genet-hic! predisposition

Milo really likes the bar.

I think mostly that's because the lowest level of the bar, where most of our liquor bottles reside, is right at eye-level for him. And maybe kinda shiny? I'm not really sure.

All I know is, the other night he grabbed a mini bottle of rum and decided it was a chew-toy. We took it away and assumed that was the end of it.

...Until tonight, when I was distracted from my bowl of chocolate ice cream by the following yelp:

"Milo! Give me back my bitters!"

Dog is clearly a drunk. Heh.

But really, he's so cute. He's huge! Seven pounds, I think, or thereabouts. And really needs a haircut. He also loves his little bed, which, if he isn't sleeping in it, he turns upside-down for fun,

and he gets super-excited whenever we give him new toys. He also has a shiny brass tag that says "Maltese," virtually guaranteeing that anyone who reads it will think either "Wow, what an unusual specimen of the breed!" or "Wow, how stupid are this dog's owners, as it is clearly not a Maltese!" He is very into shoes, which amuses me inasmuch as I always sort of think of dog + shoes = cliche, but Ellie likes my mother's shoes (usually only one of a pair), and Milo has the same thing with mine. Maybe our feet smell more like us than we know?

Still, given his choice? He keeps returning to the bar.


I knew he was the right pup for me.

puppies are perpetual toddlers

I am desperately in love with my puppy.

He really makes every day better -- even the ones he makes worse by, say, peeing in the corner with no warning and no provocation. (Such days are becoming fewer and farther between, thank heavens, or I might have to buy stock in the carpet cleaning companies.)

Milo had his first vet visit with me today. We went to Dupont Vet, which came recommended and was convenient and, you know, if you don't like your vet you can always change. So we went, and he was very good in the car and everyone thought he was the cutest thing on four legs (because he is) and then, you know, the very nice veterinarian stuck her finger in places that I'm sure Milo would rather not think about and eventually pronounced him in perfect health.

Also she noted his teeth are very sharp. IT IS NOT ME. THE PUPPY TEETH. THEY ARE SO SHARP.

Then in a wonderful twist of fate, Heather Armstrong of Dooce fame posted today and the last paragraph of her post deals directly with what happens when you think your puppy can handle itself on its own for, oh, let's say, thirty-three seconds.

Training a puppy is like training a small human being (read: child), except for the fact that by the time one usually trains a child, the child has started at least to pretend to speak the language, whereas the dog -- not so much. Note that I do not say the dog cannot understand language -- it most certainly can understand tone, and a far greater number of words than I think we'd generally guess if asked in one of those man-on-the-street trivia games. I just say that the dog can't communicate back in the same way, which is frustrating when you try to determine if looking at the leash hanging by the front door means "I have to pee!" or "Hm, I bet that tastes good" or "Q'plah!" (I said dogs understand words. I didn't say those words weren't Klingon.)

So our lives are a blur of picking up puppy/rushing puppy outside/repeating inane phrase over and over until puppy completes business/lavishly praising puppy/hoping puppy associates lavish praise with doing business outside/bringing puppy inside/watching puppy obsessively to make sure business does not magically appear on carpet.

Repeat.

Ad nauseam.

Sometimes literally.

Still, even when he wakes me at 4 a.m. for a bye-bye run, I love the little fluffernutter. And I think he loves us. Which is the best part of all.

Now if he'd just stop chewing on my toes...

take off your shoes at your own peril

totally gratuitous puppy picspam

So, as most of my readership is aware, I have wanted a puppy for longer than I can remember.

Now, I'll be fair -- I was never denied a canine companion by my folks. We have always been a dog family, with at least one in residence. Two years ago today, La-Di-Da, the Shih-Tzu who was essentially my dog, passed away; and, in a stroke of fate, Miss Ellie, the gorgeous (if willful) one who now lives with my parents, was born. So, with the exception of a couple of months of grieving for La-Di before La Belle Miss Elle came home to the island, there has always been a dog available to visit.

Still, it's not the same as having a pet of one's own. I was crushed when every apartment I inhabited had a no-dogs policy. Jim grew up with cats, but he's allergic to them, and frankly I'm a little scared of -- or jealous of, maybe -- any pet that needs me less than I need it.

(I also always think cats don't like me. I realize that's not (a) unusual to feel or (b) necessarily untrue, but I felt the need to mention the sentiment.)

Anyway! Our new property management came over all smart-like and decided, what the hey, let's let people have dogs! I think this was a great idea, since there are a fair number of vacancies and/or units on short-term leases that I'm sure they'd prefer to fill, and the city in general is pretty dog-friendly. Or maybe none of that is true, but I still think the decision was genius because it meant we could get a dog.

And so, today, we did.

His name is Milo, and he is a nine-week-old Shih-Chon. His mom is a Shih-Tzu, dad a Bichon Frise, and apparently some people call this mix the "teddy bear breed" -- for obvious reasons. He was very very shy at first, and slept on my lap all the way home in the car. The apartment seemed a little overwhelming to him, but after a good nap in his crate -- which he took to immediately, either because of or despite the fact that it had a couple of old t-shirts of mine and Jim's in it to make it smell like us -- he became very playful. He already has a favorite toy (Squeaky Carrot) and is comfy in his harness (slightly less so in his collar). Right now, he's half-asleep on my toes.

We are in love. Milo Maltese is here to stay.

recipe renovation

As anyone who has ever cooked dinner most nights of the week knows, it's very tempting to fall into a routine of making the same few recipes over and over again. For a while, every time my mother would call while I was making dinner -- which she did fairly regularly but definitely not every night -- I was making my turkey meatballs with some kind of sautéed vegetable. She finally said she started to think all I ever made anymore was turkey meatballs.

This is clearly not true. It's also not entirely false.

Anyway, I have realized that I have what amounts to just a few different preparations for each kind of main-dish protein that I cook. I have a couple of different marinades or sauces for pork, for steak, for fish of varied kinds, and, yes, for turkey (ground, in the meatball case). I have a slightly larger répétoire for chicken, based on whether I'm making skinless/boneless, on-bone, or a whole roaster, although some of the versions can be applied across chicken formats. Sometimes I'll make a special dish of herb-crusted rack of lamb, and I can riff on a frittata til the cows -- er, chickens -- come home.

And lest anyone ask, although knowing my readership I can't imagine many will -- I enjoy tofu. I just don't cook with it.

But sometimes, one gets bored of the same old same old. So, last weekend, when my best friend and her husband (squee!) were in town visiting, I threw a small dinner party.

My friend David -- the French-trained chef-cum-guybrarian (his word) at school -- and his wife came. Sam, inasmuch as he is still in residence, also attended. And David and I cooked.

First course: Kir royales with bruschetta.
Second course: Seared sea scallops on arugula with toasted walnuts, shaved parmiggiano, and white balsamic-truffle vinaigrette. Wine.
Third course: Mango granita. More wine.
Fourth course: Bacon-wrapped petits filets with mushroom sauce, chive-truffle-garlic mashed baby red potatoes, and herbed asparagus tips. Even more wine.
Fifth course: Truffles. Oh, and wine.
Sixth course: Explode. With wine.

No, actually, the sixth course was a few awesomely wonderful rounds of Movies in a Hat after the Bonners had departed to relieve their sitter from year-and-a-half-old Kennedy duty. (I had invited the baby, but apparently, despite her love of steak, she had better things to do with her evening, like watch Fraggle Rock with a sixteen-year-old neighbor girl. Sheesh. Silly toddlers.) I laughed so hard that I hurt for a day after. Oh, and we drank more wine.

Anyway. It was a triumph of the taste buds, and playing sous-chef was a blast. My apartment kind of still smells a little like scallops, but that doesn't bother me. I may not have professional chefdom in my future, but I can whip out a fancy dinner party, and that is pretty exciting ... particularly on another turkey meatball night.

politicynic

I'm fairly convinced that 2008 will be remembered -- and not fondly -- as the year of the endless political primary. Which is kind of a shame, inasmuch as I am seeing all of these high school and college kids who are so excited and passionate about voting for the first time, and I feel as though they are going to use up all the political energy that life has granted them just getting through this season, and will forevermore be apathetic and disengaged.

Also, half-empty glasses are too optimistic for me. Can you tell?

So I'm a pessimist. Whatever. In any case, living in D.C. during this year is both fascinating and exhausting. The District, I have come to realize, is a pure industry town, and its industry is government. One cannot function here if one does not wish to expound upon and debate (or argue) at length about one's opinions; the concept of not even having a fully-formed opinion is anathema to life in this town.

Let's face it, though: I am not this kind of political animal. Sure, I have opinions about the country's and the world's social, economic, and political situation. For example, I think that our current party system and the electoral college are outdated, inefficient, and generally problematic. Discussing this, though, puts me in an awkward spot when everyone around me is busily at work within the current political infrastructure.


Typical D.C. cocktail party conversation:

Me: "Nice to meet you. What do you do?"

Average D.C. Resident: "I work for {insert name of prominent politician/government agency/massively popular or unpopular cause/lobbying organization here}."

Me: "Ah."

A.D.C.R.: "And you?"

Me: "I'm a registered independent."

A.D.C.R.: {walks away}

Before you lecture me, let me admit that I more or less knew what I was getting into when choosing to move here. I just thought -- ah, naïveté! -- that not everyone* would want to talk politics non-stop. But it's the common denominator in this town, the way I imagine the entertainment industry is in Los Angeles and finance can be in New York: When in doubt, talk democracy.

What's the point of all this whining, then? To say that I'm coming back** to this site not to make my position known. No, I'm going to indulge in my own small and inconsequential act of civil disobedience by blogging solely about nonpolitical things. I concede that this is not a grand departure from topics I've covered in the past, but I think the goal now is to give it more of a point. Hence, my new platform:

1. More creative recipes, and transparency in the development thereof.
2. In-depth analysis of the process of food preparation.
3. Exploration of conservative and liberal decor.
4. A bridge across the aisle from wine to hard liquor.

Just think of it as a different interpretation of "party."


*Conservative estimate.

**Please pardon the fact that I have been extraordinarily remiss in the frequency of my posting. I am going to try to get back to it, if only because it allows me to indulge my inner caterer.

marry me, hugh laurie*

Most people hate their parents for, like, grounding them.

Me? I am angry mine got me hooked on House, M.D.






*My husband objects to this blog post title. I cannot fathom why, but I agreed to register his objection.

two entirely useless conversations

At dinner:

Jim: "So, who are the "merry gentlemen' in the carol?"

Me: "Um, the...people. You know. That you sing to when you go a-wassailing."

Jim: "Just like the guys in the street, then."

Me: "Yeah." {Beat} "Or, you know, penguins."

Jim: " ... "

Me: "I just have this visual of A Muppet Christmas Carol."

Jim: "Oh, right. Penguins."

Later, watching the taped news:

Me: "Yay! It's David Gregory."

Jim: "Yeah."

Me: "Holy shit--it is still snowing here!"

Jim: "You just realized we live where he's filmed, didn't you."

Me: "Shut up."

triple squee

Recently, my best friend had some big news moments. See, her book -- coming out, oh, I don't know, basically today -- has made some advances in terms of where and how it will exist in future publishing arenas.

By which I mean, I don't think I can give away the details that I accidentally did before, so I'm being intentionally vague and syntactically confusing. Grammar rules!!!

Hahahaha. Grammar...rules...get it? Yes, pun intended. I am so hoping to be nerd-famous by association.

But of course, good things must come in threes. (Hey, if bad things always do, why not good? I'm equal-opportunity that way.) So along with the prospects of international travel and lightening the weight of a suitcase filled with copies of her opus, it would seem that some sparkle and smiles are also in the picture. Vicarious happiness (and deco diamonds) light up my life. Huzzah!

Now, can someone tell me how to say "Will you visit me in Hilton Head?" in Urdu?

welcome to camezotz

As anyone who has ever met me is probably aware, one of the books that most changed my life is Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time.

(It also, apparently, did so for Sawyer in LOST. Woo!)

My father first read the book to me as a bedtime story. Even though I was just at that age where, beginning to read, I would peer over his shoulder to read ahead, nothing ever matched his ability to do the amazing voices of the Three Ladies. To this day, each time I reread the book (an act I do every year or so), I hear those voices in my mind's ear.

The book is such a part of my being that my go-to quotation is straight from it* -- a book which, in a very tongue-in-cheek nod to the literary world, L'Engle began, "It was a dark and stormy night."

L'Engle passed away this weekend at the age of 88. I hope I will reread her book each year until I am at least that age.

And speaking of ways, by the way, there is such a thing as a tesseract.

To you, Mrs. Whatsit.



*Apparently, if you Google "Speaking of ways, by the way..." my blog is the third hit. I happily assume the mantle of the Mrs. W's.

the queen of hearts, she made some tarts

What I have learned from law school so far:

Torts are not the same things as tortes.


Not to malign the law profession, but I'm thinkin' I prefer the latter.

who needs career counseling?

An online chat with my husband.

Me: "So, are you back from the bookstore?"

Jim: "Yep."

Me: "And? Good books?"

Jim: "I know deep down that these books should be indescribably boring..."

{pause in typing here}

Jim: "but"

Me: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHA."

Jim: "I just cracked open Torts and Compensation and I'm pretty jazzed. So I think that's a good sign."

Me: "Hahaha yeah. I bet it's also probably the only time that sentence has been written."

Jim: " :-) "

Me: "I think I can safely say you're going to enjoy law school."

well, maybe it *is* better than episode 2

...or at least cheaper.

i don't think we're in kansas anymore

Every area of the country has its endemic form of inclement weather. Where I grew up, that weather took the shape of roaring, howling funnel clouds that ate up everything in a straight-line path from where they touched down. That's right: I grew up in Tornado Alley. (True story: On the first Monday* of each month at 11 a.m., the towns would test the tornado sirens, and it wasn't until I'd lived away for a few years that I realized that this wasn't something that happened everywhere -- which itself I only realized because I suddenly noticed the silence.)

In third grade -- and then, due to a somewhat hilarious scheduling glitch, again in fourth -- my class sat through a presentation on tornadoes from one of the local meteorologists. I'm pretty sure it was the secondary guy from Channel 5, and I remember that it was Channel 5 (then, at least, the local NBC affiliate) because they were the ones with Doppler Radar before anyone else.

Doppler was a big thing. Every spring, we'd hit a stretch of tornado weather, meaning that I'd go to school and it would be all sunny and lovely, and by the time my mom picked me up in the afternoon, the sky would be turning green and everything would be inhumanly still, so we'd go down into the basement when we got home and I'd do my homework watching reruns of "The Cosby Show" because they were syndicated on Channel 5, which had the fancy-shmancy tornado- and lightning-tracking radar updates.

Anyway, I learned a lot about tornadoes from that presentation, and not just because I sat through it twice. No, I learned with a ravenous hunger for knowledge because tornadoes scared the living crap out of me. I had to know everything I could possibly know about them, just so that I could get to sleep at night when the weather was horrible by telling myself that no, that rainshaft or cumulus mass in the sky was not a wall cloud, there was no internal rotation, and in any case the there would be no spot on the ground for the funnel to build up from (which is key to a strong tornado), as we lived in a hilly and populated area -- but anyway it might be a good idea crack the window to relieve the internal pressure build-up just in case a funnel forms and lowers the pressure outside** and besides, that makes it easier to hear the warning sirens, amen.

Not that I was paranoid.

I've sort of come to look upon those tornado days fondly, not only because I'm an adult who understands that a crazy tornado is not going to reach in my window and grab me (my parents never used to let me watch the sepia-toned part of The Wizard of Oz, and I think it's now clear why), but also because I live far far away from where tornadoes should generally happen.

Or so I thought until yesterday, when there was a confirmed tornado touchdown in Brooklyn.

Really? What the hell? I mean, honestly: I know a lot about this weather phenomenon and it should not happen in Brooklyn.

Or, as Elizabeth put it, "The world is coming to an end." Which is probably not far off the mark, so we need to make plans to get together, or at least get some super-fancy shoes, before the apocalypse.


*Does anyone remember if it was actually Thursday instead? I just remember it always happened during Latin class my junior year, and we could hear the Ladue siren much better than usual from the third floor.

**I know that this is considered a myth, that the pressure differential would not be enough to blow out glass. I don't care.

a necessary precaution

Me: "Hi, Mom!"

Polley: "Hi honey, how are you?"

Me: "I'm great! And before I go any further, I need to preface the rest of this conversation by saying we are not pregnant."

And that, my friends, is how you start a conversation about baby health with your in-laws.

the kind of fun we have: a pictorial

Laura: "So, have you ridden your air mattress yet?"

Me: "I...what?"

Laura: "Ridden your air mattress."

Me: {confused} "Um, like, down the stairs? Or..."

Laura: "Hahaha, no. Remember, I told you I can ride the air mattress while it inflates?"

Me: "Oh! Right! I totally forgot about that. And it kind of eats you up and spits you out?"

Laura: "Yep! Wanna see?"








Devin: "Why have we not been doing this for entertainment on a nightly basis?"

please, sir, may i have some more?

The biggest response to my last post has come in the form of my friends (female) asking about the shoes.

First of all, I have to note that I posted the picture of my shoes because, while I do believe I looked pretty good on Saturday night, most of the pics that we took with our camera either (a) don't show my dress or (b) aren't that fantabulous. I am hoping beyond hope that one or more of my cousins got a better shot, because frankly, I'm kind of as much in love with the dress as with the shoes. (Cousins? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?)

Now. On to the shoe wonderfulness.

The Glorious Red Shoes (tm, and not to be confused with the movie of almost the same name which is lovely and sad) were acquired in Georgetown, with my mother, at the Steve Madden store. We had good luck there in Charleston and we stopped in here to find Mom a pair of flip-flops because her flats were giving her blisters, and I found the red patents I'd been craving for months.

Because the shoes are from a retailer who is happy to create products in various and sundry colours, they are indeed available in navy patent (Jasmin) and ivory/white (Torie). Not necessarily online, but yeah. And! They are sale-priced!

I'm telling you. I should be a personal shopper. Shoes, glorious shoes...

lucky ducks

We attended the wedding of my cousin Andy and his wife Barbara this weekend, up in Baltimore. To be more precise, we attended the wedding yesterday, which -- for those of you who have of late been vacationing either on Mars or under a rock -- was 7/7/07, a date deemed auspicious and thus booked out the wazoo for weddings across America (and beyond, too).

Because we were "groom's side," it was one of those events where we knew half the people really well and the other half, essentially, not at all, so we ended up spending all the time with the family -- which was, I have to say, well worth it. My cousins are pretty uniformly awesome people, and I say this knowing full well that (a) some of them probably read this and (b) they know enough about me that I must never ever anger any of them in the slightest way.

Hi, Shapiro cousins! I love you!

Seriously, though, we had the best time hanging out in Relative Central. If there's one thing that the cousins know how to do, it's get dolled up to the nines and rock one hell of a party. Particularly with an open bar. (Kidding! Well, not really. OK, not at all.)

We also spent a lot of time with my parents, who came to D.C. first and helped us put the finishing touches on the apartment (NOT THAT I HAVE MY COFFEE TABLE YET, STUPID SHIPPING COMPANY). We did a little exploring in Georgetown and the Penn Quarter, had dinner at Jaleo, and then drove up to Baltimore together; on Sunday, we had brunch at and explored the Baltimore Museum of Art, which was a completely lovely place and has a stunning collection of Impressionists, mostly Matisse. We had to drop the folks off at the airport today and I already miss them.

And, of course, Barbara and Andy seemed happier than is humanly possible to be. They're very sweet together and also very ready for children, which is awesome, because they live forty-five minutes away and I can visit. Huzzah!

Mazel tov, Mr. and Mrs. Klau!

pogue a-go-go

OK, I admit it. I have a weensy geekcrush on David Pogue.




Did I say "weensy?" Yeah, so by "weensy" I clearly meant "ginormous, or the same size as an old ENIAC-era mainframe." Hee.

for luke, wherever this may find him

Recipe: Cold-Brewed Iced Coffee

Time: 5 minutes, plus 12 hours’ resting

1/3 cup ground coffee (medium-coarse grind is best)
Milk (optional).

1. In a jar, stir together coffee and 1 1/2 cups water. Cover and let rest at room temperature overnight or 12 hours.

2. Strain twice through a coffee filter, a fine-mesh sieve or a sieve lined with cheesecloth. In a tall glass filled with ice, mix equal parts coffee concentrate and water, or to taste. If desired, add milk.

Yield: Two drinks.

Next time, kid!