tobiko are quite yummy -- and I noticed they had ground lamb and it was not terribly expensive, plus it was non-hormone fed.

Aside: Why would one give hormones to a lamb anyway? Isn't the point to keep them small and, er, tasty?

Regardless, the lamb was there, and tasty-looking, and not terribly expensive, and I got some, and decided to make it. And boy howdy, what a decision.

Really, really good. As in, "Good Lord, that was good."

My mom and dad have, of late, insisted I need to attend the Culinary Institute. My problem is that I do not in any way want to become an actual chef, inasmuch as chef hours may be the only hours on the planet worse than stage manager hours. Still, maybe I'll write a cookbook. Or something.

In the meantime, though, I'm going to lick the leftover mint pesto off my fingers and dream about a gas range. A girl's gotta have ambition, after all, and mine is Viking.

yeah, right, lisa. a wonderful, magical animal.

slight disconnect

What I need:

A better way of cleaning laminate flooring than a Swiffer.

A chest of drawers that actually holds all my clothes.

A way to prevent sticky dust from settling on every exposed surface (OK, this one may not actually be possible in our particular universe).

"Dripless" candles that are really, truly, dripless, so as not to destroy my silver candlesticks.

Cheap gasoline (well, this one might be modulating somewhat back into the realm of feasible).

A computer that does not crash whenever I try to open a .PDF without closing all other applications first.

Professional window-washers to clean the inside and outside of the skylight.

What I want:

yum

Life?

It is good.